Chapter 12
Lucy
My fridge is overflowing with tiny cakes I’ve baked for my neighbors. It’s a way of breaking the ice. I’ll follow by inviting them to a drinks party.
First stop, the apartment beneath me. An older lady with tight, dyed brunette curls and gold-rimmed glasses opens the door wide, all smiles.
“Yes?”
“I’m Lucy Beston, your new neighbor,” I say as I hold out the Saran wrapped paper plate, laden with finger foods.
“Oh. How marvelous,” she says. “I love it when new residents introduce themselves. So civilized, don’t you think? I’m Mrs B. Would you like to come in for a few moments? Sorry the place is a mess.”
It’s anything but messy, the orange kitchen benches and lime green tiles in perfect condition – clean and bright. A stack of lime-green saucepans graces the shelf beside the stove, along with a purple fondue set.
“I love your kitchen,” I say.
“Mr B and I remodelled it in 1973 when we moved in,” she said. “We looked after it, and now it’s back in fashion. Coffee?”
“Thank you.”
She places my plate on a shiny purple tray and takes her mission brown percolator off the stove. Even her coffee cups are 1970s, small and squat, and decorated in geometric brown and orange triangles.
“These are so retro, Mrs B. Amazing.”
“This set was a wedding gift from Mr B’s parents. They’re still perfectly serviceable. I wash and wipe by hand, very carefully. I listen to the radio as I do it. My things are special, so I take extra care. They remind me of Lenny. And we never had children, so there’s that.”
There’s a little silence as she loads the matching milk and sugar bowl onto the tray and carries it into her front room. The wallpaper, carpet and furniture match the coffee cups, all triangles and arches in brown and yellow and orange – alarmingly bright.
“So you’ve been in Brighton Court all this time?”
“I love it here,” she says. “It’s good and solid. Most of my friends have moved now, or died, it’s true, but I’m happy here. Now tell me about you, Lucy Beston.”
“Oh. I only moved in a week or two ago, but I can see exactly why you love it. It’s such a lovely area, so many good local shops, the bus service, the little bit of yard, though truly, it needs some work.”
“Good luck with that. Professor No stops everything.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ignatius Raynor. Apartment One. I shouldn’t be so rude, but really, if you think my apartment is old fashioned, you should see his.”
“Well, I don’t think your place is old fashioned. As you say, all these colors are the latest again. As for Apartment One, I’m actually on my way down there next.”
“If he opens the door to you.”
“What’s his story?”
“He must be about ninety nine by now, which is admirable, but he keeps to himself. The only time any of us hear from him is when he vetoes another thing the rest of us want.”
“Like what?”
“Better lighting in the halls, new carpet, an intercom at the front door – it’s downright dangerous leaving the place open to anyone. But you name it, he says ‘no.’”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, you don’t want to cross Professor No.
He has a number of degrees, in law and engineering, so he says, and he can recite every city ordinance ever invented.
Plenty of brains but no common sense. Nothing wrong with his mind, even if his hearing and eyesight aren’t the best. I shouldn’t be negative, but Professor No is as stubborn and mean as they come. ”
“I wasn’t even sure anyone lived down there. The blinds are always drawn.”
“He lives down there alright. Gets his groceries delivered once a month. Goes to show you can live forever on a box of eggs and onions and oranges and flour and rice and a side of beef.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure I want to discuss another neighbor in so much detail, especially as he’s not here to defend himself, so I steer the conversation back to the building.
“Well, I miss my old garden and am itching to trim back the vines and see what else is there. He’d actually get more winter sunlight. Surely he wouldn’t object.”
“You go right on ahead and suggest it, Lucy, and see what happens. I don’t bother with him anymore. Now, tell me about you. You seem familiar. If you don’t mind my asking, are you on your own? I haven’t noticed a Mr Beston, you see. You can tell me to mind my own business.”
“Oh. I am on my own now, yes.” Something makes me want to hold back the whole of my “story” as Mrs B calls it. Mrs B for Mrs Busybody, perhaps, though she seems kindly enough. Mrs B for Mrs Broadcast.
“Fresh start?” She fishes.
“Exactly,” I say, and beam back at her.
“Mmm.”
I smile into my silence and she sits and sips her coffee, foiled but still friendly.
“Well, these little cakes are delectable, Lucy. I can see you must be an excellent entertainer.”
“So glad you like them, Mrs B. I can tell we’ll get along fine. Are you happy with your lamps? I could make you a side lamp to match your decor.”
“Really?” She looks up at the amber light fitting hanging from the center of the ceiling. “A little orange side lamp?”
“I collect retro materials. I have a few that would match your wallpaper. I could show you some samples.”
“Well, that would be very kind.”
“Tomorrow? Or this afternoon?”
“I’m playing bridge this afternoon. But tomorrow – great. And if you have any questions about Brighton Court or the neighborhood, just ask. You’ve met Dr Dirk O’Connell, in the penthouse? A real doctor. Imagine.”
I nod and hope my cheeks don’t flush. Mrs B doesn’t need to know the depth of my interest in our esteemed neighbor.
If she notices, she doesn’t quiz me on it, mercifully. She just goes on to give me a rundown on the other residents – a teacher with a rich lawyer boyfriend, a nursing student, a songwriter who might or might not smoke pot or maybe it’s incense, and someone called Felicity she knows nothing about.
Good for Felicity, I think, as I take my leave. It’s lovely to have an ally, but I might watch what I say. I skip Davey’s door – he’s always out in the mornings, and besides, Mrs B told me he’s a chef. He’ll hardly need more food.
I rap on a few other doors, but nobody answers. It’s a working day. They’re probably out.
Two more flights down and I’m below the level of the road. I open the door to the garden and peer out, but the growth is so thick on this side it’s hard to see beyond it. Besides, I want to give my final mini cupcakes to Professor No.
Back inside, the number One on the dark-panelled door hasn’t seen polish in fifty years.
It blends into the dark wood panelling, such an invitation to a shabby chic practitioner like myself.
Sinister. Could Mrs B be right about our neighbor?
I’ve done the make-up of thousands of strangers, and there weren’t very many I couldn’t charm.
I hold out my remaining plate and rap at the door.
I know he’s in there. There’s a thunk and clunk, thunk and clunk, as if he has a limp and a cane. I can practically hear him breathing as he peers out the tiny glass hole.
I smile and hold out the plate.
“Professor Raynor?” I say, loudly. “I’m Lucy Beston, new at Number Forty One. Just saying hello with some little cakes.”
There’s more breathing, but no movement. After about a minute, I place the plate on the floor outside the door.
“I’ll leave them here for you. Bye.” With a smile and a wave, I step away and find the door into the garden again.
It’s a beautiful day. I’m so grateful to Donna for sharing her job with me. Working casually allows for so much flexibility. She’s given me a couple of quiet weeks to find my feet at my own place, before I duck all over the city again to pack and unpack the lives of others.
There’s sunshine up there somewhere, beyond the thicket of ivy and overgrown bushes.
It’s rare to have so many mature trees so close to downtown – a couple of oaks and three pines.
I push my way through to a side fence and then along the back fence past lilac and dogwood.
I peer through the winter branches. I’m sure I see roses, tall and unpruned, back towards Brighton Court, where the undergrowth thins.
This would be a sun trap if I could just trim some of it back.
I bark my shin on a block of concrete. It’s a structure, a rounded arch of seating around a circular table. Yes. There’s a rose garden behind what might have been a vegetable patch, the unpruned stems tangling way above my head.
Such a shame it’s all a mess. I am itching to get into it, to prune back the thicket of Virginia creeper and ivy that filters out so much sunshine, but I left my gloves and clippers behind. Mistake. The Ex and the Minx won’t have a clue what to do with them.
I’m just contemplating making another raid on the forever home when the twitch of a faded, drawn curtain catches my eye.
It whisks back, exposing a bald and frowning Professor Raynor, his fist high, and shaking.
I plant a smile firmly on my face and wave back, then turn away to continue exploring.
He wrenches open the window.
“Stop,” he says. “You can’t go there.”
“Pretty sure this is common property. You’re not the only resident, Professor Raynor. We all want to enjoy this space.”
“‘No resident shall garden without the permission of other residents,’” he recites, as if it’s one of the ten commandments.
“So that’s how this mess got here,” I say. “You’d actually have more winter sun if I pruned back these vines. Nobody could object. I won’t tell, if you don’t.” I give him my biggest wink.
He humphs, slams the window closed, whisks the curtain closed and disappears, so I continue.
A few minutes later, the back door creaks open. The bent old man emerges, scowling.
“You can’t do that,” he says.
“Arrest me,” I say. We stare at each other until I throw back my head and laugh, and I catch him hiding a smile.
“Why don’t you want this space improved?” I say. “Look, there’s a beautiful old table with benches. We could put a pizza oven over there. Give me a few moments and we can sit and chat.”
I push back some branches, and use one foot to sweep off decades worth of twigs and leaves to expose the circular garden setting. The land falls away towards the other side fence. There’s definitely space for some vegetables, if I can only prune back the chaos.
“This could be lovely,” I say. “Here. You can sit on my apron.” I haul it off and lay it on the bench.
He’s silent. He inches forwards with his stick. I go to help him and he almost hits me with it.
At last he takes a seat and glares. He is pale and trembling – maybe with rage. Or Parkinson’s.
“You can see what used to be here. It’s lovely. We could have picnics down here. Children can kick a ball without losing it. And you could come out any time and enjoy the sunshine and some company.”
“Don’t patronize me, young lady. I know what used to be here.”
“‘Young lady.’ You flatter me, Mr Raynor.” I’d love to ask him how he became so grumpy, but maybe it’s just gravity pulling down the edges of his mouth.
“I think that’s a magnolia, and are they camellias way back there along the other fence?”
He nods.
“Mrs B tells me you’ve lived here all your life. She says you know everything.”
He harrumphs.
“How about that pizza oven?” I say. “They’re great fun.”
He shakes his head and I smile, not scared of an academic. I did the make-up for plenty of them when I worked for the network; shy experts commenting on this and that, fronting up for their five minutes of fame. Under all that importance, they’re as vain as the rest of us.
“I suppose you know your nickname.”
He narrows his eyes.
“We could always prove Mrs B wrong,” I say companionably, and let my comment hover in the patches of sunlight that dance and shift as a faint breeze moves through the garden.