Three Things About Elsie(32)

‘The thing is …’ Her voice slowed along with her pace. ‘I’ve had a complaint.’

I looked up at the rooftops. A bird sat on the guttering of the day room, and followed us with marbled eyes. It was black, but it wasn’t a blackbird.

‘Well, not a complaint as such. More of an observation.’

It was much bigger. Bigger than a pigeon.

The bird sidestepped, shifting its weight and listening to us, and hammering out its curiosity on the plastic. What do we call you? Bigger Than A Pigeon.

‘I suppose observation isn’t really accurate either. Perhaps concern. Yes, that’s it. Someone has expressed concern.’ Miss Ambrose nodded at her final choice.

I frowned at the bird. ‘Which someone?’ I said.

Miss Ambrose cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s Mr Price, to be honest.’

‘Mr Price?’ The bird fired itself into the sky, and I could hear its laughter scatter across the courtyard. ‘What has Mr Price got to be concerned about?’

I held the key to the front door and hoped she wouldn’t notice the tremor at its tip.

‘Well, it’s you, actually,’ she said.

‘Me?’ I tried to remember what my normal face looked like. ‘Why is he concerned about me?’

Miss Ambrose winced, as though she’d pulled a hamstring. ‘He says you’ve been watching him, Florence.’

‘I watch a lot of things.’ The key stayed in mid-air. ‘The news, the weather forecast, the world pass by.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Miss Ambrose paused, her eye on the key. ‘But none of them with binoculars.’

The key fell to the floor. ‘Binoculars? He says I’ve been watching him with binoculars? I don’t even own a pair of binoculars. I wouldn’t know where to start with a pair of binoculars.’

Miss Ambrose gave me the kind of smile you give to a dog who can’t quite manage to catch its ball. ‘Shall we?’ she said, and nodded at the front door.

‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.’ I pulled at my raincoat. I couldn’t find a way out of it.

Miss Ambrose wandered ahead into the sitting room.

‘It’s slander.’ I finally escaped from the coat. ‘I want to speak to Miss Bissell. Get her on the telephone.’

When I walked into the sitting room, Miss Ambrose was poised by the door, with her mouth ever so slightly open. Her fingers still rested on the handle.

I followed her gaze.

They were on the windowsill, their strap hanging against the radiator. Next to them was a brown leather case. Hand-stitched by the look of it. There was a small cloth, too. For cleaning the lenses, I would think.

Miss Ambrose spoke, but her gaze remained fixed. ‘Shall we put the kettle on?’ she said.

‘No one is sending anyone to Greenbank,’ said Jack.

We sat on one of the benches, the three of us, in a row of thinking. As we watched, leaves broke free from tired branches, and an autumn cemetery lay at our feet. Even the bench felt graveyard cold. An early frost had crept into the wood, and it had left its hiding place and found its way into my bones.

‘They’re probably coming for me right now,’ I said. ‘They’re probably on their way.’ Panic abandoned my stomach and climbed towards my throat.

Elsie said, ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours, Florence, getting in a state. You’re on probation, remember?’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘It’s a figure of speech, that’s all.’

‘A crow!’ I shouted. I knew I’d shouted, but sometimes it happens before I can put a stop to it. ‘It was a crow. They can’t send me to Greenbank, because I’ve remembered it was a crow.’

Jack looked up. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I couldn’t remember what that bird was called. Now I remember. It’s a crow. There’s another one there, look.’

‘Does it matter what it’s called? What would you like to call it?’ he said.

I stared at the crow. ‘Black, Not A Pigeon,’ I said.

Elsie raised her eyebrows.

‘Does it look any different, now you’ve given it a name?’ said Jack.

I shook my head at Black, Not A Pigeon.

‘You’re still here to see it and listen to it, and watch it fly. So does it really matter if you can’t remember what it’s called?’ he said.

‘I don’t suppose it does,’ I said.

‘So why don’t you sit down, and we’ll try to work out this problem.’

I didn’t realise I had stood.

Jack sighed. The breath left his body, and clouds of white thinking drifted across the courtyard. ‘I think you need to tell me about Beryl,’ he said.

They met at the dance, Beryl and Ronnie.

I never know where to begin, so I began with that. I told Jack about how, whichever band was playing that week, they would conjure up Al Bowlly and send him spinning across the room. About how we all travelled across a Saturday-night dance floor without a backward glance, before old age arrived and kept us in our seats.

‘Elsie and I always danced together,’ I said, ‘before she met her Albert.’

‘Who’s Alb—’ said Jack.