by Penny Kline
‘You have no money of your own?’
‘I thought ... you’ll be shocked, Jane, but I thought he might have me back.’
‘Gerard might?’ Jane was shocked but managed not to show it. Still, when it came to the crunch, people were pragmatists, even if they pretended otherwise. Corinne never pretended. Something in her favour, although there was a place for subterfuge. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want, dear?’
‘I’m no good on my own.’
‘No, I see.’ Jane was thinking about the woman who had bumped into Barnaby in his birthday suit. Fiona. His father’s secretary. ‘It might be best if the suggestion came from Gerard.’
‘You’re so sensible, Jane.’
‘Take things slowly, test the water.’ Jane took a deep breath. ‘I wouldn’t be asking you this, Corinne, if it wasn’t important. Do you know what happened to Simmy’s mother?’
Corinne brightened considerably. ‘Oh, didn’t you know – she drowned. Noel told me but you must promise not to tell Simmy. It was in Cornwall. Noel was staying nearby at the time. It was in the local paper. The inquest and everything. Simmy thinks she died of natural causes and Dave wants to keep it like that.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Jane didn’t, but it was a start. ‘Do you know any more about what happened?’
‘No. Sorry. Death’s so final, isn’t it, so hard to take in. I can’t believe ... sometimes, for a moment, I forget and —’
‘To get back to your financial situation, perhaps you should consult your solicitor, if you have one. Do you have enough to tide you over?’
Corinne stood up. She had spotted one of Eddie’s paintings, a small one, not her usual style. Pigs – Old Spots – wallowing in mud. ‘Oh, did Eddie do that? Isn’t it clever. I’d give anything to be able to paint like that. I’m quite creative but ... Noel liked pigs.’
‘Did he?’ She had spoken about him in the past. Progress, Jane thought, although she could be being over-optimistic. All the same, there was something about Corinne that had made her think the grieving widow – well, not precisely, since they had not been married – was tougher than she thought. And a good solicitor might mean she kept the house, although Harriet, the woman at the funeral, had said he had a son. Did Corinne know about him? Unlikely. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you have the pig painting, take it home with you?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t.’
Jane took the picture off the wall – it was not one she liked very much – and ushered Corinne out of the house. ‘A solicitor, dear. Doing something practical usually makes one feel a little better.’
‘Thank you so much, Jane.’
For the advice or the pig painting? And was she heartbroken or just a very convincing actress? Supposing she had found out the love of her life had rekindled his affair with Willa. Or the woman in the park that Arthur said Simmy had seen. Heav’n has no rage like love to hatred turn’d.
Closing the door on Corinne, her thoughts returned to Gus. The previous day, in an effort to return to normality, she had attended her choir. Hoping they would sing something inspiring, she had been disappointed when most of the songs were about unrequited love, apart from the one about a dove. During the tea break, a woman she had never spoken to before approached her with an inquiring look on her face, and asked if she knew Gus. Jane said he was her neighbour, and the woman – she thought her name was Deborah – became quite excited and said she had been a regular at his camera shop and how upset she had been when it closed. Such a dear, sweet man, so kind when my husband died. When you lose someone, those little contacts are so important.
Gus, a dear, sweet man? Jane had never visited his shop, but Deborah’s description had made her realise how important it had been to him, not just a source of income. Not that he would ever admit it. As Deborah droned on about her dead husband, Jane realised coming to choir practice had been a mistake. Normally a good listener, she had felt too raw, too self-absorbed to empathise with other people’s pain.
The phone interrupted her thoughts. Matron from The Spruces. Eddie had been talking about the weekend at home and in the circumstances they had felt obliged to contact the police.
‘I phoned a little earlier, Miss Seymour, but you must have been out.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, was it something important?’ When she was on the doorstep, talking to Simmy? She would have to turn up the volume on her phone.
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. Miss Knox had another stroke.’
‘Oh, dear, I’ll come at once.’
The pause was probably less than a second, but felt like several minutes. Long enough for Jane to know what was coming next.
‘I’m very sorry, Miss Seymour, I’m afraid she passed away.’
‘Thank you.’ She should have been prepared. She wasn’t. Eddie had been difficult, a worry, a nuisance. The months, if not years had stretched ahead. More nursing care would be necessary, and more money to pay for it. Eddie would become incontinent, possibly violent, and fail to recognise her. ‘I’ll come anyway, shall I? Yes, of course, I’ll come now.’
‘Do you have a friend or neighbour? Someone who lives close by?’
‘I’ll be with you shortly.’
Rousseau wanted his dinner. ‘Eddie’s dead,’ Jane said, and he ran on ahead of her with his tail in the air. One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
THIRTY-THREE
Arthur had turned up, and he had a cold. Was she expected to give him a lesson? Had no one told the Molloys about Eddie?
‘Sorry I’m late, I overslept.’
‘Never mind, come along in.’ Her first reaction had been to say he would have to come back another day, but a lesson would take her mind off things. Should she tell him what had happened or would that embarrass him? Did it matter if he was embarrassed? Yes, it did.
Up in the loft, he sat with his legs sprawled, waiting expectantly.
‘Before we begin, Arthur, I should tell you that my friend Edwina has died. She was in a home, with dementia. She had a stroke.’
He picked up one of the pens and twirled it round between his fingers. ‘Shall I go?’
‘No, no need for that. I just thought I ought to tell you. In case you heard about it later.’
‘Does my mother know?’ He blew his nose and she thought it was because he felt awkward, but he was trying not to laugh. ‘She’s done something to her hair. Mum has. She looks like a poodle. An old one with a moth-eaten coat.’
Jane joined in the laughter. She couldn’t stop herself. It was a release. She could have laughed and laughed. Laughed till she cried. The patch of blue, visible a few minutes ago through the dormer window, had turned grey, almost as though the weather was passing judgement on her inappropriate behaviour. ‘Right then, Arthur, I want to talk about pronouns.’
‘I brought a screwdriver.’ He looked about him for somewhere to dispose of his soggy tissue and Jane pointed to the waste paper basket she had put within reach of his chair. ‘For your window,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to open because the handle’s come loose. Shall I fix it?’
‘Would you?’
He crossed to the dormer window. He was tall enough to reach it without standing on a chair. A couple of twists and he wrenched the handle up and down to demonstrate how much firmer it was.
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘A boy from school’s training to be a plumber. Plumbers are never short of work and the money’s good.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Except you have to unblock bogs.’ He found a fresh tissue. ‘An electrician would be better. Or a bricklayer.’
‘But you want to be a doctor like your father. And you’re afraid you may not get the grades.’
His shoulders moved in a weary shrug and Jane decided it was best to continue with the lesson. ‘Now, can you give me the definition of a pronoun?’
‘It’s instead of a noun, like “Our dog’s black and Jayden’s got a white one”. “One” is the pr
onoun.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s called Lucky. Jayden’s dog. It barks when people go past.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard it.’ There was something different about him. Because she had told him about Eddie? His fingers kept curling and uncurling, but he was anxious rather than ill at ease. ‘Pronouns can be the subject or object of a sentence and some of them distinguish singular and plural, for example, I or we, he or they.’
‘Right.’
‘Then there are compound pronouns.’
‘Someone, something, everyone, everything.’
‘Good.’ Jane picked up her tablet. ‘I thought this might interest you, Arthur. A poem about a cat by a poet called Tessimond. Arthur Tessimond as it happens. Arthur Seymour John Tessimond. Both our namesakes. He’s reading the poem himself. It’s on YouTube.’
‘Right.’ He had a puzzled expression, as though he was afraid it was some kind of trick. Then the reading began and he watched with rapt attention.
When it came to an end, he put the tablet on the table. ‘Cats no less liquid than their shadows. That’s why they’re good at catching birds. Is Tessimond a friend of yours?’
‘No, I’m afraid he’s dead. Arthur?’ She paused, knowing it would mean she had his full attention. ‘Why is it your mother thinks you’re going to fail next year’s exams?’
He sniffed. ‘My report.’
‘Your marks were not as good as they used to be?’
‘Are you going to tell her?’
‘Tell her what?’
He sighed, glancing at her then looking away. ‘Simmy and me ... Simmy and I, you know how we’ve been planning this game?’
‘The one based on Greek mythology.’
‘We’d never be able to do the technical part. It’s more the story and how the characters interact. I know a bit about programming but it takes a team of programmers to create a game. Hundreds of them. Thousands. I’m not sure if you can sell an idea to the games industry, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s good practice, thinking how it would pan out. Did he write a lot of poems?’
‘Tessimond? Yes, he did. A good one about advertising men. He called them the trumpeters of nothingness, mental prostitutes.’ But mentioning Tessimond had been a diversionary tactic. ‘You were telling me about the games industry.’
‘Not just games. Movies. Computer-generated images. You can earn good money.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Mum thinks games are rubbish, a waste of time, but they can help kids with problems like autism, and ordinary kids too. They develop spatial skills, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’
Pushing back his chair, he stood up and began examining one of Eddie’s paintings, a landscape peopled with strange characters, half-human, half-animal, a little derivative of a Chagall, but surely all works of art were derivative in one way or another.
‘I used to like painting,’ he said, ‘but if you did maths and IT you had to give it up.’
‘How short-sighted of whoever drew up the timetable.’ Fishing in a back pocket in his jeans, he found a piece of paper, unfolded it and handed it to her.
‘Let’s have a look. Oh, it’s good, Arthur. I didn’t realise you could draw so well.’
‘That’s Echidna.’ He pointed to a drawing, half-woman, half serpent. ‘She ate men raw.’
‘Really? Oh, and a centaur, with a horse’s body and ...’ Jane broke off, failing to control a smile. ‘Noel’s head.’
‘He’s easy to draw. I mean, he used to be.’ He pointed again. ‘That’s Cronus.’
‘The character you assigned to Dave.’ The rippling muscles were about as different from Dave as it was possible to imagine, but the face was similar.
‘And Athena,’ he said, handing her a second sheet of paper with a drawing of a woman with voluptuous breasts and a rather modern hair-do.
‘Very good. Thank you for showing me. It’s a shame you had to drop art, although that doesn’t mean you have to give up on your drawing.’
His back was turned, and she had to strain to hear what he said next.
‘“This is my son,” like I’m an exhibit in a museum. I don’t like blood, or illnesses. I don’t want to be a doctor.’ He checked to make sure she was listening. ‘People call computer scientists geeks because they’re good at maths, but it’s because of them we’ve got all the stuff we have now.’
‘Very true.’
‘Anyway, I thought ...’ He blushed and Jane felt a rush of affection for him.
‘What are you telling me, Arthur, that you’ve deliberately failed at your school work, apart from maths and IT? Was that really necessary? Couldn’t you have talked to your mother? Or your father,’ she added.
‘He doesn’t care what I do.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘Some people go to the doctor just because they’ve got a sore throat, or they hate their husband.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Or their wife. He gets millions of those.’
How could she have been so stupid? She was losing her touch. Still, it was because of the classes that he had summoned up the courage to say what he really wanted to do. Poor boy, she had him down as so “cool” and sophisticated. And she had taken Willa at face value too, swallowed the story about Brian when all the time it had been his mother who was trying to force him into a career in medicine.
‘You must tell her, Arthur. If you explain —’
‘She’d go crazy.’
‘Surely not.’ But he could be right. First Noel’s death. No, first Noel’s rejection when she attempted to seduce him with the silly patent leather outfit. Then his death. And now Arthur, her pride and joy, was going to let her down. ‘If you like, I could have a word.’
‘She shouts.’ He paused to have a good, long blow. ‘Loses her temper. Once when Dad ... I forget what he’d done but she was so angry she threw a plate of spaghetti Bolognese at him. If she hits him he never retaliates. Well, you know what my dad’s like. And if shouting doesn’t work, she bursts into tears.’
‘The accident upset her.’
‘Accident? Oh, you mean Noel. She hated him. She thought he was in love with her but she was just a bit on the side. Noel, the rapist and pillager.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’
So many questions sprang to mind. How much did Brian know? If Arthur was right, Willa could have followed Noel up to the loft conversion. Or Brian could have. No, Willa was a much more likely culprit.
‘Miss Seymour?’
‘Yes, dear.’ Jane held her breath. Now what was he going to come out with? Please God, not a confession.
‘I’m sorry your friend died.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Corinne was back. ‘Oh, Jane, he wants a divorce. Gerard wants a divorce. Barnaby says he’s got a girlfriend and she’s called Fiona. Is it a Scottish name? Barnaby says—’
‘Come inside.’ Jane was tired, and she wanted to talk to Willa, but it would have to wait. ‘Now, start at the beginning. You’ve been in touch with Gerard, have you?’
‘He phoned. He said he was sorry, but he needed to make some arrangements. Some arrangements! He asked what was going to happen to Noel’s house. He said ...’
‘Slow down, dear, at least it sounds as though he’s prepared to help.’
‘I don’t want his help.’ Her voice was steely. ‘I hate him. I only married him because ... I can’t remember. He’s never been any fun. She’s welcome to him. I’ve consulted a solicitor and I’m going to fight to keep the house and Barnaby can move in with me. He’ll be going to university but they still need somewhere to come home to, don’t they?’
‘They do.’ Jane wanted to congratulate her, but her newly found resolve was likely to be fragile.
‘He’s called Nigel. My solicitor. He’s about forty and I think he’s single – he hasn’t got a wedding ring – and he’s got such nice fair hair. With fair hair, you can’t really tell if there’s any grey, can you? Anyway
, I’m putting my trust in him. Actually I might invite him to the house for a drink. Are you allowed to invite your solicitor?’ She was holding her neck as if it was the only way she could get the words out. ‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’
‘I do.’
‘It’s not that I’m not still grief-stricken about Noel, but you have to move on, don’t you?’
‘You do.’
The silence that followed was a little oppressive. Corinne fiddled with a strap on one of her high-heeled shoes. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, the day it happened, when I was on the way to the lingerie party I saw Dave. He didn’t see me but ...’
‘Are you sure? I think he had to attend an auction. Although I’m not certain what time it was or where it was being held.’
Corinne frowned. ‘He didn’t like Noel. Partly the loft conversion, but there was something else. When I saw him, he looked quite angry.’
‘I’d put it out of your mind and concentrate on ... on your arrangements. Your solicitor.’
‘If he was married he’d have a ring. Do you think he would? Some men don’t like jewellery. Are wedding rings jewellery?’
‘Time to phone him and make another appointment. Off you go.’ Jane guided her through the front door, waited a few moments, then set off for number thirty-four.
A dog-eared notice said the bell was broken. Jane knocked and a faint voice asked who it was.
‘It’s me. Jane.’
‘Hang on.’ The voice was only a few feet away.
Jane waited, gazing all about. A deflated football lay beside some flower pots and a plastic water pistol. No, not a pistol, an AK47, designed to drench its victim to the skin.
‘Come in.’ Willa’s hair was not so much poodle – more scarecrow – and she was wearing an unflattering all-in-one outfit, royal blue with a pattern of white polar bears. ‘Is it about the classes? I know, you can’t work miracles. I’m just grateful you’ve continued as long as you have. Oh, no, it’s about your friend. Arthur told me. I’m so sorry. If I’d known ...’
‘He’s a very thoughtful boy.’
‘Is he?’
Junk mail, shoes, discarded books, a broken umbrella. Willa led her through to the back, past a sinkful of washing-up, the remains of some cold pasta, and a bunch of bananas with blackened skins. Not very hygienic, particularly for a doctor’s house. Jane was surprised none of the family had succumbed to food poisoning but presumably they had built up immunity.