A Parcel for Anna Browne

by Miranda Dickinson

  This morning everything felt new. Even the bus journey into work had revealed details Anna had never seen before. She noticed beautiful alabaster spirals above the window of a shop she had passed, without seeing them, countless times before; the corner florist’s where her street met the main route into the city bore a sign announcing: It’s a GIRL!; an elderly lady sitting behind her began reminiscing to her guide dog about the London of her childhood; and a harmonica-playing busker by her stop was playing Never-mind as she alighted. She had never particularly dreaded this journey, but neither had she smiled so much as she did today.

  The Daily Messenger’s building was strangely quiet and smelled of newly applied floor polish when Anna arrived, her footsteps echoing around the brightly lit atrium. Instead of attempting to quieten her heels, as she might have done, Anna revelled in the sharp clack-clack announcement of her arrival. That was new, too.

  Standing behind the reception desk, she gazed out across the empty atrium. Usually she felt part of the furniture – she knew her place and was happy to be invisible. Today, looking out from her position, she felt like a ruler surveying her kingdom. Completely at one with her surroundings, she dared the day to notice her.

  I feel at home here, she thought, with a fizz of excitement.

  She was keen to get started, while the building belonged only to her. Without the pressure of waiting couriers, Ted hovering around wanting to talk and her colleagues moaning about the traffic, she was able to prepare the day’s diary, sort outstanding parcels and post and clear the reception desk of the weekend staff’s detritus. Every one was a small action, but today each felt like an achievement.

  I wonder why I feel so different today?

  As she took the last of the weekend staff’s dirty mugs to the small kitchen area hidden behind the slate wall bearing the large Daily Messenger sign at the back of reception, she caught sight of herself in the shaving mirror that one of her colleagues had suspended above the sink. Her new scarf was tied around her neck, secured with a brooch she’d found on a second-hand jewellery stand in a local market at the weekend. As soon as she had put it on this morning she felt the same sensation she’d felt on Friday evening. All weekend she had been looking forward to wearing it: now, with her navy-blue skirt suit, it was working its magic again.

  I feel a change in me: like I’m taller, somehow.

  She liked the Anna Browne who smiled back at her from the dust-speckled glass. She looked happy.

  ‘Bloody hell, Anna, you chasing a promotion or something?’ Ted Blaskiewicz’s ruddy-cheeked face appeared over her shoulder.

  Anna turned. ‘Morning, Ted.’ She rinsed the mugs and laid them out on the stainless-steel drainer.

  ‘Early morning,’ Ted reiterated, following her through to reception, where the coffee percolator was already at work. ‘Emphasis on the early. What happened? You hoping for a pay rise? Because you can whistle for it in this place, girl, if you are.’

  Anna smiled and handed him a mug of coffee. ‘No. I just thought I’d come in early for a change. I don’t see why it’s headline news. Babs acted like I’d done something shocking.’

  ‘It is shocking. I know this place, girl: no one is ever in a hurry to get here in the morning, not even the great Juliet Evans herself.’ He gave a mock-bow to the photo of the Daily Messenger’s infamous editor that hung by the side of the reception desk.

  ‘I wasn’t in a hurry. I just caught an early bus – which, by the way, was a revelation because I actually found a seat. I’ve sorted everything before the rush starts and now I have time to relax a little, which never normally happens. It’s been a successful experiment all round.’ She lifted her mug of coffee and took a celebratory sip. It had been a long time since her first coffee of the morning had been anywhere above tepid, interrupted often as it was by the first hour’s busyness.

  Ted Blaskiewicz was watching her like she was a suspicious package. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There’s something about you this morning. Something – different.’

  ‘Is there?’ Anna hid her smile as best she could. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘There has to be a reason,’ Ted muttered, oblivious to Anna’s answer. ‘New boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘New medication?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Her smile broadened.

  ‘I don’t know, these days, do I? Everyone seems to be popping a pill for something.’

  ‘Thanks for the insinuation! Can’t a girl just be happy?’

  ‘Stop teasing me, Anna Browne! I know you’re enjoying this . . . Ah!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘What did you get up to at the weekend?’

  ‘Nothing special. I went to the market in Sheep Street on Saturday, met some friends for lunch at the pub, but other than that I had a quiet one. How about you?’

  But Ted was not one to be diverted so easily. ‘Something’s happened. Don’t try to deny it, girl, I can tell. One-night stand?’

  Anna laughed. ‘No, Ted.’

  ‘Win some money on the lottery?’

  ‘I don’t play it.’

  ‘Then what is it? Did you hear something about this place? Something you needed to be in early for? There’s talk of the paper being in trouble – do you know more about that than we do? What do you know?’ He was getting flustered now, the tips of his ears turning flame-red against the dark-grey felt of his security guard’s cap.

  Anna patted his arm. ‘You’re the font of all gossip, Ted: I wouldn’t dream of challenging your position. There really is no mystery. I’m just having a good day.’

  ‘So what was in your mystery parcel on Friday?’ he asked, pointing a nicotine-shaded finger at her as the memory returned.

  Anna beamed back at him and touched the cool silk of her scarf. ‘This, actually.’

  Ted peered closer to inspect it, giving Anna a sudden waft of his too-sweet cheap aftershave as he did so. ‘Ni-i-ice. Expensive, that.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Without a doubt. What did the card say?’

  ‘What card?’

  Ted frowned. ‘The card with the parcel.’

  ‘There wasn’t one.’

  The furrows in Ted’s brow deepened, but his eyes sparked into life. This was the kind of juicy gossip he could do something with. ‘You’re telling me somebody spent a small fortune on a scarf like that and sent it to you anonymously?’

  ‘Yes. Wonderful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wonderful. Or weird . . .’

  Anna knew where this was heading. When Ted Blaskiewicz retired (in ten years’ time, as he was so fond of frequently informing anyone within earshot), he should get a job concocting preposterous conspiracy thrillers for Hollywood. Ted’s work-related scandals were almost legendary in the Messenger building. Last month he had heroically foiled what he thought was a covert spying ring in the post room, only to discover a group of workers who were attending slimming classes and sharing their experience away from the other staff. He had wrongly accused a senior journalist of fiddling her expense account, after spotting a printed list of expensive gifts on her desk, only to eat humble pie when it was revealed to be a gift list she was circulating for her husband’s fiftieth birthday. And he still turned a pinker shade of mauve over his attempt to forcibly eject the ‘shady-looking man hovering suspiciously around the top-floor offices’, who was subsequently revealed as the newest member of the DayBreak Corp Board who had arrived early for a meeting.

  ‘It isn’t weird,’ Anna replied. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘You say that now, girl, but what do you know? I saw this kind of thing on Taggart once,’ he lowered his voice. ‘It starts with attractive gifts to woo the victim and then, when the killer has them in his grasp, the parcels start to get nasty . . .’

  ‘You watch too much television,’ Anna replied, refilling her mug from the coffee percolator.

  ‘Mock all you want,’ Ted answered, finishing his drink and walking away, ‘but when you’re
lying on a mortuary slab, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  All day Anna was aware of how different everything was. As if the very air around her had changed, eliciting curious glances from people who ordinarily wouldn’t have noticed the quiet receptionist. The new chief sports reporter – whose name nobody could remember – made a point of saying how nice she looked when he arrived for the afternoon news-desk shift.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, I mean it. Have you had your hair done different?’

  Anna laughed. It was a typically bloke-like comment, but she appreciated the thought behind it. ‘No. New scarf, actually.’

  ‘Ah, right. That was going to be my second guess.’ With a broad smile, he checked his watch. ‘Well, I’d better – you know.’

  ‘Of course. Nice to talk to you, Mr . . . ?’

  The journalist shouted something unintelligible over his shoulder as he hurried to the lift. Anna turned back to Ted and shrugged. ‘Nope. Still didn’t catch his name.’

  The surprises kept arriving. Three visitors remained by the reception desk to chat with her, instead of waiting on the wide black leather armchairs for their appointments. Anna learned about the brand-new baby of one of the male visitors and was then treated to an impromptu slideshow of gurgling, sleeping and grinning images on his phone. Ted proudly informed Anna that one of the single male journalists in the newsroom had been enquiring after her – although he refused to tell her which reporter it was. And when even Juliet Evans remembered Anna’s name, Ted was so shocked he required a ten-minute sit-down with a restorative cup of tea.

  Anna received the new attention with cautious optimism. It was not altogether unpleasant, but so alien to anything she had encountered before. All her life Anna Browne had assumed the role of the invisible woman. Growing up in the shadow of her flamboyant mother, she had quickly learned that being quietly amiable was the best course of action. As Senara Browne dominated the social hub of Polperro with her lurid wardrobe, questionable lifestyle and unbridled opinion, Anna hurried along in her wake, repairing the damage with apologetic smiles. Moving to the city had afforded her more freedom to carve out her own life but, by her own admission, it was a quieter existence than her former life in Cornwall. She liked it that way. Far better to have a circle of close friends you could rely on than the ability to command a room.

  Anna had always had friends, but never thought it necessary to try to attract more. The people who mattered were naturally drawn to her. At work she made an effort to speak to anyone who seemed interested, but few of her colleagues bothered to do the same in return. Until today.

  ‘Get you, Miss Popular,’ Sheniece jibed. ‘I’ve been trying to get Joe from the news-desk to speak to me for months – and there you are, chatting with him as if you’ve been chums for life!’

  Anna ignored the hot flush of her cheeks and stared at the visitor logbook. ‘He was just being nice.’

  ‘Nice, my ass. He either wants to get into your knickers or into your bank account.’ She inspected a chip on her gel nails. ‘Joe Adams doesn’t do nice.’

  ‘So why do you want him to speak to you?’

  Sheniece shrugged. ‘I’m broke. There’s only one other thing I could offer him.’

  Anna hid her smile. She was still getting used to her colleague’s candidness, a year after Sheniece had arrived at the Messenger. ‘Well, I’m not offering him anything apart from conversation.’

  ‘Seems like everyone wants to talk to you today. Like you’re our very own celebrity. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Ted reckons you’ve got an admirer. Maybe it’s Joe.’

  Anna considered the possibility. As the good-looking journalist had never so much as glanced in her direction before, it really wasn’t likely. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Point is, though, you don’t know, do you? It could be anyone in this building. Sending you anonymous presents, for reasons yet to be revealed. It’s like a movie or something.’ She shuddered. ‘Freaky, if you ask me.’

  Anna was quickly learning this was the conclusion reached by most people who had heard about her mystery parcel, courtesy of Ted. Must be someone who wants something, they suggested, their tone heavy with concern. Must have ulterior motives. Nobody sends anonymous gifts without an agenda. You should be careful, Anna: you don’t know what you’re dealing with . . .

  But Anna wasn’t concerned. She’d encountered enough doomsayers in her life not to be affected by their pessimism. Her neighbours back in Cornwall had been only too happy to prophesy untold misery for the ‘poor girl with a car-crash of a mother’ – and on the rare occasions when fortune had smiled on Senara Browne and her two children, it was quickly deemed dodgy by the village commentators. Why was it gospel that someone doing something selfless, like sending a lovely gift, automatically implied questionable motives? Life could surprise you – both for good and for bad. This was obviously one of the good surprises. Knowing the unbridled delight with which Ted was spreading news of her secret admirer, Anna could practically feel the whispers of the building around her. Glances were cast in her direction as people buzzed in and out of the atrium, muffled giggles echoing across its marble floor as they moved away again. Secretly she liked that for once she was the hot topic of conversation at work. What would the village gossips back in Cornwall make of that, she wondered? Quiet little Anna Browne being the centre of attention, and not because of her shameful mother’s exploits! Ms Senara Browne would not be happy at having her thunder so comprehensively stolen . . .

  It would quickly pass, of that Anna was certain. In a newspaper building more stories passed through its walls than through its columns. Soon Anna Browne’s mystery gift would be old news. But today she liked the attention.

  At the end of her extraordinary workday Anna said goodbye to her colleagues and walked out of the building. As it had been a day of firsts, she decided to take Babs’ advice and treat herself, before joining the bus queue. Ordering a takeaway tea and a sticky almond flapjack for the journey home was almost negligible in its ability to change the world, but – added to her experiences of this remarkable Monday – it shone. Anna couldn’t stop smiling as she waited for her bus, her happiness a sharp contrast to the line of world-weary expressions queuing up in front.

  ‘Had some good news, have you?’

  So rare was it for anybody to speak to her in the bus queue that Anna jumped. Looking to her left, she saw an older man huddled on the too-small orange plastic seat attached to the Perspex bus shelter. He looked cold, despite the mild air temperature.

  ‘Just a good day,’ she replied.

  ‘Don’t see smiles at this stop normally,’ the man continued. ‘Nice to see one.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Probably won’t last, mind.’ He dug in the pocket of his padded plaid bomber jacket and handed Anna a crumpled leaflet, which proclaimed: END-TIMES ARE NEAR! ‘Armageddon’s coming, you know. The End and that. Soon be here.’

  ‘Nutter,’ someone muttered behind Anna in the queue.

  ‘Right. Well, thanks for letting me know.’ Not knowing what else to do, she pocketed the tract.

  ‘You’re still smiling, though,’ the bus-shelter prophet noted, a little piqued.

  The queue shuffled along as the bus arrived.

  ‘The way I see it,’ Anna said, before the push of people behind her moved her away, ‘if The End is coming, we might as well be as happy as we can before it arrives.’

  ‘Fair point.’ The man didn’t smile, but seemed to be considering her words as Anna left.

  ‘So I said to him, “I don’t care if you got down on bended knee and begged me to reconsider. I wouldn’t date you again if the President ordered me to!” . . .’ Tish gave a tut as she sipped her macchiato. ‘Guy’s a loser.’

  ‘I take it your fascination with the sales reps at work is over, then?’ Anna asked.

  Spill the Beans coffee shop was as packed as ever, customers eager to celebrate sur
viving another city Monday. Anna rested against the leather upholstery of the bench seat as her friend regaled her with the details of her latest failed foray into dating. If Tish was to be believed, the financial services company she worked for seemed to attract an unusually high proportion of decent-looking, single salesmen, the ranks of whom she had been steadily dating her way through.

  ‘Oh, I am more than done,’ Tish scoffed. ‘Gary was the last straw. Do you know he tried to say it was my fault for not knowing he had a wife and kids? Sales reps are masters of spinning tales. I should have guessed they were all liars. So. You look happy. Again.’

  The emphasis wasn’t lost on Anna. Sometimes she wondered if Tish was ever really pleased about things happening in her friend’s life. It was best not to consider this too much, as she strongly suspected the answer wouldn’t be positive.

  ‘I had a good day.’

  ‘Okay, now I know you must be on drugs. Nobody has a good Monday in this city, unless they’re crooks, deluded or high.’

  ‘I’m none of those. Maybe good Mondays happen occasionally. Maybe I was lucky.’ She straightened her scarf, enjoying its soft caress against her neck. ‘Don’t worry, though, I’m sure tomorrow will be doubly depressing, to compensate.’

  ‘It’d better be,’ Tish muttered. ‘Or else I’ll start to worry about you.’

  The American expat’s pessimism came as no surprise to Anna, after encountering it almost daily for four years. Bad news made Tish Gornick tick – but her saving grace was that it also brought out her rapier wit, which was entertaining, if not entirely comfortable all the time. Anna was amused by her friend’s wry take on life, in particular her willingness to give voice to the thoughts everyone else concealed out of politeness. In a city where rudeness was perfectly acceptable as long as it wasn’t vocalised, Tish stood out. But she was unrepentant, believing it was far worse to ‘resort to British passive-aggressive silent rage, which isn’t good for your colon’.