TEN

Rousseau was missing, had been for several hours. A punishment from the gods because she had been foolish enough to open Willa’s parcel? If she had not known better, she would have assumed Rousseau had a lady-love. Impossible, so someone in the vicinity must be feeding him. How stupid people were. If whoever it was wanted a cat they should adopt one from the dogs and cats home, instead of “stealing” their neighbour’s pet.

Another parcel had been left with her – this time for Mr Owen. At one time, he had been a leading light in the field of educational tests. Retired now, Jane had no idea how he spent his time, but the parcel was a book, a large one. She rang his bell and the door opened immediately, as though he had been watching out for her.

‘Parcel for you.’

‘Ah. Yes. The man knocked earlier but I was in the lavatory. They don’t wait, you know.’

‘I believe they’re paid per delivery.’

‘Even so.’ He turned to call up his stairs. ‘A parcel, Judith. Miss Seymour’s been kind enough to bring it round.’

‘Goodbye then.’ Jane was not sure if pity or irritation was her primary emotion. As everyone in Faraday Road knew, or almost everyone, Judith had moved out two years ago and was living with her tennis coach in another part of the town. Living in sin. A silly expression but Jane often thought the “anything goes” culture had made life that little bit duller. After all, who would still remember Brief Encounter if Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard had left their respective spouses and settled into domesticity?

No sign of Rousseau in Faraday Road so she would have to scour the nearby streets – Vernon Road and Elm Close, then on towards the allotments, where people pretended they had returned to nature, and past the garage where she took her car for its annual service and MOT. It was run by two old men, Maurice and Wally, who she trusted implicitly not to overcharge her, or tell her she needed a new part when the old one was perfectly satisfactory. What a gullible old fool she was.

Past the rough ground that had been bought by a builder who intended to erect four “executive homes”, and on towards Church Road, then The Pines, a circular route that would take her back home. A car with a “Baby on Board” sticker had been parked on the pavement. Baby on Board? What were you supposed to do about it? Desist from ramming the back? But the real reason for the stickers was obvious. Look, everybody, we’ve successfully bred!

Back in Faraday Road, she decided to check the lane behind the houses on the opposite side from her own. Some cats were couch potatoes but Rousseau was a prowler, an adventurer, although she had no knowledge of how far he explored. Pausing at Brian and Willa’s garden gate – it was ajar and coming off its hinges – she peered through the greenery, more out of curiosity than because she expected to see Rousseau, who could well have returned home in her absence.

When she gave the gate a push it creaked open, revealing long grass and a collection of overgrown shrubs. Clearly, the Molloys were not keen gardeners. Two apple trees and a plum were in serious need of pruning, and aquilegia had multiplied over what might once have been an herbaceous border. And, in the distance, the wretched cat was crouching on a patch of earth, digging away. And she knew what that meant.

People complained about dogs, but at least they relieved themselves in places where their offerings were clearly visible and could be disposed of in a bag. Cats disliked fouling their own nests and made a point of visiting other people’s gardens, a favoured place being a neighbour’s vegetable patch. Not that any vegetable could have flourished in Brian and Willa’s garden, but that was hardly the point.

‘Rousseau!’ His ear twitched and he prepared to run. ‘No, wait!’ Jane moved swiftly through the long grass, hoping to make a grab for him. Glancing at the house, she noted that a conservatory had been built onto the back, quite out of keeping with the rest of the building since it was redbrick with plastic window frames. Through the glass, she thought she could see a sofa and two chairs, flowery ones, the kind people bought for garden rooms. If Willa and Brian spent time in the room, one would have thought they would have taken more trouble with the garden. Open spaces that were left to run wild were a godsend for birds and insects but Jane doubted that was the reason for the negligence.

Did they have a loft conversion? Probably not, since they only had Arthur – not that having one child put off homeowners set on raising the value of their properties. Property was one of Jane’s bugbears. Houses were supposed to be homes, not investments, and the fact that her own house was now worth an exorbitant amount only served to make her think she should down-size. One day perhaps. Not yet. The thought of solicitors and surveys, and removal vans was more than she could bear. Never mind the lack of the familiar as she struggled to settle into new accommodation.

No one was about. No sounds of life. Brian would be at work and Willa was likely to be at Pilates or Mindfulness, or her latest passion: Zumba dancing. Jane pictured her in a swirling skirt, her wiry hair flying in all directions. What was Zumba dancing? She had an idea it included singing and hand-clapping, something Willa would enjoy.

‘Come here, you beastly creature.’ She reached out for Rousseau but he sprang onto the roof of a dilapidated shed, sat down, stuck out a leg and began licking his private parts. If she crept round behind him she might be able to cut off his escape route. On the other hand, it made it more likely she would be spotted, trespassing. The house had an air of silence – she and Rousseau were the only ones about – but Willa could have had a lie-in and be about to come downstairs for a hearty brunch.

Something was going on in the road. One of the delivery people asking for help with an address? It never ceased to amaze her how many of them had arrived in the country, with a smattering of English, and, in no time at all, had mastered the language, sufficient to drive round at lightning speed, making deliveries. Or the sounds could be scaffolders – they delighted in making the maximum noise – or Tricia Tidewell and her noisy brood.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the conservatory. And froze. Willa, but not alone. Her lips were moving and, by the look of her, she was not in the best of moods. Brian must have come home after morning surgery and said, or done, something that had upset or enraged her.

Hidden behind one of the gnarled fruit trees, Jane had a clear view and, provided she kept still, should be invisible to the occupants of the conservatory.

Even from a distance, it was clear Willa was in a highly-agitated state, gesticulating, wiping her eyes, gesticulating again. The object of her agitation was out of sight. Brian had found out about Arthur’s planned tuition? Jane had not inquired why he was not to know about it, which was not to say she had not speculated. Brian thought Arthur was doing well at school, had never had any doubts he would gain the right grades to be accepted at a training hospital? If he had discovered the truth would he really be so angry? Willa was the volatile one. Brian was dim, but peaceable. The attraction of opposites, she had thought, yin and yang – if you believed in that kind of thing.

As she edged towards the gate, keeping close to the wall, she kept her head down, hoping the two of them were too absorbed in their argument to notice her, but was unable to resist a final peep. And the scene that met her eyes would be imprinted on her memory forever. Willa in floods of tears, and the object of her distress, wearing a mortar board and holding aloft the patent leather knickers. And laughing so much he lost his balance and almost fell against the glass. It was Noel.