EIGHT

The café turned out to be empty apart from the young woman behind the counter, who could have been Eastern European, possibly Romanian or Estonian.

‘Good morning.’ The smell of chlorine lingered, but the woman had probably become immune to it. ‘I’m waiting for a friend if that’s all right. I’ll order when she joins me.’

The woman nodded and smiled and Jane felt encouraged to continue the conversation. ‘Have you worked here long?’

‘I like and the hours are good.’

‘Where do you come from?’ Always a dodgy question but the woman’s accent was strong enough to convince Jane she had not been in the country very long.

‘Poland. My husband is carpenter and I have a child. He is five. Oscar – he is called Oscar.’

‘Nice name.’ It was popular in England, among people who in all likelihood had never read The Importance of Being Earnest, or The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Jane had an idea it was spelled with a ‘k’ in Poland, but she had no wish to sound nosey. Friendliness and being intrusive, it was always a fine line. ‘Does he like his school?’

‘Oh yes, his teacher, she is very kind.’

‘Good. I used to be a teacher, but in a comprehensive school. For older children.’

‘I would like.’

‘To be a teacher? Perhaps you could be one day.’ Could she? Jane had tried hard to help her pupils reach their full potential and sometimes it had slipped over into impossible ambitions. That was what Eddie had said, but surely it was better than accepting their parents’ plans for them – to stack shelves at the local supermarket or find some low-level job with the council.

Jane sat down and the woman began stacking cups and saucers. A folded newspaper lay on the table, one of the free ones you could pick up on the bus. The headline made no sense so Jane found her reading glasses and scanned the story, something about a competitor in a reality show who had split up with her fiancé, a pop singer Jane had never heard of.

‘What a world we live in.’ She had spoken out loud and the Polish woman looked up and Jane felt she had to explain. ‘Just a silly story in the newspaper.’ She could ask her about Poland – did they have silly reality shows and puffed up celebrities? Surely not, although she had an idea they took part in Eurovision.

By the time Corinne joined her, she had grown tired of speculating about the woman behind the counter. After she retired, she had persuaded herself she enjoyed people-watching. It was fascinating. People were all so different and had such a variety of mannerisms and facial expressions. Not true. Normally, it was exceedingly tedious, as were most overheard conversations.

‘That was quick.’ She pushed out a chair with her foot so Corinne could sit opposite her. Plastic seats with plastic backs. Metal legs. Not particularly comfortable and inclined to skid on the polished floor.

Corinne was short of breath after her brief foray into the water, and the look in her eyes confirmed Jane’s suspicion that she wanted to talk. About her son perhaps. How old was he? Noel said he was called Barnaby and he never came to see them.

Jane ordered two cappuccinos and Corinne started talking into her phone. ‘Yes. No. Yes, of course, darling. I’m at the pool. The swimming pool. The café actually, darling. With Jane. Jane Seymour.’ She pulled a face, an apology for the interruption. ‘Yes, six lengths.’ She pulled another face, this time to let Jane know she was lying. ‘Yes, I’m sure she is, much better than me. Yes, all right, my darling. Love you. Bye, sweetheart, bye.

‘Noel sends his love. He’s at number twelve, talking loft conversions.’ She leaned forward, showing ample amounts of breast, something Jane found oddly titillating. ‘He likes you, Jane, and admires the way you’ve ... oh, I’m sorry, I never say the right thing. Your friend, the one who got ill. In a home, Noel said, so sad.’

Two young women had come into the café, both wheeling buggies. Their offspring appeared to be asleep, which was a blessing, and Jane hoped Corinne’s high-pitched voice would not wake them. Fortunately, when she spoke again it was in a whisper.

‘I’d love to have one.’

‘A child?’

‘Seeing all those babies in Faraday Road has made me broody.’ Corinne’s shoulders sagged. ‘Noel thinks we’re too old, but you hear of men in their seventies, even their eighties.’

‘You do.’ The cappuccino was too hot to drink but lifting froth on her spoon gave one something to do with one’s hands.

‘Noel’s only forty-five. And I’m six years younger.’

‘Thirty-nine.’ The number had slipped out, as though she had been given some mental arithmetic.

‘I try to keep in good shape. On TV it said fitness means you’re more likely to conceive. I’m only telling you this, Jane, because you’re a woman of the world. And making love is so much more fun if you think you might get pregnant, and if I told Noel I was expecting he’d be pleased as Punch but so far it hasn’t worked, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do.’ An image of Noel and Corinne in bed together made her flinch.

‘I’m on a diet,’ Corinne said, ‘ but I never seem to lose any weight. For breakfast, all I eat is two croissants.’

‘I believe they’re quite high in calories.’

‘Are they?’

‘It’s all a question of delayed gratification. Which do you want more? Food now, or a slim figure later on.’ Jane knew she sounded priggish, but Corinne was watching her, as though she was the oracle.

‘Yes, you’re right. A moment on your lips. A lifetime on your hips.’

‘I was talking generally. Not about you, Corinne.’

‘Delayed what was it? You’re so clever, Jane. You see, I’m worried about my son.’

‘Barnaby, isn’t it?’

‘Noel says there’s a book called Barnaby Rudge and he’s simple.’

‘I like the name.’

‘Do you?’ Corinne’s hand covered Jane’s in a gesture of gratitude. ‘He’s seventeen. In the sixth form. The thing is – he and Noel ... you’re thinking it’s because of me and Gerard going our separate ways. Gerard’s my ex. Only it’s not that. We’ve plenty of room. He could stay the night, only he won’t. Loyalty to his father, you’re thinking, but Gerard and I had been drifting apart for years.’

‘How did Barnaby feel?’

‘He’s seventeen. I told you that, didn’t I? An adult, almost, spends most of his time in his bedroom. He’s like his father, loathes demonstrations of affection, prefers to be left to his own devices. Such a handsome boy, I adore him. Beautiful eyes. And long, silky hair. Looks like a poet.’

‘I’ll look forward to meeting him.’

‘Oh, I do hope you do. If he ever agrees to come and see us. Jane?’ Corinne paused, licking the froth off her lips. ‘You know Willa Molloy?’

‘I do.’

‘Brian’s my doctor and I’ve met Willa but she talks so fast it’s difficult to hear what she’s saying only I know she has a son only I’m not sure how old he is.’

‘ Fifteen. You’re thinking he and Barnaby could be friends? Arthur, he’s called Arthur.’

Corinne sat up straight and locked her fingers. ‘It’s so good to talk, Jane. I mean, you’re such a good listener. Your friend – I’m afraid I’ve forgotten her name.’

‘Eddie. Edwina.’

‘And Noel says the two of you had planned to travel round the world after you retired. Such a shame. So unfair. Alzheimer’s, isn’t it, and they say you can catch it when you’re still quite young? Noel does crosswords, to exercise his brain. Cryptic ones. Do you do them? Oh, sorry, I’m talking too much. It’s because I don’t know what to say – about your friend.’

‘Nobody does.’

‘Don’t they?’ Did Corinne have tears in her eyes, or was it the chlorine? Jane recalled reading somewhere that tears produce sadness, not the other way round, a theory that, since it was counter-intuitive, rather appealed.

‘Eddie’s in a home,’ Jane told her. ‘The Spruces. It’s very well run. She’s coming back next weekend, just for one night, while they repair a window in her room.’

‘Is she? Perhaps I’ll meet her. Noel says she’s an artist.’

‘Used to be. Quite a successful one.’

‘Was she?’ Corinne giggled. ‘Noel and I met in the bedding department at John Lewis. I was buying a duvet cover and some pillow cases for my spare room, and Noel asked me if Egyptian cotton was better than ordinary cotton. And I said it was softer and lasted longer and we took it from there!’ She frowned. ‘Willa Molloy? I’ve heard rumours. I expect you have too. Her clothes. Not to my taste but I suppose some men might find her attractive. Not Noel, he’s a high heels man. High heels and plenty of sexy underwear.’ She was laughing so much she started to cough. ‘You’re lucky being old, Jane, you don’t have to worry.’

Poor gullible Corinne, the laughter would have died on her lips had she known what was to come.