by Penny Kline
The door to the coach house swung open and a man stood in the entrance hall, rubbing his hair with a towel.
‘Yes?’
‘Carl Redfern?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Anna McColl. I’m a friend of Luke Testy.’
‘Who?’
‘He worked in the shop with Paula.’ With a sinking feeling I realized it was possible Carl Redfern had not heard about the accident.
‘Oh, I see.’ The edge to his voice had disappeared. He knew what had happened. For a moment his face assumed a mournful expression, then he flicked back his hair and held out his hand.
‘I do apologize. You’re … I didn’t quite catch … ’
‘Anna McColl.’
‘Scottish?’
‘My father’s father.’
He grinned. Now that he had removed the towel I could see that his hair was thick and iron grey, cut short at the sides and longer on top.
He followed my eyes, then laughed. ‘I dyed it for the show, a rather tasteful shade of rosewood brown, but it never really suited my complexion.’
I looked away, irritated that he had cast me in the role of one of his fans. It was true that his face was familiar but if the boy in the herb shop hadn’t mentioned the television series I think I might have mistaken him for the jolly father in a commercial for vegetable soup. Light blue eyes, a straight broadish nose, a deep cleft in his chin and a mouth that turned up slightly at the corners. He was very attractive, there was no doubt about that, but perhaps not quite so devastating as he imagined.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I wondered if I could have a quick word.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose.’ He had adjusted his voice again so that he sounded more like the recently bereaved. ‘As you can imagine I’m feeling fairly shattered.’ Dabbing at his bare chest with the sopping wet towel he waited for me to elaborate.
‘Luke Jesty’s one of my clients,’ I said. ‘I’m a psychologist.’
‘Are you indeed? A real live clinical psychologist? So this is a professional call. I don’t know if I could be much help. Paula and I were divorced two years ago. Obviously if you lived with someone for five years it’s a shock to hear … Well, I don’t have to explain to someone like you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I had no right to turn up like this.’
‘You had every right if it’s part of your job. What time is it? Four thirty. Can you be gone by five? Sure? Right you are. Come along in.’
He was dressed in a pair of green denim shorts. He must have had to breathe in hard to pull up the zip. He was older than I had expected. If he and Paula had been married for five years and they had divorced two years ago, that probably meant she had been in her early thirties, as Doug had suggested. Carl was nearer forty-five.
‘Sit wherever you like.’ He offered a choice of chairs, perching himself on a window seat that ran along most of one wall. Behind I noticed a small conservatory and behind that a narrow garden, filled with tall broad-leaved plants. A red-brick wall separated the coach house from a larger, three-storey building.
‘Drink?’ He stood up, took a T-shirt from the back of a chair, and pulled it over his head.
‘No thanks. Look, I’m really sorry about Paula. I didn’t actually know her myself but I know she was very kind to Luke.’
‘Having it off, were they?’ The T-shirt had an Escher print on the front: a hand drawing the cuff of another wrist, which in turn was drawing the wrist of the first hand.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘They were friends.’
‘Just good friends. Impossible. Oh, your patient’s gay, is he?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘How old?’
Just for a moment I thought he was asking my age. ‘Oh, Luke. He’s twenty-two.’
‘Right. Bit of a hard luck case, is he? That would’ve suited Paula down to the ground. Abandoned pussy cats were her real speciality.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Poor old thing, the last person she ever needed was someone like me.’
People react to death in all kinds of different ways. For Carl Redfern the death of his former wife was just another instalment in an on-going soap opera. But perhaps I was being unfair. Why should he express his real feelings to a total stranger?
He read my mind. ‘You think I don’t care.’ Picking up the towel he dabbed at his face and neck. ‘As a matter of fact I do but I can put a brave face on things when it’s required.’
I made no comment.
He smiled. ‘Now you’re going to draw me out of myself, give me some psychotherapy. Fair enough, but you’ll find I’m quite well up on the techniques. You saw the series, I expect. If you remember I played the shrink’s husband, a bit of a bastard but with a heart of gold when the chips were down.’
‘I think I saw one or two episodes.’
‘But you don’t remember me.’
‘I’m not sure.’
He laughed. ‘Why should you? The show folded eighteen months ago. Actually filming stopped six months before that. Since then I’ve been enjoying a well-deserved rest. Ah well, if they want me they’ll send for me. Now, how can I help?’
I wondered how much to tell him about Luke. If I mentioned the hospital I would be breaking a confidence. On the other hand, I could hardly expect him to co-operate if I kept him in the dark.
‘Luke’s in hospital,’ I said. ‘He’s a very anxious kind of person at the best of times and the accident has affected him badly. He’s in a state of, well … ’
‘Sure.’ He glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Right, I’ll tell you everything I know about Paula on the understanding you’re out of here by five o’clock sharp.’
‘That’s what I agreed.’
‘I know, but it must have sounded a little odd. I’d better explain. Liz, the person I live with, she’s the love of my life but … She can’t help it, I imagine there’s a name for people so insanely jealous they have to check up on your every move.’
‘I can’t believe she’d be jealous of me — not if you explained who I — ’
‘Oh, not you. Paula. She won’t allow me to mention her name. We have to pretend I’ve never been married.’
‘Yes, I see.’ I was tempted to say, ‘Well, at least that’s something you won’t have to worry about any more.’
Carl gave me a quizzical look. He stood up and crossed to a glass-fronted corner cupboard.
‘Want to change your mind? No alcohol while on duty, eh? What about a Coke? Ice and lemon in the kitchen. Won’t take a moment.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Just a small one then — to steady my nerves.’ He poured himself a large vodka, then sat on the floor by my feet. It was slightly unnerving and, contrary to all psychological theories, seemed to give him an advantage over me.
‘I met Paula when she was nineteen,’ he said. ‘I was already over thirty but I think she liked that. It made her feel secure. There was something about her, she was so fragile, waif-like. Of course after we’d lived together for a few months and the first fine careless rapture had worn off I realized the last thing we should’ve done was get married.’
‘Paula felt the same way?’
‘Ah. No. That was the problem. I tried, my God I tried, but it was tough going and the lack of cash didn’t make it any easier. Only bits and pieces of work. A tour of an old David Hare play. The odd telly commercial. Then the series came along and I was out a good deal of the time … ’
He paused, swilling the liquid round the tumbler.
‘What happened?’ I asked, a little too impatiently. I had no right to ask questions about his private life, but he seemed quite happy to talk about himself and there were only twenty minutes left before I had to go.
‘What happened was I met Liz. She was working as a set-dresser, buying props, checking their historical authenticity, you know the kind of thing.’
‘Is that what she does now?’
‘God, no. Finding that k
ind of work’s almost as tough as being an actress. Of course, if we lived in London … ’
Standing up, he massaged his calves as though he had cramp. ‘After the show folded Liz found a job with a company that makes corporate videos, films for industry, that kind of stuff.’
He pointed to a huge photograph that covered most of the wall at the other end of the room.
‘See that. Last year’s Balloon Festival. One of the first promotional videos Liz worked on. That’s a blow-up of one of the stills. Have a look.’
I stood up. When I moved closer I could see there were two photographs. One was of the familiar balloons that can be seen above Bristol on most warm summer evenings when the wind’s in the right direction. Balloons in the shape of a heart, a six-pack of lager, a bottle of Scotch. Others with stripes, all the colours of the rainbow, sponsored by local or international companies. The second photo was of a balloon shaped like a can of pet food. It was just about to take off and inside the basket sat two figures dressed as Dalmatian dogs.
‘Is that Liz?’ I asked, pointing to the smaller of the two.
‘God, no, she’d never agree to make such an idiot of herself. Of course if they’d asked me … ’
Behind the balloon a group of bystanders were perched on a grassy bank, craning their necks to get a better view.
‘They’re good,’ I said, brushing past Carl, who was standing so close to me that I could feel his breath on my ear. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a photo of Paula, have you?’
He sprang back in mock horror. ‘More than my life’s worth, but I can tell you what she looked like — even though it’s over a year since we set eyes on each other.’
He glanced at the clock again. ‘No problem, plenty of time. She’s not normally back before six but I like to err on the side of caution. Right. Straight straw-coloured hair. Nice hair but she never did anything with it. Just let it grow, had it cut when it started to get in her eyes. Eyes. Let me think. Have you noticed how difficult it is to remember what colour eyes people have, even close friends? Blue. Yes, I’m certain of it. Quite a dark blue. Tall, thin. Not shapeless, but not your curvaceous blonde. Does that put you in the picture?’
‘Yes, very well. I’m sorry to keep asking questions, but what kind of clothes — ’
‘Clothes. Oh, ethnic stuff. Peasant skirts, blouses with embroidery on the collar. I once saw her in one of those ridiculous hats with beads — but that was after we’d split.’ He thought for a moment. ‘What else? Shoes. Black plimsolls. Wore them all the time. Not exactly flattering but Paula’s mind was on higher things.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘I told you. Doggies, pussy cats, saving the environment, the hump-backed whale. You name it, Paula wanted to save it.’ He glanced at the clock and broke off suddenly. ‘I think that’s about all I can tell you.’
‘You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for sparing the time.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ve told you far more than I intended but I suppose that’s your superb counselling skills.’
‘I haven’t used any — ’
‘You’ve listened. Isn’t that what people can’t resist?’ He held out his hand. ‘I hope we meet again, only if we do you must pretend we’re strangers.’
‘I will.’
‘Of course you will, I can spot a talented actress when I see one. Incidentally, who gave you my address?’
I hesitated.
‘Oh, I can guess,’ he said. ‘That spotty horror who helps out in the shop. Bob something or other. He thought I could get him a part in the show, got quite shirty when I couldn’t come up with anything.’
‘He’s an actor?’
‘Thinks he is. Went to some stage school for kids, hasn’t even got an Equity card. Oh, by the way … ’ I was halfway through the front door when he called after me. ‘I can’t think how in hell it happened. Paula was always so bloody careful.’
*
It was not until I was back in the car that it occurred to me that Carl Redfern had made no effort to check I was who I said I was. I could have been a journalist, a private detective, anyone.
I was back at the office by five fifteen. Heather came out from Reception and whispered that there was a man who wanted to see me as soon as I returned. ‘A client?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Oh, average height, dark hair, expensive suit, leather briefcase. I told him you might not be coming back here this evening but he said he’d hang on just in case.’
When I opened the door to the waiting room the man had his back turned. He was looking at one of the pictures Heather had insisted on buying to add a bit of class to the place. A jug of purple irises on a window sill. Blue gingham curtains on either side, and beyond everyone’s idea of a perfect English garden.
‘Hallo. You wanted to see me?’
He turned and stared. Then he stepped forward and held out his hand.
‘Michael Jesty. Luke’s brother. I wondered if I could be of any assistance.’
6
At first glance it was almost impossible to believe Michael Jesty and Luke were brothers. It was not just the way Michael looked: average height, dark brown hair, narrow slightly hooded eyes. His voice was different too, and the way he moved.
He was wearing a grey suit, with a white shirt and a blue silk tie. When we met he had been carrying a slim leather briefcase under one arm. It lay between us now on the red plush corner seat.
On the way to the pub I had given him a blow by blow account of what had happened since the night of Paula’s death. He had listened without comment, apart from expressing regret that so much of my time had been taken up dealing with the situation.
‘It’s my job,’ I said.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Spending the night at his lodgings? Driving him to the hospital the following morning?’
Now that the drinks had been ordered and we were settled in a relatively private part of the bar his manner changed a little.
‘Anyway, it’s an ill wind … ’ He smiled for the first time. ‘I’m glad we’ve met; now where shall I begin? I’m five years older than Luke. The oldest child always gets treated rather differently from the rest, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Bound to be, really.’
‘Exactly. I tell you what, I’ll give you a brief resume of my twenty-seven years. Then you can tell me what you know about the rest of the family and I’ll fill in the gaps. Would that help?’
‘Fine.’ I had a feeling he wanted me to understand that whatever impression of Luke I had gained during the last few months I was now talking to someone entirely different.
‘Right, here goes.’ He sipped his beer then slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I left school at sixteen. Since I’d already decided to start my own business academic qualifications were a waste of time, what I needed was some work experience.’
‘You went to the same school as Luke?’
He nodded, his eyes moving from side to side as though he was scanning a mental image of a dreary classroom. ‘It was the kind of place where you were supposed to slog your guts out. Anything less than a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge and you were more or less a write-off.’
He looked round the bar, stretching his neck to see beyond the partition that divided our section from the rest.
‘This your local?’
‘Not really. We sometimes come here for lunch.’
‘You and the other psychologists? How many of you?’
‘There’s three where I work. Used to be four but Beth left to have a baby and she hasn’t been replaced.’
‘So that means extra work for the rest of you.’
The place was empty except for two middle-aged women drinking gin and tonic. They were talking about a television programme, something to do with doctors who had been sued for negligence but got away with it. The conversation consisted mainly of four-letter words exchanged in low but audible voices
.
Michael Jesty jerked his head in their direction.
‘Nothing people like better than a bit of righteous indignation.’
‘I know.’ I wanted to talk about Luke but he would get there in the end.
‘Right, where were we? Oh, yes, after I left school I had a series of temporary jobs, working for a cowboy roofing firm, an estate agent, then a couple of Indian characters who imported battery-operated toys.’
‘And then?’ For the first time I noticed a family likeness. Something about the muscles in his face? It was the sort of likeness that never comes out in a photograph, only when the person’s face is animated, moving.
‘I was between jobs,’ he said, ‘cleaning one of the department stores, starting at five in the morning and working through till eight. The equipment was inadequate and there were far too many of us. I realized I could have organized things a hundred times more efficiently. It was time to set up on my own.’
‘Right.’
‘Most of my employees are temporary. Out of work actors, artists who’ve yet to make a name for themselves, teachers who’ve overstretched their budgets and can’t keep up the mortgage repayments.’
‘Teachers do cleaning jobs before they start at school?’
‘After work mainly. Offices, shops, a few private houses. Actors are the most popular with the clients. People enjoy talking to them.’
I tried to imagine Carl Redfern pushing a vacuum cleaner round someone else’s house. It seemed unlikely.
‘You pay cash in hand, do you?’
‘Why? D’you need some extra money?’ He smiled. ‘No, it’s all above board. I’m running a business. I can’t afford to get the wrong side of the Inland Revenue.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No need to be.’ He unzipped the leather briefcase, took out a card and slid it across the table. ‘Just in case you need to get in touch.’
I picked it up, read the name of the cleaning agency — white lettering on black — then turned it over and found he had written his home address and private phone number.
‘You live in Portishead.’ Somehow I had pictured him in one of the town houses overlooking the floating harbour, or maybe a flat near the Downs, one of the huge old Victorian houses converted into luxury apartments.