The Woman Who Took in Parcels

by Penny Kline

  ‘You didn’t call the fire engine?’ Dave glared at her, stamping out the remains of his bonfire.

  ‘No, but somebody else might have done. Where’s Simmy?’

  ‘You may well ask.’

  ‘Does she have other friends, as well as Arthur?’

  He shrugged. ‘She’s thirteen.’

  ‘Yes, I know she is.’ Why was he determined to present himself as a negligent father? But as she moved away, a thought occurred. Did Dave think Simmy was responsible for the fire? Paying him back for refusing to take her on holiday or, more to the point, to explain what had happened to her mother.

  Pausing outside her house, Jane decided to carry on to the shops, to the electrical shop, where she could purchase a smoke alarm. She had one, fixed to the wall in her entrance hall, but it had been there ever since she could remember and she had a feeling they needed replacing quite often.

  The man in the shop confirmed her suspicion. ‘Every eight years is best.’

  ‘The workshop, just off Faraday Road, caught fire,’ she said, ‘but there was no serious damage.’

  ‘Dave’s place?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Friend of poor Mr McNeill. Used to come here most weeks, Mr McNeill did. You knew him, I expect.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘What happened, d’you suppose?’ He was checking the price of the smoke alarm. ‘He’d never have been silly enough to fall off one of his balconies. Something fishy about it, if you want my opinion.’

  Waves of nausea travelled through her body and sweat broke out on her face and neck. ‘He could be ...’ Jane struggled for the right word. ‘Impetuous, not to say reckless.’

  ‘Even so, when it came to his loft conversions, he knew what he was doing. How’s his wife taken it?’

  ‘She’s not actually his wife.’

  ‘Very wise. Second marriages are always a problem where money’s concerned.’

  So he knew Noel had once been married. Did Corinne know? Probably best not to mention it next time she saw her. Jane paid for the smoke alarm, nodding her thanks when he explained how the battery was included.

  ‘Goodbye then.’

  ‘Bye.’ He picked up a sandwich and took a bite. ‘Nobody saw anything then? What do the police think? Must have had to make the usual investigations?’

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’ The bell rang as she opened the door, then let it swing shut. What did the police think? With any luck, they had more important matters to deal with. A tragedy, but an accident. People who thought otherwise were simply trying to make a drama out of it because nothing like that ever happened in Faraday Road or the nice, respectable surrounding area.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jane had climbed the stairs to the loft – Eddie’s loft – and was sitting on Arthur’s chair, staring at a large painting on the wall. Instead of an expressionist landscape – large slabs of colour that could be interpreted as hills or fields or the sea – Eddie had painted an acrylic with three cats, none of them a tabby like Rousseau, although she had made sketches of him that Jane still valued. They had given him his name because Jane admired the philosopher and Eddie liked the naïve artist, and he had grown into a fine-looking creature, worthy of both Henri and Jean-Jacques.

  Eddie’s painted cats sat, or stood, in an overgrown garden, eyeing each other suspiciously, a tortoiseshell, a Siamese, and a black tom with green eyes. Was it a sinister painting, or simply cat-like? Rousseau made short work of seeing off visiting cats, as well as any cats in the neighbouring gardens that he included in his territory. Where had he gone when he jumped down from the magnolia into Dave’s garden? He was inclined to inspect anything new, a paper bag, a plastic bottle. The body of a man. But by the time she reached the patio, there had been no sign of him.

  The largest of the cats stared out from the painting, daring her to look away. Jane stared back, but it was no good. Just as Rousseau could always out stare her, so could Eddie’s imaginary creature.

  If Eddie had looked after herself better she might have avoided the series of strokes that damaged her brain. Jane allowed herself a little of her suppressed anger. Fucking dementia. Sod everything. Was it Eddie’s fault? More likely to be genetic – she had checked it on her iPad. Never a good idea since most of the medical pages offered links to symptoms and diseases that, as yet, had not given cause for alarm. Both Eddie’s parents had died of cancer but that was no reason to rule out circulation problems. People lived too long, had been designed not to last much beyond their fifties. Not for the first time, Jane felt painfully alone. The wind blows over the lonely heart. And the lonely heart is withered away. Yeats, she thought. Good old Yeats. But the cathartic tears she hoped for failed to materialise. There was housework that needed doing but she felt unable to apply herself to the tasks.

  Her landline started ringing and she hurried down the two flights of stairs, missing a step and only just saving herself from a nasty fall. More than likely a cold call – from someone with a thick Nigerian accent who said his name was Rupert and pronounced her name Say-more.

  It was the matron at The Spruces. ‘Ah, you’re there, Miss Seymour. I just a need a quick word. About Edwina.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane prepared herself for more belongings thrown down the lavatory. Or worse.

  ‘Something seems to be worrying her and I wondered if you could help. Samantha – she’s our new helper – says Edwina keeps talking about someone called Russell.’

  ‘Russell?’

  ‘We thought he could be a friend she’d been close to. Earlier today she became quite agitated when she failed to make herself understood. I thought if you talked to ...’

  ‘Yes of course, I’ll come this afternoon. I don’t know anyone called Russell but I’ll do my best.’

  Russell. A teacher at the school? Or possibly a pupil. Or there was an artist called Russell Flint that Eddie had admired.

  It was only when she was on her way to The Spruces that she realised how dense she had been. Not Russell, it must be Rousseau, and Eddie had been unable to explain it was a cat. She should have brought a photograph. No, the last one had been torn in half. In any case, in all likelihood, when she raised the subject, Eddie’s thoughts would have moved on and she would say something incomprehensible, or nothing at all.

  A nagging doubt remained. Now and again Rousseau took an interest in the builders and their materials, and once, if she had not grabbed hold of him, he would have followed them up the stairs. Where was he? It was time for his dinner and normally he turned up promptly, letting out loud yowls. Unconcerned that Eddie had disappeared out of his life, all he cared about was food and a soft, warm place to curl up and sleep. With cats, and all other species, apart from humans, there was no pretence. Human beings were adept at deception, saying one thing while thinking the precise opposite. Was it a habit that increased with age? Arthur spoke his mind. So did Simmy. Except, for all Jane knew, they had secrets too.

  The men were back, working on next door’s loft conversion, and the front door had been left wide open, and Rousseau was sitting on the doorstep, washing his foot. She reached out for him but he darted away, disappearing up the stairs.

  ‘Rousseau!’ As though he would take a blind bit of notice. The door to Gus’ flat would be closed so he would carry on to the top. Had he been up there before? Did he go there often?

  The builder called Mark was coming down. ‘Your cat, is it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Old friend.’

  ‘Is he? I do apologise. It’s difficult to keep tabs on them.’

  ‘Lee gave him some of his bacon sandwich. Expect he’s back for more.’ He laughed, flattening himself against the wall to allow Jane to squeeze past. ‘Got to get the job completed but we’re not enjoying it.’

  ‘No, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’d warned him to be careful. Must’ve been checking the balcony. Not his job.’ Mark folded his arms, as though to underline the fact that it had not been his
fault. ‘You’d think, after all the conversions we’ve done, he’d have left us to get on with it. Lee’s up there. He’ll help you catch your cat.’

  When she reached the loft, Lee was sitting on the floor, holding a breakfast bar in his bandaged hand, and Rousseau was writhing round him. The boy scrambled to his feet but Jane told him to sit down again and finish his snack. ‘I’ve come to rescue my cat.’ She gazed all about her. ‘ Oh, it was decided to have more than one room, was it?’

  ‘We call him Tiger. Have a look round. It’s nearly finished.’

  ‘His real name’s Rousseau.’ Suddenly the name sounded pretentious. ‘But “Tiger” will do.’

  ‘Got one at home. My mum spoils him rotten, feeds him chicken breasts and that.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Puss. Mum calls him all kinds of soppy names but the rest of us call him Puss.’ He laughed, running his hand down Rousseau’s back. ‘Roo. Short for kangaroo is it?’

  ‘No, Rousseau. He was a painter.’

  He nodded. ‘Hoping to have my own painting and decorating business one day. See what you think of the bathroom. Wouldn’t suit a tall bloke like that Mr McNeill, poor bugger. Sorry, only I felt bad about it, I did.’

  ‘Yes, it was a dreadful thing to happen. But nobody’s fault. A tragic accident.’

  The conversion was more elaborate than she had expected and already a few pieces of furniture had been put in place – in the main room, a leather sofa and a bookcase, purchased presumably by Mrs Garcia, or moved from another of her “lets”. The other room had a double bed and two bedside tables. The ceiling sloped on either side of the bed and a small window behind it looked out on a patch of sky where clouds were scurrying past.

  In the bathroom, a shower with its own door had been fitted in neatly, and the walls were white, but with blue panelling up to the level of the glazed window, and cupboards in the space under the eaves. Lee was right. A child would be able to stand upright at the edges of the room, but an adult would have to bend. Jane opened one of the cupboards. It was empty. Whoever lived in the loft would be glad of the extra storage space. Perhaps she should ask Mrs Garcia if she could rent it. No, it was quite unsuitable for a cat. Although in other ways it rather appealed.

  Rousseau had joined her. It was time to leave before Mark returned and found her poking about. ‘Very smart, Lee, you’ve made a good job of it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind living here myself.’

  Jane smiled. ‘I was thinking the same myself.’ Something had caught her eye. A feather, sticking out from behind one of the leather cushions on the sofa. No, not a feather – it was the wrong colour.

  Lee was screwing up the wrapper from his breakfast bar and putting it in his lunch box. Jane ran her hand over the leather, pretending to test the smoothness, and pushed her fingers between the cushion and the back. The throbbing in her temples increased. Mark was coming up the stairs.

  ‘Is Rousseau still there, Lee?’ She spoke too loudly.

  ‘Over by the window.’

  ‘Can you catch him, please? He won’t scratch if you hold him firmly.’ With one tug, she had the whole thing in her hand and had pushed it deep inside her pocket. Nothing of it must be left behind. Not the tiniest speck of pink fluff.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The funeral took place at the crematorium. Jane had expected Corinne to say a few words, but the occasion was too much for her. Her chosen hymn – The King of Love My Shepherd is – was one most people knew, so the singing was enthusiastic. Corinne was not religious, and Noel had been an atheist, but rituals helped a little, and it was believed they allowed the bereaved to “move on”.

  Would Corinne be able to move on? In all likelihood, she would have to, literally. Where would she go? She and Noel had not been married, and she had only lived with him for six months. As far as Jane knew, that gave her no rights over the house. Perhaps Noel had made a will in her favour. He had no dependants, or if he had, he had kept quiet about them.

  Dressed all in black – black suit with skirt that finished a little above the knee, white blouse, black and white hat and patent leather high heels – she stood out from the rest of the congregation.

  In contrast, Willa, back from her stay in Cornwall, was wearing a red dress with black swirls, and a purple jacket. No hat, but Jane doubted if one would have fitted over her bush of hair. Recalling the parcel of kinky knickers, she suppressed a nervous laugh. Laughter and tears were so close. If you have tears prepare to shed them now. But so far, she had remained dry-eyed.

  Looking about her – the crematorium smelled faintly of Aloe vera – she began counting the number of residents of Faraday Road. Some would have had the excuse they had to look after their children, and others would be at work. Brian and Willa were sitting in the same pew but slightly apart, and Willa’s face was puffy with tears.

  As they waited for the service to begin, Jane’s neighbour, a petite blonde woman had held forth on what a wonderful person Noel had been, and Jane had nodded and smiled. Who was she? Now the woman had a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and nose. Since she had mentioned how she had travelled a fair distance to attend the funeral, Jane assumed she had once shared Noel’s bed. She had wanted to ask, or at least to discover a little about Noel’s early life. Instead, she had told the woman how well-liked Noel had been in Faraday Road.

  When a young girl was murdered, or died in an accident, close relatives frequently described the deceased as “bubbly”. Not a word that was used much in life, but perhaps it brought comfort. Noel had been a live wire but “bubbly” had a feminine ring to it. Poor Noel, but he would have appreciated the turnout. I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost. John Donne, Jane’s favourite. Some old lover? How absurdly fanciful she was. But she liked to think her relationship with Noel had been special. Certainly, life was not going to be the same without him.

  In spite of it being a warm day, the crematorium felt chilly, and its modernity gave it a clinical feel. Jane was not a churchgoer but she liked churches – cathedrals even more – where the musty smell brought back memories of childhood: hymns and psalms and candles. If you no longer believed, where did you find spiritual refreshment? What did “spiritual” mean? She had a sneaking suspicion it was simply a way of talking about emotions.

  The coffin looked expensive, and had a brass plate, and Jane pictured the funeral director telling Corinne he was sure she wanted the best, and Corinne agreeing, because it was easier, and who could blame her? The vicar was a woman. In principle, Jane agreed with women priests, of course she did, but it was a case of head over heart. Men were not the same as women – obviously – and fathers played a different role from mothers.

  Dave arrived late, in time for the second hymn, and slipped in beside her, although Simmy was sitting near the front. It was The King of Love, a hymn Jane rather liked. Her other neighbour sang out of tune, so Jane increased the volume of her own voice to drown out the cacophony. She caught Dave’s eye and he grinned. It was a long time since she had seen him looking so cheerful and, for some reason, it prompted a thought Jane had often had before. How would you feel if your nearest and dearest died on the same day Princess Diana was killed? All that outpouring of grief and none of it for your loss. It was the same with the television news. Twelve people were killed in a coach accident, but there was no mention of the individuals – there must have been several – who had been killed on the road that same day.

  Thoughts that ran through your head at funerals, but, in this instance, they were an attempt to push away the one that never left her. Eddie had been up to the loft and it must have been when Noel was there, before she escaped to the shops. Hello, Eddie. She pictured the scene over and over. Come to see my new loft conversion? Then what had happened? Eddie had said nothing, or something inappropriate, clutching the handcuffs in the pocket of the cardigan Jane had made her wear. Noel would have left her to nose about and returned to his inspection of the balcony. Then what? She had crept up behind
him. No, not crept – she would have noticed he had his back turned, leaning over the balcony – and been unable to resist giving him a push.

  Conscience does make cowards of us all. She ought to tell the police. She would tell them, but not yet. What good would it do? And she would have to explain how Eddie must have found the handcuffs behind the herbs and spices, and then explain how they had got there. And the matron at The Spruces would be involved, and would definitely refuse to keep Eddie. And it would upset everyone, especially Corinne. At least, now she knew Eddie had been up in there, she could stop thinking about the other residents of Faraday Road, and the motives and opportunities she had assigned to them.

  The vicar was speaking about Noel. What a relatively young man he had been, a successful businessman who had once been a male model. Who had passed on the information? It must have been Corinne, who would have been incapable of reading out a eulogy herself. Perhaps Jane should have offered. No, it would have been inappropriate. People already thought she still behaved like a schoolteacher, a head of department. Did they think that, or was she imagining it? To see oursels as ithers see us. Robert Burns, a poet who deserved to be quoted. The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men. And her favourite: But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.

  Concentrate. Lately her mind had wandered uncontrollably, flitting from one emotion to another. Listen to the vicar. Female vicars seemed to fall into two categories: the dowdy and the glamorous. This one had dyed hair and a fair amount of make-up. Why not? Jane was often ashamed of her prejudices. She tried not to pass judgement, at least not out loud, but what went on in one’s head was another matter. One could hardly censor one’s thoughts and feelings.