TWENTY-TWO

Tricia Tidewell had nothing of interest to tell her. In fact, Jane wondered if she ever noticed anything that was going on in the road. If the badly-behaved children allowed her to. Jane had declined the offer of a cup of tea – the kitchen made Gus’ flat seem immaculate – but agreed to sit on a grubby sofa and hold the baby while Tricia found snacks for Pippa and Liam. Jane had tried talking to the boy, hoping he really might have seen someone going into the house next door, but he had stared at her blankly, afraid no doubt that if he said anything he would get into trouble. Either that, and this was far more likely, or Tricia had misunderstood what he said, or put ideas into his head.

The baby was fat and placid, and rather comforting. Jane had lost track of how old she was. About eight months, she thought, a time when they often dislike strangers, but Ada seemed perfectly happy, pulling at a loose thread in Jane’s jumper.

‘You’re a good girl, Ada, putting up with that brother and sister of yours. Not that you have much choice.’ Jane realised she had spoken to the child in much the same way she spoke to Eddie. In other words, in the knowledge it was of no importance what she said, simply a way of expressing her interest and good will.

Tricia had returned, but fortunately not Liam or Pippa. ‘I agree with you about the gossiping, Jane. Roads like this are a hotbed for that kind of thing.’

‘Most residential roads, I imagine.’

‘Simmy’s a lovely girl. Pity she’s too old to play with Pippa. I don’t really know her father. Dave, isn’t it? Pippa’s afraid of him and Liam said he saw him having an argument with Mr McNeill, only that was two weeks ago. Could be more. And he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Something about a skip I think. Why do they call them skips?’

Excusing herself, as soon as was polite, Jane had tried to think of a reason for going up to the loft conversion to look for Eddie’s hairbrush. Telling the builders about the brush would raise suspicion. Why did she think the hairbrush would be up there? No, if they had seen it they would remember. Or worse, yes, they had found a hairbrush, lying on the floor. Did she know how it could have got there? More than likely, it had turned up in Eddie’s room at The Spruces, or the room of one of the other residents, or down the loo!

When she reached The Spruces, a party was under way. Lulu, one of the residents, was celebrating her hundredth birthday. She had a pink bow in her hair and someone had made a cake with pink icing and not quite a hundred candles, but a considerable number.

Jane had put her head round the day room door then withdrawn again, but Matron was being uncharacteristically welcoming. ‘Come in, come in. Have you met Lulu? Isn’t she wonderful? And this is Dr Holland. Miss Seymour is Edwina’s friend.’

‘Ah.’ He shook hands, looking her up and down as though he was assessing how long it would be before she moved into a care home. ‘Good to meet you.’

Over by the window, Eddie was clutching the neck of her blouse. The party would upset her – she disliked anything unfamiliar – but when Matron announced that it was time to blow out the candles, she looked quite animated.

One, two, three! Matron leaned across and blew, and Lulu looked up at Dr Holland and smiled. ‘Have you got a big one, doctor?’

Even Matron was unable to keep a straight face. Had dementia disinhibited Lulu or had she retained her sense of humour? Jane hoped it was the latter. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Lulu, happy birthday to you. The singing reached a crescendo and the usual clapping broke out – at least, Matron, Dr Holland, one of the helpers, and Jane clapped. The rest of the assembled band were waiting for a slice of cake.

Once the party was over, things returned to normal. Lulu was wheeled away and Eddie sat back in her chair, gazing at the television where someone was demonstrating how to tart up a piece of haddock with the aid of some tarragon – or was it thyme?

‘Lovely cake, Eddie.’ But talking about something that had passed was pointless. Jane ought to know that by now. ‘They’re cooking fish.’

‘Fish and chips.’

‘Yes, that’s right. You know when you came home – to the house – while you were at the shops did you have anything to eat?’

Eddie smiled, then the smile faded and she looked as though she was going to cry, and full of remorse for confusing her with questions she was incapable of answering, Jane reached across to give her a brief hug and for once, Eddie didn’t struggle to break free.

The fish in the cooking programme had been replaced by some kind of pie and the chef, whose name Jane had forgotten, was spooning a sticky concoction into the pastry case. The trouble with television, there were too many channels to fill. And a worse problem was that no one looked normal. Even the people in reality shows were made up to look as though they had flawless skin. Another of Jane’s dislikes was the way ex-sports stars were given make-overs – and ridiculous clothes – that rendered them barely recognisable. A nice ordinary-looking girl who had excelled at swimming now had a not-very-flattering hairstyle, and false eyelashes.

The sanitized glamour of television. The smell of an old people’s home. Jane held out little hope of achieving the purpose of her visit, but felt compelled to have another try.

‘You remember Noel, Eddie. He was up in the loft, checking something.’

‘Up the hill.’

‘Noel, Eddie, in the loft.’

‘Round and round the garden.’

‘The garden?’ But it was no good. If she had gone up to next door’s loft conversion, she had no recollection of it. Jane stood up to stretch her legs and the handbag she had left by her chair fell open, scattering its contents on the carpet. One of the carers, another new one – or at least she was new to Jane – had appeared in the doorway. Squeezing past her trolley, she hurried to help, surprised no doubt that the handbag held such a hotchpotch of stuff – painkillers and the sticky remains of a throat sweet, a curled-up shopping list and a packet of things called “feminine wipes”, that sounded obscene but came in useful on the odd occasion.

‘Thank you so much.’

‘No worries.’

‘I’m Jane Seymour, a friend of Eddie’s. Where do you come from?’

‘Somalia. Four months.’

‘You speak very good English.’

‘Thank you.’

Jane glanced at the large, flickering television. Now someone was reading a news bulletin, something to do with a hurricane in the Far East. Then it changed to a simpering woman who Jane assumed must be a celebrity. That was the trouble with “The News”, it all merged, the good, the bad and the indifferent, in one ear and out the other, and so-called reality shows blended with real-life tragedies and the ads convinced you your kitchen needed replacing, and normal signs of aging were because you had failed to pay a fortune for a pot of restorative serum. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. Twelfth Night? No, The Merchant of Venice.

‘You like coffee?’ The woman from Somalia had a beautiful face, and black hair, held in place by a rather attractive silk scarf.

‘Yes, please. No sugar. No, not for Eddie, she’s falling asleep.’

The woman smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Jane’s were far from perfect – the result of poor dental work when she was younger – and last time she attended the dentist she had been referred to the dental health nurse and, whereas fillings were now relatively painless, dental health had replaced them as a new form of torture.

‘Custard cream?’

‘No, thank you, I had some cake.’

The woman looked blank.

‘The birthday cake. For Lulu.’

‘Ah. Yes. Lulu. So good for age.’ The woman moved on and Jane began listing suspects in her head. Motive and opportunity. Anyone, absolutely anyone other than Eddie. Dave had worried in case Noel told Simmy the truth about her mother’s death. How had Noel known? Dave was unlikely to have told him so it must have been from some other source. And what was so bad that it had to be kept from Simmy? Had her mother been killed in a road accident? Dave could have been driving, over the limit perhaps, and blamed himself for his wife’s death. Noel could have been blackmailing him. No, what was she thinking? The Noel she knew would never have done something like that. Except, had she really known him? She was as guilty as we all are of turning people into what we want them to be.

She had enjoyed her conversations with Noel but they were not on par with her discussions with Moira Winn, head of history. Sadly, she had died in harness. An image of Moira, with a bit and bridle, reared up before her eyes. Too many visual images these days and, between her and Eddie, she was supposed to be the verbal one. Perhaps a part of Eddie’s brain had transmogrified into her own. Jane stifled a laugh and Eddie turned her head, smiling.

‘Last weekend, Eddie.’ She should have let the subject drop but she had to have one last go. ‘You saw Simmy and after that you went for a walk. They’re converting the loft in Dave and Simmy’s house. And Gus lives there too, on the first floor. You remember Gus.’

Eddie pulled at a loose thread in her brown jumper. ‘Cat,’ she said, and her breathing became slower and deeper.

‘Yes, cat. Rousseau.’ A gardening expert on television had been joined by a woman with exceptionally large teeth and the two of them were enjoying some merry banter. Why did people on TV laugh so much? They laughed in the ads too. Chicken nuggets, new sofas, even cleaning materials, all produced peals of laughter. Jolly families – mother, father, son, daughter – sat round their dinner table, in fits over the gravy. Don’t think about Noel’s death, not now. Later, when she was home she would make a few notes, to calm herself.

As she was climbing into her car, she heard running footsteps. Matron. And her heart began to thump. Another interrogation, or had Eddie been doing, or saying, something Matron had been unable to mention in front of everyone else?

‘Glad I caught you, Miss Seymour.’ She was out of breath, holding her chest. ‘I just wanted to tell you we found Edwina’s hairbrush. And to say how sorry I was. About your neighbour. Was he a friend?’

‘Yes, yes he was.’

‘Awful for you, but there’s no need to worry about Edwina, I doubt if she can remember a thing.’

Jane opened her mouth to say Eddie had not been there when it happened and, just in time, remembered her previous brief conversation with Matron. ‘When I found him, she was having a little sleep.’

‘Yes. She mentioned a cat.’

‘Did she? She used to be fond of him but when she came back to the house she didn’t take any notice.’

‘We have a volunteer who does a “memory lane” session with some of the residents. In the past, Edwina has shown no interest but yesterday she was quite enthusiastic, talking about Simmy, the cat.’

‘No, Simmy is a child, a teenage girl, the daughter of a neighbour. Eddie saw her briefly when she came home. It must have reminded her.’

‘You say she was asleep when you ...’

‘When I found Mr Mc ... yes, yes she was. She’d eaten her lunch and wanted a little rest.’ She had spoken emphatically, too emphatically, and Matron’s pale, unblinking eyes bore into her.

‘I only mentioned it,’ she said, ‘because she talked about a garden, with dandelions.’

‘Dandelions? Was she watching a gardening programme at the time?’

‘No, nothing like that and, knowing you as I do, Miss Seymour, I imagine there’s not a weed in sight in your own garden.’

Knowing you as I do. She knew nothing about her. Except that was untrue. Unwittingly, one picked up all kinds of ideas about people, some of them from stray remarks, others from body language and such like.

Or was it that, when she was away from The Spruces, when Eddie was free of her inhibiting presence, she became more communicative?