Three Things About Elsie(29)

I went back to whitening my knuckles.

‘It’ll go off in a minute,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s antiques next. What’s It Worth? Everyone likes antiques.’

‘Perhaps if I was a roll-top table, I might get more visitors,’ I said, and everyone stared.

Even Mrs Honeyman.





MISS AMBROSE


Anthea Ambrose peered out into the day room. General Jack was laying down the foundations of an opinion, and Florence Claybourne had spent the last twenty minutes staring at her. Now Jack was joining in, turning in his chair and frowning.

Miss Ambrose took out her notebook. She was writing down things of her own, because she wasn’t convinced Handy Simon was to be relied upon. Plus, it wasn’t something you could necessarily put down in words. Words were not always adequate. This was more of a feeling. A sense that things were not quite as they should be, and it troubled her.

‘I wonder if I might trouble you?’

A voice sent the pencil flying from her hand, and she scrambled around on the floor to retrieve it.

‘Mr Price. Not a problem. What can I do for you?’

Gabriel Price didn’t reply until she had found the pencil, repositioned herself on the seat, and brushed a stray piece of hair from her top lip.

‘It’s a delicate matter, I’m afraid.’ He glanced into the day room through the chequered glass. ‘May I speak with you privately?’

She hesitated for a moment and said, ‘Of course,’ and he reached back to close the office door.

Miss Ambrose felt the day room disappear. It was strange how just a click sent everyone else an ocean away, rather than just the other side of a pane of glass. The television threw out images of antique furniture, Mrs Honeyman still dozed in the corner, and Jack waved his walking stick around at no one in particular. Even the rain had stopped, and the silence made it seem as if the world was a very elaborate play, written and performed for her entertainment, and yet one in which she was only ever going to be part of the audience.

‘Miss Ambrose?’

‘Sorry, I drifted off for a moment. What were you saying?’

‘The tall woman.’ He nodded at the day room. ‘You must excuse me, I’ve not quite got to grips with everyone’s names yet.’

‘Miss Claybourne?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, that would be the one.’ He checked the door again. ‘The thing is, I think she might be having a few problems.’

‘Problems?’

‘With the old upstairs.’ He tapped a finger against his temple. ‘Short on the marbles.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He sighed and put his hands on the desk. ‘I think she might be getting a bit confused.’

‘Really?’ Miss Ambrose looked over at her notebook. ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’

‘You know I’m not one to complain.’

‘Of course not.’

‘But she’s been – how can I put this nicely – spying on people.’

‘People?’

‘Me, actually,’ he said. ‘With binoculars.’

Miss Ambrose sat back.

‘I wasn’t going to mention it. I don’t want to get Florence into trouble, and I’ve got no objection to being spied upon.’ He laughed, but Miss Ambrose had noticed that laughter never quite climbed as far as his eyes. ‘But I thought I’d better say something. Vulnerable, the elderly, aren’t they? When they get to that stage?’

‘They certainly are.’ Miss Ambrose frowned.

‘I’ll leave it with you,’ he said.

She expected him to go, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood, just for a moment, the not-quite-smile resting on his mouth, the not-quite-stare held in his eyes. Eventually, the door unclicked and he disappeared, and Miss Ambrose found that she could breathe again.

She needed to think, but any thoughts she had were eaten away by the tap of Jack’s walking stick and Mrs Honeyman’s snoring, and the sound of Florence Claybourne making one of her points, and so she took her notepad and her pencil, and a lipstick for good measure, and decided to go for a walk.





FLORENCE


‘She’s off,’ I said.

Elsie watched Miss Ambrose’s retreating back. ‘So she is.’

Jack took up his position in the corridor.

Miss Ambrose’s office reminded me of a jumble sale. Everything was on display. Drawers not quite closed, cupboards slightly ajar, all her belongings spread out on the desk like a shop counter.

‘Wherever do we start?’ I picked up a stapler, and its jaw hung open to reveal a set of silver teeth.

‘I wonder how she manages to work,’ Elsie said. ‘You’d think she’d be too distracted.’

I examined a collection of pen tops and paperclips, which leaked from a plastic box at the corner of her desk. ‘Perhaps it represents her mind?’

‘Busy?’

‘A bloody mess,’ I said, and Elsie laughed.

Through the glass, I could see the top of Jack’s cap wandering up and down the corridor. Elsie saw it too. ‘Let’s get a move on,’ she said.

We searched. Strangely, it is more difficult to search in a place that’s disorganised, because you can never quite be sure how familiar someone is with their own particular mess. It might be very personal, exactly where on the floor litter has fallen and how many inches a drawer lies open. We had to work carefully, but despite our best efforts, all we found were half a dozen Sainsbury’s receipts and last year’s staff Christmas card.