Chapter 4
Jacob
Jacob stood inside the building’s lobby, looking at the letterboxes attached to the wall.
Nine of them, each for a different flat in the retirement complex.
Three were single men; two others were couples, which left four women.
One, Gloria Embeck, had a specially designed hand-drawn label, all perfect swirls and with little roses drawn and inked.
Two others were typed, little pieces of card slipped neatly into the name slot.
The last was scrawled in black marker, barely legible. At some point it had got wet, the ink running, the corners turned up and squeezed back into the slot, from where they now tried to break free.
Nora Shapton.
At least that’s what Jacob guessed it said. Peering into the slot, he saw a jumble of uncollected junk mail squeezed in at the bottom, a couple of letters with handwritten addresses, one that looked like a Christmas card.
Certain he had got the right place, he took the little packet of biscuits out of his bag.
Three homemade shortcake slices from Aunt Marjorie’s Tea Room, individually wrapped, and inside a little gift bag together with a business card.
Jacob had added a personal note to the back: I hope Roy has got over his cold. Stop by any time.
He paused for a moment, then dropped the bag into the letterbox.
Aware he was most likely being filmed on a hidden security camera, he made a show of adjusting the bag, trying to turn the Christmas card over to see if there was a sender’s address.
He only managed to bury it deeper, however, so gave up, pulling his hand free and letting the bag drop down.
Retreating, he headed back to the tea room. Halfway there, he paused at the sight of one of James’s posters up in the window of a local charity shop.
It was just a piece of paper, but there was something in James’s eyes that made him shiver, like it was another of his stepbrother’s illusions, making the poster seem real.
Three shows at Brentwell Public Theatre, on the edge of Sycamore Park, for the second week of December. Other shows in Exeter, Plymouth, and a couple of winter festival appearances over the holiday period, including an outdoor show on Christmas Eve in the park itself.
All of which meant James would most likely be using Brentwell for his base for the next month or so.
That they would bump into each other at some point … was inevitable.
His mother hadn’t heard anything. James was successful enough that he didn’t need to move back home.
Sold-out tours across Europe and America, a residency in Las Vegas—albeit in a two-thousand-capacity venue a long way from the main strip—even a television special, James was far too big for Brentwell now and had no reason to come back.
That he would be around for the best part of a month—and at Christmas, no less—could mean only one thing.
A storm was coming. A storm called Steamblack which would never be done wreaking havoc on the family that had tried to make it welcome.
Jacob couldn’t wait. It would be a long month.
‘Dear, are you sure you put in a full scoop?’ Barbara Bakersfield called, tapping the side of the cup with a long, crimson fingernail.
‘I hate to sound ungrateful dear, but I’m just not getting the full aroma.
A month ago I’d have blamed it on the sinuses, but this is a particularly clear time of the year… .’
Glancing up at Jacob, who stood nearby, calmly chopping radishes into slices, Marjorie narrowed her eyes. ‘Could you please attend to her? I’m too old for prison.’
Jacob grinned. ‘I’ll just leave this here,’ he said, putting down the knife. He rinsed his hands, then headed out to the counter. He picked up some condiments, arranged them on a tray with a floral doily, then headed for the table where Barbara sat with her equally snooty friend.
‘My apologies,’ he said, smiling as he set down a little dish containing cinnamon sugar. ‘It’s natural, unlike that stuff you get in the supermarket, which is more chemical than spice. Therefore, some batches are a little less pungent than others. Add a little more until it’s to your taste.’
‘Oh, thank you dear,’ Barbara said. ‘What a love you are. Sophie here would like an extra demerara cube. These ones in the pot here are losing their shape a little. Perhaps you could replace the table trays from time to time?’
They were replaced and checked daily, but Jacob just smiled while Aunt Marjorie was probably fuming in the kitchen, hacking Barbara’s throat with each slice of lettuce.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Thank you for pointing that out. Is there anything else I can get you?’ Before either woman could answer, he leaned closer, lowering his voice.
‘We just made a new batch of apple and blueberry Danishes. We’ve not put them on sale yet because we were waiting for the right group to test them.
On the house, of course. Would you ladies be interested? ’
He looked from Barbara to Sophie. The two old ladies looked at each other.
Not far past retirement age but appearing museum-worthy, their faces weathered not by the actual weather but by decades of sustained sunbed use topped up by copious amounts of make-up, Jacob found himself thinking of Roald Dahl’s The Witches.
Sophie sighed and creased into a half smile.
Barbara shrugged and shook her head as though the demands of the world were just so heavy sometimes.
‘Dear … if it will help you out, we’ll try. Just don’t mention it to our doctor. Just the thought of the cholesterol alone, and don’t get me started on the sugar.’
‘You’d be doing us a great favour,’ Jacob said.
Barbara reached out and patted the hand he had left resting on the table. Her fingers felt like leather over bones, and he forced himself not to flinch.
‘For you, dear. To help you out.’
‘And the teahouse,’ Sophie added.
‘I really appreciate it,’ Jacob said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
In the kitchen, Marjorie could only chuckle. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said.
Jacob shrugged as he took two apple and blueberry Danishes out of the freezer and surreptitiously slipped them into the oven toaster, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the two old ladies couldn’t see him from their table.
‘They’re set in their ways,’ he said. ‘They don’t mean any harm.’
‘And they always leave a tip.’
‘They do.’ Jacob grinned. ‘Scrawled on a napkin with a fifty pence piece to hold it down. The last one said, “Always carry a pen. You never know when you’ll need to write down an offending number plate”. I’ve carried a pen ever since.’
The bell over the door chimed to announce the arrival of another customer. ‘Busy this afternoon, isn’t it?’ Jacob said. ‘I’ll just take these out and then see the new customers to a table.’
He put the apple and blueberry Danishes onto a plate and then carried them out to Barbara and Sophie.
As he put them down, he turned to see who had come in.
A young woman stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking around as though she’d never been into a café before.
Blonde hair neatly cut into a bob framed a pretty face.
Blue eyes darted around, a nervous smile appearing and disappearing as she shifted from foot to foot.
‘I’ll be right with you,’ Jacob called.
As though she was noticing him for the first time, the girl gave a slight start.
For a moment she looked about to back out of the door onto the street, and Jacob felt a sudden rush of blood to the head.
He hurried to put the plate down, quickly brushed off Sophie’s repeated request for fresh sugar lumps, and headed for the entrance.
Sweat had beaded on his brow. As he reached her, he felt his throat tightening.
She wasn’t just pretty, she carried a glow about her that seemed to draw him in.
He shrugged, trying to shrug it off. No doubt she was married or in a relationship, dating at the very least. All the pretty girls his age were.
‘Just one, is it?’ he said, cheeks flushing with heat, perceiving a sense of innuendo in words he had repeated thousands of times. ‘I mean, are you alone? Here? Today?’
The young woman tilted her head, looking up at him. She was perhaps five-seven, although wearing boots that probably added a couple of inches. He made sure he was staring at her face, not studying her clothing. His fingers trembled, as he scrambled for a menu out of a rack nearby.
‘Are you Aunt Marjorie?’ she joked.
‘Um … what? No. I mean, she’s in the kitchen. I’m Jacob, her niece. Nephew. Christ … Christmas.’
The girl smiled. Out of a perfect smile, she had one canine that tilted slightly outwards. ‘It’s soon, isn’t it? Christmas, I mean.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Jacob said, glad for a simple answer. ‘Always a busy period.’
‘But a wonderful one.’ She looked down at her hands, gloved in purple velvet with grey fluffy trim. ‘I hope this year will be … all right.’
She suddenly looked so sad Jacob could have scooped her up into his arms. Hearing a distant police siren which seemed to warn him off getting too close, he found her sudden vulnerability an opportunity to regroup.
‘I’m Jacob,’ he said, finding his feet, and his words. ‘Marjorie is my aunt. How can I help you today?’
‘Do you do private functions?’ she said. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to hold the woke for my grandmother.’
‘The….?’
‘Sorry, wake. That’s it. She died earlier this week.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’
Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. She reached up to wipe them away, then paused as though not wanting to use her glove.
Jacob reached for a tissue, but only found a napkin.
When he turned back, she practically fell forward into his arms. Leaning against his chest, she pressed her head below his neck.
Jacob breathed in the scent of her hair, wondering if a more knowledgeable man might be able to guess the brand of shampoo from the aroma.
He found his arms slipping around her shoulders. She held him tight, and he let his arms relax around her, feeling like a fiend for enjoying every second of this poor girl’s misery. He rested his head on the top of hers, wishing he could stay like this forever.
From the table nearby, Barbara Bakersfield let out a chuckle. ‘Poor girl must have seen the seasonal menu.’
‘Are you all right?’ came Aunt Marjorie’s voice, and Jacob lifted his head to see his aunt approaching through the tables, a concerned look on her face.
He pulled away from the girl, then handed her the tissue that he was still holding.
Her tears had left little wet marks on his shirt, and he wondered if he could ever bring himself to wash it.
‘This young lady’s just lost her grandmother,’ Jacob said.
The girl smiled, sniffed and wiped away a tear with the napkin. ‘I didn’t lose her,’ she said. ‘I know exactly where she is.’ She glanced at Jacob and flashed another smile, as though to confirm it were a joke. ‘In the … in the morgue.’
Jacob didn’t want to be so bold as to reach for her in front of his aunt’s watchful gaze, so he handed the girl another napkin as she started to cry again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still struggling with this. The funeral is on Monday. I’m looking for somewhere to hold a wake.’
Aunt Marjorie shook her head. ‘We don’t cater for private parties, I’m afraid—’
‘There’s the function room,’ Jacob interrupted. ‘I mean, you’d struggle to get more than twenty-five people in there—’
‘That would be enough, I’m sure,’ the girl said as Aunt Marjorie looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
‘What kind of food could you put on? I’m sure just a few little buffet things would be fine.’
‘Sure, we could arrange that. And drinks. Coffee, tea, that kind of thing.’
‘How much would it cost for say, three hours?’
Under Aunt Marjorie’s watchful gaze, Jacob picked a number out of the air, not too high, not too low.
‘Oh, that would be fine,’ the girl said. ‘Can I pay in advance?’ She opened her purse and pulled out a debit card. Jacob tried to catch a glimpse of the name, but her finger was covering it.
‘We’ll need to take a few more details,’ Aunt Marjorie said, giving Jacob a knowing stare. ‘Can you give me your name, please?’
‘Charlotte,’ the girl said. ‘Charlotte Harding.’
‘Charlotte,’ Jacob said.
‘Write it down before you forget,’ Aunt Marjorie said, nudging Jacob in the ribs.
Reluctantly he pulled his gaze away from the girl, scrabbling for a piece of notepaper.
He wrote her name in his best handwriting, staring at it for a moment before looking up again at Charlotte, standing in front of him with a little smile on her face.
Aunt Marjorie seemed to be enjoying herself. ‘We’ll need a telephone number,’ she said to Jacob, rather than asking Charlotte directly.
‘Uh … do you have a telephone number?’
‘I have a mobile.’
‘Right.’
She read out the numbers and Jacob wrote them down, staring at them like they were made of gold.
‘We’ll make some arrangements, dear, then we’ll be in touch about the final details,’ Aunt Marjorie said. ‘Obviously it’s already Friday, and you want to hold the wake on Monday afternoon, so you can expect a call from us sometime tomorrow.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Charlotte said.
She smiled at Jacob and Marjorie, then backed out of the shop. Through the window panes she lifted a hand in a little wave, then turned and walked up the street. Jacob had an overwhelming urge to follow her, but suddenly found his aunt’s hand waving in front of his eyes.
‘Are you still in there?’
‘What? Oh, sorry.’
‘Wow, that was quite a sight to behold.’ Aunt Marjorie was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Now, once you’ve come down from whatever planet you’re currently on, I’d appreciate it if you could give some thought as to how you’re going to turn our stockroom into a function room by Monday afternoon.’