by Penny Kline
Iris. It must be Iris, looking for clues that David had been to see me. But why would she have watered the plant? The last thing she would want was for me to guess she had been checking up. If Iris had been in the flat she would have taken trouble to leave no trace of her presence. A small ripple of fear ran down my back. Whoever it was wanted me to know there had been an intruder in my home.
I switched on a ring of the electric cooker, half-filled a pan with water, and put it on to heat. Boil-in-the-bag lamb curry with a small bag of rice to accompany it. Maybe I hadn’t been concentrating too well during the past few weeks but I was not in the first stage of pre-senile dementia. It was Rob. There was no way he could have got hold of a key but no doubt he was an expert at opening front doors with a piece of plastic. That meant there was little point in having the lock changed and, in any case, if I changed the lock and the intruder stopped coming, I would never know for certain who it had been. After a time I would believe I had imagined the whole thing, dropped the tissue myself, used the coffee mug without thinking, even watered the plant automatically, forgetting it was still only March.
Walking briskly into the living room I lifted the phone, then thought about whose number to ring. Not Chris. Not David. Martin? But what was the point? He would assume I was over-tired, overwrought. Against a background of squabbling children he would reassure me there was nothing to worry about. If that failed he would suggest the police.
I could just imagine the scene at the police station.
‘A plant had been watered, madam? In your flat, while you were out at work. Yes, well, if you’d like me to take down the details … ’
I didn’t need the police. I didn’t need Martin. I could sort it all out for myself and in the mean time I would do something I had been putting off for several days.
Sitting on the arm of a chair, breathing in and out slowly, deeply, I punched out the familiar number, prepared myself to sound happy, cheerful, without a care in the world, and waited for my father to come on the line.
Chapter Eleven
When Jenny failed to turn up for her appointment I was disappointed.
It was always the same. Just when you thought you were getting somewhere, breaking through the armour plating, the client opted out. Sometimes for good, although a tactful note offering another appointment occasionally did the trick. I waited twenty minutes in case she had been held up for some reason, then decided to phone Chris and try to straighten things out between us.
As I listened to the ringing I could feel my pulse rate quicken. Surely I wasn’t frightened of Chris. Maybe I was afraid of my own anger at her lack of consideration, her failure to acknowledge that it was unreasonable to expect me to rush round with only five minutes’ notice. The ringing stopped but no voice came on the line.
‘Chris?’
‘Oh, hallo. Hang on a minute.’
She sounded just the same as usual, apart from being surprised to hear from me in the middle of the morning. I could hear voices in the distance, then after several minutes she returned.
‘Sorry about all that. There’s a man looking at the boiler.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Actually it’s about all he is doing. Doesn’t seem to have a clue.’
‘Oh, dear, what’s happened to it?’
‘God knows. There’s always something going wrong in this house. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘I was just phoning to apologize for not baby-sitting.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. I didn’t want to go anyway. If I sounded grumpy it was because Bruce had been on and on at me.’
‘You couldn’t find another baby-sitter?’
‘Didn’t even try. He went on his own and had a really boring evening by the sound of it.’
Her words were so convincing. Was I imagining the resentment in her voice?
‘Come round after work if you feel like it,’ she said. ‘The children will be here but I’ll sit them in front of the telly and you can tell me about David.’
‘Nothing to say, but I might drop round.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said with mock affront. ‘See you, Anna, and thanks for ringing.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ I said.
‘Yes?’
‘You know when I was away on holiday last September?’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s just that I’ve lost my spare door key and I wondered if you still had — ’
‘The key to your flat?’ Her voice was a high-pitched squeal. ‘I gave it back to you the day you came back. You gave me that tin of biscuits — “A Present from Wales” — and I gave you the bloody key.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. Sorry. See you later then. Bye.’ I had attached the key to a long piece of string. That way if she shoved it in her kitchen drawer along with a million other things she would still be able to find it. She sounded so certain she had returned it. Why was I unconvinced? Precisely because she was so certain? Because Chris could never remember unimportant events like returning a key. Yet she had described the swap over — biscuits for key — as though it had happened yesterday.
Later I would search the flat, look in every drawer, every pocket. After David moved in I had given him the spare key, then had another one cut — for emergencies. If Chris had given it back, complete with its string, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find. I had no recollection of having seen it but it’s easy to overlook familiar objects, far easier than spotting something unfamiliar … Heather put her head round my door.
‘Anna, your client’s here. I met her coming out of the cloakroom. Shall I send her up?’
‘Jenny? Oh, yes. Thanks. No, hang on, I’ll come down and collect her.’
I found Jenny hovering by the waiting-room door. She heard me coming but didn’t turn round.
‘Sorry, Jenny, I didn’t realize you were here.’
She gave no explanation as to why she had arrived nearly forty minutes late, just waited for me to start back up the stairs, then followed a few yards behind.
Once inside my room she sat down and folded her hands on her lap.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘what’s been happening to you?’
She chewed her lip and I realized she thought I was complaining because she had arrived late.
‘I meant since we last met. Have you been out anywhere, done anything interesting?’
It was a stupid question. I was talking too much instead of waiting to pick up her mood. All the same, we had to start somewhere and she was unlikely to begin the conversation.
She stared through the window. ‘My father’s not dead,’ she whispered, ‘he just went to live with another woman.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I thought you might tell Mum.’
‘I’d never talk to her behind your back.’
She turned to face me. ‘Oh, I don’t care about that. I tell her everything. Only she gets upset.’
‘About your father?’
‘No, about me. I thought she might think I’d made it up about Dad because I wished he was dead.’
‘And do you?’
She screwed up her face. ‘What? Of course not.’
I had angered her again. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘all I meant was that it’s sometimes easier to accept that someone’s died rather than that they chose to leave.’
She thought about this for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘Actually he might as well be dead. It makes no difference to me.’
It was our longest real conversation so far. I tried to convey, without words, that I appreciated the effort it had cost her. She was watching me intently, then suddenly she blinked several times and looked away.
‘It’s difficult for you coming here,’ I said.
‘No, I don’t mind, it’s just that I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say whatever comes into your head.’
She thought about that. ‘What would be the point?’
‘Well, one thing leads to another. We all have to start somewhere.’
&nbs
p; She looked at her watch. She could only take small doses of me at a time.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘these visits are for you. Just stay as long as you want to and leave when you’ve had enough.’
I was aware that part of her wanted to do the opposite to what was expected of her. Now I had made that impossible. But she found a way out.
‘I’d prefer it if you decided.’
‘All right, I will. Stay for another five minutes or so. Just sit quietly and then, if you want to tell me about something … ’
She looked so worried, as though every decision, no matter how small, was a matter of life and death. ‘I can’t think of anything.’
I smiled. ‘Never mind. Would you prefer it if I asked you a few questions, or shall we wait until you think of something you’d like to talk about?’
‘You can ask things if you like.’
‘Right you are. What’s your favourite food?’
‘How is telling you that going to stop me having headaches?’
‘It isn’t. I just want to get to know you.’
‘Melon. The ones that are orange inside.’
‘Right. Yes, I like those. Have you any pets? A dog or a cat?’
She shook her head.
‘What would you like to do best? If you won the football pools or your premium bond came up? Go on some exotic holiday? Buy yourself — ’
‘I’d keep the money in the bank.’
‘Oh, yes, well, I suppose that’s the sensible thing to do.’
I didn’t want to sound patronizing, treat her like a child, but in some ways that was exactly what she was. I glanced at my clock and realized that her time was almost up. How typical that she should arrive so late, then start talking for the first time, and now we would have to stop. I could let her run over the hour, but that was a mistake I had made in the past and all that had happened was that the client turned up late the next time and did the same thing all over again.
‘We’ll have to stop now, Jenny, but I’m really glad you seem to be feeling a little better.’
Her eyes flicked sideways as though I was jumping to conclusions.
‘Anyway,’ I said, standing up and helping her into her coat. ‘I’ll see you on Friday. Take care.’
*
The sun had come out. I decided to spend my lunch hour shopping for a few odds and ends, then walk round the park and try to piece together any stray pieces of information that might help me to work out who it was that was determined to undermine my peace of mind.
The supermarket was crowded. I gathered together the six items which would allow me to go through the ‘quick’ cash till. Milk, bread, bananas, a packet of biscuits, some hair conditioner, and a ham roll.
The boy on the till had a name tag on his jacket. Darren Coigley. He also had spots and a stud in one ear. I smiled at him but he didn’t smile back. He reminded me of Steven at about the same age, except he looked more confident, more experienced in every sense of the word.
Outside in the street I hesitated, wondering whether to drive to Broadmead. But what was the point? David’s office was quite nearby, in a street up behind the Hippodrome, but he was unlikely to be wandering round the shopping centre during his lunch hour. In any case, I had no intention of seeking him out. It was now six days since he had phoned to cancel our meeting. Did flu ever last that long? Or was it just that he needed time? Time to finish things with Iris and move back in with the osteopath. Breathing space. Then he would get in touch.
The traffic was heavy and I had to wait several minutes before it was safe to cross. Maybe I would forget about the park, go straight back to work, and sit in Heather’s office having a cup of coffee.
I was walking behind a man dressed in a Russian-style fur hat and a baggy grey suit. He was carrying a battered briefcase in one hand and a paper bag in the other, and looked as though he was on his way to feed the squirrels. I decided to follow. The paper bag had brought back memories. My mother storing up stale bread and indigestible crusts. Me, aged five or six, wrapped up warm in a brown coat, blue scarf, and hat, standing by the edge of the lake hurling bread with all my strength, half afraid the ducks would come out of the water and snatch it out of my hand. My mother laughing, always laughing. ‘Come on, what a long face, cheer up, life’s too short.’ Hers was, she was only fifty-seven.
It takes many months to move through the stages of loss. That’s what the books say. First shock, numbness, disbelief. Then denial, a defence against feeling too much pain, a time when the dead person seems to be there in the room. My mother, calling to me and Steven playing the garden, her voice carried away by the wind.
Later the denial gives way to depression — and guilt that the death could have been avoided, that more time should have been given to the dead person, more kindness and consideration. Other feelings crowd in. Anxiety about losing control, anger — with God, the gods, Fate. Finally, some kind of resolution, acceptance. The beginnings of reorganizing a life without the missing person.
Was someone mourning the death of Karen Plant, or had no one been that close to her? And my father. What feelings had he been going through? Anger, loneliness, despair. I, myself, seemed to be stuck in a stage of morbid anxiety, imagining all kinds of threats to my wellbeing. But in my heart of hearts I knew that much as I had loved my mother her death had not shattered my way of life. I was clutching at straws, trying to turn hard undeniable facts into psychological phenomena going on in my head. I was being ridiculous.
I sat down on a dampish wooden seat and peeled the clingfilm from my lunch. A crisp roll, the kind that disintegrates when you try to take a bite. I preferred soft rolls but David liked crisp ones so I had got in the habit of buying them. Anyway, I had no appetite. Lifting out the ham I ate it in one mouthful, then stood up and started walking.
The man with the fur hat had moved off, but a woman was standing very still, staring up into the branches of a chestnut tree. She was tall, big-boned, elegant in a slightly old-fashioned way. Probably in her early forties, with brown frizzy hair that stuck out like a bush and was almost certainly natural. As I walked past she looked up, smiled a little, then rested the palm of her hand on the bark of the tree.
I sighed. The park had been a stupid idea. It reminded me of Sunday afternoons with David, early on when we had known each other only a few weeks, when just being with him was so incredible that quite ordinary things had seemed greener, brighter. At the weekend we had driven out of Bristol, visiting places that until recently had only been names on a map. Wells, Glastonbury, Bourton-on-the-Water, Stow-on-the-Wold. Sometimes over the Severn Bridge into South Wales, then on to the Forest of Dean …
I felt a hand on my sleeve.
‘Excuse me, I do hope you don’t mind me introducing myself, but I’m Mrs Weir, Jenny’s mother.’
It was the tall, elegant woman, who had caught up with me as I crossed the grass. I groaned inwardly. This was the last thing Jenny needed, her mother trying to muscle in on her treatment, interfere, spoil things.
‘Jenny pointed you out to me. Last Saturday outside the library. Only I wanted to thank you.’
I smiled, just enough to be friendly but not so much that it would encourage her to start asking questions.
‘Jenny seems so much better,’ she said, ‘I only wish she’d been referred to you long ago.’
‘Thank you.’ I was surprised but managed not to show it.
‘She talks about you all the time.’ She shifted from one foot to another. ‘I expect she told you I work part-time at the Student Counselling Service.’
‘Really?’
‘Only as a receptionist, but it’s very interesting, and of course it means I understand the need for absolute confidentiality.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I relaxed a little. She didn’t want to interfere, just to let me know she too was concerned for Jenny’s welfare.
‘Well, I won’t keep you.’ She started moving away and I was afraid I had been too brusque.
‘Lo
ok, I’m glad we’ve met,’ I said, ‘especially since you know about counselling and — ’
She took a few steps back towards me. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I’d love to train as a counsellor myself but I’m afraid it’s much too late for that.’
‘Oh, I don’t see why. What’s needed is people with experience of life, not academic qualifications.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She looked a little sad. ‘Should I tell Jenny we’ve met?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have introduced myself.’
‘No, I’m glad you did. It might make things easier for Jenny in the long run. Not so formal, intimidating.’ I was putting it badly. ‘I mean, it makes a link between her home and coming to see me.’
She thought about that for a moment. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Anyway, thank you for all you’re doing for her. Goodbye.’
I watched as she walked away in the direction of the main road. I tried to remember where Jenny lived. One of the roads up near the Prison? Mrs Weir probably visited the park most days — unless she was working at the Counselling Service. It was pure chance we had bumped into one another but not all that surprising since there were not that many open spaces close by.
Suddenly I longed for the anonymity of London. The noise, everyone in a hurry, the feeling of being carried along by a great mass of people. Kit? No, I didn’t miss Kit. At least that had been the right decision.
Retracing my path back across the grass I tried to concentrate on Jenny Weir and her mother, wondering why they both looked so sad. When had Jenny’s father left? Why hadn’t Dr Ingram told me about it?
It was no good. I couldn’t keep David out of my mind. Another set of questions. What had he said to Iris? What kind of a relationship did he have with her? For a moment I felt a twinge of pity for the woman — but it didn’t last long. I imagined the pair of them settling back into the familiar routine. David recovering from his bout of flu, feeling sorry for himself, enjoying being looked after, mothered. The night he came round had changed nothing. He missed me, that part was probably true, but his main aim had been to test me out, make sure he still had me dangling on a string.