by Penny Kline
He held out a photograph of a bright green beetle.
‘Oh, yes.’ Jane took off her glasses and cleaned them with the ends of her blouse. ‘I had some of those on my cotoneaster. Iridescent. Beautiful.’
Above them, the builders were hammering so hard it felt as though the ceiling might collapse. When a cascade of stones and pieces of mortar fell down the chimney onto her gas fire, Jane had called up next door’s stairs to tell them, and the younger man had offered to come down with a brush and pan. As if that was the point. They could hammer hard for a short time, he said, or not so hard for a longer time. Big deal, as Simmy liked to say. Jane had chosen the longer, gentler time, but rubbish had continued to fall.
Gus yawned. ‘No one else involved in the break-up with Margery. I was impossible to live with.’
‘Margery’s your ex? Not necessarily.’
‘That’s what you think, is it?’
‘I do.’ He was turning the pages of his album in what she hoped was a companionable silence. He had kicked off his shoes, trainers that had once been white with black stripes on the sides. His socks had holes in the big toes. ‘People grow apart.’
He stared at her, as if to say, what would you know about it, but she was not so easily put off.
‘So when the marriage ended you moved here. Did you have a particular reason for choosing this area and Faraday Road in particular? Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.’
He didn’t.
‘Formula One on soon.’
‘At this time of day?’
‘Not this time of day all over the world.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ The mantelpiece had a layer of dust. So did a round table next to where Jane was sitting. Did he own a vacuum cleaner? She would have enjoyed having a quick flick round, but it was not something Gus would appreciate. ‘That new person in number twenty-two,’ she said, ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’
‘Not moving in for a week or two. Place needs doing up.’
‘Oh, she’s told you about it. Is she local? Where has she come from?’
He ignored her question, taking a jacket from the back of a chair, a new one, grey wool, quite smart. ‘Expect it’s the workmen, Rousseau doing a bunk. Blame Noel, he encourages people in the road to have his conversions, pretends he’s offering special rates. Hang on, I’m coming down. Need some milk. Oh by the way, “whom” – no one uses the word any more, am I right?’
‘It can sound a little formal. Why do you ask?’
‘You know me, Jane, left school at sixteen.’
‘And studied photography.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, I’m self-taught.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Was asking about the word “whom” a way of getting at her? It was true she regretted the fact so many people avoided using words of more than two syllables. Tricia Tidewell had once referred to her as a “walking dictionary”, one of those remarks that, on the face of it, sound like a compliment. But only on the face of it. ‘Oh, I must tell you, Gus, Eddie quoted from W.H. Auden and the odd thing is, she never liked poetry when she was ...’
‘You were going to say “when she was alive”. In life we are in death. Shakespeare, is it?’ He tightened the belt on his cord trousers. ‘It’s a bad business.’
‘Yes.’ Did he mean Eddie, or Noel’s loft conversion? ‘I’ll walk down to the shops with you if that’s where you’re going.’
Down in the street, the driver of a truck, containing large sheets of plasterboard, was attempting to reverse into a parking space between a white van and a people carrier. ‘Actually, I’d better have another look for Rousseau,’ Jane said, but Gus had moved out of earshot. He raised a hand, but didn’t turn his head, and a moment later she saw him knock on the door of number twenty-two, and the new owner, dressed in an unbecoming boiler suit and a thick woolly hat, invited him in.
Setting off in the opposite direction, Jane felt her face and neck grow hot. Gus and the woman from number twenty-two? Was that the reason for his new jacket? In the past Jane had prided herself on her lack of self-pity. When Eddie began to act oddly she had been sorry, but not for herself. Poor Eddie had had such a wide knowledge of art, both contemporary and historical, and she was a skilful painter in several different media and a fine draughtsman. And her sense of humour had been second to none.
Gus and the woman from number twenty-two. Stupid tears filled her eyes. Life was so unfair, so full of pain. But, had she but known, her jealousy was soon to be eclipsed by a genuine tragedy.
SEVENTEEN
Saturday. Would sleeping in her old bedroom please Eddie, or alarm her? Was it a test, a precursor to saying they were unable to keep her at The Spruces? You say you managed, Miss Seymour, so it may be that Miss Knox is unsuited to residential care. Putting pressure on her. Making her feel guilty for forcing her friend into a home.
Eddie was wearing her best dress, her only dress. Not a good choice, but Jane assumed it had been selected by one of the staff. It had a belt, and belts were fiddly and likely to lead to a loss of temper. What was wrong with her usual trousers, blouse, and cardigan?
When they left The Spruces, she had been reluctant to climb into the car. It was quite a struggle, and Jane had come off worse, damaging her hand on the seat belt catch, but making light of it. Not that Eddie cared. Now she was scurrying about, inspecting the house as though she had never seen it before, and ignoring poor Rousseau, who was letting out loud yowls that could be pleasure or, more likely, the possibility of extra food.
Jane had made some tea but Eddie had swept hers aside, almost literally, crouching down to peer into the cupboard where the pans were kept. She had found a lid, inspected it closely, and dropped it on the floor, hurrying back to the sitting room and picking up the remote control then Jane’s reading glasses, which she had been stupid enough to leave on the table by the window. Another tussle had ensued, ending in the glasses being trodden underfoot. Fortunately, Jane had a spare pair.
The matron had explained, as if Jane needed warning, that returning home might be confusing. You can give her one of her tablets, Miss Seymour, but not until after lunch. Now it was after lunch. Ten to two, a time that was to run through Jane’s mind, like a mantra, when she tried to work out who had been doing what, and where, that dreadful afternoon.
During lunch, Eddie had refused the quiche and salad, pushing it aside and asking for jelly babies, but the summer pudding, with the vanilla ice cream Jane had rushed down to the shops to buy, had been more acceptable. Jane rarely ate puddings, but Eddie’s liking for them had remained intact. Gobbling it down, she had pushed back her chair and hurried out into the garden – to look at the flowers perhaps – although it had turned out she was more interested in a broken flowerpot and had not reacted well when Jane attempted to take the sharp pieces out of her hand.
Upstairs now, she was crashing about, opening and closing drawers, and Jane decided to leave her to it. Seeing her in her familiar surroundings, rather than at The Spruces, had resurrected painful feelings of sadness and loss. Also, guilt, and anger. Obviously, the anger was not directed at Eddie herself, and there was no point in blaming God, so she was stuck with rage that life was so unfair, hardly a new observation, but one never quite grew out of those child-like feelings. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.
Someone was ringing the doorbell. A neighbour’s order from an online business? The way Jane was feeling today, she might refuse to take it in. Do you know Miss Seymour? Oh, you mean the woman who takes in all the parcels. The previous day, a so-called expert on the radio had bemoaned the fact that old people were invisible. Not true. Many were only too visible, with their walking aids and those alarming mobility scooters. During Eddie’s last year in Faraday Road, she had been particularly visible and once, at four in the morning, a group of kindly students from number nineteen, returning from a boozy evening out, had found her walking about in her vest and knickers and brought her back home. Subsequently, Jane had formed quite a bond
with them, until they finished their courses and were replaced by a new bunch, who gave her cold, uninterested stares. Uninterested, disinterested. No, now was definitely not the time to get worked up about the use of language on the media.
‘Just answering the door, Eddie,’ she called. ‘Is Rousseau asleep on my bed?’
Since it was Saturday, the men were not working on next door’s loft conversion so the road was relatively quiet. Ready to do battle over yet another parcel, she wrenched open the door – it stuck on the draught excluder she had inexpertly attached the previous winter – and was obliged to make a quick adjustment when she found Simmy, standing there in tears.
‘What is it, dear, what’s happened?’
‘My dad,’ she sobbed. ‘I asked him again – about my mother – and he told me to go away.’
‘Come along in.’ How would Eddie react to seeing the child?
‘He said someone had been gossiping.’ Simmy sat on the edge of the armchair with her hands tucked under her legs. ‘And it was my fault because I must have been talking to people, and he asked if I’d spoken to Mr McNeill and I said I hadn’t and he said he didn’t believe me.’
‘Why did he think you might have spoken to Mr McNeill?’
‘Arthur says Mr McNeill used to be an actor. He had a chequered career. I didn’t know what it meant but Arthur says —’
‘It means doing a variety of things.’
‘Bad things?’
‘Not necessarily.’ What had Arthur heard? Something from his mother, no doubt, angry when Noel rejected her advances. ‘I don’t think you should take notice of remarks like that, Simmy. I believe Mr McNeill was once a male model, but that was a long time ago and it’s a perfectly respectable job.’
Eddie had appeared, holding a jar of marmalade and a fork.
‘Look, it’s Simmy.’ Jane took the fork, noting that Eddie smelled faintly of onions. ‘You remember Simmy. She lives next door.’
At the sight of Eddie, Simmy had brightened. ‘Hello.’ She turned to Jane. ‘Has she come back to live with you?’
‘Just for the weekend.’
‘Simmy,’ Eddie said.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Jane held her breath, afraid Eddie might come out with one of her expletives, but to her surprise she shook Simmy by the hand.
‘What did you do with the Cézanne?’ she murmured, and Jane was torn between wanting to weep, and fearing Simmy might think she was being criticised in some way.
‘Nothing to do with you, dear. She gets confused. Did you find Rousseau, Eddie? Was he on my bed?’
‘Bed.’ Eddie shuffled away, and Jane hoped she was going up to check.
Simmy screwed up her nose. ‘Has she got bad legs?’
‘They wear slippers at The Spruces but I suggested she put on her shoes. I mean, I put them on for her. Now, this business with your father. I expect he was tired, or stressed. His work. He’s always very busy which means his business must be doing well, but I expect it can be hard for —’
‘In our computer game he’s going to be Cronus. He was a very, very bad father. He ate his children.’
‘Oh, Simmy. I tell you what, why not go and see Arthur? I expect he’ll be at home.’
‘You know Barnaby.’
‘Corinne’s son?’
‘He was outside Mr McNeill’s house and they were shouting.’
‘When? Was Corinne there?’
Simmy shook her head. ‘Arthur reckons Barnaby fancies himself because he goes to a private school.’ Jane was relieved to see Simmy’s face had broken into a grin. ‘He told Mr McNeill to fuck off. It was something to do with his bike.’
What was Eddie up to? She needed to check.
‘Arthur’s having lessons.’ Simmy was holding her amulet.
‘He told you about them? He has exams next year and —’
‘I asked Mrs Tidewell but she’s always in a hurry.’
‘About your mother? I doubt if she would know anything.’
‘Ada’s nose was running.’
‘Was it?’ Ada’s nose nearly always needed wiping. Television ads made babies look like pristine creatures that never regurgitated their milk or filled their nappies. Older ones, dressed in designer outfits, burst with joy at the sight of a plate of fish fingers, or waited for the washing-up liquid to be finished so they could do something creative with the empty bottle. Babies and small children had become fashion accessories. No, perhaps that was a little unkind. All the same, it was clear they took priority over everyone else, since it was not uncommon to find a car door wide open, blocking the pavement for passers-by so innumerable children could be fastened into car seats.
Simmy was staring at her, willing her to speak to her father. ‘Dad would listen to you. He wouldn’t dare shout.’
‘Yes, well I haven’t forgotten. Just waiting for the right time. Leave it with me, dear. I think I’d better see what Miss Knox is doing. She remembered you, Simmy, I was pleased about that.’
No sign of Eddie. Jane checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, under the beds, inside the wardrobes. Some drawers had been emptied – but she could have done that earlier – and Jane’s pillow had been moved to the other end of the bed, where Rousseau had made it into a warm nest. Talcum powder had been sprinkled on the carpet, but that could have been before Simmy turned up too.
The garden. Eddie had been out there twice before, searching for something in a flowerbed, and had probably returned. ‘Are you there, Eddie? Eddie?’ Nothing, and it was not the kind of garden that provided hiding places.
After they came back from The Spruces, Jane had locked the front door but when Simmy rang the bell she had unlocked it, and left it that way, and while she was talking to the child, Eddie must have escaped. How long ago? Ten minutes, less, but quite long enough for her to be well on her way to the shops.
EIGHTEEN
Leaving the house, half walking, half running, and all the while listening for the sound of screeching brakes, Jane reached the main road only to find the traffic was at a standstill. Nothing to do with Eddie. A large truck was doing a U-turn and in the process holding up a bus that had pulled out, blocking the road.
Eddie had no money, not that lack of cash would prevent her from pocketing something that took her fancy. First stop, the sweet shop, where she asked if anyone had spotted an elderly woman, wearing a grey dress with a red belt.
‘She’s not well.’ But now was not the time for euphemisms. ‘Her memory. She may have lost her bearings.’
No luck, so on to the mini-market, the greengrocer’s, the shop that repaired computers, the Portuguese café, the cycle shop. Did Eddie know her way back to The Spruces? If she turned up there, the matron would think Jane incapable of keeping tabs on her for half a day. She had no coat, but the rain that had poured down in the night had been replaced by a cool, clear day and, in any case, Eddie had never felt the cold. In that respect, she had been like the teenage boys, many of whom arrived at school coatless, even in midwinter.
A light breeze shook the branches of the chestnut trees in the park. Could she have gone there? Unlikely. Shops would have a greater appeal. Food shops. Eddie was not above helping herself. The fast food place. Yes, that was the best bet.
Nothing, just an exhausted lad, who probably had a Ph.D. in astrophysics, taking the orders while simultaneously checking chips frying in boiling fat. Five past two. She would have to call the police. Fear that Eddie had fallen under a bus had been replaced by fury that she had taken advantage of Simmy’s visit to disappear. She knew what she was doing. Cunning was one of the attributes of dementia. Not true, but Eddie had always had a devious streak, saying one thing and doing another, like the time she had told her she had a low opinion of Tricia Tidewell, and her foolish remarks, and later Jane had discovered the two of them in the Portuguese café. A few years ago, when Liam was still a baby, and Eddie was still her old self.
Walking, half running towards The Spruces, Jane stopped, changed her mind. Eddie had neve
r walked there from Faraday Road and if she was not at the shops she was more likely to have returned to the house. Yes, that must be it. She had set off for the shops then lost her nerve, and instinct had carried her back home.
Retracing her steps, Jane looked all about her for a glimpse of the grey dress with its red belt. She could ask passers-by but they were unlikely to have noticed an elderly woman hurrying along. They had better things to think about and, besides, most of them had their heads down, studying their phones. Round the corner she spotted Gus talking to the wretched woman from number twenty-two. No use asking them, they were far too absorbed in whatever they were discussing. She thought she heard Gus laugh. He was enjoying himself with his new friend, had no interest in Eddie. Had probably forgotten she was coming home for two days.
Back home the house was deathly quiet. Nothing to indicate Eddie had returned then gone out again, no cupboard doors thrown open or beds stripped or taps running. How long had Jane been searching? Fifteen minutes, twenty? Later, it would be important to remember. No, not just important: a matter of life and death.
Out in the garden, she was joined by Rousseau who rolled in the catmint then climbed the magnolia and sat on a branch, preparing to jump down on the other side of the fence.
‘No, Rousseau.’ Dave was not fond of cats, although the Burmese one from number thirty-one was a frequent visitor. Jane had seen it from her window. Needless to say, Rousseau took no notice of her, pausing a few seconds to lick his paw then leaping down and disappearing out of sight.
Out in the street again, but still no sign of Eddie, although she saw that the door to Dave and Gus’ house had been left open. The builders working an extra shift, or possibly Mrs Garcia. She had better check. Stepping inside, she called Simmy’s name. Then Dave’s. The door to their flat was closed and when she knocked nobody answered. Simmy must have gone to look for Arthur. Jane started up the stairs then changed her mind and decided to try and retrieve Rousseau.
The garden door at the end of the passage had a key in it but was not locked. She stepped onto the patio and was met by a forest of dandelions, some still in flower, others turned into fluffy seed heads. When Simmy was younger, she had shown her how to blow the seeds off the stalks. Five blows and they were gone meant it was five o’clock although some of them always seemed to remain. Not a sign of Rousseau, who must have continued on to the next garden, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a dark shape on the patio – and reached out to steady herself against the wall.