The Widow (2 page)

She loves it. Writes it all down in a funny scrawl and looks up. I'm trying not to laugh. I feel the hysteria rising but it comes out like a sob and she reaches her hand over to touch my arm.

‘Don't be upset,' she says. ‘It's all over now.'

And it is. No more police, no more Glen. No more of his nonsense.

I can't quite remember when I started calling it that. It had begun long before I could name it. I was too busy making our marriage perfect, beginning with the wedding at Charlton House.

My mum and dad thought I was too young at nineteen but we persuaded them. Well, Glen did, really. He was so determined, so devoted to me, and in the end Dad said ‘Yes' and we celebrated with a bottle of Lambrusco.

They paid a fortune for the wedding because I was their only one and I spent my whole time looking at pictures in bridal magazines with Mum and dreaming of my big day. My big day. How I clung to that and filled my life with it. Glen never interfered.

‘That's your department,' he'd say and laugh.

He made it sound like he had a department, too. I thought it was probably his job; he was the main breadwinner, he said. ‘I know it sounds old-fashioned, Jeanie, but I want to look after you. You're still very young and we've got everything in front of us.'

He always had big ideas and they sounded so exciting when he talked about them. He was going to be the manager of the branch, then leave to start his own business. Be his own boss and make lots of money. I could see him in a posh suit with a secretary and a big car. And me, I was going to be there for him. ‘Never change, Jeanie. I love you just the way you are,' he'd say.

So we bought Number 12 and moved in after the wedding. We're still here all these years later.

The house had a front garden, but we gravelled over ‘to save on cutting the grass,' Glen said. I quite liked the grass, but Glen liked things neat. It was hard at the beginning, when we first moved in together, because I was always a bit untidy. Mum was forever finding dirty plates and odd socks in the fluff under my bed at home. Glen would've died if he'd looked.

I can see him now, clenching his teeth and his eyes going all narrow, when he caught me brushing crumbs off the table on to the floor with my hand after we had tea one night, early on. I didn't even know I was doing it – must've have done it a hundred times without thinking, but I never did it again. He was good for me in that way, taught me how to do things right so the house was nice. He liked it nice.

In the early days, Glen told me all about his job in the bank – the responsibilities he had, how the juniors relied on him, the jokes the staff played on each other, the boss he couldn't stand – ‘Thinks he's better than everyone, Jeanie,' – and the people he worked with. Joy and Liz in the back office; Scott, one of the counter staff, who had terrible skin and blushed about everything; May, the trainee who kept making mistakes. I loved listening to him, loved hearing about his world.

I suppose I did tell him about my work, but we seemed to drift back to the bank quite quickly.

‘Hairdressing isn't the most exciting job,' he'd say, ‘but you do it very well, Jeanie. I'm very proud of you.'

He was trying to make me feel better about myself, he told me. And he did. It felt so safe being loved by Glen.

Kate Waters is looking at me, doing that thing with her head again. She's good, I'll give her that. I've never spoken to a journalist before, apart from telling them to go away, never mind let one in the house. They've been coming to the door for years, on and off, and no one has got inside until today. Glen saw to that.

But he's not here now. And Kate Waters seems different. She's told me she feels ‘a real connection' with me. Says she feels like we've known each other for ages. And I know what she means.

‘His death must've come as a terrible shock,' she says, giving my arm another squeeze. I nod dumbly.

I can't tell her how I started lying awake, wishing Glen was dead. Well, not dead exactly. I didn't want him to be in any pain or suffer or anything, I just wanted him not to be there any more. I would fantasize about the moment when I'd get the call from a police officer.

‘Mrs Taylor,' the deep voice would say, ‘I'm so sorry, but I've got bad news.' The anticipation of the next bit almost used to make me giggle. ‘Mrs Taylor, I'm afraid your husband has been killed in an accident.'

I then saw myself – really saw myself – sobbing and picking up the phone to ring his mum and tell her. ‘Mary,' I'd say, ‘I'm so sorry, I've got some bad news. It's Glen. He's dead.'

I can hear the shock in her gasp. I can feel her grief. I can feel the sympathy of friends at my loss, gathering my family around me. Then the secret thrill.

Me, the grieving widow. Don't make me laugh.

Of course, when it actually happened it didn't feel nearly as real. For a moment, his mum sounded almost as relieved as me that it was all over, then she put the phone down, weeping for her boy. And there were no friends to tell and just a handful of family to gather around me.

Kate Waters chirps up about needing the loo and making another cup of tea and I let her get on with it, giving her my mug and showing her the downstairs cloakroom. When she's gone, I look around the room quickly, making sure there's nothing of Glen's out. No souvenirs for her to steal. Glen warned me. He told me all the stories about the press. I hear the toilet flush and she eventually reappears with a tray and starts up again about what a remarkable woman I must be, so loyal.

I keep looking at the wedding picture on the wall above the gas fire. We look so young we could've been dressing up in our parents' clothes. Kate Waters sees me looking and takes the photo off the wall.

She perches on the arm of my chair and we look at it together. September the sixth, 1989. The day we tied the knot. I don't know why but I start to cry – my first real tears since Glen died – and Kate Waters puts an arm round me.

K
ATE
W
ATERS SHIFTED IN
her chair. She shouldn't have had that cup of coffee earlier– what with that and the tea, her bladder was sending distress signals and she might have to leave Jean Taylor alone with her thoughts. Not a good idea at this stage of the game, especially as Jean had gone a bit quiet, sipping her tea and gazing into the distance. Kate was desperate not to damage the rapport she was building with her. They were at a very delicate stage. Lose eye contact and the whole mood could change.

Her husband Steve had once compared her job to stalking an animal. He'd had a glass too many of Rioja and was showing off at a dinner party.

‘She gets closer and closer, feeding them little bits of kindness and humour, a hint of money to come, their chance to give their side of the story, until they are eating out of the palm of her hand. It's a real art,' he'd told the guests round their dining-room table.

They were his colleagues from the Oncology department and Kate had sat there, wearing her professional smile and murmuring, ‘Come on, darling, you know me better than that,' as the guests laughed nervously and sipped their wine. She'd been furious during the washing up, sloshing suds over the floor as she threw pans into the sink, but Steve had put his arms around her and kissed her into a reconciliation.

‘You know how much I admire you, Kate,' he'd said. ‘You're brilliant at what you do.'

She'd kissed him back, but he was right. It was sometimes a game or a flirtatious dance, to make an instant connection with a suspicious – even hostile – stranger. She loved it. Loved the adrenalin rush of getting to the doorstep first, ahead of the pack, ringing the bell and hearing the sounds of life inside the house, seeing the light change in the frosted glass as the person approached and then, as the door opened, going into full performance mode.

Reporters had different techniques on the doorstep; one friend she'd trained with called it his ‘last puppy in the basket' look to get sympathy, another always blamed her news editor for making her knock on the door again, and one had once stuffed a pillow up her jumper to pretend she was pregnant and asked to use the loo to get in.

Not Kate's style. She had her own rules: always smile, never stand too close to the door, don't start with an apology, and try to distract from the fact that you're after a story. She'd used the bottle-of-milk thing before, but milkmen were a dying breed. She was very pleased with herself for getting through this door with such apparent ease.

In truth, she hadn't wanted to come in the first place. She needed to get to the office and finish her expenses form before her credit-card bill came through and cleaned out her bank account. But her news editor was having none of it.

‘Go and knock on the widow's door – it's on your way in,' Terry Deacon shouted down the phone above the radio news headlines blaring out beside him. ‘Never know. Today might be your lucky day.'

Kate had sighed. She knew immediately who Terry meant. There was only one widow everyone wanted to interview that week, but she also knew it was a well-trodden path. Three of her colleagues at the
Post
had already tried – and she was sure she must be the last reporter in the country to knock on this particular door.

Almost.

As she reached the turning into Jean Taylor's road, she automatically checked for other press and immediately spotted the man from
The Times
, standing by a car. Boring tie, elbow patches and a side parting. Classic. She edged her car forward as the traffic crawled along the main road, but kept one eye on the enemy. She'd have to go round the block again and hope he'd have left by the time she got back.

‘Bloody hell,' she muttered, signalling left and swinging down a side street to park up.

Fifteen minutes and a flick through the dailies later, Kate put her seatbelt back on and restarted the car. Her phone rang and she dug deep into her bag to find it. Fishing it out, she saw Bob Sparkes' name on the display and turned off the engine again.

‘Hello, Bob, how are you? What's happening?'

Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes wanted something; that was obvious. He wasn't the sort of bloke to ring for a chat and she bet herself the call would last less than sixty seconds.

‘Hi Kate. Good, thanks. Quite busy – you know what it's like. Got a couple of cases on the go, but nothing interesting. Look, Kate, just wondered if you were still working on the Glen Taylor case.'

‘Christ, Bob, have you got me on CCTV or something? I'm just about to go and knock on Jean Taylor's door.'

Sparkes laughed. ‘Don't worry, you're not on the surveillance list as far as I know.'

‘Anything I should know before I see her?' Kate asked. ‘Anything new since Glen Taylor died?'

‘No, not really,' She could hear the disappointment in his voice. ‘Wondered if you'd heard anything. Anyway, I'd appreciate a heads-up if Jean says anything.'

‘I'll give you a call afterwards,' she said. ‘But she'll probably slam the door in my face. That's what she's done to all the other reporters.'

‘OK, speak later.'

End of. She looked at the phone and smiled. Forty-one seconds. A new record. She must tease him about it next time she saw him.

Five minutes later she'd cruised down Jean Taylor's newly media-free street and walked up the path.

Now, she needed the story.

Oh for God's sake, how can I concentrate? she thought, digging her nails into her hand to distract herself. No – no good.

‘Sorry, Jean, but would it be all right to use your loo?' she said now, smiling apologetically. ‘Tea goes straight through you, doesn't it? I'll make us another if you like.'

Jean nodded and rose from her seat to guide the way. ‘It's through here,' she said, standing aside so Kate could edge past into the peachy haven of the downstairs loo.

Washing her hands with the perfumed guest soap, Kate glanced up and caught her expression in the mirror. She looked a bit tired, she thought, smoothing her unruly hair and tapping the bags under her eyes with her fingertips as instructed by the girl who did her occasional facials.

In the kitchen on her own, she idly read the notes and magnets on the fridge while she waited for the kettle to boil. Shopping lists and holiday souvenirs; nothing much for her here. A photo of the Taylors taken in a beach restaurant showed the couple smiling and raising their glasses to the camera. Glen Taylor, all tousled dark hair and holiday smile, and Jean, dark blonde hair done for the occasion and tucked neatly behind her ears, going-out make-up slightly smudged by the heat, and that sideways glance at her husband.

Adoring or in awe? Kate wondered.

The last couple of years had clearly taken their toll on the woman in the photo. Jean was sitting waiting for her in cargo pants, baggy T-shirt and cardigan, her hair escaping from a stubby ponytail. Steve was always teasing her about how she noticed the little things, but it was part of the job. ‘I'm a trained observer,' she'd joked and delighted in pointing out tiny, telling details. She'd immediately spotted Jean's rough and cracked hands – hairdresser's hands, she'd thought to herself – and the skin around the nails, frayed from nervous chewing.

The lines around the widow's eyes told their own story.

Kate took her phone out and photographed the holiday snap. She noted that everything in the kitchen was immaculate – nothing like her own, where her teenage sons would, no doubt, have left a trail of detritus from their abandoned breakfast – stained coffee mugs, souring milk, half-eaten toast, a lidless jar of jam with a knife sticking out of it. And the obligatory filthy football kit festering on the floor.

The kettle – and thoughts of home – clicked off and she made the tea and carried the mugs through on a tray.