ELEVEN

‘The loft conversion,’ Mrs Garcia, explained unnecessarily, ‘I’ve come to see how it’s progressing.’ Her jet-black hair was scraped into a bun at the back of her neck and reminded Jane of her old geography teacher, who had humiliated her when she pronounced Chicago as chick-a-go.

‘How much longer will it take?’ Jane addressed her question to the builder. She thought his name was Martin, or was it Mark?

‘Hard to say.’ His cigarette bobbed about between his lips. ‘Depends.’

‘Is there going to be a balcony at the back?’ Jane asked.

‘There’s always a balcony.’ Mrs Garcia stared at her with her cold, businesswoman’s eyes. ‘You saw a copy of the architect’s drawings. If you had any objections, then was the time to voice them.’

Since Jane could think of no adequate retort, she was obliged to keep quiet. The woman should be placating the victims of her noisy building work, not looking down her nose at them. Was her hair dyed? Must be. She looked well into her fifties, possibly more, and not a hint of grey. Jane was not prone to bitchiness but in Mrs Garcia’s case she would make an exception.

Noel was approaching and when he spotted Mrs Garcia he gave a skip and a hop. ‘Life in the old dog yet.’ He winked at Jane. ‘All going according to plan, Mrs G?’

‘I’m here to check, Mr McNeill. Fitting in the shower has proved problematic but I think we’ve found a solution. Then there’s the doors leading to the balcony. One of them was sticking but I’m hoping it’s been fixed. I’m going up there to check.’

‘Good-o.’ Noel moved closer to Jane and whispered in her ear. ‘Owns two more properties she lets out. Got an invalid husband, disabled, fell off some scaffolding.’ He raised his voice. ‘I could do with your advice, Jane, one large room or two smaller ones, what d’you think? There’s still time for a partition.’

‘It depends who’s going to live there.’

‘Fair point. Studio apartment always sounds good.’ He jumped up and swung on the scaffolding, and his white T-shirt rode up, revealing firm, lightly-tanned stomach muscles.

‘Be careful,’ Jane said, but he laughed, letting go too quickly and almost losing his balance when he landed.

‘Not as fit as I used to be. Soon be losing my pulling power.’

‘That I would doubt.’

It was the first time Jane had seen him since the incident in Willa’s conservatory. What would he think if he knew how she had been hiding in the garden? Not her fault – she had been trying to retrieve Rousseau – but Noel would accuse her of prying, although perhaps not. After all, he had been mocking Willa, not having sex with her. Poor Willa must have been ousted by Corinne. Was that what had happened? Could Noel really have been having an affair with her, or was it wishful thinking? O beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock. Othello. Act Three, Scene Three, as she recalled. Envy, jealousy – such strong emotions – but ones that would be superseded by the coming disaster.

An unshaven Gus had appeared, rubbing his eyes with large reddened hands that had nails that needed cutting. ‘If you want the truth, Noel, I’m pissed off with all these loft conversions. Is it right the people at number thirteen are having one?’

‘Seems like it.’

‘What d’you mean, “seems like it”? Either they are or they aren’t. Started a fashion that’s got out of hand. If the houses in Faraday Road had been left alone they’d be listed by now, of architectural interest. Not that anyone cares. Only interested in “adding value to their properties.” I blame Mrs Thatcher.’

‘Going back a bit, aren’t you?’ Noel gave him a friendly punch. ‘Times move on. All right for you, mate, living off the sale of your shop? How much did it go for? A fair bit, I imagine even though it’s off the beaten track. See, we’re both in property, one way and another.’

Gus gave a snort so Noel tried again. ‘Not the picnic you think it is, my old mate. Bloke in Vernon Road keeps demanding I go round so he can show me tiny marks on the floor or wall. Needed a magnifying glass to find them. Talk about obsessional, you’d think he’d have something better to worry about. Work was completed five months ago. Probably made the marks himself.’

‘Deliberately?’

‘Wear and tear, Jane, wear and tear. Just one of those people who make a virtue out of never being satisfied. Think if their living quarters are perfect, their life will be too. Doesn’t work like that.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ Jane would have liked a new carpet in her sitting room but it would mean moving all the furniture. Did she want one that much? Probably not.

Noel was warming to the subject of his loft conversions. ‘As you’ll know, if you’ve been up to see, they’re finished to the highest standard.’

Jane had not been up to see. Would not have dreamed of doing such a thing unless invited. ‘Mine was there when we bought the house. Definitely not up to your standard, Noel. Not even a balcony, never mind a shower room. Eddie used it as her studio.’

‘Good old Eddie.’ Noel lifted Jane’s hand and planted a theatrical kiss on the back of it. ‘Not many people can boast they got a picture into the Summer Exhibition. Is it true creativity and madness are closely aligned?’

‘Eddie’s not mad.’

‘Of course not. Just interested in the subject. They say Einstein was autistic. Isaac Newton too. No good at small talk but —’

‘Lacking social skills but highly intelligent and obsessed with complex problems.’

‘Mine of information, isn’t she, Gus? Don’t know what Faraday Road would do without her.’

Simmy had come out of the ground floor flat with her hands over her ears. ‘I’m trying to read a book about mothers that fail to bond with their babies, but the builders are so noisy I can’t concentrate.’

‘Hard at it, Sim, keeping Mrs G happy.’ Noel smiled at her, turning on the charm. ‘Where d’you buy that T-shirt? Wouldn’t mind one myself. Character from a computer game, is it? Looks like he’s up to no good.’ And he bounced up the stairs.

‘Dad shouts four-letter words at them.’ Simmy had sidled up to Gus and was sucking the cord on her hoodie. ‘Anyway, it’s not Mark and Lee’s fault. Lee likes cats, Miss Seymour. He calls Rousseau “Tiger” and he gives him bits of sausage roll. Gus, do you know what happened to my mother? My dad won’t tell me so I think she must have run off with another man; only I could have brothers and sisters, half ones I mean. I saw this programme about long lost people and ...’

‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid.’ Gus glanced at Jane, hoping she would help him out, and she opened her mouth to tell Simmy she would speak to her father, then spotted him on his way back from his workshop.

He must have heard what Simmy’s high-pitched voice was saying, but he chose to ignore it. With his slight build and deep-set eyes, he reminded Jane of a gnome, the evil one in her book of fairy stories, and the way he talked about the loft conversion, through fiercely clenched teeth, could be a little alarming.

‘That landlady woman here, is she?’ he said. ‘Thought I saw her BMW.’

‘She’s up in the loft, with Noel.’

Dave fingered his beard. Unlike Gus, he had small, rather beautiful hands, and probably small feet, Jane guessed, although he always wore heavy boots so it was impossible to tell. His beard was flecked with grey, as was the light-brown hair that trailed over his collar. ‘Did she say when it would be finished?’

‘Mrs Garcia? No.’

Dave licked his lips. They were narrow and very pink, a bit like Rousseau’s. ‘Expect she’ll let it to students? Have you thought of that, Gus? Coming back at all hours, talking at the top of their voices, playing loud music, throwing up on the doorstep.’

‘You play loud music, Dad.’ Simmy turned to Jane. ‘I expect you’ve heard it, Miss Seymour, through your wall. Jazz. I hate jazz. I’ve told him he ought to save it for in the workshop where it won’t disturb people.’

‘See what I’m up against?’ Dave took out his tin of tobacco. ‘Do this, don’t do that. Right, I’m off to the hardware shop. When they come down again, you can tell the Garcia woman I’m not paying any more rent until the building work stops.’

Gus gave one of his snorts. ‘You’ll get an eviction notice.’

‘Thought you were on my side. If we both withheld the cash ...’

‘Only have to pay it later. Where else are we going to find? Anyway, the worst of the building work’s over, just putting finishing touches.’

‘Your friend Noel been softening you up?’

‘No.’

‘Thought he might have compensated you for the disruption.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Gus looked distinctly annoyed.

‘I spend my time in my workshop. You’re in most of the day. Besides, he knows I can see through his smarmy act.’

You’re another who’s jealous of Noel, Jane thought, because he’s tall and good-looking, and women are drawn to him like wasps to a picnic. Listening to Dave’s exchange of words with Gus, she had been a little surprised. Because they lived in the same house, she had assumed they were on good terms. Had something happened? It was true Gus had a habit of walking up and down, but his flat was carpeted and she doubted he disturbed Dave and Simmy very much. Perhaps Gus knew how Simmy’s mother had died and was threatening to tell Simmy? But why would he do that, and how had she died?

It was possible Eddie knew, although she had never mentioned it and, even if she did, she was unlikely to remember now. Looking back, Jane could see that the first signs of her illness had manifested themselves in mood changes and an inability to make decisions. As the condition progressed, Jane had downloaded an article with a list of symptoms and their likely progression, although it varied from person to person. Vascular dementia, the second most common kind after Alzheimer’s, beginning suddenly after a stroke. Had Eddie’s symptoms been sudden? Not as far as Jane recalled, although the fact that she already had a streak of eccentricity could have disguised them. Her powers of concentration had never been good, except when she was painting, and liking rather too many tots of whisky could have explained her unsteadiness on her pins.

Jane had given up alcohol, a decision based on superstition rather than reason. If I deprive myself of something I enjoy, the gods will reward me. Like hell they would! Sometimes, Eddie had accused her of taking life too seriously, worrying over things she could do nothing about. But there had been plenty of laughter and merriment, like when they decided to go camping, bought all the gear, and ended up in a sea of mud, returning home the following day and donating the tent to a local charity shop. Your idea, Jane. Had it been? You’re a masochist, think suffering’s good for the soul!

Simmy had disappeared but Dave and Gus were still arguing about Mrs Garcia and the prospect of new tenants in the loft conversion at the top of their house. Jane wondered why Gus still rented. Surely if he had sold his shop he could afford to buy. He preferred the freedom of renting? If he took the fancy, he could move up north to be nearer his daughter and granddaughter? But rents were high and felt like money down the drain. She wanted to ask him if that was what he had in mind. If he moved she would miss him more than she liked to admit. Would he miss her? But she was not prepared to risk such a question. They were friends, nothing more, and that was how it would remain.

‘Ironmonger,’ Dave said, ‘need some linseed oil. French polishing. Lucky we’ve still got a shop around the corner.’

‘What is French polish?’ Jane asked, ‘I’ve often wondered.’

‘It’s a process, not a material. Have to apply lots of thin coats – shellac dissolved in alcohol – and use a pad lubricated with oil. Come to the workshop sometime and I’ll give you a demonstration.’

Jane smiled. ‘Thank you, Dave, I might take you up on the offer.’ He was a bit of a mystery – she would welcome a chance to get to know him better – and it would mean she had an opportunity to ask a few tactful questions about his dead wife. For Simmy’s sake, not her own.