A Parcel for Anna Browne Read online

  Anna dismissed Tish as a possible sender. If she had decided to send Anna gifts, she would have sent them to Anna’s home address anyway, and as Tish Gornick was fond of attention, she was most unlikely to want her generosity to go unaccredited.

  Her younger brother Ruari could have sent the parcel, Anna supposed. But why wouldn’t he send it to her home? Anyway, he was wrapped up in his own life, finally on an even keel back in Cornwall, after many years chasing surf around the world – and as the birthday cards he sent her were always three weeks late, this level of spontaneity was out of character for him.

  Two other unlikely candidates remained: Isadora Smedley, Anna’s elderly neighbour; and Jonah Rawdon, who was the closest person Anna had to a best friend in the city. Mrs Smedley was known for her generosity, but didn’t know where Anna worked, so Anna decided she could be ruled out immediately.

  Could it be Jonah? Unlike Tish or Isadora, he knew what Anna did for a living and had occasionally met her after work near the Daily Messenger’s building. He was naturally a little shy and was definitely capable of concealing secrets, but why would he have chosen to send Anna a gift now, several years into their friendship? While there was undoubtedly a connection between them, and Anna had even on occasion found them flirting together, she couldn’t quite picture Jonah choosing this method to declare a long-held regard for her. The no-nonsense Yorkshireman was far more likely to come right out with a confession in the middle of a field somewhere, during one of their weekend trips out to the countryside, than go to all the trouble of sending her secret gifts.

  But if not him, who else could it be? Certainly not Anna’s mother, stuck like a stubborn stick in Tamar Estuary mud, who still hadn’t forgiven her for ‘abandoning your family and running away to that city . . .’ Cornish people should remain Cornish, she maintained; Anna’s decision to move out of blessed Kernow was tantamount to treason. Consequently Ms Senara Browne hadn’t sent Anna a birthday card in six years; a parcel with no specified reason for sending it was therefore out of the question. And as her father was long gone, before Anna was old enough to notice, it was highly unlikely to be from him, either.

  ‘Hey, Anna, what you got there?’

  Anna looked up to see the smiling face of Ted Blaskiewicz. Most days the chief security officer appeared around this time to help himself to coffee from the percolator behind reception and to chew the cud. There was nothing in the Daily Messenger’s building that Ted didn’t know: he took security to a new heights of conscientiousness.

  ‘Sanjay from Obits has split from his wife,’ he grinned, this gem of gossip a prized possession. ‘I told you that was going to happen.’

  ‘I think it’s sad,’ Anna replied, never one to revel in another’s misfortune. ‘Poor Sanjay.’

  ‘Poor Sanjay’s ex,’ Ted retorted. ‘He’s been doing overtime with Claire Connors from Features, if you know what I mean. Growing his personal column inches, in more ways than one.’

  ‘Ted!’

  He shrugged like a Mafia don after a massacre. ‘It’s just an observation. So,’ he eyed the unopened parcel in Anna’s hands, ‘what’s in the box, Anna Browne?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Ain’t you going to look?’

  ‘No.’

  Ted was wounded. ‘Whyever not? It could be a bomb.’

  Anna shot him a look. ‘Well, in that case tell the BBC I was a hero, for opening it at home to save the Messenger staff.’

  ‘You are no fun, woman.’

  Anna grinned. ‘I just want to enjoy having a parcel. I don’t get parcels. Ever.’

  Even for a hardened gossipmonger, Ted accepted this, being rather fond of the occasional parcel that arrived at reception addressed to him, quickly snaffled away to his office. It was common knowledge amongst his colleagues that these deliveries were box sets of prized American crime series, purchased months before they were due to be screened in the UK. ‘Okay. But I’ll be here tomorrow demanding to know what it was.’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  Anna watched Ted’s hulking frame slope off and smiled to herself. No doubt he would blab the news to the first person he met. Ted always did. But how unusual for Anna to be the topic of gossip – little, quiet Anna Browne on reception, who nobody ever noticed! The thought of it made her smile all afternoon.

  Four

  Friday early evening in Spill the Beans coffee shop was bustling: tired city workers hunched over lattes and macchiatos as if their lives depended upon them. The beaten-up sofas and armchairs were all occupied when Anna arrived, but she spotted a red-faced Tish Gornick waving from a table by the counter.

  ‘It’s bat-crazy in here,’ she said, when Anna sat down. ‘I had to fight three people for this table. I’ll bruise tomorrow, you’ll see.’

  ‘You got a great one,’ Anna said, amused by the drama her friend could inject into the most mundane of events. ‘Those bruises are well earned.’

  Tish nodded, her mind elsewhere. ‘You know, my therapist tells me confrontation is good for my soul. I’m not so sure. Feel my heart – I mean it, Anna, feel my heart . . .’ She grabbed Anna’s hand and held it against her chest, all consideration for personal space dismissed in one movement. ‘You see? I had to sit down for five minutes just to get it to this rate, and it’s still way too fast.’

  She relinquished her grip and Anna pulled her hand back, resting it safely on her lap underneath the table.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll survive,’ Anna smiled. ‘Shall I get coffees for us?’

  ‘Would you? I’m gonna need a while to compose myself.’

  Leaving Tish recovering from her ordeal, Anna joined the back of the long queue that stretched from the counter almost to the door. Normally this wait was frustrating, her feet aching from the long day, and the customers ahead of her maddeningly indecisive about their orders. But this evening Anna didn’t mind.

  She thought of the parcel, waiting still unopened in her apartment – a parcel sent especially for her. The thought of it lifted her, as if she was stepping on pockets of air beneath her feet. Was it possible that something as small as an unexpected parcel with her name on it could so dramatically alter how she felt? Maybe it was.

  An unkind onlooker might have suggested that the impact of this singular small happening in Anna Browne’s life was a sad indictment on the rest of it. A tiny part of Anna suspected it, too. But for now all that mattered was that somebody had sent her a gift – and it was waiting for her upstairs.

  ‘What’s with you?’ Tish frowned when Anna returned to their table. ‘I watched you in the line: you were smiling.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with smiling,’ Anna replied, surprised that her friend had even noticed in the midst of her heart palpitations. ‘Maybe I’m happy.’

  ‘Happy? When you’re as single as I am? Damn, girl, whatever you’re on, I need some. What happened to you today? Have you got a date tonight?’

  Anna stirred clouds of pristine milk-froth into her coffee. ‘No, I don’t have a date.’

  ‘What happened to that guy with the cheap roses?’

  ‘Which guy?’

  Tish folded her arms. ‘Last Thursday. I’d just arrived on your floor to accompany Mrs Smedley to the supermarket and I saw him. He knocked on your door with a bunch of roses he’d clearly picked up at a gas station.’

  Anna giggled. ‘Gary? He wasn’t my date. He’s my dentist. And the roses were from Waitrose, actually. They were lovely.’

  Tish stared. ‘Since when did dentists start making house-calls with cheap roses? He had his best suit on.’

  ‘He came straight from a meeting at the bank. I helped him to work out a business plan a while ago; when the bank approved his loan, he brought me flowers.’ What had started as a chance remark by Gary about his expansion plans for the dental surgery had led Anna to offer her help. She had studied Business Management at university and had recently helped her brother Ruari make a plan for his surf school in Perranporth, so the method
was fresh in her mind. To her surprise, she had enjoyed the experience – and her dentist had been over the moon. It amused her that Tish had been spying on her. She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you thought I was going out with Gary.’

  ‘When I see a man in his best suit with cheap flowers knocking on your door, what else am I going to think?’ Tish sipped her coffee. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question. What’s made you happy?’

  ‘I had a good day today, that’s all.’

  ‘In your job?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes people surprise you. Today, that happened.’

  ‘Make the most of it,’ Tish snorted. ‘You don’t get too much of that in this city.’

  By the time Anna closed her door she was buzzing with caffeine and anticipation. Tish, who’d had a bad Friday, insisted that she buy a second round of coffee, in order to explain the offences of her day in full. Anna did her best to listen, but the promise of the package upstairs was too strong to ignore.

  And now here she was: alone with the parcel at last.

  She almost didn’t want to open it, the sight of mail addressed to her more precious than the contents could ever be. It was like the time when, as a child, she once received a Christmas present from the Santa at Trago Mills – the closest thing to a shopping centre that her mother would take her to. The gaudy paper and irresistible rustle it made in her hands was as close to perfection as it was possible to be; the slightly spicy fragrance of the printed design and metallic tang of the elastic string wrapped around it too lovely to rip into. Unlike Ruari, who had torn open his parcel and immediately thrown a tantrum when an inexpensive bag of sweets fell out, Anna had cradled her gift all the way home, hiding it under her bed until Christmas Day. The thought of it waiting beneath her, unopened and sparkly, as she slept each night brought her the sweetest of dreams for a week. Of course, on opening it, the contents were revealed to be identical to those so hated by her brother, but that didn’t matter. Little Anna Browne had been given a gift, just for her.

  The parcel sat now in the middle of the small dining table in her living room. Anna drew up a chair and sat, staring at it. All day she had eliminated possible senders and had drawn a blank. There was only one way to discover the identity of the kind gift-giver. Taking a breath, she reached out and slid the parcel towards her.

  It was neatly wrapped, the folds at each end of the box forming two identically sized triangles. Anna appreciated the care and concentration required to achieve this. As a sixteen-year-old she had worked on Saturdays in the gift-wrapping department of Purefoy’s, the faded department store in Liskeard, long since demolished. Miss Miller, the pinch-faced spinster who ran gift-wrap like an army barracks, insisted on nothing less than symmetry for the piles of boxes awaiting adornment. More out of fear than anything else, Anna had learned the art of accurate folding, measuring the overhang of each end of wrapping paper before daring to crease it. Symmetry was what mattered, Miss Miller said. People always appreciated a well-wrapped parcel.

  Looking at the package in her hands, Anna now knew what Miss Miller meant. Somebody had not only taken the time to think of her and select a gift, but had also ensured it was beautifully wrapped – albeit in brown paper. But if this much care and attention had been lavished on the unremarkable outer garment of the parcel, what did that bode for whatever lay inside?

  The moment Anna had waited for all day had arrived. Determined to enjoy every minute of its unveiling, she took a deep breath and began to peel away the sticky tape holding down the perfect parcel corners. The paper shivered away across the table, revealing a pale, duck-egg-blue box embossed in the centre with the words Et voilà! in midnight-blue foil. Anna lifted the lid – and lost her breath.

  There, nestled between gossamer sheets of the palest green tissue, was the most wonderful silk scarf Anna had ever laid eyes on. Almost afraid to disturb its exquisite folds, she reached into the box and carefully lifted the garment out. Its sheen caught the light from the pendant lamp above her table and, as she raised the scarf further, a delicious scent filled the air. It was like sugared almonds and royal icing – sweet and inviting. Gently she found the corners and shook out the folds, revealing a beautiful design of tiny yellow roses laid across a background the colour of the sky before the snow: a glowing cream with the smallest hint of pale gold. The scarf moved with a mercurial elegance through her hands, and when Anna lifted it to her neck it felt like the caress of a summer breeze across her skin.

  Trembling, she rose and stood by the mirror that hung on the wall between her bathroom and bedroom. How had somebody chosen this perfect gift for her? The colours in the scarf seemed to make her skin glow, each shade a perfect complement for her colouring. In all her life she had never received a gift like this. Her reflection smiled back and she was surprised at how different she appeared. Could a scarf make such a change?

  It was beautiful; what was more, she felt beautiful wearing it.

  But who had sent this to her? And why?

  Five

  At the Daily Messenger nobody knew the building as intimately as Barbara ‘Babs’ Braithwaite. She had been cleaning its nooks and crannies for nearly forty years and in that time had witnessed many changes. Even her own job had undergone several transformations: from Cleaner to Cleaning Operative to Assistant Sanitation Officer to Head of ‘Clean Team’. She was now in charge of ten cleaners, who worked shifts to prepare the newspaper offices hours before staff arrived and late after they had left. Consequently not much passed her attention.

  So she was the first to notice when the friendly receptionist arrived almost an hour early that Monday morning. Babs had always liked the girl, and on the occasional times she’d been able to share a conversation had noticed how easily she maintained eye contact. Not like those stuck-up journalists, who mostly ignored the Clean Team as if they were designed to be invisible. Eye contact was an underrated skill, Babs believed. Her mother – Heaven bless her – had always laid great store by developing the ability. ‘If you can look someone in the eye, they’ll know you’re honest,’ she’d often say. The poor woman might have died practically penniless, but she’d left a legacy of lifelong friends who appreciated her honesty. Eye contact was her unique talent that drew them to her. Not many seemed to value it these days. That nice Anna on reception was one of the few young people Babs had met who could do it.

  Today, there was something different about the girl, although Babs couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. She was always pleasant and friendly, quiet of course – but that was a nice change, in a place that attracted people with more mouth than sense. Today, she seemed happier, glowing even. Maybe she was in love. If that was the case, she was likely to keep her beau a secret from the loudmouths she worked with. That Sheniece girl broadcast her shenanigans with all and sundry, to anyone within earshot. No class, that one. Whatever happened to maintaining a little bit of mystery?

  Or maybe she was pregnant. That would be lovely, Babs thought. People in this building tended to leave when they had babies, the tick of their biological clocks providing the excuse they needed to quit the newspaper business. Anna didn’t strike her as the sort to do that. She seemed to love her job. A baby on the way would be just what reception needed. Bring a bit of joy into the place. But if that was true, Babs was certain she would have already heard about it from Ted Blaskiewicz. That sort of gossip was his favourite kind . . .

  While the reason was unclear, Anna certainly seemed keen to come into work this morning – and that alone was remarkable. Babs hoped it might become a regular thing. She met very few people at this hour, and the chance of a bit of chat before the end of her shift would be very welcome indeed.

  ‘You’re in early,’ Babs noted as she ran a duster over the reception counter. ‘It’s nice to see a friendly face before the rush starts.’

  ‘I thought I’d catch an earlier bus,’ Anna replied. She had a lovely smile, Babs thought. Pretty girl, pretty soul – that’s what her old ma would
have said.

  ‘Good idea. I bet you found a seat, too.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

  ‘But why come straight here, though? You could be having one of those posh coffees somewhere. My granddaughter tells me they’re all the rage nowadays.’

  ‘I suppose I could have. I just fancied getting here before everyone else.’

  More power to you, flower, Babs thought to herself as she pushed her cleaning trolley back to the Clean Team storeroom. Wish there were more like you in this place . . .

  Anna was enjoying the space that being so early at work afforded her. More by luck than design, she had woken before her alarm and felt a sudden urge to do something different. Babs was right: she had considered stopping to buy a leisurely breakfast in one of the expensive coffee shops that lined the street on which the Daily Messenger building stood, but decided to go straight into work instead. She had never arrived before her colleagues, but today she found the prospect appealing. It was a little thing, barely enough to count as a small detail of her day, but the opportunity to do something different just to see what it was like was a new thing for Anna. It wasn’t that she was particularly fond of her routine, more that she had settled into a way of living that rarely changed. Today, she felt a new urge to challenge that.