A Parcel for Anna Browne

The following Tuesday afternoon, a sixth parcel arrived. Anna had just returned from her lunch break and was checking the afternoon schedule when the sheepish smile of Narinder Rana appeared above her computer screen.

Her heart was racing and the building’s glass-and-steel atrium seemed to wobble a little. Could this really be happening? The beautifully folded brown-paper covering and carefully omitted sender information suggested it was, and yet Anna could hardly believe it was real.

Narinder tapped the parcel as he laid it on the reception counter. ‘So your guy came in again.’ He shrugged a little, knowing that his previous claims had been rumbled and he had no more an idea of the sender than Anna did. ‘I assume.’

‘Ah, no sightings of shady blokes through the office window this time, then?’ When all was said and done, Anna couldn’t be angry with the courier. He had seen an opportunity and taken it, and while at the time it had felt like an almighty waste of a Saturday evening, she had to admit the trouble he’d taken to date her had been flattering.

Realising she was joking, the courier’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Funnily enough, no. Sorry about . . . you know. Can’t blame a fella for trying, eh?’

‘You’re forgiven. And thanks for the drink. I think I left without saying that.’

‘Least I could do, given the circumstances. So, have you any idea who it’s really from? The lads in the depot reckoned it was me sending them. They thought I’d roped one of my cousins into posing as a customer, so I could bring you parcels and score a date.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, I won’t lie: I was keen. But not enough to work that hard, just to ask a girl out. Who does that?’

Anna signed the delivery sheet and took the parcel in her hands. It was wide, flat and square, but surprisingly heavy, given its size and shape. Part of her wanted to run home and rip it open, but she still had half of her shift to complete and a set of prying eyes to quickly hide it from. The weeks since the last parcel’s arrival had given her breathing space from the intrusive interest of Ted, Sheniece and half the Messenger employees. Anna wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

By the time Sheniece arrived back from her extended lunch break (caused by a queue in the bank, allegedly, although the thought of Sheniece queuing for anything other than a club or a clothing sale was implausible at best), she was too abuzz with gossip to notice anything different about Anna.

‘We are so in trouble,’ she hissed, the urgency in her tone accentuated by the scrape of her acrylic nails as she gripped the edge of the reception desk. ‘Kyle Chambers from the Post told me. Says the Messenger’s in trouble, and the whole of Fleet Street knows it. The rumour is they’re looking for an emergency buyer. An emergency! That’s never good news for our jobs, is it?’

‘Calm down and think about it, Shen. A journalist from one of our biggest rivals tells you our paper’s in trouble. Don’t you think that’s a little convenient?’

Sheniece jutted her chin out. ‘He told me off the record, Anna! He was doing me a favour. Face it: we’re never told anything here until it’s already happening. Remember when they sold the New York office? Everyone had been handed pink slips before we found out about it. Forewarned is forearmed, in my opinion.’

Anna remembered the furore caused by that move, which happened practically overnight. She had learned about it by reading the Metro on the bus in to work. The Messenger lost several key employees following that, mostly editors shaken by the sudden exit of their transatlantic colleagues. ‘I’m sure things aren’t as bad as we’re thinking here.’

‘Have you heard?’ For a portly gentleman, Ted Blaskiewicz could move like a cheetah when fuelled by scandal. ‘I told you this was happening! First the shareholders’ meeting, now this.’

Anna stared at the puffing chief of security as he leaned against the reception desk. ‘You’ve been talking with Mr Chambers too, I see?’

‘Eh? No – what’s Kyle Chambers been saying? I heard from Dave Draycott, security chief at the Mail. Everyone’s saying it: the Messenger’s in deep trouble. Better start scouring the Positions Vacant pages, ladies. We could be jobless by Christmas.’

‘You should ask your new friend, Anna.’ The weight of Sheniece’s implication was heavier than Ted’s large belly. ‘If anything’s going on, I bet Ben McAra’s all over it.’

‘We saw you. Yesterday morning. Me and Rea from the newsroom were walking past that new coffee place and there you both were, body language screaming through the windows at us. Don’t give me that look, Anna Browne, you know what I’m talking about.’

‘And you never told me?’ Ted reddened at this revelation. ‘Tsk, have I taught you nothing about news, girl?’

If it were possible to wither a human being using only the power of a stare, Ted Blaskiewicz would have melted like the Wicked Witch of the West in front of Sheniece at that moment. ‘Nobody said you had to be the first port of call, Ted.’

His mouth flapping like a talkative goldfish, Ted pulled at the security badge on his uniform jacket. ‘Head. Of. Security, Sheniece. It’s my job to be informed of things like that – immediately.’

Anna’s hopes of being relieved of her colleagues’ scrutiny crumbled as the receptionist and security officer bickered over the pertinent details of her personal life. She left them to it, carrying a stack of post to the mailroom on the lower ground floor. Their discovery of her coffee-house meetings with Ben aside, the rumoured trouble that the Daily Messenger faced was worrying. This wasn’t the first time it had been mentioned and, regardless of how much truth existed in the speculation, the number of people talking about it was surely a cause for concern. It was a tough time for any publication, what with more titles opting for digital-only editions and the well-documented fall in print sales. Rolling twenty-four-hour news and the speed of social media trumped newspapers time after time, as people simply weren’t prepared to wait for a publication that would be out of date before it even hit the news-stands. But other national tabloids were just about keeping their heads above water: why should it be any different for the Messenger?

Anna hadn’t feared for the future of her job before, but now the suggestion hung heavily over her. What would she do, if redundancies happened? She didn’t relish the prospect of job-hunting: the endless hours of interviews and queues of identically qualified candidates were depressing in the extreme. Even if rumours of the Messenger’s days being numbered were exaggerated, they already knew a meeting had taken place to discuss the dreaded ‘cost-cutting measures’. Currently reception had four full-time members of staff, one of whom covered the night shift and was more of a security guard than a receptionist. What happened if they decided only two staff members were necessary? Of the remaining three, Anna was the most senior, but also most expensive. If the Messenger wanted to save money, presenting the job to Sheniece or Ashraf would make better financial sense. Or they could simply add manning the reception desk to the existing security guards’ remit and save even more money . . .

She pushed through the double doors to the small but busy mailroom and handed a stack of outgoing post left at reception to Vincent Allsop, the grey-haired, splendidly bearded veteran of the department who had worked there for as long as anyone could remember. There was a rumour that he had once trodden the boards in a travelling Shakespeare theatre company, but this was just as likely to be an urban myth supported by his deep baritone voice that reverberated through the Messenger building as it was to be true. Vincent’s broad smile was more welcome today than usual.

‘Same as ever.’ Anna was glad of the opportunity to talk about something else. ‘You know what these newspaper types are like.’

‘That I do, Anna, that I do.’ He inspected the pile of letters and parcels, his nose wrinkling beneath the gold-rimmed glasses he wore. ‘I see we have nothing exciting to report about these latest offerings, either. Ah well. We shall have to console ourselves with scandal and intrigue instead.’ His green-grey eyes sparkled. ‘So, do you think we are all to be turfed out on the street next week?’

By the time Anna arrived home at Walton Tower, her concern had become real. The only brightness in her afternoon of rumour, speculation and doom-laden forecasting was the new parcel, hidden from Ted’s beady eyes in her handbag. Its promise had served as a reminder that life could surprise as well as ambush, and now all she wanted to do was lock herself away with it.

Jonah was leaning against the doorframe of his front door, watching her as she approached along the corridor from the lift. Anna placed her hand protectively on her handbag and slowed her pace as she neared him.

‘I’ve had one of those days,’ she replied, feeling better for seeing his wry smile. ‘I just need a cup of tea and a quiet night in.’

‘There’s plenty of tea at mine,’ he suggested, nodding over his shoulder at the interior of his flat, which, like Jonah himself, was delightfully unkempt. Anna often pictured Jonah living in the midst of his own private hurricane, far too busy being whirled and spun by his life to worry about the tidiness of his environment. It gave him and his home a relaxed air and was something Anna liked immensely. There was no standing on ceremony with Jonah Rawdon: like the plain-talking Yorkshireman he was, what you saw was what you got. There was much to be said for the comfort of straightforwardness . . . ‘Besides, I gave Bennett a bit of Thornton’s toffee half an hour ago and he’s still trying to lick it off his teeth. It’s hilarious – you have to come and see.’

For a moment Anna was tempted – despite wondering if the sight of a dog tormented by toffee was a particularly ethical form of entertainment. It would be good to relax after the brooding conspiracies that had surrounded her day. But waiting in her bag was the sixth parcel – the one she never thought she would receive. To delay it any further would frustrate her just as much as the buttery confectionery was frustrating Jonah’s canine companion.

Had it been Tish she was asking, the answer might have persuaded her to reconsider. But Jonah understood Anna’s need for solitude, a topic on which they had often spoken. He required no further explanation.

‘Gotcha. But, hey, my door’s open if you need to chat later. I’ve a couple of days off before the next location job, so feel free to pop over any time.’

Alone at last, Anna let the excitement of the new parcel wash over her completely. What prompted its arrival – and why there had been such a hiatus between this and the previous parcel – suddenly weren’t important. What mattered was that it was here and she could simply be excited about opening it.

Within the brown paper she found an old 78 r.p.m. record in a greying black-paper sleeve. The label in the middle of the ink-black shellac read:

‘Ain’t She Sweet’

(Music by Milton Ager, Words by Jack Yellen)

Harry Richman

Brunswick Records 1927

The record smelled of dust and time, the ridges cut into its glossy surface catching the light as she inspected it. Tucked inside the paper record sleeve was a cream envelope bearing Anna’s name, a folded map and printed directions to an address in Notting Hill. With these items was a note, printed as the previous notes had been:

~ Anna ~

Follow the map to a place where time stands still and ask Alfie to help you hear the music.

(He’ll be expecting you.)

This song is as true today as it ever was.

The map and directions only indicated a street number in Cornwall Crescent, at the junction of St Mark’s Road. Anna wasn’t familiar with the area, save for the famous market on Portobello Road. She stared at the address. Was Cornwall Crescent a hint at her South-western roots, or pure coincidence? And who was Alfie?

She was already familiar with the song, if not the version on the record. It was a song Uncle Jabez used to sing to her and her cousin Elowen, when they played together on Sunday afternoons at her aunt and uncle’s house in Looe. It didn’t strike Anna as a song of great significance, being just a cute ditty about a girl whom the singer admires, but it did bring back a happy memory from her childhood: perhaps that was significant enough?

Anna was curious about following the directions, but was struck by a desire not to go alone. She was excited by what she might find and, now that her friends were fully aware of what was happening, she wanted to share the experience. But which of her friends should she ask to go with her? If she asked Tish, she would be subjected to an overblown lecture on the perils of going to strange places in the city. Tish believed every new corner of the metropolis harboured a waiting attacker and, given her tough New York upbringing in the depths of the Bronx, it wasn’t difficult to see why.