The Tapestry Bag

by Isabella Muir

  ‘I’ve always wanted twins. Instant family,’ she said, then launched into a ten-minute report of their plans for the babies’ bedroom.

  ‘Frank is thrilled. He says there’s no way I can even think of working now. I’ll have to be a stay at home mum. Do things properly.’

  Her tone suggested she was revelling in the idea, clearly a change of heart from our recent conversations.

  ‘Congratulations, I’m so pleased for you. Very exciting,’ I said, thinking of my own dread of managing one little person, let alone two.

  I had visited the paper shop and placed an order for a daily delivery. Neither Greg nor I were avidly interested in current affairs, but we loved crosswords, so I chose the newspaper with plenty of puzzles to keep us amused.

  Mr Peters appeared to run the shop single-handedly. I hoped I could engage him in a conversation at an appropriate moment, without being disturbed by other staff, although there was no guarantee about other customers.

  I left it a week and then arrived late on Tuesday afternoon to pay the paper bill. My hope was that by arriving just as Mr Peters was closing up there was more chance of catching him on his own. I had no idea how I would bring the conversation around to Zara, in fact, having any conversation at all would present a challenge.

  As I reached the shop Mr Peters was sweeping, just outside his front door. He swept with gusto, his robust frame pushing the broom along in brisk strokes. His focus was entirely on the pile of dust, litter and leaves that had accumulated in front of the broom, so when I approached from behind and greeted him, he turned around and looked startled.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve just come to pay my paper bill. I’m not too late, am I?’

  He glanced at my increasing baby bump and smiled.

  ‘Of course not, my dear, come on in. Take a seat if you like. I haven’t started cashing up yet.’

  It struck me that little Bean could prove as useful to me in gathering information as a dog can be for someone looking for love.

  ‘I will take a seat, if that’s okay. I’m finding I get tired more quickly these days.’ I followed him into the shop and he disappeared out the back, returning with a folding chair for me.

  ‘There you are, take the weight off for a few minutes. What’s the name? I’ll look out the bill for you.’

  ‘Mrs Juke. I owe one week I think.’

  He flicked through his accounts book and I seized the moment.

  ‘I must say it’s lovely to have the place open again. Before you took over we were buying our paper at the shop down Church Street, but this is much more convenient for us and it’s ideal having it delivered. You’ve got the place looking pristine.’

  Pristine, I thought, what are you talking about? Who describes a newsagent’s as pristine?’

  ‘Thank you, my dear, that’s kind.’

  ‘There must be so much to consider, ordering and so on. I expect you’ve been in the newspaper business for a while?’

  Get a grip, Janie, you’re waffling.

  ‘I haven’t, no. Well, I did help out now and again in the shop at the holiday camp.’

  ‘Holiday camp?’

  ‘Yes, I was working on the big holiday camp over near Bognor. Been there for a season, but I thought it was time to come home.’

  ‘Oh, sounds like fun. You’re from around here then? What made you come back?’

  ‘I heard about this place from an old friend. Thought it was too good a chance to miss.’

  The conversation was taking the right direction, I just needed to push it one step further. ‘I can understand you wanting to come back,’ I said. ‘I’ve lived here all my life and I love it. You feel so safe, nothing ever happens around here, which is a positive thing in my book.’

  ‘Things are changing. You only have to read the local paper. Youngsters racing about on motorbikes, taking drugs, getting drunk. They talk about peace not war, but it’s all talk. And there’s no respect. I’m forever clearing up rubbish outside the shop, they just throw cans and bottles all over the place. I blame the parents. Don’t get me wrong, dear, I don’t mean nice young people like you, it’s the teenagers, they come in here and the language. If my dad ever heard me using words like that he’d have given me a clout, that’s for sure. I need to be so eagle-eyed, turn your back for a minute and they’ll be stuffing their pockets with all sorts.’

  I was happy to let him continue to rant while I thought of the best way of turning the conversation in the direction I was hoping for.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, of course,’ I said, when he stopped speaking. ‘My dad used to be in the police years ago and the worst thing he ever had to deal with was the odd case of scrumping. I can only imagine what the poor police have to cope with nowadays. Like you say, youngsters running riot.’ I tried not to think about Greg’s reaction if he could hear me talking like a fifty-year-old, otherwise I’d never be able to keep a straight face.

  ‘I can tell you a thing or two about the police. If you ask me they have no idea how to treat decent people.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I was in the police station just the other day. And do you know, instead of thanking me for coming forward, they treated me like I was the guilty party. I ask you.’

  ‘Gosh, that must have been awful. What happened?’

  ‘That missing girl, you know the case? She’d be about your age.’

  ‘Er, yes, I know the one you mean. I heard the police had a new lead, so that was you, was it?’

  ‘That’s right, my dear, I saw her, on the day she went missing. I’m the person who is helping the police with their enquiries.’

  Mr Peters told me all I wanted to know without me asking him another question. He explained that on the day Zara disappeared he was visiting St Martha’s cemetery. His parents are both buried there in a family grave he anticipates adding to, but not for many years, he tells me with a wink. His light-hearted approach to death made me uncomfortable.

  He arrived late afternoon, which he explained was his favourite time, as the cemetery is usually empty.

  ‘I like time to chat and it’s better when there’s no-one around. Some people think it’s strange when you talk to the departed,’ he said. ‘I’ve always chatted to them, I use them as my sounding board. I was there that day to explain my plans to them, about taking on the newsagents. I was certain they were behind me all the way.’

  At this point he looked at me as though he was challenging me to smirk in disbelief. I remained impassive and nodded.

  ‘It was then that I saw her. I heard a rustling and looked up to see a young woman. She walked over to one of the headstones, knelt down and did something to the grave, but I couldn’t see what. Then she got up, brushed herself down and left. I didn’t see any flowers or anything. I like to think she was doing the same as me. The spirit world is always ready to listen, you know, and if you recognise the signs, then the spirits often point you in the right direction.’

  I could see Mr Peters getting side-tracked again, wondering off into his own world, when I needed him to focus more clearly on this one.

  ‘And that’s what you told the police, that you’d seen a young woman? What made you think it was the missing girl? I mean did you recognise her?’

  ‘Pretty thing, no mistaking her. Olive-skin, beautiful eyes. Hang on a minute and I’ll show you something.’

  He disappeared out the back, returning with something rolled up under one arm. I knew exactly what I was going to see when he unrolled it. There was Zara’s face, staring out at me.

  ‘When I took over the shop I found this poster. I expect they were everywhere when she went missing. You must have seen them yourself?’

  ‘Er, yes, I do remember them, now you come to mention it.’

  ‘Well, as soon as I saw her face, it triggered a memory, of that day in the cemetery. I went straight down to the police station and told them. And were they grateful? Oh no, not a bit of it.’

  ‘I’m sure they were, I expect they’
re not allowed to say much, it being an ongoing case?’

  ‘Ongoing case, my foot. No, they barely showed any interest. All they wanted to know is why I’d taken so long in coming forward, like I had something to hide. So I didn’t tell them the rest.’

  ‘The rest?’ My heart started to thump in my chest and I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  ‘I didn’t tell them what she was carrying. It was a bag of some kind, large, like a holdall. She was too far away for me to see the bag in much detail, but it was multi-coloured, I’m certain of that.’

  At this point my mouth fell open. It confirmed the seed of hope that I had clung to since the day Zara left. Now I had reassurance that she still had the bag when she visited Joel’s grave. If she had planned suicide she would have dumped it somewhere, or maybe not even taken it. I realised how much worse it would be if I had walked into her bedroom that evening to see the tapestry bag still sitting on the chair.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘That’s quite a thing.’

  ‘Is it?’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem like much, but it would appear that I’m the last person to see her, which is quite a responsibility. And I suppose if she had a holdall with her, well then she must have been going somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. You didn’t mention the bag to the police?’

  The question was out before I could stop myself.

  ‘No, I remembered it afterwards, but they’d been so offhand with me. Well, I didn’t want to go through that again. They just took my statement, read it back to me, got me to sign it and that was that.’

  He paused and looked contemplative. ‘It’s a strange case though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘it is.’

  Having paid the paper bill, I left Mr Peters shortly after our chat. I’d got a little closer to finding out what happened to Zara the day she left our house. I already knew she’d packed all her things, so that wasn’t news to me. The only surprising thing was that she’d left via the cemetery. I imagined the police felt the same way about Mr Peters’ information. It was hardly a revelation. It got me wondering why the police had bothered to announce it as a ‘fresh lead’. Perhaps Mr Peters knew more than he was saying.

  Chapter 14

  ‘A “man of method” was, in Poirot’s estimation, the highest praise that could be bestowed on any individual.

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie

  Bitter irony is one way of describing what happened to my dad. He was just a boy when the Second World War ended, but old enough to be sent to fight. He survived the worst of the death and destruction war brings with it and then he steps out in front of a bus and ends up blind. Dad never spoke about any of it. Not about the fighting and not about the accident. I was five years old when he crossed the road that snowy morning. It was the first heavy snow I’d ever seen and dad had promised to walk to the park with me so we could make the biggest snowman. We never got to the park and I’ve hated snow ever since.

  My memory of that day is still crystal clear.

  The bus was late and dad said it would be ages ‘til we had our tea.

  ‘You wait here, Janie. I’ll go and get some pink doughnuts for my pretty pink princess,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be silly, dad, I’m not a princess and I’m not even pink,’ I said. Everything in my world was pink, from my bedroom to my favourite pair of mittens.

  Afterwards, the doughnuts were lying in the dirty snow at the side of the road, beside the bus. It was funny how the bus hadn’t squashed the doughnuts, but it had squashed my dad, well, his head anyway.

  When it happened, I remember feeling vague, like when you’re having a dream and the dream ends and you know you’re awake, but you can’t hear or feel anything.

  There were people all around my dad and I could see their mouths moving, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Just before the bus came my tummy had been hurting, because I was so hungry and my hands and feet were freezing. Afterwards, it was like I didn’t have a tummy or hands or feet, like I was sort of floating. But it wasn’t a nice floaty feeling, because as soon as I felt my tummy again I knew I was going to be sick.

  That was when I heard the noise from the ambulance and the police car and the people shouting. I heard all the noises at the same time and it made my head hurt.

  A lady in a tea-cosy kind of hat smiled at me. She took my hand and led me to a bench to sit down.

  ‘That wasn’t a nice thing to see, was it? It’s given you a shock.’

  ‘Thank you,’ was all I could think of to say. I let her hold my hand; well, she held my pink mitten, because my hands were in my mittens and they were still icy cold.

  ‘Who are you here with love? Are you out with your mummy or daddy? Let’s turn away, let’s look over there at the park, see how the snow on the trees sparkles in the sunshine.’

  ‘I don’t like snow anymore,’ I said. The snow had made the bus slide. It didn’t stop. It just kept going. I didn’t want doughnuts any more, I just wanted my dad. I pulled my hand away from the lady and ran to the ambulance. Two men with yellow coats were lifting my dad onto a stretcher.

  ‘I need to come in the ambulance. I need to hold my dad’s hand.’

  I don’t even remember the sirens and yet whenever I see an emergency vehicle racing along the road with lights flashing, I think of that day.

  The first time mum took me to visit dad in hospital she got me ready as though I was going to a party. She put me in my best frock, tied ribbons in my hair and gave my face an extra scrub. She spent just as long getting herself ready. She wore her Sunday best dress, a cardigan that might have been newly purchased, or borrowed. Around her neck hung a string of pearls. I’d never seen those pearls before and I never saw them again after that day.

  She took hold of my hand and we walked into the hospital ward together to see my dad lying there, with his eyes all bandaged up.

  ‘Your dad can’t see you anymore, Janie,’ she said. It was a mystery to me as to why she had taken so much trouble over our appearance. I remember the expression on her face when she saw my dad. It was as though he had let her down, like she was the one who was suffering.

  I ran over to his bedside and grabbed his hand. ‘Hello dad, it’s me, Janie,’ I said.

  ‘Hello princess.’ His smile covered the whole of his face, an unshaven face, pale and drawn. ‘Hearing your voice is the very best medicine your dad can have. Come and sit right here beside me and tell me all you’ve been up to.’

  The back of his head took the brunt of the trauma and that’s why he ended up blind. Later, when I was old enough to ask questions and comprehend the answers, dad told me it was his occipital lobe that had been damaged. If it had been another part of his brain, then he may not have walked out of that hospital. He could have died that day. His viewpoint was that blindness was a relatively small price to pay, when you consider the alternatives.

  He never complained or railed against his fate and the day my mum moved out he never said a word against her. She’d given up pretending we were important to her and I have no idea what she’s doing now. We have an address for her, somewhere up north, but she’s not interested in our lives and the feeling is mutual.

  When they were first married mum and dad couldn’t afford their own place, so they moved in with dad’s mother. I never met my grandmother, but dad has fond memories of her. Grandma died and dad took over the mortgage. It was the house where I grew up and dad still lives there. It’s old, rambling, and badly in need of repair, but dad and I love it. The uneven floors and steep staircase aren’t exactly ideal for a blind man, but dad knows every creak and groan of that place. On the days when I go back there to do dad’s typing and housework it’s like falling back into my childhood, but only the best bits.

  My old bedroom looks out over the tiny back garden and the wallpaper is unchanged from my teenage years. When I was about thirteen I fell in love with everything orange and Aunt Jessica and I played around with wallpaper paste a
nd paint brushes, getting more glue and paint on us than on the walls. Now and then, when I’m back in dad’s house, I sit in my old bedroom, gaze out of the window and remember.

  I stopped missing mum a long time ago, but now I’m pregnant I find myself thinking about her more than I used to. I wonder what it was like when she discovered I was on the way. I like to believe she and dad were happy then and still in love. It makes me sad to imagine dad being in a relationship with someone who didn’t treasure how wonderful he is, he deserves much more than that. When I was older and the yearnings of young love grabbed me, and I felt the excitement and desperation of fancying someone, I wanted those same emotions for my dad. Just because he couldn’t see, didn’t mean he couldn’t feel.

  ‘Do think you’ll fall in love again?’ I asked him once.

  ‘Little Janie, all grown up. Listen to you talking about love.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘I’ve got you.’

  ‘Yes, you’ll always have me. I’m not going to marry, I’ll remain independent, forge a distinctive career, make lots of money and keep my dad in the manner he deserves.’

  Instead, I met Greg, fell in love and failed to carve out any career, well paid or otherwise.

  Greg’s mum tries to overcompensate. She looks at me sometimes and I imagine she’s thinking, oh you poor thing, no mother there for you as you grew up and a blind dad as well, how have you coped? although these sentiments are never voiced. There is a distinct possibility that Greg’s desire to see me encumbered with a large brood is related to the whole poor motherless Janie scenario. As though becoming a bountiful mother myself will eradicate all that has gone before.

  On my days with dad I make sure his paperwork and patient records are all up to date, as well as anything else I can do to make his life easier.

  ‘Greg doesn’t think I should get involved,’ I said, as we sat in the kitchen, sipping our drinks. I had discovered hot water with lemon was a reasonable alternative to the usual cuppa.