Three Things About Elsie(87)

‘I could always recruit Billy bloody Elliott over there.’ Miss Ambrose nodded at Handy Simon. ‘It looks as though he’s finally found something he enjoys doing.’

‘I’m fine as I am, thank you.’ I held on to the plate of egg sandwiches. ‘It’s important in life to know when to sit a dance out.’

Elsie was looking at me. I could tell by the angle of her head, although I refused to turn round. When Miss Ambrose had disappeared to crouch in front of someone else, and Jack had gone to refill his plate, she whispered in my ear.

‘Will you dance with me, Florence? For old times’ sake? For all we know, this may be our very last chance.’

As she spoke, the little man on the stage waved his baton at the cassette player, and the first few bars of a song drifted into the room.

‘See!’ said Elsie. ‘It’s Al Bowlly. It’s fate. Just one more dance, Florence. One more foxtrot.’

We hadn’t danced together since Beryl died. We lost each other somehow after that, and things were never the same. I danced with other people, of course, but it wasn’t like dancing with Elsie. Now we were together again, it felt as though the orchestra had only paused for a moment before starting the next song. As though the whole of the rest of our lives had been spirited away.

Her shoulders felt more frail. I could feel the bones of her, pressing into flesh, and she was lighter, less sturdy. The slightest breeze could have stolen her away. But as we danced, these things seemed to become less important. She was familiar. Constant. She was Elsie. The person she had always been.

We shuffled around the floor, rather than danced. I’m not sure if it was Elsie or if it was me, but perhaps neither of us moved with the same amount of certainty. Elsie sang as she danced, and I sang, too.

I’ll be remembering you, whatever else I do,

Midnight, with the stars and you.

Because sometimes, you need to sing and dance. Even if you are eighty-four. Even if your bones push into your flesh, and the slightest breeze could steal you away.

The other dancers seemed to move back, and when Al Bowlly’s voice finally drifted into the distance, Elsie and I were standing alone in the middle of the floor. I could see Miss Bissell and Miss Ambrose staring at us; Handy Simon, too. And Jack, who had risen from his seat and was looking right into my eyes. I didn’t care. I didn’t care how strange it might look that two women were dancing together, and I didn’t care that we sang as we danced. I was about to tell everyone who was passing judgement on us how very much I didn’t care, when the double doors opened at the bottom of the room, and a woman stood in front of us looking confused and dishevelled, and ever so slightly bewildered.

It was Mrs Honeyman.





HANDY SIMON


‘She hasn’t said a word.’ Miss Ambrose had a telephone in one hand and the side of her head in the other. ‘Not a word. The police think she’s in shock.’

Handy Simon peeped through the gap in the door. Mrs Honeyman was sitting on a giant armchair in the staff room. Or perhaps the armchair wasn’t giant at all, but Mrs Honeyman had shrunk at some point during the last twenty-four hours.

‘Where has she been?’ Simon peeped a little more. ‘What’s she been doing?’

‘No one knows, Simon.’ Miss Ambrose gave him the kind of look usually conjured up by Miss Bissell. ‘That’s the whole point. Each time we ask her, she just stares at us in silence.’

‘Should we ring for a doctor?’

Miss Ambrose pointed at the telephone and blew out her cheeks.

To avoid any further eyebrow-lifting and cheek-blowing, Simon wandered towards the noticeboard and read about checking-out times and spare pillows. He was never very good in a crisis. Perhaps because his father was usually there, and he appeared to have a natural affinity for it. Simon usually hung around at the edges, swinging his arms slightly and occasionally bending his knees, to distinguish himself from the furniture.

Despite being told to remain in the ballroom, a small group of Cherry Tree escapees appeared in reception, led (of course) by Florence Claybourne, and they gathered around Miss Ambrose in a pool of curiosity.

‘I don’t know any more than you do,’ he could hear Miss Ambrose shout over their heads. ‘She is, but she isn’t saying anything.’ And ‘No, you can’t go in there.’

‘But she must have given you some clue?’ Florence’s voice rose above the rest, as they followed Miss Ambrose and her telephone around the hall. ‘She must have said something?’

‘Nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m just trying to get hold of a – yes, hello!’

Miss Ambrose faced into the flocked wallpaper, and the group turned their attentions to Simon, like cheetahs on the Serengeti.

‘Don’t look at me,’ he said. ‘I probably know even less than you do.’

When the doctor arrived he was ushered into the room with the giant armchair. Simon tried to walk in behind him, but Miss Bissell shut the door with such a thud, it sent Simon three steps backwards and straight into Miss Ambrose, who appeared to be attempting the same tactic.

‘It’s just a precaution,’ said Miss Ambrose, after she’d restored her balance. ‘She looks absolutely fine to me.’

‘Absolutely fine,’ repeated Simon, although according to his father, his mother had also looked absolutely fine until just before her heart attack. She’d even made her selection from the drinks trolley and inflated a neck cushion.