Quiet Neighbors

by Catriona McPherson

  “What are you up to?” Jude said.

  “Nothing,” said Eddy. “I was … burying a mouse.” Jude blinked. “A little mouse had died, through there. I buried it in the garden.”

  “Of course you did,” Jude said. “That sounds just like you, right enough.” She knew from Eddy’s face, tight like she’d pulled a drawstring, that there was no point asking more, and she walked away. Then a thought struck her and she turned back. “Is this anything to do with why you were in the garden that first day?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you!” said Eddy. She brushed past Jude and went into the toilet, slamming the door and locking it.

  “Lowell wants you to Google the hundred-books book club,” Jude shouted over the sound of the hot water running. “See if you can find a list of what they published when. It’s a long shot. And look on your phone and remind us when Etta Bell died, will you?”

  “I can’t hear you!” Eddy shouted back, and turned the cold tap on.

  They never found the last one. By teatime, filthy and exhausted, surrounded by the litter of a take-away lunch, they had blasted through the whole of the dead room. There were multiple copies of Ulysses (45) and several Wind in the Willows (46) and more Godfathers (49), but not a single book with Todd Jolly’s name in it that recorded Etta’s death. The latest one they found was too early. It was March 1985’s To The Lighthouse (61), Todd’s verdict: Doesn’t know she’s born and his diary entry: M. apologised for this one. Said there’s a great story coming next month but wouldn’t tell me what it was. I asked after Etta. M. said she can’t keep anything down. It’ll only be days. Sometimes folk can’t see what’s right in front of them.

  “Who’s M.?” said Lowell again.

  “Maureen?” said Jude. “Was Maureen a friend of Todd’s?”

  “Maybe it’s someone from the book club. It was before the infernal Internet, after all. Perhaps the book club rep was available on the phone.”

  “You know what’s strange?” said Jude. “Speaking of the book club? We never found a single slip, or covering letter or bill or anything in any of these book club books, did we? If it wasn’t for the stickers, we wouldn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Moira,” said Lowell. “There’s a Moira in the case. Peter Oughton’s wife.”

  “Pretty tenuous,” Jude said. “And I’m sure there’s something … dates and books and notes and names and dates and … Oh, Todd! Why didn’t you just say what you meant?”

  Lowell heaved a sigh up from below the floorboards and rubbed his hands over his face, leaving it streaked with dirt.

  “Perhaps he had a very good reason,” he said. “In fact, I think I know he had a very good reason. And I think I know what it was too. My dear, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Oh God, Lowell,” said Jude. “If you only knew the things I should tell you and haven’t.” She saw him look at her with a spark of interest. “Will we just leave it? Will we shut this door and pull a curtain over it and pretend none of it happened? Will we just start from here and be happy?”

  They sat in the gloom of the single lightbulb, both on stacks of books, staring at one another. Lowell took a breath to speak and Jude knew from his face that he was going to agree. She wondered if she could follow through with it. Could she really forget those five names?

  “Fuck a duck and stuff it with muck!” Eddy’s voice carried through the quiet air and made both of them laugh. They heard her footsteps, the padded envelopes slipping and popping as she hurried towards them. She stopped short in the doorway.

  “Jesus wept,” she said. “What a bloody mess!”

  “What is it?” asked Jude.

  Eddy grinned and waved her phone. “I got an email back,” she said. “I paid extra for the quickest service.” She turned to Lowell. “You’re my dad.”

  “Yes … ” Lowell said, but Jude could feel her eyes growing wide as her mind started to whir.

  “Yeah, but—” Eddy said. “I—Okay, I maybe should have told you this, but I didn’t think you were. I didn’t think you could be. So I nicked your toothbrush and sent it away for a paternity test, and you are.”

  “Whose toothbrush have I been using?” said Lowell. “The red one.” Eddy grimaced. Then Lowell seemed to catch up with her words. “You didn’t think—You came here to trick me?”

  “No!” Eddy said. “It was after I got here. I wasn’t born in June, Dad. I was born in April. I wasn’t born nine months after OJ night, see?”

  “How can you not know when you were born?” said Lowell, blinking. He rubbed his face again.

  Eddy turned a beseeching look on Jude. Jude thought about the horoscopes and the birthstones and the reluctance of Miranda to get involved with social services, her inability to procure a passport and move to the west of Ireland. “It’s a long story,” she said. “And I’ve got another one, actually.”

  “So have I,” said Lowell. “As I was just saying, dearest. Dear me, yes, I think I do anyway. Let’s go round to Jamaica. Three hot baths and a pot of tea.”

  “But we’re taking the books,” said Jude. “All the hundred-books books. They’ve got a story to tell too.”

  Twenty-Seven

  “Oh great!” said Eddy as they climbed out of the car. Mrs. Hewston was on the move. They could see her torchlight bobbing as she trotted over the grass, the raindrops caught in its beam like fireflies.

  “Go in, dear child,” said Lowell. “Don’t catch cold. And, darling, if you could fetch the golf umbrella from the stand there and hold it over me, I’ll carry the boxes.”

  “Darling!” said Eddy and went into the house hooting with laughter. Jude kept her grin in check as she pulled the umbrella free from the tangle of fishing rods and walking sticks jammed in beside it and hid her face under it as she went back out again.

  “Having another run at it, Mrs. Hewston?” she said, as she drew up beside Lowell again. “We saw you this morning.”

  Mrs. Hewston stopped short. She was holding a small collapsible brolly, one of the ones that fits in a handbag but isn’t robust enough for anything more than a gentle shower. Indeed, this one had a crooked spoke, so some of the rain was dripping onto Mrs. Hewston’s shoulder.

  “I turned back,” she said. “This morning. I remembered I’d left the grill on.”

  “Good thing,” Jude said. “Can’t be too careful. I suppose you’ve heard what happened at Jolly’s Cottage?”

  “I did!” said the woman. “I’m just relieved to see you’re all right.”

  Jude frowned at her. “You knew I was all right, Mrs. H.,” she said. “We met the night before. You knew I was staying here.”

  Mrs. Hewston gave a laugh with more bravery in it than amusement. “Old age, hen. It comes to us all and it doesn’t come itself. That had flown right out of my mind when I heard in the Co-op this morning about the fire.”

  “So what did you come to tell us?” said Jude. “Or ask us?”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Hewston. “There I go again. I’ll need a minder soon. Well, I was looking out for you, you see, to tell you this: Jackie McLennan is much better. Maureen told me. And so I was looking out for you, as I say. And I need to tell you: men came.”

  “Yes,” said Lowell. “Thank you, Mrs. Hewston. Those were firemen, bringing me home from Kirk Cottage. But thank you.”

  “No, no, no, no,” Mrs. Hewston said. “Not them! I mean later. I was looking out later and two men came. Drove right up the drive and got out, banged on the door, and looked in the windows. Walked right round the house.”

  “Really?” said Lowell. “How distressing for you. They were probably police, or perhaps fire investigators.”

  “They didn’t look like police,” Mrs. Hewston said. Jude was suddenly aware of a movement. Eddy was standing in the shadows of the vestibule, hidden behind the porch light. “They certainly weren’t Str
anraer police.” She dropped her voice as she went on, “I don’t mean anything by this, but one of them was very dark.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Eddy.

  “You know I don’t care to hear His name taken in vain, dear,” said Mrs. Hewston.

  “Aye, well, He was probably quite ‘dark’ too,” Eddy said.

  “Thank you,” said Lowell, putting a hand on Mrs. Hewston’s shoulder and turning her a little to face back towards her cottage. “Thank you for the information. You’re a good neighbour.”

  “I try,” she said. “I don’t like to stick my nose in, but I—”

  The end of it was lost under peals of laughter from Eddy. Jude shushed her but, when she turned back, Mrs. Hewston was well away over the lawns, her torch beam quivering with indignation. Jude, in spite of everything, felt a small tug of tenderness towards her. She really was old and getting wandered. Then something struck her.

  “Mrs. H.!” she shouted.

  The woman turned. “Mrs. Hewston, hen. Not to criticise you, but I don’t care for nicknames.”

  “What was it you came to tell us this morning?” Jude shouted.

  “What?”

  “This morning when you turned back because the grill was on? What was it you wanted to say?”

  “I told you!” she shouted. “About Jackie. And the strange men. And to say I was so sorry to hear about the fire.”

  “But that was after—” Jude began. Then she saw the way the rain was soaking the woman’s shoulder, the way it dripped off the buckled umbrella, and she waved a hand. “Never mind,” she shouted. “On you go.”

  Lowell had started moving books, doing without the golf umbrella. Jude stood staring until the torchlight winked out and one of the small back windows of the bungalow lit up instead. Mrs. Hewston was safely home for the night.

  “Poor old girl,” she said to Lowell as he came back, empty-handed and puffing.

  “You’re a very kind woman,” he said.

  “She’s completely losing it,” said Jude. “She doesn’t even know what time of day it is.” She shivered and Lowell took hold of her hand, slamming down the boot with the other.

  “I’ll get the rest of this later,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

  They heard Eddy crying when they were halfway through the little pantry connecting the kitchen to the front parts of the house. Lowell dropped Jude’s hand and bolted through the door.

  “I’m all right,” Eddy said, swiping viciously at her tears. She sniffed deeply and spat into the sink. “Yuck, sorry.”

  “My dearest, dearest child,” said Lowell, striding over and wrapping her in his arms. “What’s wrong, my little one? Tell me.”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m happy. I’m happy you’re my dad even though I don’t see how you can be.” She leaned against him, sobbing.

  “Well, shush then,” said Lowell. “Dry your tears.”

  Eddy sniffed again and then made a gagging noise. “Fucking hell, Dad, your jacket honks. You need to send every stitch you own to get cleaned, and I don’t know what you use for deodorant but it’s not working.”

  “You are a wretch and an urchin,” said Lowell, but he was still patting her back. “If I had spoken to my father that way he’d have hit me with his slipper.”

  “Aye well, I’ve smelt your slippers too and they’ll need to be taken to the special bit of the dump and signed for.”

  Jude had to turn away until she brought her face back under control.

  “I’m not at all in favour of this modern fad of washing oneself to a sliver,” Lowell said. “It’s unhealthy. I suspect it’s American.”

  “Well, I’m in favour and Jude’s in favour,” Eddy said, “so you’re outnumbered. Tough shit and put a shower in.” She pulled away from him, yanked a long bolt of paper towel from the rack and blew her nose enormously. “And speaking about your dad,” she said. “Do you want to go first? We’re all coming clean, aren’t we?”

  Lowell stared at her for a moment and then sank into a chair. “I don’t know why you pretend to be such a churl,” he said. “Anyone as perspicacious as you must have brains somewhere.”

  “Perspicacious,” Eddy repeated. “I literally have never heard that word in my life.”

  “Well, anyway, I shall go first,” Lowell said. After a sigh he went on. “It’s the dates. Norma Oughton to Todd Jolly. Late 1983 to early 1985. As soon as you said the dates, my dear, I started to wonder.” He broke off and looked around himself and although he said nothing, Jude interpreted the look correctly.

  “Glass of wine?” she said.

  “At least,” said Lowell. “Might take whisky.”

  “I’d kill for a voddy and Sprite,” said Eddy. “Even just the Sprite. I’m definitely coming with you to Tesco next time.”

  Jude opened the dresser cupboard and took out a bottle of red. Then she took down two of the good dusty glasses from the open shelves above and set the lot in front of Lowell with the corkscrew.

  He was still staring at the dresser.

  “Who moved the vase?” he said, nodding at it.

  Jude followed his gaze and then frowned at Eddy.

  “It’s there for Jude,” Eddy said. “It’s therapy. Look, I didn’t think it mattered. It must have been sitting there for months.”

  “It’s been sitting there for years,” Lowell said. “Your mother cut that forsythia before she left.”

  “You’ve had dead flowers in your front lobby for twenty years?” said Jude. “Why?”

  “It started as an act of faith,” said Lowell. “I believed she’d come back, and I left it for her. And then … well, dear me, the days go by. And then the years and then all of a sudden one is old. I can almost understand it when I think of it that way. Not the flowers. I’m thinking of the thing I must tell you.”

  “We won’t judge,” said Jude. “God knows, we’re in no position to.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Eddy, inevitably.

  “It’s the dates,” Lowell said again, ignoring her. “Norma Oughton died about six weeks after my mother.”

  “So?” said Eddy. “I mean, sorry about your mum, but it was a while ago. So … so?”

  “I think my father killed them,” Lowell said, simply. “We were clutching at straws blaming the relatives. I think as long as my mother was alive he kept up the façade of … whatever it was, but as soon as she was gone he couldn’t get away quick enough. He had a handful of old patients. A Norfolk handful, counting Lorna McLennan, and since he couldn’t see his way clear to retiring before they were gone, he helped them get gone sooner. Killed them, signed their death certificates, and went to their funerals.”

  “But … ” Jude took a deep swallow of red wine. It was rich and full-tasting with a bite at its back, making her think of blood, warm and metallic. She shuddered but took another swallow anyway. “But he threatened to ask for exhumations.”

  “Double bluff,” said Eddy. “Classic.”

  “And he didn’t kill Lorna,” Jude insisted. “He had an alibi.”

  “Ah yes, Mrs. Hewston,” Lowell said. “Well, if providing an alibi bags a free cottage for life, then providing a false alibi certainly should, shouldn’t it?”

  “Why would she do that?” Jude said. “Why would she lie for your dad?” But as soon as she asked the question, the answer was clear.

  “She adored him,” said Lowell. “Even if she found out something like that about him, I can imagine that she wouldn’t want him brought low. Oh yes, I can easily imagine that.”

  “Yeah, but if you’re right,” Eddy said, “and I’m not saying you are—but if you’re right, who left that anonymous note for Jude? And who did Jackie phone?”

  “The phone call was irrelevant. She has daughters and sisters and you women are always ringing one another up about something. Usually,” he added with
a look at Jude.

  “But who set the fire?” asked Eddy.

  “I don’t know,” said Lowell. “I don’t understand the details, but it makes sense of one fact that’s never made any sense before: My father died a very unhappy man. His last years were haunted.”

  “But that’s not right,” Jude said. “If he was racked with remorse when he started it, why would he carry on? It was over the course of better than a year, remember?”

  “I didn’t say it was remorse,” said Lowell. “I think he was haunted by the spectre of being reported and shamed. It was fear.”

  “It might have been both,” said Jude. “They’re a killer combination if you get the mix just right. I should know.” She was scared almost every minute of every day, and guilty for being scared instead of just being sorry. And in the few moments she felt neither—in the moments she felt happy—the guilt just gathered strength to hit her harder on its return.

  Lowell was looking at her not with his dim, scattered look and not with his rueful look, the one he kept for the modern world and Eddy’s language. He was regarding her with a very steady and affectionate gaze, as though nothing she could say could shock him. She didn’t believe it, but that only spurred her on. If she had to lose him, the sooner the better, before she could get used to having him. Before the loss would wound her. Rip off the plaster, as Eddy said.

  Another gulp of wine and she was down to the sediment, black flakes sticking to her tongue.

  “You know about my parents,” she said. “And you know about my husband. But you don’t know about my husband’s new wife and their baby.”

  “Except yeah he does, cos I told him,” Eddy said.

  “Devastating for you,” said Lowell.

  “But I never told about the night of the funeral,” Eddy added.

  “Only because you haven’t had a chance yet!” said Jude, but she smiled to show she wasn’t angry. In fact, she wished he did know, then she wouldn’t have to say it. She fixed her gaze on the tabletop and spoke quickly, describing how she hid in the cupboard, Max passing out, Raminder’s arrival, standing behind the door in the shadows with her heart banging at the base of her throat, Raminder’s sobs and her flight. And the moment she tripped, that slow-motion moment when it seemed impossible that she could fall too fast for Jude to catch her, because she was falling so slowly and Jude reached out so quick, like a lizard’s tongue, but all she managed to do was put the tip of her middle finger on the fluttering end of Raminder’s scarf, feeling the slide of chiffon before it followed her plunge, down and down, and then settled softly on her back as she lay so still at the bottom.