The Peacock Emporium(92)
It was as if, Suzanna thought, her own grief had been mirrored in that of the town’s. The weather had reverted to blue skies and balmy temperatures, the fair had made its biannual visit to the common, and yet there was no joy in Dere Hampton, no gaiety in the bustle of the market square. A small town felt ripples that might go unnoticed in the City, like a tidal wave. And Jessie, it seemed, had been known by too many people for the shock of her death to pass swiftly. The local newspaper made the story its front-page news, careful to say only that a twenty-eight-year-old local man was being questioned by police. But everyone knew: those who knew her and those who claimed to know her speculated on a relationship that had now become common property. Emma Carter’s headmaster had twice appealed for local reporters to leave the premises. Suzanna had scanned the reports, and observed in a detached way that her father would be pleased they had only referred to her as Peacock.
In that first week Suzanna had come to the shop twice, once in the company of the detective sergeant, who wanted to talk to her about security arrangements, and once with Neil, who had remarked repeatedly that it was “unbelievable. Just unbelievable.” He had tried at one point to talk to her about the financial implications for the shop and she had screamed obscenities at him until he left the room, his hand like a shield over his head. She knew her reaction had been about guilt. Which particular kind, she could not tell. Now she had been given the keys and permission to clear up, even to start trading again. But standing in the steel-framed doorway, flanked by her boarded-up windows and holding the sign that Neil had made for her, which declared her “open for business,” she wasn’t sure where to begin. It was as if this were a job for Jessie, as if the only possible way to approach it was with her, giggling over trivialities as they wielded brooms and dustpans together.
Suzanna bent to pick up her damaged sign, which someone had propped neatly against the door. She held it for a moment. The Peacock Emporium was her shop. And now only hers alone. The sheer impossibility of the task ahead overwhelmed her and her face crumpled.
Behind her, someone coughed.
It was Arturro, his body blocking out the light. “I thought you might want some help,” he said. He was holding a toolbox in one hand, and tucked under his arm was a basket, containing what looked like sandwiches and several bottles of cold drinks. She felt herself collapse a little, imagined briefly what it would be like to let herself be enveloped by his huge, warm arms, to sob against his apron, still infused with the aroma of cheese and coffee from his shop. She needed, just for a moment, the comfort of that solidity. “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.
“We have to,” he said. “People are going to need somewhere to come.”
She had stepped in through the door then, not taking in what he had said. Within a couple of hours, she understood. Despite its unwelcoming exterior, despite the obstacles of floral arrangements and police cones outside, the shop had become a focal point for those who had known Jessie, those who wanted to share their feelings at her being gone. They came for coffee, to cry tears at the remnants of the display she had made, to leave gifts for her family and, in a few less altruistic cases, simply to gawp.
Suzanna had no choice but to let them.
Arturro had positioned himself behind the counter, and took charge of making the coffee, apparently trying to avoid direct conversation, as Suzanna cleared the floor and tried to organize places to sit. On the couple of occasions that people had spoken to him she had watched him become progressively more uncomfortable, blinking hard and busying himself with the coffee machine. Suzanna, with glazed eyes and the peculiar sensation of operating from the inside of a bubble, cleaned up, answered queries, commiserated, collected the pastel cards and stuffed animals destined for Emma, and allowed people who were seemingly blind to the chaotic nature of their surroundings to fulfill an unstoppable need to talk, with choked voices, about the general niceness, blamelessness of Jessie, and in fierce, accusatory whispers about Jason. They talked in speculative tones about Alejandro: they had heard how he had tried for twenty minutes to save her, about how he had been found, covered in her blood, wedged half under the van himself as he tried uselessly to revive her. Those who had lived nearby talked of how with fists flailing and shouting in Spanish, he had been pulled away from the half-stunned Jason, as he realized his efforts had been in vain. They sat, and wept, and talked—in the way they once had to Jessie.
By the end of the day Suzanna was exhausted. She was slumped on a stool as Arturro moved around her, tidying chairs, nailing the last of the shelves into place. “You should close now,” he said, slipping his hammer into his toolbox. “You’ve done enough. You know there will be more tomorrow.”
Through the open doorway the flowers glinted in the afternoon sunlight, some sweating under the plastic. She wondered whether she should get them out to allow them to breathe. It felt somehow wrong to leave them there.
“You want me to come again?”
There was something in his voice . . . Suzanna’s mind cleared briefly and she turned to him, her face agonized. “Oh, God, Arturro, I’ve got something awful to tell you.”
He was wiping his hands on a dishcloth. What could be more awful? his expression said.
“Jess—Jess and I,” she corrected herself, “we were going to tell you . . . but . . .” She wished she could be anywhere but there. “The chocolates, the ones that Liliane got so upset about. The ones you sacked the boys over. They were from us. Jessie and I sent them to Liliane so that she would think they were from you. We wanted to get you together, you see. Jess—she thought—she said you were meant for each other . . .”