SIXTEEN

Without his fisherman’s cap, Gus looked vulnerable, rather as people do when they remove their spectacles. He sat down, rubbing his forehead with a hairy-backed hand, and Jane recalled how Simmy had described him as a brown bear, and how she had assumed Simmy was referring to his habit of shutting himself away in his flat, hibernating.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Gus, but Rousseau’s gone missing again. He often stays out all night but normally he’s back for his breakfast. I thought he might be in your garden.’ It was a lie, and she felt ashamed, but not that much, since knocking on Gus’ door always meant taking your life in your hands.

‘Not my garden, Jane, belongs to Dave and Simmy.’

‘Yes, I know, but you might have spotted him through your window.’

‘Poster on a tree at the top of the road. Ginger tom been missing since April. That’s the trouble with cats. No road sense.’

‘I know.’ Gus was never one for helpful remarks. A gender thing perhaps. Women were more tactful than men. No, not true. When Eddie went into The Spruces, Willa Molloy had asked if it was a home for people who had gone off their heads. ‘Eddie’s coming home, Gus. Only for one night.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘I didn’t have a say in the matter. Repairs to her room, that’s what the matron said, but I’m afraid it may be an excuse. She threw another resident’s valuables down the loo.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘What’s it like at The Spruces?’

‘I can’t really fault it.’

‘Had a friend who suffered the same fate. Killed himself. DIY. Sliced through an artery.’

‘How horrible. You mean because he suffered from dementia?’

‘Made him careless. I expect that’s what happened. Or he might have had enough. Ralph, he was called Ralph. Had an interest in old cameras. Liked to drop in for a chat.’

‘You must miss your shop.’

‘Still take the odd photo.’ He pointed to a camera, lying on a low table, along with the free newspaper, a packet of painkillers, and a slice of cold pizza. ‘Hardly worth the effort.’

‘You need to get out more.’

He was silent, so she had another try. ‘Just a thought, but since we both need cheering up perhaps we should treat ourselves to lunch at the Portuguese café.’

Gus gave a loud sniff. ‘I’m on your list of people who need taking in hand.’

‘Why do you say that?’ People wrapped up hurtful remarks in a joke, rather as mothers hid a nasty-tasting tablet in a spoonful of strawberry jam. It rarely worked since children were not so easily deceived. Either the tablet was spat out – Rousseau did the same – or the child was put off jam for life.

Regretting his remark, or perhaps not, Gus opened a drawer and took out a small album. ‘As I said, I still take the odd picture, mainly insects and birds. Need a special lens.’ Flicking through until he found the one he was searching for, he held it out for Jane to inspect. ‘Acherontia atropos, otherwise known as the African death’s head hawkmoth. I was watching some butterflies and this fellow landed on a leaf.’

Jane gave an involuntary shudder.

‘Skull-like pattern on its back. Is it true they make a squeaking noise? How large are they? Looking at your photo, it’s hard to tell.’

‘Size of a small bat. I was lucky to spot it.’ He turned the page. ‘Metellina segmentata, the lesser garden spider. Slimmer than the typical one and with longer legs.’

‘Eddie liked spiders.’

‘I remember. Showed me a particularly fine one on that prickly plant of yours at the front.’

‘Did she?’ When was that?’

More silence.

‘Your daughter, Gus – Sarah, isn’t it?’

‘Lives up north. Outer reaches of Greater Manchester. Got a kid of her own now. Little girl.’

‘Your granddaughter.’ Gus’ eyebrows needed trimming. Nothing wrong with bushy eyebrows but his were starting to look like a hanuman monkey, commonly called a langur. ‘You should visit them.’

‘They live with my ex.’

‘What’s her name, your granddaughter? Have you got a picture?’

He held out a photograph of a bright green beetle.

‘Oh, yes.’ Jane took off her glasses and cleaned them with the ends of her blouse. ‘I had some of those on my cotoneaster. Iridescent. Beautiful.’

Above them, the builders were hammering so hard it felt as though the ceiling might collapse. When a cascade of stones and pieces of mortar fell down the chimney onto her gas fire, Jane had called up next door’s stairs to tell them, and the younger man had offered to come down with a brush and pan. As if that was the point. They could hammer hard for a short time, he said, or not so hard for a longer time. Big deal, as Simmy liked to say. Jane had chosen the longer, gentler time, but rubbish had continued to fall.

Gus yawned. ‘No one else involved in the break-up with Margery. I was impossible to live with.’

‘Margery’s your ex? Not necessarily.’

‘That’s what you think, is it?’

‘I do.’ He was turning the pages of his album in what she hoped was a companionable silence. He had kicked off his shoes, trainers that had once been white with black stripes on the sides. His socks had holes in the big toes. ‘People grow apart.’

He stared at her, as if to say, what would you know about it, but she was not so easily put off.

‘So when the marriage ended you moved here. Did you have a particular reason for choosing this area and Faraday Road in particular? Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.’

He didn’t.

‘Formula One on soon.’

‘At this time of day?’

‘Not this time of day all over the world.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ The mantelpiece had a layer of dust. So did a round table next to where Jane was sitting. Did he own a vacuum cleaner? She would have enjoyed having a quick flick round, but it was not something Gus would appreciate. ‘That new person in number twenty-two,’ she said, ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’

‘Not moving in for a week or two. Place needs doing up.’

‘Oh, she’s told you about it. Is she local? Where has she come from?’

He ignored her question, taking a jacket from the back of a chair, a new one, grey wool, quite smart. ‘Expect it’s the workmen, Rousseau doing a bunk. Blame Noel, he encourages people in the road to have his conversions, pretends he’s offering special rates. Hang on, I’m coming down. Need some milk. Oh by the way, “whom” – no one uses the word any more, am I right?’

‘It can sound a little formal. Why do you ask?’

‘You know me, Jane, left school at sixteen.’

‘And studied photography.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, I’m self-taught.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Was asking about the word “whom” a way of getting at her? It was true she regretted the fact so many people avoided using words of more than two syllables. Tricia Tidewell had once referred to her as a “walking dictionary”, one of those remarks that, on the face of it, sound like a compliment. But only on the face of it. ‘Oh, I must tell you, Gus, Eddie quoted from W.H. Auden and the odd thing is, she never liked poetry when she was ...’

‘You were going to say “when she was alive”. In life we are in death. Shakespeare, is it?’ He tightened the belt on his cord trousers. ‘It’s a bad business.’

‘Yes.’ Did he mean Eddie, or Noel’s loft conversion? ‘I’ll walk down to the shops with you if that’s where you’re going.’

Down in the street, the driver of a truck, containing large sheets of plasterboard, was attempting to reverse into a parking space between a white van and a people carrier. ‘Actually, I’d better have another look for Rousseau,’ Jane said, but Gus had moved out of earshot. He raised a hand, but didn’t turn his head, and a moment later she saw him knock on the door of number twenty-two, and the new owner, dressed in an unbecoming boiler suit and a thick woolly hat, invited him in.

Setting off in the opposite direction, Jane felt her face and neck grow hot. Gus and the woman from number twenty-two? Was that the reason for his new jacket? In the past Jane had prided herself on her lack of self-pity. When Eddie began to act oddly she had been sorry, but not for herself. Poor Eddie had had such a wide knowledge of art, both contemporary and historical, and she was a skilful painter in several different media and a fine draughtsman. And her sense of humour had been second to none.

Gus and the woman from number twenty-two. Stupid tears filled her eyes. Life was so unfair, so full of pain. But, had she but known, her jealousy was soon to be eclipsed by a genuine tragedy.