The Woman Who Took in Parcels

by Penny Kline

  The coffin slid between red velvet curtains, and Jane’s neighbour breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘My name’s Harriet.’

  ‘Jane. Jane Seymour.’

  Harriet held out a hand and Jane shook it. It was cool and dry.

  ‘He was quite a character.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ She wanted to find a tissue and wipe the lipstick off Harriet’s front teeth.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘The balcony in one of his new loft conversions. I expect you know he ran his own company.’ Jane was thinking about her last visit to The Spruces and how mentioning Rousseau, and then “Russell”, had fallen on deaf ears. ‘It’s possible he was checking in case it needed another coat of paint.’

  ‘Were the police involved?’

  ‘Yes, but it was a formality. I’m afraid he was inclined to take risks.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Harriet closed her eyes, remembering perhaps a time when the two of them had been lovers. ‘It’s his poor wife I feel sorry for.’

  ‘They weren’t actually married.’

  ‘Once bitten, twice shy. I knew him when he was married to Miranda. After they split up, she went to live in South Africa. Sad for poor Noel, being separated from his son. I think they lost touch.’

  ‘Noel had a son?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know? Andrew, no Angus. He must have been five or six when Noel and Miranda called it a day.’

  If only he had told her. A shared experience that would have provided a degree of comfort. She felt annoyed, no hurt, that Harriet knew something he had kept from her. But she and Noel had not been that close. She was fantasising, something it was easy to do when the object of your fantasy was dead.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ Jane slid out of the pew. ‘I need to make sure Corinne’s all right.’

  When they came out into the open, the sun was so bright she had to shade her eyes with her hymn sheet. ‘It was a lovely service.’ She took Corinne’s arm. ‘And very well attended. Neighbours and friends. He was so popular. Everyone liked him.’ Clichés, platitudes, but what else was there?

  ‘You will come back to the house, Jane?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Did she mean now, or was she thinking about the rest of her life? ‘We can talk about it. I’ll come round tomorrow, shall I, or will Barnaby be there?’

  ‘Barnaby?’ she said vaguely. ‘He doesn’t like funerals. You were fond of him, weren’t you, Jane, and he thought the world of you. Oh, how could he be so careless? Those balconies stick out and —’

  ‘Try not to think about it.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I just want to know what happened, but I never will, will I? No one will.’

  ‘Probably not.’ Unless Jane contacted the police. ‘Try to remember the good times. I know everyone says that but —’

  ‘No, you’re right, Jane, you always are. I’m so grateful. Has anybody said anything to you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I just thought.’ Corinne stared into the distance. ‘I was just afraid he might have had an enemy. The loft conversions. Dave seemed awfully angry about the one at the top of his house. Did Gus feel the same? If you knew anything, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  TWENTY-NINE

  For the wake, Corinne had employed a firm of caterers, who provided a cold buffet. A whole poached salmon, cold chicken in Little Gem lettuce leaves, melon and Parma ham on toothpicks, and a feta salad. Jane had no appetite.

  Gus had not come to the crematorium but he was there at the wake, presumably for the free drinks. He was talking to Dave, and Jane was curious to know what they were discussing. The fire and how it had started? Had Simmy had anything to do with it? If she had, it was Dave’s fault for not answering her perfectly reasonable questions.

  Strange how, at funerals, you heard people talking about their work, or football, or the state of the world, even making jokes. Still, it was no good repeating what a sad loss it was and how wonderful the dead person had been. How many people really cared? For Corinne, it was a life-changing tragedy, but for most it was simply the disappearance of a familiar character who had brightened up Faraday Road, or caused friction with his loft conversions, depending on your point of view. With a twinge, Jane thought again how much she would miss their brief encounters. Don’t tell me I’d be better off moving to a smaller place, Noel. Downsizing, isn’t that what they call it? And Noel’s mock terrified responses. I wouldn’t dare, Jane!

  Once, she had attempted to “bleed” a radiator, with disastrous results. The washer had come off the valve – something like that – and Noel had come to her rescue and saved her from a flood. But that was not the reason she was going to miss him. For all his jokes and bonhomie, there had been an underlying sadness that had created a bond between them. He had talked about his childhood and she had told him a little about hers. All childhoods have their good and bad aspects. Noel had adored his mother but had no memory of his father. Jane’s had been a workaholic, who understood nothing about small children. Perhaps that was why she objected to women clergy. As a child, God and his deputies had provided the father-figure she lacked.

  Mrs Garcia had not attended the funeral, but then she and Noel had had a business arrangement, they were not friends. All the same, one would have thought the woman might have come, out of respect for Corinne. Not that any of it was Jane’s responsibility. She must stop feeling responsible for other people’s woes.

  Gus was scoffing a plateful of vol-au-vents and appeared to be getting on well with the woman called Harriet. He liked younger women. The woman who had bought number twenty-two was probably in her late-forties, getting on in years by Arthur and Simmy’s standards, but in the prime of life by Jane’s. Who was she, and why had she moved to Faraday Road? Above all, why was Gus so unwilling to talk about her. There was only one answer to that.

  Over by the door, Willa was inspecting a pot plant. Jane had a feeling she was avoiding her. Before she found the fluffy handcuffs, Jane had wondered if Willa and Brian had discussed the afternoon Noel fell and decided on watertight alibis? Not that she had ever thought Brian capable of killing anyone, although, in crime fiction, it normally turned out to be the least likely suspect. Did he suspect Willa? If he did, Jane would have been able to put his mind at rest.

  Willa caught Jane’s eye and she felt obliged to join her. ‘Hello, Willa, did you enjoy your stay in Cornwall?’

  ‘Cornwall?’

  ‘Brian said you were spending a few days with your sister.’

  Willa looked away, pretending to be brushing something off the shoulder of her jacket. ‘I needed space, Jane, time to grieve. Noel was my soulmate.’

  Jane suppressed a sigh. The silly woman sounded like a character in a play. Time to grieve. My soulmate. Time to escape awkward questions more like.

  ‘Oh, Jane, I did something so stupid.’

  Jane waited while Willa took several deep breaths. Was she going to tell her about the sex outfit?

  ‘I booked into a hotel, Jane, a cheap one, horrible, not even very clean. Have you seen a film called The Deep Blue Sea?’

  ‘It was a play originally. Terrence Rattigan.’

  ‘Oh, you know it. She gassed herself. I mean she would have done if that doctor hadn’t saved her.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ Poor Hester Collyer, who gave up everything for love, a woman after Jane’s heart.

  ‘Because her boyfriend kept going to the pub with his friends.’

  ‘I think there was a little more to it than that.’ So Willa saw herself as a tragic figure, on a par with Hester Collyer, quite apart from the fact that she had missed the point of one of Jane’s favourite plays.

  ‘Are you feeling any better, Jane?’ Willa’s lips kept twitching, like Rousseau when Jane was opening one of his super de luxe cat dinners.

  ‘Arthur’s making progress with his English grammar.’

  ‘Is h
e?’ Her lack of interest was irritating, although her next words provided an explanation. She had been planning to say something Jane was not going to like. ‘I didn’t say anything before, Jane, but the day it happened, when I was on my way to the shops I saw Gus. I don’t know where he was going – he had a zip-up bag – but all of a sudden, he turned back the way he’d come, back towards his house.’

  ‘When was this? He was on his way to take photographs – for a competition. Pictures of insects and birds, I think.’

  Willa frowned. Not surprising, since Jane’s remark had not been relevant.

  ‘When you saw him —’

  ‘I forget the exact time. Only I thought ...’

  What did you think? There are things I could tell you that would give you something to talk about. Holla your name to the reverberate hills, and make the babbling gossip of the air cry out ...

  ‘Will you excuse me a moment, Willa, I need to speak to Simmy.’

  Simmy was on her own, inspecting the vol-au-vent she was holding, and looking thoroughly fed up. Had she asked Arthur to accompany her and he had refused? There was no need for her to be there but she was a child who liked to do the right thing. Her insistence on telling Tricia Tidewell not to put a dummy in Ada’s mouth had been embarrassing, although Tricia had thanked her for being so helpful.

  Jane touched her arm. ‘It was good of you to come to the service, dear.’

  ‘Dad was late.’ Simmy replaced the vol-au-vent on a plate. ‘He doesn’t like Corinne.’

  ‘Why not?’ She should have said “Oh, I’m sure that’s not right”.

  ‘He thinks she’ll tell me about the man my mother ran off with.’

  ‘How would she know something like that?’

  ‘Mr McNeil might have told her.’

  Jane could see Gus picking up a new glass of wine. Now was not the time to tell him, but she had to, she couldn’t wait. ‘Have you had something to eat, Simmy?’

  ‘I don’t like the food.’

  ‘A soft drink then. Come round to my house later and we can have a chat.’

  ‘About my mother? Yes, all right.’

  ‘Good.’ The child might or might not come, and if she did, what could she suggest, but just now Jane had more important things on her mind. ‘Gus?’ She caught up with him as he drifted away in the direction of a bowl of strawberries.

  ‘Jane.’

  ‘Can we have a word in private?’

  ‘What now? Where? Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Not really.’ But Corinne was approaching.

  ‘Barnaby’s just sent me a text. He’s coming the day after tomorrow. Isn’t that lovely?’

  So the wretched boy had chosen to text her during the wake. ‘Yes, lovely.’

  Gus had jumped at the chance and was escaping to another part of the room.

  ‘You look worn out, Corinne,’ Jane said. And a little the worse for wear from several glasses of white wine. ‘I should put your feet up for the rest of the day.’ She reached out to steady her, afraid she was going to fall. ‘You know you’re welcome to come to my house whenever you like. Tomorrow perhaps if Barnaby’s coming the day after.’

  ‘Have you seen the loft? The balcony where he fell? I was the person who decided how the bathroom should be. There’s a sloping ceiling but you could still make use of the cupboard if you knelt down. Noel took me up there soon after the conversion began. He said he valued my opinion. Oh, what am I going to do?’ She clutched at Jane, bumping into her spectacles as she planted an awkward kiss on her cheek. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re wonderful, such a comfort. Is it because you used to be a teacher? Is it pastoral care?’

  Unlike poor Eddie, Jane’s memory was clear as ... as a bell, as daylight. And she distinctly remembered Corinne saying she had never been in one of Noel’s loft conversions. A lie, or was it just that she had a tendency to gabble on without thinking about what she was saying? The woman called Harriet was waiting to say goodbye.

  ‘So nice to meet you. I have to catch my train.’

  ‘Do you need a lift to the station?’ It would give her an excuse to leave.

  ‘How kind, but a taxi is on its way.’

  ‘Well I hope you have an uneventful journey. There’ve been hold-ups on the line but I think the worst of it’s over. Goodbye then.’ And she returned to the plates of half-eaten food and Gus refilling his glass.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Gus. No, not here, can you come round later? And don’t say there’s a match on television. It’s important.’

  ‘Going to see a friend. Might stay the night if we’re out late. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or the next day. Remind me if I forget.’

  Jane turned away, to hide her stupid tears. ‘Actually, it’s not that important. Just something I need to discuss – when you can spare the time.’

  THIRTY

  Arthur was wearing a white T-shirt with blue and orange squiggles that might, or might not, have something to do with martial arts. A child’s appearance and demeanour was always contentious. Without intending to, teachers assumed polite, well-dressed children must be intelligent, whereas less was expected of scruffy pupils who arrived late and had mislaid their homework. Arthur was one of the former, but how intelligent was he? Jane would like to have given him a test.

  ‘I thought today you could construct some sentences to demonstrate the difference between “its” and “it’s”. Arthur?’

  ‘Barnaby hated his guts.’

  Jane tried to look puzzled, but failed. ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘All right in what way?’ Jane was not so out of touch she was unaware “all right” usually meant pretty good. How much was Arthur going to tell her? Best to keep quiet and let him expand on his opinion in his own time.

  A fly was crawling up the inside of the dormer window. Jane felt sorry for it, wanted to let it out into the fresh air. Earlier, she had used a fly spray and demolished a dozen of the pests but the one on the window was an individual and she had watched its struggle to survive. How irrational she was, how stupidly sentimental, but she felt weak with anxiety, and Gus had been out, or pretending to be out, when she knocked on his door.

  ‘Finished.’ Arthur handed her his sheet of paper and Jane skimmed the sentences. Its raining today. The dog wagged it’s tail. Its too late to go to the football match. The cat hurt it’s paw.

  By the laws of probability, he should have got at least one of them correct. ‘Tell me, Arthur, for reasons best known to yourself ...’ Her voice trailed away. She had expected him to produce a slow, tongue in cheek smile, but his expression was deadly serious.

  ‘There’s a fly on the window,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Thy summer’s play my thoughtless hand has brushed away.’

  ‘You’ve been studying William Blake at school?’

  ‘I like poetry.’ One of his trainers touched her shoe and he apologised. ‘My mum watches all the soaps. They’re stupid. People talk about the characters as though they’re real.’

  ‘Possibly it’s a similar phenomenon with your computer games.’

  He thought about this for a moment. ‘I reckon that Barnaby’s lucky. No mother fussing over him and his dad lets him do whatever he wants. He’s got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Barnaby has?’

  ‘No, his dad. Some woman he works with.’ Arthur smiled to himself. ‘She’s called Fiona and she stayed the night at their house, and Barnaby didn’t know she was there and he came out of his bedroom with nothing on and she screamed.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Barnaby says Noel dyed his hair.’

  ‘I don’t think he did.’ But what did she know about it?

  ‘Blokes like Noel always have enemies.’

  ‘The homework I set you, Arthur, did you complete it?’

  He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I know the difference between “there” and “their” and “were” and “wher
e”.’

  ‘I rather thought you did.’ Their eyes met. Neither of them looked away. ‘What is it you’re telling me, Arthur?’

  A loud yowl heralded the arrival of Rousseau, and Arthur stretched out a hand to stroke him. ‘Rousseau – the philosopher one – believed in the noble savage. Are you a noble savage, Rousseau? You think Noel leaned over too far.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ The look on his face had shocked her. For all he cared, Noel’s death was part of a computer game. No, that was unfair. And he was revealing a part of himself she had not seen before, and more or less admitting he was not the dunce at grammar that Willa thought he was.

  ‘Someone could have crept up behind him.’ He put up a hand to hide a grin. ‘I reckon the men lots of women fall for are the ones that are no good. None of his conversions are built properly. That’s what my dad says. They use cheap materials that won’t last.’

  ‘None of his conversions is built properly. “None” is short for “not one” so it’s singular, although you’ll find the rule is not strictly adhered to these days.’

  ‘Did you like him?’ This time Arthur was not smiling. ‘I’m going to ask you something,’ Jane said, ‘and I want an honest answer. When you came here I was under the impression you were good at maths but struggled with English.’

  He stood up. ‘I didn’t know “none” meant “not one”. Simmy told me about your friend and how you were going to go round the world together. I reckon it’s pretty harsh, her getting ill like that.’

  Jane was touched, not so much by his comment but because he had been brave enough to raise the subject.

  ‘Have you read Treasure Island?’, He touched an imaginary parrot on his shoulder. ‘ Pieces of eight, pieces of eight. Simmy’s mother died when she was a baby. I reckon if you’ve one decent parent you probably turn out OK. Gus is going to be Zeus. Apollo convinced Athena a man is more important than a woman because Athena was born of Zeus, without a mother. How could you be born without a mother?’

  ‘They’re myths, Arthur.’

  ‘When we started inventing the game it was a bit of a laugh, but Simmy took it seriously. She’s such a crazy kid.’