by Beth O'Leary
“Like armed robbery?”
“Yes. That is a good example, well done.”
“You hate me, don’t you? I’m top of your hate list right now.”
“It’s my one lie-in and you’ve ruined it, so yes, you have climbed past Donald Trump and that Uber driver I sometimes gets who hums for the whole journey.”
Shit. Things are not going well.
“You know the special cases you do for free, or for less money, or whatever?”
Gerty pauses. “Where’s this going, Tiffy?”
“Just hear me out. If I give you a letter from a guy convicted of armed robbery, will you just take a look at it? You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to take him on or whatever, obviously, I know you have tons more important cases. But will you just read it, and maybe write a list of questions?”
“Where did you get this letter from?”
“It’s a long story, and it doesn’t matter. Just know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
There is a long, sleepy sort of silence at the other end of the phone.
“Of course I’ll read it. Come over for lunch and bring the letter.”
“I love you.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. I’ll bring you a latte from Moll’s, though. Donald Trump would never bring you a latte from Moll’s.”
“Fine. I’ll make my decision on your relative placement on the hate list when I’ve tasted how hot the coffee is. Do not ring me again before ten.” She hangs up.
* * *
Gerty and Mo’s flat has been completely Gerty-fied. You almost can’t tell Mo lives here. His room at his last place was a tip of washed and unwashed clothes (no system) and paperwork that was probably confidential, but here, every object has a purpose. The flat is tiny but I don’t notice it nearly as much as I did the first time I saw the place—somehow Gerty’s drawn attention away from the low ceilings and toward the enormous windows, which fill the kitchen diner with soft summer sunlight. And it’s so clean. I have new respect for Gerty and what she can achieve through sheer willpower, or possibly bullying.
I hand her the coffee. She gives it a sip, then nods in approval. I do a little fist pump, officially becoming a less odious human being than the man who wants to build a wall between Mexico and the U.S.
“Letter,” she says, stretching out her free hand.
Not one for small talk, Gerty. I rifle through my bag and pass it over, and she immediately heads off to read, picking up her glasses from the side table by the front door where, unbelievably, she never seems to forget to put them.
I fidget. I pace a bit. I mess up the order of the pile of books on the end of their dining table, just for the thrill of it.
“Go away,” she says, not even raising her voice. “You are distracting me. Mo is at the coffee place on the corner which does inferior coffee. He will entertain you.”
“Right. Fine. So … you’re reading it, though? What do you think?”
She doesn’t answer. I roll my eyes, and then scamper off in case she noticed.
I’ve not even made it to the coffee shop before my phone rings. It’s Gerty.
“You might as well come back,” she says.
“Oh?”
“The trial transcript will take forty-eight hours to get to me even with the express service. I can’t tell you anything useful until I’ve read that.”
I’m smiling. “You’re applying for the trial transcript?”
“Men often have very convincing stories of their innocence, Tiffy, and I would recommend against believing their summaries of their court cases. They are, obviously, extremely biased, and also do not tend to be well versed in the intricacies of the law.”
I’m still smiling. “You’re applying for the trial transcript, though.”
“Don’t get anyone’s hopes up,” Gerty says, and her voice is serious now. “I mean it, Tiffy. I’m just going to read up on it. Don’t tell this man anything, please. It would be cruel to give him unfounded hope.”
“I know,” I say, smile dropping. “I won’t. And thanks.”
“You’re welcome. The coffee was excellent. Now get back here—if I must be up this early on a Saturday, I would at least like to be entertained.”
18
LEON
On the way to meet Johnny White the First. It’s very early—four-hour journey there, then three buses to get from Johnny White the First’s place to HMP Groundsworth, where I have a three p.m. visit with Richie. Legs stiff from train seats with limited legroom; back sweaty from carriages without air-conditioning. As I roll up shirt sleeves further, notice old Post-it note from Tiffy stuck in the cuff. Something from last month about what the strange man in Flat 5 does at seven a.m. Hmm. Embarrassing. Must check clothes for notes before leaving the flat.
Greeton, home of Johnny White, is a surprisingly pretty little town, stretched out flat on the matte green fields of the midlands. Walk from bus station to JW’s address. Have emailed him a couple of times, but am not sure what to expect in person.
When I arrive, a very large and intimidating Johnny White barks at me to come in; I find myself immediately obeying and following him through to sparsely furnished living room. Only distinctive feature is piano in corner. It’s uncovered and looks well treated.
Me: You play?
JW the First: I was a concert pianist in my day. I don’t play so much now, but I keep the old girl in here. It doesn’t feel like home without her.
I’m delighted. It’s perfect. Concert pianist! World’s coolest profession! And no pictures anywhere of wife or children—excellent.
JW the First offers me tea; what appears is a thick, chipped mug of builder’s brew. It reminds me of tea at Mam’s. A strange moment of homesickness follows—must go and see her more.
JW the First and I settle on sofa and armchair, opposite one another. Suddenly realizing this is a potentially difficult subject to broach. Did you have a love affair with a man in World War II? Is perhaps not something this man wants to talk about with stranger from London.
JW the First: So, what was it you were after, exactly?
Me: I was wondering. Um.
Clear throat.
Me: You served in the army in World War II, yes?
JW the First: Two years, with a short break for them to dig a bullet out of my stomach.
Find myself staring at his stomach. JW the First flashes surprisingly dynamic grin at me.
JW the First: You’re thinking they must have had a job finding it, aren’t you?
Me: No! I was thinking there are lots of vital organs in the stomach area.
JW the First, chuckling: German buggers missed those, lucky for me. Anyway, I was more worried about my hands than my stomach. You can play the piano without a spleen, but you can’t play the piano if frostbite’s eaten your fingers off.
Gaze at JW the First in awe and horror. He chuckles again.
JW the First: Ah, you don’t want my old war horror stories. Did you say you’re looking into your family history?
Me: Not mine. A friend’s. Robert Prior. He served in the same regiment as you, though I’m not sure it was exactly at the same time. Do you happen to remember him?
JW the First thinks hard. Scrunches up nose. Tilts head.
JW the First: No. Doesn’t ring any bells. Sorry.
Eh, was long shot. One down, though, still seven on list to go.
Me: Thanks, Mr. White. I won’t take more of your time. Just one question—have you ever married?
JW the First, gruffer than ever: No. My Sally died in an air raid back in ’41, and that was that for me. I never found anyone like my Sally.
I almost get teary at that. Richie would laugh at me—he always calls me a hopeless romantic. Or ruder things to that effect.
* * *
Kay, on other end of phone: Honestly, Leon. I think if you had your way, all of your friends would be over the age of eighty.
Me: He was an interesting man, i
s all. I enjoyed speaking to him. And—concert pianist! World’s coolest profession, no?
Amused silence from Kay.
Me: Still seven to go, though.
Kay: Seven what?
Me: Seven Johnny Whites.
Kay: Oh, yeah.
She pauses.
Kay: Are you going to be spending all your weekends traipsing across Britain trying to find an old man’s boyfriend, Leon?
I pause this time. Had sort of planned on doing that, yes. When else am I going to find Mr. Prior’s Johnny? Can’t do it during working week.
Me, tentatively:… No?
Kay: Good. Because I see you rarely enough as it is, with all your visits and your shifts. You do see that, don’t you?
Me: Yes. Sorry. I’m—
Kay: Yep, yep, I know, you care about your job, Richie needs you. I do know all that. I’m not trying to be difficult, Leon. I just feel like … it should bother you more. As much as it bothers me. The not seeing each other.
Me: It bothers me! But I saw you this morning?
Kay: For about half an hour, for a very rushed breakfast.
Flash of irritation. Gave up half an hour of three-hour power nap to allow for breakfast with Kay. Deep breath. Notice where we are out of window.
Me: Got to go. I’m pulling into the prison.
Kay: Fine. Let’s talk later. Will you text me what train you get?
I don’t like this—the checking up, the texting about trains, always knowing where the other person will be. But … it’s unreasonable of me. Can’t object. Kay already thinks I’m a commitment-phobe. It’s a favorite term of hers at the moment.
Me: Will do.
But I don’t, in the end. Mean to, but don’t. It’s the worst argument we’ve had in ages.
19
TIFFY
“It’s the perfect venue for you, Katherin,” Martin gushes, spreading the photos out on the table.
I smile encouragingly. Though initially I thought the whole enormous-venue thing was ridiculous, I’m starting to come round to it. Twenty different YouTube videos have been made by various Internet celebrities sporting outfits they claimed to have crocheted themselves from Katherin’s instructions. After a tense unscheduled meeting with the managing director, in which the head of PR did a quite convincing job of pretending to know what this book was, let alone have budget allocated for it, the whole Butterfingers office is now up to speed and abuzz with excitement. Everyone seems to have forgotten that last week they didn’t give a crap about crochet; yesterday I heard the sales director declare she’d “always suspected this book would be a winner.”
Katherin is perplexed by all of this, particularly the Tasha Chai-Latte thing. At first she reacted as literally everyone does when they see some random person making tons of money on YouTube: “I could do that!” she announced. I told her to start by investing in a smartphone. Baby steps. Now she’s just irritated at Martin having taken control of her Twitter account (“She can’t be trusted with this! We need to maintain control!” Martin was yelling at Ruby this morning).
“So, what is a proper book launch?” Katherin asks. “I mean, normally I just potter around drinking the wine and chatting to any old lady who bothers to turn up. But how do you do it when there are all these people?” She gestures to the photo of a gigantic Islington hall.
“Ah, now, Katherin,” Martin says, “I’m glad you asked. Tiffy and I are going to take you along to one of our other big book launches in two weeks’ time. Just so you can see how these things are done.”
“Are there free drinks?” Katherin asks, perking up.
“Oh, absolutely, tons of free drinks,” Martin says, having previously told me that there won’t be any at all.
I glance at my watch as Martin returns to the task of selling the enormous venue to Katherin. Katherin is very worried about the people at the back not being able to see. I, on the other hand, am very worried about getting to Leon’s hospice on time.
It’s the evening of our visit. Leon will be there, which means tonight, after five and a half months of living together, he and I will finally meet.
I’m oddly nervous. I changed my clothes three times this morning, which is unusual—normally I can’t imagine the day looking any other way once I’ve got an outfit on. Now I’m not sure I’ve got it right. I’ve toned down the lemon-yellow pouf dress with a denim jacket, leggings, and my lily boots, but I’m still dressed in something a sixteen-year-old girl would wear to prom. There’s just something fundamentally try-hard about tulle.
“Don’t you think we should be heading over now?” I say, interrupting Martin mid-bullshit. I want to get to the hospice in time to find Leon and say thanks before we start. I’d rather he didn’t walk in Justin-style, just as Katherin’s sticking pins into me.
Martin glares at me, turning his head so Katherin won’t see quite how vicious a look he is shooting in my direction. She of course spots it anyway, and cheers up at the sight, chuckling into her coffee cup. She was grumpy with me when I got here because I’d (clearly) ignored her instruction to wear “neutral clothing” again. My excuse that wearing beige sucks the life out of me did not fly. “We all have to make sacrifices for our art, Tiffy!” she said, waggling a finger. I did point out that this isn’t actually my art, it’s hers, but she looked so wounded I gave up and said I’d compromise by taking out the poufy underskirt.
It’s good to see our mutual dislike of Martin has united us again.
* * *
I’m not sure why I think I know what a hospice will look like—I’ve never been to one before. This one ticks a few of my boxes, even so: lino floors in halls, medical equipment spouting wires and tubes, poor-quality art in wonky frames on the walls. But there’s a friendlier atmosphere than I expected. Everyone seems to know each other: Doctors make sardonic comments as they cross paths in the corridor, patients chuckle wheezily to their wardmates, and at one point I hear a nurse arguing quite passionately with an elderly Yorkshireman about which flavor of rice pudding is best on tonight’s dinner menu.
The receptionist leads us down the bewildering maze of corridors to a sort of living area. There’s a rickety plastic table where we’re to set up, plus lots of uncomfortable-looking seating and a television like the one in my parents’ house—it’s blocky and enormous at the back, like they’re stashing all the extra shopping channels in there.
We dump the bags of wool and crochet hooks. A few of the more mobile patients drift into the room. Evidently word of our crochet show has spread, probably via the nurses and doctors, who seem to be running in totally random directions at all times, like pinballs. It’s fifteen minutes until we start, though—plenty of time for me to track Leon down and say hello.
“Excuse me,” I say to a nurse whose pinball path has briefly crossed the living area, “is Leon here yet?”
“Leon?” she asks, looking at me distractedly. “Yeah. He’s here. You need him?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not, you know, medical. I was just going to say hi and thanks for letting us do this.” I wave an arm in the direction of Martin and Katherin, who are untangling wool with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
The nurse perks up and focuses on me properly. “Are you Tiffy?”
“Um. Yes?”
“Oh! Hi. Wow, hello. If you want to see him, he’ll be in Dorsal Ward, I think—follow the signs.”
“Thanks so much,” I say as she scurries off again.
Dorsal Ward. OK. I check the sign fixed to the wall: left, apparently. Then right. Then left, left, right, left, right, right—bloody hell. This place goes on forever.
“Excuse me,” I ask, snagging a passing person in scrubs, “am I on track to get to Dorsal Ward?”
“Sure are,” he says, without slowing. Hmm. I’m not sure how much he engaged with that question. I guess if you work here you get really sick of visitors asking for directions. I stare at the next sign: Dorsal Ward has now disappeared altogether.
&nbs
p; The guy in scrubs pops up beside me, having backtracked down the corridor again. I jump.
“Sorry, you’re not Tiffy, are you?” he says.
“Yes? Hi?”
“Really! Damn.” He looks me up and down quite blatantly, and then realizes what he’s doing and pulls a face. “God, sorry, it’s just none of us quite believed it. Leon will be on Kelp Ward—take the next left.”
“Believed what?” I call after him, but he’s already gone, leaving a set of double doors swinging behind him.
This is … weird.
As I turn back I spot a male nurse with light brown skin and dark hair, whose navy-blue scrubs look threadbare even from here—I’ve noticed how worn Leon’s scrubs are when they’re drying on the clothes horse. We make eye contact for a split second but then he turns his head, checking the pager on his hip, and jogs off down the opposite corridor. He’s tall. It might have been him? We were too far apart to tell for sure. I walk more quickly to follow him, get slightly out of breath, then feel a bit stalkerish and slow down again. Crap. I think I missed the turning to Kelp Ward.
I take stock in the middle of the corridor. Without the tulle skirt my dress has deflated, clinging to the fabric of my leggings; I’m hot and flustered and, let’s be honest, completely lost.
The sign says next left for the Leisure Room, which is where I started. I sigh, checking the time. Only five minutes until our show should begin—I’d better get back in there. I’ll track Leon down afterward, hopefully without encountering any more slightly freaky strangers who know my name.
There’s a sizeable crowd when I head back into the room; Katherin spots me with relief and kicks off the show right away. I dutifully follow her instructions, and while Katherin enthusiastically extols the virtues of the closed stitch I scan the room. The patients are a mix of elderly ladies and gentlemen, about two thirds of whom are in wheelchairs, and a few middle-aged ladies who look quite poorly but are much more interested in what Katherin’s saying than anybody else is. There are three kids, too. One is a little girl whose hair is just growing back after chemo, I’m guessing. Her eyes are enormous and I notice them because she’s not staring at Katherin like everybody else is, she’s watching me, and beaming.