Parallel Life (20 page)

‘No, but nothing. I've had enough. Just find something to do and leave me in peace, woman.'

Eileen bustled off, words still emerging from beneath her breath. ‘It'll be my fault when it all goes wrong,' she whispered to Hermione's kitchen sink. ‘It'll be me who should have noticed, should have said something, should have—'

‘Eileen? Come here.'

The Irishwoman entered, a tea towel twisting in her hands. ‘What now?'

Hermione was standing at a window, a Zimmer frame keeping her steady. ‘Look,' she ordered.

Eileen obeyed. In the garden below, Sal Potter was spreading soot between plants. ‘Why is she doing that?'

‘Because soot is good for the garden. Now, what do you have to say?'

‘She must have heard me. With her head in the fireplace, she must still have known I was there. Prodding about among people's things – she's got no right.'

Hermione sighed wearily. ‘If she's a thief and a chancer, what was she doing up a chimney? Did she think we had treasure up there? You're making no sense at all, woman. If she'd her hands in a till at the shop, I'd understand your attitude.'

‘But I only wanted to draw your attention to—'

‘She's doing a good job, and you don't like that. You thought you'd carry on for ever being in charge, didn't you? Well, you're getting no younger, and neither am I. So shut up about Sally Potter, for heaven's sake. And straighten your face.'

Eileen flounced out and carried on with the washing-up. She didn't care what Madam said. There was something wrong with Sal Potter, and time would prove it.

Hermione continued to stare through her dormer window. One thing she had learned over the years was that Eileen Eckersley was a person of strong instinct. She had a nose for things that were not quite right, was capable of summing up with a degree of accuracy most situations. She talked a lot of nonsense, got her words wrong, but she knew people. This was a gift bequeathed to but a few, and Hermione began to wonder, albeit reluctantly, about Mrs Sally Potter. The woman was too good. She stayed beyond her allotted hours and, according to Lisa, never claimed overtime. So what was she doing in the shed? Stanley Eckersley did the gardens. There was no need for a Sal Potter to potter about in the potting shed. Hermione grinned. Eileen always called that place the ‘pottering' shed. She was right again, wasn't she?

‘Why are you watching her?'

The older woman jumped. ‘Good God, Eileen, you'll give me a stroke if you carry on like that. A person of my age can't take too many shocks.'

‘Well, it's sorry I am about that, but you have to admit that Mrs Potter is not acting like a cleaner. She's been a plumber, a chimbley sweep, a carpet fitter and a gardener – and they're the jobs we know about. The good Lord alone knows what she gets up to when I am not looking. She'll be fetching one of those pewmatic drills if we don't shape up.'

Hermione turned and gazed into the unlovely face of her companion. ‘And when, pray, are you not watching? It's like living with a hawk.'

‘It's just my way, madam.'

Hermione allowed a deep breath to escape from deep in her lungs. ‘I've told you to call me Iona. All my friends call me Iona.'

‘I'm an employee. I know my place.'

The employer sat down and faced her single member of staff. ‘Listen, birdbrain. That's not an insult, because you are a watchful hawk and, sometimes, you are right. Fetch out my best Cooper coffee set and make up a trolley for two. Some scones would be nice. Then get yourself downstairs and invite Mrs Sally Potter to join me for coffee.'

Eileen folded her arms. ‘So Lisa's servant sits with you and I don't?'

‘You'll be in the hall listening. For once in your life, will you simply do as you are told without question. Can you manage that for half an hour?'

‘Of course I can, and well you know it.'

Downstairs, Sally Potter was at her wits' end. She couldn't find a safe anywhere, had searched cupboards, shelves and drawers, had even had a root round in the garden shed. It was a good job she'd heard the Irishwoman creeping about. With her head up a wide chimney and wearing a Sainsbury's bag to save her hair, she had been lucky to hear anything at all. Eileen Eckersley was suspicious, but Sal hadn't dared tell Jimmy about that. She was here to find a gun and, beyond that, there was—

‘Mrs Potter?'

Sal turned from her current task of preparing vegetables. ‘Yes?'

‘Madam says would you care to come up and take coffee with her?'

‘Why?'

Even Eileen was perplexed by that question. ‘Oh . . . it's the way she is. She sits alone a lot, you see, so you're someone for her to talk to.' She sniffed. ‘And it's fortunate, you are, because she doesn't invite many for morning coffee. Or afternoon tea, come to that.'

Sal fiddled with the potato peeler. She didn't want to go up into what Jimmy described as the gods or the dress circle. She was quite happy peeling carrots and washing broccoli. ‘I've a fair few things to do.' She had stuff to remember as well. There must be no mention of Jimmy, she was a widow, she was here to work and not to search – oh, God. ‘Can we make it another day?' she asked.

‘I think it's best you come when invited. She suffers from MS, so she sees people only on the good days. And we don't get many of those just lately.' That, at least, was the truth.

With a heart even heavier than her very tired feet, Sal followed Eileen up the stairs. She glanced at the lifts and wished that she could use them, but they were there for one person only, and Sal was not that person. She was quite winded when they finally reached the top storey, and she stopped for a few seconds, pretending to tie a shoelace while Eileen waited.

‘Have you done?'

‘Yes.' She entered Mrs Hermione Compton-Milne's apartment. It was beautifully furnished, understated and quite modern for a woman of such an age.

‘How do you do?' said Hermione.

‘Nicely, thanks.'

The handshake was limp, and the skin felt damp with fear. Hermione cleaned her own right hand on wipes kept for that purpose, as she was always spilling food and drink. By the time Sal had turned to place herself in a chair, the wipes and Sal's sweat had been disposed of discreetly.

Eileen poured the coffee.

‘Lovely cups,' commented the guest.

‘Wedding gift,' replied Hermione. ‘Susie Cooper. It has, so far, survived the ministrations of Eileen, but I don't hold out a great deal of hope in the long-term.'

Eileen glared at her employer, then left the scene.

Sal munched on a scone, though she didn't feel like eating. Both these women had X-ray eyes, of that she felt certain. Well, the Irish one had gone, but the person who held all the top trump cards was sitting opposite Sal and staring right through her.

‘Have you done this type of work for a long time?' asked the hostess.

Sal nodded, noticing that a few crumbs fell down the front of her blouse. She wished she had worn something nicer, but it was too late to worry about that now. And what had Jimmy said? ‘Dowdy but clean,' that was it.

‘My carer says you are doing a very thorough job. I understand that you have even lifted carpets and moved boards in the kitchen in order to do a good clean.'

‘Mice,' Sal managed after swallowing the last of her scone. ‘I always look for them. We've been plagued in the past, me and my dad. Farm cottage, you see. Sometimes, there were rats, too.'

Hermione shook her head. ‘Oh, dear. And is your father dead now?'

Sal nodded. ‘Yes. I nursed him for a long time. I do like your glass tables.'

‘Safety glass. I fall a lot.'

‘Well, that's a shame. And the metal trees on the wall – very modern.'

‘Linda Barker. I like to keep up with the times, don't you?'

Sal smiled weakly. ‘Never got much of a chance, Mrs Compton-Milne. Always too busy to know what the trends are. Before I came here, I worked in six different houses. Then, of course, there were the years I spent looking after Dad. He wasn't an easy man to please.'

Hermione allowed a few beats of time to pass. ‘So you're alone now?'

‘No . . . I mean yes. Except for Barney. He's my cat.' She had no cat. Now she had to remember the name of a feline that didn't even exist. Barney. She had to remember Barney. ‘I called him after Barney Rubble in
The Flintstones
. It's a cartoon.'

‘Yes.'

There followed a silence during which Hermione learned much about her companion. She sweated when she was nervous; she touched an ear-lobe when lying; she had something sizeable to hide. ‘And your husband?'

‘Eh?'

‘Your husband. What happened to him?'

‘Heart attack. Right as rain one minute, dead on the floor the next.'

‘Terrible business for you.'

‘Oh, it was. I tried that mouth-to-mouth, but it didn't work.'

‘And the paramedics tried, too, I suppose. Did they shock him?'

‘Er . . . what?'

‘Did they use a machine to start his heart again? Like they do in
Casualty
?'

‘Er . . . yes, I think they did.'

It was time for a pause, decided Hermione. Like a boxer, she needed to retreat to her corner in order to calculate her next move. She stood and took hold of a nearby walking frame. ‘I'm all right,' she told Sal when the woman went to rise from her chair. ‘I can get to the bathroom, thank you.'

Alone, Sal gazed around the room. It was all cream except for the chimney wall, which was done in an amazing wallpaper with bronze in its pattern. It probably looked lovely in the evenings when the lamps were on. Everything was so modern and clean, lots of metalwork, square shades on the lights, a black sofa with fancy cushions thrown about, all different geometric shapes in the fabrics. This was posh. This was how the rich people lived.

The rich person returned. ‘And when did your husband die, Mrs Potter?'

Sal squirmed. ‘Two years come September.' She touched her left ear.

‘Very sad,' said Hermione. ‘No children?'

‘No.'

‘Just Barney.'

‘That's right.'

There was definite justification for Eileen's misgivings, and Hermione told her so when Sally Potter had left the scene. It was difficult, though, to imagine why so many lies had been manufactured. Unless she was ‘casing the joint' for some criminal, there could be little reason for such behaviour. ‘Carry on watching,' advised Hermione.

‘I wasn't wrong, then?'

‘No.'

‘So that means you were wrong, while I was right?'

‘I suppose so.'

Eileen made her jubilant exit. Sometimes, Mrs Clever-Clogs wasn't as bright as she made herself out to be. When it came to people, Eileen Eckersley was the expert. And woe betide anyone who did not agree with that.

Hermione sat in silence for over half an hour, an achievement that would have been termed miraculous by all who knew her. There were brown mottles on the lower parts of Sal Potter's legs. They advertised a woman who had no central heating, who sat a great deal, who rested too close to an open fire in the winters. The scars were pale at present, but would deepen in colour towards the end of the year. There was no cat. Barney had been a quick touch-of-the-ear job, though the cleaner did not live alone at the present time.

Hermione picked up her crossword, but could not concentrate. The failure to remember the activities of paramedics was another clue. She had not been married. Most widows continued to wear a wedding ring, but the lack of a ring had not been the main pointer. The date of death probably belonged to Sally Potter's father. Most liars needed some truth to which they might cling, so she had used the real date of her father's death. Why was she here? Why did she tell lies that seemed meaningless and non-essential? It would be relatively easy to find out if anyone named Potter had died on the date provided. Had she changed her surname? Probably not. No imagination, no mental energy in the poor creature.

Hermione stood and hobbled across to the other dormer. Harrie's house was almost completed. It was quite pretty, too. ‘She made all the doorways wide enough for me,' whispered the old lady. ‘That is a good girl. I'll miss her when she goes to university.'

‘Talking to yourself again?'

Hermione did not turn. ‘This way, I am sure of an intelligent audience,' she answered smartly. ‘And your scones were drier than usual.'

Getting used to being in love took some doing, though it proved immensely enjoyable. Suddenly possessed of enormous energy, Harrie set herself the task of nest-building in her new home. It had to be right – absolutely right. With a flair for colour and style, and as owner of three magazines on the subject of beautiful homes, she considered herself to be adequately qualified. Also, there was an urgency in her, almost as if everything should have been done yesterday.

Perched on a ladder, she painted a wall in her sitting room. Milly, who seemed to have moved in already, lay in a peaceful heap in the doorway. Will was asleep. Harrie laughed quietly.
Vive la difference?
she asked herself. The fact was that a woman, after making love, could probably do a week's washing, tile a floor and varnish five doors. Men slept. Or was it just Will? She giggled again. The making love was probably harder work for a man. Also, women were programmed differently. Like all female animals, they treated sex like a beginning, not as an end in itself. It was about making babies. She shivered.
Not yet, please God
. Was she painting a bloody nursery?

He staggered in from the bedroom, each hand rubbing sleep from an eye.

‘Is there a war on?' she asked.

Will sighed. ‘Don't go all clever on me, Hat. Not at this time of day.'

‘It's ten o'clock and it's Saturday.'