6. I looked at my watch. It was five to three. I’d aim to be out by four.
I heard the intercom crackle, then Mrs Bell’s voice. ‘I am just coming down. Kindly wait a little moment.’
It was a good five minutes until she appeared.
‘Excuse me.’ She lifted her hand to her chest as she caught her breath. ‘It always takes me some time…’
‘Please don’t worry,’ I said as I held the heavy black door open for her. ‘But couldn’t you have let me in from upstairs?’
‘The automatic catch is broken – somewhat to my regret,’ she added with elegant understatement. ‘Anyway, thank you so much for coming, Miss Swift …’
‘Please, call me Phoebe.’
As I stepped over the threshold Mrs Bell extended a thin hand, the skin on which was translucent with age, the veins standing out like blue wires. As she smiled at me her still-attractive face folded into a myriad creases which here and there had trapped particles of pink powder. Her periwinkle eyes were patched with pale grey.
‘You must wish there was a lift,’ I said as we began to climb the wide stone staircase to the third floor. My voice echoed up the stairwell.
‘A lift would be extremely desirable,’ said Mrs Bell as she gripped the iron handrail. She paused for a moment to hitch up the waist of her caramel wool skirt. ‘But it’s only lately that the stairs have bothered me.’ We stopped again on the first landing so that she could rest. ‘However, I may be going elsewhere quite soon, so I will no longer have to climb this mountain – which would be a distinct advantage,’ she added as we carried on upwards.
‘Will you be going far?’ Mrs Bell didn’t seem to hear so I concluded that in addition to her general frailty she must be hard of hearing.
She pushed on her door. ‘Et voilà …’
The interior of her flat, like its owner, was attractive but faded. There were pretty pictures on the walls, including a luminous little oil painting of a lavender field; there were Aubusson rugs on the parquet floor and fringed silk lampshades hanging from the ceiling of the corridor along which I now followed Mrs Bell. She stopped halfway and stepped down into the kitchen. It was small, square and time-warped, with its red Formica-topped table and its hooded gas stove upon which stood an aluminium kettle and a single white-enamelled saucepan. On the laminate worktop was a tea tray set out with a blue china teapot, two matching cups and saucers, and a little white milk jug over which she’d put a dainty white muslin cover fringed with blue beads.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Phoebe?’
‘No thank you – really.’
‘But I have everything ready, and though I may be French I know how to make a nice cup of English Darjeeling,’ Mrs Bell added wryly.
‘Well …’ I smiled. ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘None at all. I have only to re-heat the water.’ She took a box of matches off the shelf, struck one then held it to the gas ring with a shaky hand. As she did so I noticed that her waistband was secured with a large safety pin. ‘Please, take a seat in the sitting room,’ she said. ‘It’s just there – on the left.’
The room was large, with a big bow window, and was papered in a light green slubbed silk which was curling at the seams in places. A small gas fire was alight despite the warmth of the day. On the mantelshelf above it a silver carriage clock was flanked by a pair of snooty-looking Staffordshire spaniels.
As I heard the kettle begin to whistle I went over to the window and looked down on to the communal garden. As a child I’d been unable to appreciate its size. The lawn swept the entire length of the crescent, like a river of grass, and was fringed by a screen of magnificent trees. There was a huge cedar that cascaded to the ground in tiers, like a green crinoline: there were two or three enormous oaks. There were three copper beeches and a sweet chestnut in the throes of a half-hearted second flowering. To the right, two young girls were running through the skirts of a weeping willow, shrieking and laughing. I stood there for a few moments, watching them …
‘Here we are …’ I heard Mrs Bell say. I went to help her with the tray.
‘No – thank you,’ she said, almost fiercely, as I tried to take it from her. ‘I may be somewhat antique, but I can still manage quite well. Now, how do you take your tea?’ I told her. ‘Black with no sugar?’ She picked up the silver tea strainer. ‘That’s easy then …’
She handed me my tea then lowered herself on to a little brocade chair by the fire while I sat on the sofa opposite her.
‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Bell?’
‘Long enough.’ She sighed. ‘Eighteen years.’
‘So are you hoping to move to ground-floor accommodation?’ It had crossed my mind that she might be moving to one of the sheltered housing flats just down the road.
‘I’m not sure where I’m going,’ she replied after a moment. ‘I will have a clearer idea next week. But whatever happens, I am … how can I put it …?’
‘Downsizing?’ I suggested after a moment.
‘Downsizing?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes.’ There was an odd little silence, which I filled by telling Mrs Bell about my piano lessons, though I decided not to mention the ruler.
‘And were you a good pianist?’
I shook my head. ‘I only got up to Grade 3. I didn’t practise enough, and then after Mr Long died I didn’t want to continue with it. My mother wanted me to, but I guess I wasn’t that interested …’ From outside came the silvery laughter of the two girls. ‘Unlike my best friend Emma,’ I heard myself say. ‘She was brilliant at the piano.’ I picked up my teaspoon. ‘She got Grade 8 when she was only fourteen – with Distinction. It was announced in school at assembly.’
‘Really?’
I began stirring my tea. ‘The headmistress asked Emma to come up on stage and play something, so she played this lovely piece from Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood. It was called “Träumerei” – Dreaming …’
‘What a gifted girl,’ said Mrs Bell with a faintly puzzled expression. ‘And are you still friends with this… paragon?’ she added wryly.
‘No.’ I noticed a solitary tea leaf at the bottom of the cup. ‘She’s dead. She died earlier this year, on the fifteenth of February, at about ten to four in the morning. At least, that’s when they think it happened, although they couldn’t be sure; but I suppose they have to put something down, don’t they …’
‘How terrible,’ Mrs Bell murmured after a moment. ‘What age was she?’
‘Thirty-three.’ I continued to stir my tea, gazing into its topaz depths. ‘She would have been thirty-four today.’ The spoon gently chinked against the cup. I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘Emma was very talented in other ways, too. She was a wonderful tennis player – although …’ I felt myself smile. ‘She had this peculiar serve. She looked as though she was tossing pancakes. It worked, mind you – they were un-returnable.’
‘Really
