Three Things About Elsie

by Joanna Cannon

  Jack turned around in his seat and looked at the door for the sixth time.

  ‘It’s not going to make them move any faster, you know,’ Elsie said.

  ‘Being questioned by the police is the most exciting thing that’s happened in years,’ I said. ‘People won’t give it up without a fight.’

  ‘I don’t know why they need to speak to us anyway.’ Jack turned back to us. ‘We weren’t even there. We were in the music shop.’

  I said, ‘As long as they don’t ask the reason we were in the music shop.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll want to know why?’ said Elsie.

  ‘It’s a free country,’ Jack said.

  As he spoke, the staff-room door opened and the policeman ushered out the latest interviewee, who was still in the middle of a sentence.

  ‘… and that’s why I pay my taxes,’ he was saying.

  The policeman nodded and blocked the way back with his shoulders. Jack struggled to his feet. ‘I’m next,’ he said.

  But Handy Simon walked past us and slipped through.

  ‘Well I never did.’ Jack watched the door for a very long time. Even after it had closed.

  I squinted at the shelf on the opposite wall. ‘I think I’m going to water that plant,’ I said.

  HANDY SIMON

  Handy Simon had never been a big fan of policemen. He was stopped by one once for having a tail-light out, and it took him three days to recover. It wasn’t so much the uniform, because he was used to his dad’s, it was the worry that he might be mistaken for someone else. Simon always thought he looked like the photofits on Crimewatch. There was something about his face. Something universal. He could never see it himself, but other people seemed to, so whenever he heard a loud bang, he’d look at the clock and make a mental note of what he was doing, just in case it turned out to be gunfire and he found himself sharing a cell with a tattooist called Daryl.

  The policeman smiled at him across the desk, although Simon couldn’t decide if it was a smile of reassurance or a smile of sudden recognition.

  ‘We’ll just get a few details straight first,’ he said, and his pen hovered over the paper.

  Simon confirmed his name and address as clearly as he could. He even repeated it a couple of times, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘And you’ve worked at Cherry Tree for how long?’

  ‘Just over five years. Five years, two months and fifteen days.’

  The policeman looked up and smiled again. The smiling was unexpected and most off-putting.

  ‘Five years? You must enjoy it,’ he said.

  This was a bit of a curveball. Simon shuffled around in his seat whilst he tried to think of an answer. It was important to be honest, but he didn’t want to be too honest, in case it was written down in evidence and later mentioned in court.

  ‘It has its ups and downs,’ he said eventually.

  The policeman’s pen just hovered.

  ‘Aren’t you going to write that down?’ said Simon. ‘In evidence?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That it has its ups and downs?’

  ‘No. I was just making conversation.’ The policeman coughed. ‘When was the last time you remember seeing Mrs Honeyman?’

  ‘Are you still making conversation?’ said Simon. ‘Or is it a question?’

  ‘No, it’s a question.’

  ‘I’m not certain. It’s difficult to be sure.’

  ‘Difficult to be sure?’

  ‘I mean they all look quite similar, don’t they? Unless you’re concentrating.’

  ‘And you weren’t concentrating?’ said the policeman.

  Simon sat back. ‘Of course I was concentrating. You won’t find anyone who concentrates more than I do. Or does as many head counts.’ He reached for his backpack, but then he realised his clipboard was already on the desk. ‘She was definitely there at the start of the walk, because I counted her.’

  The policeman looked at the chart. ‘But by the time you reached the park gates, she’d disappeared.’

  Simon nodded.

  The policeman spent the next few minutes writing, and all Simon could hear was the scratch of his pen on the paper.

  ‘So how would you describe Mrs Honeyman, Simon?’

  Simon stared at a stain on his jacket. ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Why don’t we start with what she looks like?’

  ‘Don’t you already know?’

  ‘We do, but I want to hear what you have to say about it.’

  ‘Average height. Average build.’ Simon continued to stare at the stain in the hope it might offer some inspiration. ‘Grey hair.’

  ‘That could describe most people on this trip, couldn’t it, though?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Simon rubbed at the stain, because it clearly wasn’t helping.

  ‘Any distinguishing features?’

  Simon looked up. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Anything that makes her stand out from the others?’

  Simon had to think about it for a few minutes before he spoke.

  ‘She’s quite good at cribbage,’ he said.

  ‘Well?’ Miss Ambrose stood next to the telephone table in reception.

  Simon was afraid to meet her eye, so he spoke to the table instead. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘I hope you stressed how conscientious we are at Cherry Tree. How resident safety is a priority. You do remember me telling you to say that?’

  ‘Shall I go back?’ he said.

  He dared to steal a glance and thankfully, she had her eyes closed. He was usually quite good at instructions, at least when they involved moving furniture or unblocking drains, it was just when it was to do with people he found it a bit more tricky.

  As he was waiting for Miss Ambrose to finish her deep breathing, a few of the residents appeared in reception and loitered around the foot of the stairs. He knew how they felt. He didn’t really know what to do with himself either.

  Miss Ambrose studied them. ‘And why aren’t you talking to the police? I thought Jack was next on the list.’

  ‘I was.’ Jack gave Simon a strange look, which he didn’t really understand. ‘The constable is having a little comfort break, I believe. We’ve got to go back in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘We should be out there searching,’ said Florence. ‘Not sitting around here having conversations with policemen.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Jack started buttoning his coat, but Miss Ambrose raised her hand and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at it.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said. She left very big gaps between all the words, and the gaps made Jack unbutton his coat again and everyone else gather closer to the stairs and become very quiet.

  ‘At least I managed to get hold of Gloria.’ Miss Ambrose turned back to Simon. ‘She had a look through Mrs Honeyman’s records and managed to fax things over.’

  ‘Any relatives to call?’ said Simon.

  ‘No one.’ Miss Ambrose checked through the sheets of paper she had in her hands. ‘No children. Parents of course, but they’re obviously long gone. Not sure of their names.’ She turned a page. ‘Here we go. Arthur and Clarice.’

  The hallway was silent, so there was no doubt about who spoke next. Simon heard all the words very clearly.

  ‘They loved this place!’ Florence shouted from the foot of the stairs.

  FLORENCE

  ‘What bench?’

  We were back in the staff room. The policeman hadn’t yet returned, but still Jack whispered.

  ‘Up near the whalebones.’ I waved my arms around a bit in frustration. ‘We sat on it this afternoon.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember sitting on a bench near the whalebones,’ Jack said.

  ‘No, not you. It’s on a brass plaque: In memory of Arthur and Clarice. They loved this place.’ I slipped into shouting again and Elsie was forced to shush me up a bit.

  ‘What are you trying to say, Flo?’ She kept gesturing for me to sit, but
sitting down and thinking don’t always mix very well.

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. They must be Mrs Honeyman’s parents,’ I said.

  ‘And if they are?’ Jack’s eyes were letterbox-narrow.

  ‘They loved this place means they probably came here often. They might have even lived here. Which means she might have done too. And who else has a connection with Whitby? Who was born here?’

  Jack shifted in his plastic seat. ‘Gabriel Price,’ he said.

  ‘So it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it,’ I said, ‘that it’s Mrs Honeyman and no one else, who has been vanished away?’

  ‘I don’t think we should run away with ourselves.’ Elsie reached for my arm, as though she might be able to put a stop to any of the running. ‘I think it’s much more sensible to let the appropriate people deal with this.’

  I made sure I took a very deep breath before I spoke. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Which is why I’m going to tell the policeman.’

  It is a cliché that policemen look young, but this one really did. His limbs had that uncooperative air only ever seen in adolescents, and looking at the chaos on his top lip, it appeared he was attempting to grow a moustache. I’m afraid he was ahead of his time. I stared quite openly at it as we sat down, and there was nothing Elsie could do to stop me. If people will insist on having facial hair, they’ve only got themselves to blame if people choose to study it. We were supposed to have our interviews individually, but Elsie and I went in together because she said I was on the verge of hysteria, and no one seemed to mind.

  ‘Try to think before you speak,’ she said to me. The room was very small. Judging by the metal shelves and the giant tins of apricot segments, it was some kind of stock room. There was so little air, it felt as though we had to take it in turns to breathe. The policeman was messing around with the window catch, but he smiled at us when he turned back, and I immediately calmed down a little. Policemen always have that effect on me. Policemen and vicars. I suppose one protects me from criminals and the other from fire and brimstone, so it feels as though all the bases are covered.

  The policeman asked the usual details. I added my date of birth as well, just for good measure, even though he didn’t mention it.

  ‘I’m eighty-four,’ I said. ‘The same age as Elsie, only I’ve spent less time in the sun.’

  The policeman looked through the many sheets of paper covering the desk. ‘The same age as Mrs Honeyman,’ he said.

  ‘Are we?’ I said.

  Elsie sat back. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  The policeman nodded. He asked how well we knew her. He said it with an air of uncertainty, and I didn’t want to lose his attention, so I told him we all knew each other extremely well. We didn’t, obviously. People have the idea that old people always get along with each other, that everyone swims in the same direction, like a shoal of fish, never finding anything to argue about. I suppose to them, old age must look very much like a battleground, and you all have to fight for the same side, just to survive.

  ‘And how would you describe Mrs Honeyman?’ said the policeman.

  I held the words in my mouth whilst I had a think.

  ‘Round face. Doesn’t speak much. Not very good with stairs,’ I said.

  ‘Very quiet,’ said Elsie. ‘Sleeps a lot. I wonder sometimes if she isn’t a little depressed.’

  ‘I wonder if she was depressed as well,’ I said. ‘She never seems to have anyone to talk to.’

  ‘Really?’ The policeman looked at his notes. ‘No one else has mentioned that. Has she recently lost someone?’

  ‘Just the person she used to be,’ I said, but the policeman chose not to reply.

  ‘So would you describe Mrs Honeyman as vulnerable?’ he said.

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘I suppose so, but aren’t we all, if you think about it for long enough?’

  The policeman tapped his pen on the desk before he started to write.

  After a few minutes, he looked up again and said, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She has a bladder the size of a peanut,’ I said.

  Elsie tutted. ‘I should hardly think the sergeant needs to know about Mrs Honeyman’s kidney function, Florence.’

  ‘She disappeared going to the toilet, didn’t she?’ I tried to raise myself up in my seat, but I’d lost a good couple of inches in the past few years, and I sometimes over-estimate its effect.

  ‘She was seen going into the lavatories.’ Elsie turned from me and addressed the policeman.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we are aware of that.’

  ‘But that’s not the important thing,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  The policeman stopped writing. ‘So what do you think might be the important thing, Miss …’

  ‘Claybourne,’ I said. ‘I’m eighty-four.’

  ‘Have you got something you feel you want to tell the police, Miss Claybourne?’

  ‘We most certainly have,’ I said.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Elsie. And Jack of course.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘But he’s outside.’

  ‘I see.’ The policeman folded an arm across his chest, and sighed into his other hand.

  ‘You have someone on that list.’ I prodded my finger at the desk. ‘Called Ronnie Butler.’ I watched the policeman scroll with his pen down the names of the residents. ‘But you won’t find him.’

  He looked up. ‘I won’t?’

  ‘No, you won’t. Because he’s not listed as Ronnie Butler, he’s listed as Gabriel Price.’

  He didn’t reply, although his mouth opened very slightly.

  ‘He’s masquerading as someone else, Inspector,’ I said, ‘and he’s exceptionally dangerous. He always has been.’

  The policeman sat back. ‘That’s a very serious allegation, Miss Claybourne.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not an allegation, it’s a well-known fact. He drowned, in 1953, and he’s come back from the dead pretending to be someone else. If that isn’t dangerous, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘It’s certainly quite an achievement.’

  ‘But he’s still got the scar.’ I pointed to the corner of my mouth. ‘So it’s definitely him.’

  ‘I see.’ The policeman tried to lean back a little more, but he’d run out of space to do it in. ‘So what exactly does this gentleman have to do with Mrs Honeyman?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘He’s done away with her.’

  The policeman looked as though he was going to speak, but nothing came out.

  ‘He broke into my flat, did you hear about it?’ I said. ‘Several times.’

  The policeman began to say something, but changed his mind and shook his head instead.

  ‘He’s been moving things around. He bought all that cake. No one believes me. Even Miss Ambrose doesn’t believe me.’

  ‘Shall I get Miss Ambrose?’ the policeman said.

  ‘As a witness?’ I gripped the edge of the desk.

  ‘No, I just—’

  ‘He killed Beryl, but none of you could prove it. You’ll write it down, won’t you, the name? Ronnie Butler,’ I said. ‘You’ll make sure he’s arrested?’

  The policeman stood, and we copied him. It was the same with doctors and solicitors. The strangest reflex. ‘I’ll make sure the right people know all about it,’ he said.

  I held on to the sleeve of his uniform. ‘You’re the first person who’s listened to me,’ I said.

  I waited for his reply, but there was nothing.

  It was much later. When Elsie came out of the bathroom, I was leaning against the windowsill and looking out on to the crescent. The interviews took a lot longer than anyone anticipated, and it had grown very dark. It was quite amazing how much everyone had to say about Mrs Honeyman, considering we knew so little about her. The hotel put a light buffet on in the dining room, but no one had much of an appetite. I saw Ronnie Butler eat more than his fair share, and
Jack forced down a couple of vol-au-vents, but most of it was returned to the kitchens untouched. Gail with an i sniffed very loudly as she took all the plates back, and said a lot of things about third-world countries which no one could really hear properly, because of all the sniffing.

  Elsie joined me at the window. She stood there in her nightdress, silhouetted against a coastal sky, scoops of white hair and frail, worn shoulders, all floodlit by a Yorkshire moon.

  ‘Are you still not hungry?’ she said.

  ‘I might be able to manage an Ovaltine.’ I didn’t turn. ‘Except I can’t stop thinking about her being out there somewhere. On her own. It doesn’t make any sense, Elsie. Does it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘She wasn’t confused. She wouldn’t just wander off.’

  ‘It might have been seeing Whitby again after all these years. Perhaps she got muddled. Perhaps she fell into the past and couldn’t find her way back.’

  In the distance there were lights on the water. Ships, perhaps, sleeping somewhere far across the ocean, and even through the glass, I could hear the tides. The never-ending waves, pulling against the earth, shaping the landscape.

  We watched a woman walk by with her dog.

  ‘It never stops, Whitby, does it?’ I said. ‘No matter what the time is. Most places settle down, but Whitby just keeps moving.’

  ‘I expect it’s the sea. A wave travels thousands of miles and finds its way here to make its mark. It must be difficult to sleep when something so amazing is happening.’

  I was going to draw the curtains, but something stopped me, and I took one last look through the glass and out towards the ocean.

  ‘I hope she’s all right,’ I said. ‘I hope she can find her way back.’

  I held the material in my hand. Never before had it felt so difficult to close a curtain.