Three Things About Elsie

by Joanna Cannon

  ‘George Gibson & Son.’ I read out the name. ‘I’ve never heard of them before.’

  Simon took his hands from the keyboard. ‘I thought you said the number was in the back of your address book?’

  ‘It was. I just can’t remember why.’

  I could tell Simon was suspicious, but I decided if I didn’t look at him, it might go away.

  Simon wrote the address down for us, on a sticky piece of yellow paper. As he was doing it, Cheryl from the salon walked in. She looked her usual self. Bleached pale and filled up with thinking.

  ‘Hello, Miss Claybourne.’ If she was surprised to see us in the staff room, she didn’t let on.

  ‘Hello, Cheryl. How are you?’

  Cheryl just mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve seen each other,’ I said. ‘Because I have something for you. Well, not for you exactly, for your …’ I struggled to find the word. ‘… your assistant.’

  I pulled a piece of paper out from my handbag.

  ‘It’s about tracing your family tree. I found it. In a magazine. I thought it might help her find the great-grandma from Prestatyn.’

  Cheryl took it from me and mumbled something else. ‘And how is little Alice?’ I nodded at her wrist.

  She came out with the strangest jumble of words, and Simon looked up from his writing.

  ‘I met some children recently,’ I said. I think she expected me to add something else, but that was really all there was to it, so I asked her how old Alice was instead.

  ‘She …’ Cheryl hesitated. I thought it was strange how a mother had to think of her own daughter’s age, but people have never stopped surprising me. ‘She was born three years ago,’ she said, finally.

  ‘And is she a good little girl?’ I said.

  ‘The best, Miss Claybourne. The very best. Beautiful blonde curls. The biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Always smiling.’

  She didn’t have a photograph with her, but she promised she’d bring one in for me.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see Alice.’

  Cheryl went to the sink and started clattering pots around, so I couldn’t hear all her words, but she did say, ‘Thank you so much for bothering to ask.’

  When Simon handed Jack the piece of paper, he gave my shoulder a little squeeze and said, ‘You are lovely, Florence, you know,’ which I thought was rather nice, when the only thing I’d really done was make conversation.

  9.02 p.m.

  Elsie and I used to complain about how small these rooms are, but right now everything feels very far away. I thought I might be able to reach some of that nonsense under the sideboard. A coin, or whatever’s dropped there. Throw it at the window. Get someone’s attention, although I don’t really know whose. They’ll tell me off when they find me, because I should be wearing my medallion. That’s what Elsie and I call them, because they’re so big. ‘I need help’ it says on the front. It kept banging on things and getting in the way, and once, I knocked it on the back of the Radio Times and Simon barged into the flat with grated cheese all over his chin. I took it off after that. I hung it on the back of the bathroom door.

  It’s still there now.

  I can’t even see the bathroom from where I’m lying. I wish that big lamp was on. The dark shrinks your common sense, doesn’t it? There’s a bulb lit in the hall, but it’s one of those energy-saving ones, and you might as well not bother and strike a match instead. It must be getting on for seven, now. The little shop will be closing soon. The man behind the counter will be taking out his earphones and emptying the till. Perhaps he’ll think about me as he’s counting the coins. Perhaps he’ll remember me offering to clean the shelves, and he’ll have a bit of a reconsider. He’ll lock up and check the door a few times, then he’ll wander across and look up at my flat. When he knocks, he’ll call out, ‘It’s only me, Miss Claybourne,’ and I’ll call back, ‘You’ll have to let yourself in, I’m afraid.’ I’ll keep the tone light-hearted. I don’t want to alarm him.

  He’ll come to the hospital with me. He’ll insist on it.

  ‘It’s the least I can do, Florence.’

  We’ll talk about the shop and he’ll talk to me about what I think he should stock. He’ll probably ask if I can pop over and help out from time to time. ‘Of course I can,’ I’ll say. ‘And don’t even think about paying me. Put it in the charity tin. Give it to the little kiddies instead.’

  We’ll sit in A&E and people will rush past us. I’ll have all these leads attached to me and the wires will travel to a machine that bleeps and counts, and dances with lights, and I will watch it dance, because it’s soothing to see all the things that matter about you held together on a screen. Curtains will swish and trolleys will rattle past, and the voices will roll into a giant ball of sound, but all the time when we’re in the ambulance, and all the while we wait in A&E for the doctor to see us, the man from the little shop won’t feel the need to shout. Not once.

  FLORENCE

  I could see all the whites of Miss Ambrose’s eyes.

  ‘You want me to organise a coach trip?’ she said.

  We’d tried to ring the music shop, but no one ever answered the telephone. I thought it might have closed down, but Jack said it was unlikely, being as they were still on the internet; then out of the blue, he suggested we all go up there.

  ‘To Whitby?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do us all the world of good. When was the last time you saw the sea?’

  I tried to think, but my thinking wouldn’t cooperate. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think I’d see it again, and I’d just have to lump it.’

  ‘Everyone should see the sea.’ He nodded towards the mantelpiece, as though the sea were just the other side of it, waiting for us. ‘It does a body good. We’re supposed to have trips, you know?’

  ‘Trips?’ said Elsie.

  ‘There’s a kitty. It’s in the small print.’ He took a large piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, and stabbed at it with the arm of his spectacles. ‘We pay into a “recreation fund” as part of our annual fee.’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time we had any recreation,’ I said. ‘Unless you count Justin, and recreation isn’t really a word I’d associate with a piano accordion.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He stabbed at the paper again.

  An hour later, we found ourselves standing at Miss Ambrose’s desk, with Jack at the front, because he decided before we set off that he was likely to be the most persuasive.

  ‘A coach trip?’ she said again.

  The three of us nodded.

  ‘Oh, a coach trip is out of the question,’ Miss Ambrose said. ‘Some of us are still on probation. And it’s far too much red tape.’

  Red tape. It was an excuse Miss Bissell used all the time. If anyone were to be listening in, they might think the whole of Cherry Tree was decorated with red tape, like tinsel on a Christmas tree, twisting around the doors and the windows, and keeping us all where we were supposed to be.

  ‘Health and safety,’ said Miss Ambrose. ‘Risk assessment.’

  All the excuses fell out of Miss Ambrose’s mouth, but we had our hopes pinned. She had to be persuaded.

  Jack leaned on the desk. ‘All the other nursing homes have trips out,’ he said. ‘All the other nursing homes …’ he glanced at the scissors on her desk, ‘… manage to cut through the red tape.’

  ‘They do?’ Miss Ambrose said.

  ‘Pine Lodge went up the Gherkin.’ He paused. ‘Cedar House spent a weekend in Marbella. It’s a buyer’s market, Miss Ambrose.’

  Miss Ambrose swallowed rather violently.

  ‘And then there’s the kitty,’ he said. ‘We could always go through the accounts.’

  ‘The accounts?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.

  ‘Have you taken your Kwells? It’s four hours on a motorway,’ Elsie said.

  I took the packet ou
t of my bag and popped one out of its little silver shell.

  ‘You know your stomach can be a law unto itself.’

  Miss Ambrose had been persuaded. It had taken several meetings in Miss Ambrose’s office, all of which we’d observed from the day room with held breath. Miss Bissell had done a lot of pacing and throwing her arms around, and Miss Ambrose had pushed her chair as far into the corner as it could possibly go.

  After forty-five minutes Miss Bissell’s arms weren’t moving around quite as much, and Jack said, ‘I think she’s being won round.’

  Handy Simon stepped into the room at one point, and immediately tried to leave again, but he was directed back inside by Miss Bissell’s forefinger, and the three of them played out a lengthy discussion behind chequered glass, although none of us could hear what was being said. Eventually Miss Bissell left, but not before she’d stood by the weeping fig for a good five minutes, and stared at us all with her eyebrows.

  An hour later, Miss Ambrose pinned a notice to the board, inviting people to sign up for a weekend in Whitby. Dracula, the West Cliff and Botham’s Tea Rooms. By three o’clock, she needed a second sheet. By four o’clock, I’d started packing.

  ‘We’re not going anytime soon.’ Elsie watched me roll a pair of socks up and put them inside my spare shoes.

  ‘I’m frightened of forgetting something,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t let you forget. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we have everything.’

  She gave me a little hug, and I unrolled the socks and put them back on my feet.

  It was another week before we went to Whitby. A week of wondering if Ronnie had found the sheet music and what he was going to do about it. I thought he might react straight away, but there was nothing. Not a peep. It was strange, because the quietness seemed worse than anything. Although perhaps it’s only in the silence that you’re able to hear just how loud your own worrying is. It was a relief when Friday finally came around. I knew I’d still be worrying, but at least I could worry with a different view.

  I hadn’t been on a coach trip for years, and the improvements were very pleasing. There was a small pocket in the back of the seat in front, although when I looked inside, all I could find was a sick bag. ‘It’s for magazines, as well,’ Elsie said, because she knows I can be quite suggestible.

  ‘Decent charabanc, isn’t it?’ Jack settled himself into the seat across the aisle so he could stretch out his walking stick. He was wearing the same grey anorak he always wears. It’s developed a shine on the elbows and one of the buttons is escaping, and Elsie has to keep reminding me not to point it out. ‘Quite roomy.’ He lifted himself up to see over the back of Mrs Honeyman from number four. ‘We could do worse.’

  The driver was called Eric. Far more hair on his face than on his head, as if it was trying to make up for it. Poor whistler. Insisted on saying, ‘That’s the job, then,’ every few minutes for no distinguishable reason.

  ‘At Sun Valley Coaches, we pride ourselves on our leg-room,’ he said, as he walked past with his clipboard. ‘Not one single case of DVT in sixteen years.’ He eyed everyone’s calves as he moved down the aisle, perhaps looking for a red flag. ‘It’s all written in the brochure.’

  After he’d gone past, I said, ‘Why does everything have to have a bro-shoor these days?’ and then I whispered to Elsie, ‘I’m not sure my bladder can hold on until the Yorkshire Moors.’

  ‘It has an on-board lavatory.’ She pointed towards the back of the bus. ‘Although you’ll have to be on the ball, it seems as though it’s going to be quite popular.’

  Mrs Honeyman was making her way towards it, and we hadn’t even pulled out of the car park.

  Ronnie Butler was the last to get on. He walked towards the coach, calm and unhurried, carrying a brown holdall. He was wearing a different trilby. This one had a small feather tucked into the band, and Elsie said it made it look as though he was going hunting. I chose not to comment. He paused when he reached the top of the steps.

  ‘Strange time of year to be going to the seaside.’ He spoke to Miss Ambrose and Miss Bissell, who sat together in the front row, looking quite pale, but his gaze fell on us immediately. It stayed there, even as he took off his trilby and found himself a seat.

  ‘It is a little brisk, but we felt Cherry Tree should have a weekend away.’ Miss Ambrose turned and joined in with looking at us. ‘Like everywhere else does.’

  ‘Any particular reason …’ Ronnie sat down and settled his overcoat on his lap. ‘… you chose Whitby?’

  ‘It’s the history, isn’t it?’ said Jack. ‘Nothing more intriguing than the past.’ His voice trembled at the edges. He held on to the seat in front, and I watched as his knuckles became pale with determination.

  Ronnie turned in his seat and faced the front.

  ‘That’s the job, then,’ said Eric, and he started the engine.

  Motorways are very dull. They might get you somewhere more quickly, but there’s very little in the form of entertainment. There’s only so much tarmac you can stomach in one day. Elsie dozed off before we’d barely even left the slip road, and Jack was far too busy with his Sudoku book and a propelling pencil to make conversation. He’d read somewhere that Sudokus prevent you from developing dementia, and he was up to six a day. He tried to involve me in one, but I told him they make me more confused, not less, and if I wanted to waste my time on puzzles, I’d rather plump for a word search. Eric was whistling to himself in the driver’s seat, and the back of Ronnie’s head hadn’t changed position in forty-five minutes. I knew, because I’d been looking at it since we left Cherry Tree. I’m not even sure why. Perhaps I thought if I looked for long enough, I could work out what was going on inside. Although Ronnie was still, everyone else moved around and changed seats. There was a constant parade of people going to the lavatory, supervised by Miss Ambrose. She began to overheat, and about an hour into the journey, she had to start fanning herself down with a sick bag.

  Jack closed his puzzle book. ‘Our man’s very quiet,’ he said. ‘I bet he’s wondering what’s going on.’

  ‘Knowing Ronnie, he’ll have a plan brewing.’ I leaned back to let Mrs Honeyman into her seat.

  Elsie woke at the sound of Jack’s voice. ‘He’s always got something up his sleeve,’ she said.

  ‘Does he have any connection with Yorkshire, I wonder?’ Jack said.

  ‘Not that I know of.’ I looked across at Elsie. She had her face against the glass, watching the traffic.

  ‘We used to go on holiday to Whitby,’ I said to Jack, ‘when we were children, but I don’t remember very much about the place. Perhaps it’ll all come back to me when we get there.’

  It was odd, how that happened. You imagine you forget, but the memories are just sitting there, and it only takes the smallest thing. A smell or the words to a song, or the glimpse of a face in a crowd. The remembrance floods through you as if it had never left. The memories are always waiting, you just need to work out how to find them again.

  As it happened, I remembered nothing until we climbed out of Pickering and on to the moors, where the heather rolled out before us, a thick, purple blanket across the landscape. The moor is like no other place. It’s scrubbed and scoured, and happy in its lack of decoration. I always find it a comfort, that we can still see beauty in desolation. There were hikers in the distance, all primary-coloured and waterproofed, trying to reclaim a landscape that no one could ever really own.

  I tapped Elsie on the sleeve. ‘Do you remember,’ I said, ‘we used to have a competition. The first person to see the sea?’

  She wiped her chin and looked out of the window. ‘You always won because you were taller,’ she said. ‘But I’ve seen it first this time. Look.’

  It was there. A sliver of ocean, resting on the horizon. It played hide and seek with us, as the coach turned and twisted on narrow roads until we reached the top and watched the abbey rise from nowhere into the skyline.

  ‘It looks exactly the same,’ I said.<
br />
  ‘Nothing’s changed since we were children.’ Elsie sat up a little straighter and watched the horizon.

  Miss Ambrose was having a walkabout, and she leaned across and gazed out of the window. ‘And it’ll be the same long after we’ve left. We’re just passengers really, aren’t we?’ she said.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ I said. ‘Don’t you think any of us makes any difference?’

  She pointed to the hikers, now pinpricks of red and yellow in the distance. ‘We’d all like to think so, but most of us won’t even leave a footprint.’

  I turned away from the window and closed my eyes. Just as I did, I heard Elsie’s voice.

  ‘She’s wrong, you know,’ she whispered.

  Miss Ambrose had chosen a small hotel on the West Cliff, and the coach pulled up at the Royal Crescent and vomited us out on to the pavement. Elsie and I stayed here before when we were children. Not the same hotel, I don’t think, but along the same road. It was impossible to remember which hotel, because they were all identical. A row of guest houses and bed and breakfasts, brushed in creams and yellows, each one named after the sea, and all with little signs in the windows, inviting you to go inside. The whole of the street seemed to consist entirely of hotels. Packets of people, parcelled into rooms, all listening to the snoring of strangers through paper-thin walls. We had no sooner landed on the pavement than our spill of elderly people and walking sticks began to leak away from each other. Handy Simon produced his clipboard, and Miss Ambrose began waving her arms, as if we were all attached to her by invisible string and could be threaded back together again.

  ‘Try to stay put,’ she was saying. ‘Please don’t wander.’

  It was too late. Before I knew what I was doing, I was halfway down the promenade, heading for Captain Cook. It was the excitement, I think, of being somewhere I never thought I’d see again.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Elsie shouted.

  ‘I’m going to the whalebones,’ I called back. ‘I want to see if they’re still there.’

  ‘Well of course they’re still there,’ she said.