The Package - June Gemmell

Miss Arabella Storm checked her morning mail which consisted of an advert for a stairlift and a life assurance offer. She didn’t need a stairlift, she was an active sixty five year old, and she didn’t need life assurance, for who should she leave her money to? Her elderly parents had passed away some years ago, and now there was only Merlin the cat. She tipped the leaflets in the bin and walked to her bay window.

Because her house was positioned at the very end of a cul-de-sac, Miss Storm could view the whole street. Safely tucked behind Flemish lace she liked to watch the movements of her neighbours, and be on alert for any suspicious activity, like shifty looking types wearing baseball caps or unknown male visitors when husbands were away. Her mink velour armchair was positioned so that she had a clear view from the window. 

And that’s where she was standing when a delivery van drew up at Mr Crawford-Smith’s house.

‘Mr Crawford-Smith isn't in,’ she said to Merlin. ‘It’s a Wednesday, he’ll be at his bridge club.’

After a few minutes the doorbell rang. 

A young man with a crew cut stood on her path. Tattoos covered his neck. She nearly didn’t answer, but he was holding a parcel, presumably for Mr Crawford-Smith. She opened the door a crack. 

‘There’s no answer at number twelve.’ The young man chewed gum throughout this exchange.

Miss Storm opened the door wider. ‘No, my neighbour is out at his…’ But the young man had already handed it over and was on his way back to the van.

Rude. She placed the small cardboard box on the polished parquet of her hall floor. Edmund Crawford-Smith had been her neighbour for over ten years. His hair had turned from black to a distinguished grey over this time. Even after his retirement from the bank he took care of his appearance, wearing smart jackets and well pressed trousers. He kept a neat front garden and Miss Storm approved of this. She had carefully cultivated their initial friendship until it had turned into what she now considered to be an ‘understanding’. 

Every Thursday they went to the local art club together in his silver Volvo, and on a Sunday night they watched Poirot in her front lounge. On a Saturday morning she would do some baking in preparation, usually homemade Victoria sponge, or a lemon drizzle cake.

At the art club she sat next to him, fetched him the brushes and the paint colours he needed and brought him coffee during the break. She liked to signal to the other ladies that he was her property and they could stop ‘sniffing around’. She had to be quite sharp with Mrs Menzies and her incessant chatter when he was trying to concentrate on his Lake District landscape.

She looked down at the parcel again. Neat handwriting, in fountain pen, she noted.

‘I wonder who it’s from, Merlin?’

The cat licked his paws and cleaned his whiskers.

She bent down and twisted it round to see if there was any information on the other side of the box, bringing her eyes level with the cat’s inquisitive face. 

‘Usually, the sender puts their name and address on the back. Just in case it should get mislaid. But there’s no sender’s address here. Most perplexing.’ She stroked the cat’s head.

She went about her morning cleaning routines, and as she caught sight of the box she would look at it again, or give it a little shake, her ear against the brown cardboard.

The hall clock, with its sunburst shards of gold, ticked above her head.

‘Oh, puss, look it’s a quarter to eleven. Time for our cup of tea.' 

She padded through to the kitchen, the cat following her sheepskin slippered feet. The radio trilled away in the background, but as she drank her earl grey, her focus wandered. She pushed the cat off her lap and returned to the hall. 

Miss Storm had an idea. If she carefully peeled back the packing tape, she could look inside, just a quick peep, and carefully reseal it without anyone knowing. Any damage to the packaging she could blame on the delivery service. However, there was an obstacle. It was thickly sealed with layer upon layer of sticky packing tape. 

‘Look at this,’ she said to the cat. ‘There must be a whole roll of tape here. There’s no need for that. Wasteful!’

Peeling the tape off would be tricky and she would never get the parcel back together the way it had been. But then she held up a finger.

‘Wait a minute. Do you know Merlin, I have a new pair of sharp scissors perfect for this job. But I’ll need to be quick. Mr Crawford-Smith will be back at noon.’

When he got home there would be a card through his door from the delivery man, and then he would arrive at Miss Storm’s door looking for his parcel. She didn’t want to be caught in the act. 

‘What do you think Merlin?’

The cat didn’t answer, but rubbed itself along the back of her legs.

She padded upstairs to her wardrobe where the clothes hung in a neat row, carefully pressed, on wooden coat hangers. The sewing box was on the shelf above. Back downstairs, she looked admiringly at the shiny steel blades. Merlin climbed the carpeted stairs and positioned himself halfway up, looking at her through the banisters.

She lifted the parcel on to the telephone table. The scissors slashed a fine, straight line across the top of the box. Inside was a letter and a large irregular shape wrapped in tissue paper, fastened with sellotape.

She peeled back layer after layer of tissue taking care not to rip the paper. Once or twice there was the sound of a car in the street and she hurried to the window to check, her heart beating violently lest Mr  Crawford-Smith was back early. But no, all was well, the Volvo was still nowhere to be seen. 

Merlin had come to poke his little white nose into all the rustling paper and she brushed him to one side. As the final layer was unwrapped the object was revealed. A little pottery house. A charming cottage, decorated with individual roof tiles and flowers pressed into the clay around the door. The detail was extraordinary.

The letter in the box was not sealed, so it was easy to take it out and have a quick look. Just a glance. What harm could it do? But the contents of the letter caused her to grip on to the banister..

‘Dear Edmund’ it began ‘I hope you like the small gift enclosed. The last time we had lunch you mentioned how much you liked the little pottery ornaments in the gift shop next door. As you know, I go to a pottery class every week, and for the last month I’ve been making this for you. I do so enjoy our regular lunches together, and hope when you look at this gift you’ll think of me. With all my love. M. x

Lunch! Regularly! And it was signed off with a x. Well, that gave Miss Storm quite a start. He never took her out for lunch. They went to the art club, and occasionally for a coffee afterwards in the church hall cafe. She felt like a fool. He had been deceiving her, seeing this woman behind her back.

She rummaged under the sink in the kitchen for what she needed. She felt the weight of the hammer in her hand. The first swing smashed the little house entirely in two, but the next few blows smashed it into dozens of tiny pieces. The cat slunk away into the conservatory. 

She stopped, breathless and checked the time. She would need to put the broken pieces back in the parcel. Quickly. Things often got damaged in the post. It wouldn’t be unusual. Crushed. Thrown about by delivery drivers. Regrettable but it happened all the time. However, as she picked up a roll of tape to start the process of rewrapping, something made her hesitate.

If she put it back in he would see, even from the broken pieces, the lovely object it had been. Even the small fragments showed details of window frames, and tiny elegant window boxes. He would see it was a beautiful thing. She tipped the pieces in the bin with a crash. She had a better idea. In the greenhouse, under one of her fuchsia pots was an old misshapen green saucer, perhaps it had once been an ash tray. She had found it in a corner of the garden many years ago. It was chunky and heavy. Perfect. She gave it the briefest wipe with an old cloth and resealed the parcel, so that no one would be able to tell that the box had ever been opened.

When Mr Crawford-Smith arrived at her door she was wearing her best dress and a gold necklace he had admired in the past. The smell of newly baked scones was wafting through from the kitchen. Her lipsticked mouth smiled a welcome.

‘Oh Arabella. You’re looking well. I believe you have a parcel for me?’

‘Yes. Won’t you come in Edmund? I’ve just made some scones if you’d like one? With home made blackcurrant jam?’

‘That sounds lovely, but I’ll not stop if you don’t mind. I have something to do this afternoon.’

Miss Storm’s smile lowered a centimetre. I bet you do, she thought.

‘So, I’ll just take the parcel if you don’t mind.’

She lifted it from the small table behind the door and handed it over. 

‘Thank you Arabella. It’s from my sister, Margaret. She made something special for my birthday at her pottery class. I’m looking forward to opening it.’ He waved a goodbye. ‘See you at the art club tomorrow.’

Her voice caught at the back of her throat. She coughed, once, twice, tried to utter some affirmative syllables, then gently, very gently closed her front door.

Originally published by Loft Books, issue IV page 333, in 2022

June Gemmell writes short stories and flash fiction. She is a reader for Fractured Lit. Her words have been published by Frazzled Lit, Trash Cat Lit, Moonlit Getaway, Gutter Magazine, Northern Gravy, Hooghly Review, Gone Lawn, and The Phare. She is working on her first collection of short stories.