Three Things About Elsie(88)

‘We’ll wait here. Best not to overwhelm her.’ Miss Ambrose took over looking at the spare-pillows notice, and Simon had to find something else to occupy his eyes. In the end, he settled on the kitchen door. Panelled. Scuffed around the edges. Looked through every few minutes by the woman who owned the hotel.

‘Will your party be requiring anything else?’ Gail said. ‘Light refreshments? The rest of the Yorkshire Constabul-ary? Armed bodyguards, perhaps?’

Miss Ambrose shook her head and Simon stared at the floor. There was a constant parade of Cherry Tree residents up and down the stairs, on the pretext of picking up a leaflet from the reception desk, or making sure they knew how to order spare pillows. Miss Claybourne had been down at least four times and from where he sat, Simon could see Jack waiting for her on the landing. After what seemed like a lifetime, the doctor finally left, and Miss Ambrose stood in reception with her hands on her hips. They were taking Mrs Honeyman to the cottage hospital for a few days. Just as a precaution. Although she still hadn’t told anyone where she’d been. Miss Bissell declared herself officially at the end of her tether and went off in search of a lie-down and a small bottle of brandy.

‘Perhaps we should all try and get some rest,’ said Miss Ambrose. ‘We’re back to Cherry Tree tomorrow evening, and it won’t be an easy journey.’

Simon agreed by standing up. He tried to find some words, but so many had been thrown around during the course of the evening, he didn’t seem to have any left. Perhaps it wasn’t only Mrs Honeyman who had been shocked into silence. As he started to climb the stairs, Simon looked up at the landing. He couldn’t be certain, but he was fairly sure he spotted Miss Claybourne’s lace-ups and the edge of a walking stick just disappearing out of view.





FLORENCE


‘Where’s the cottage hospital?’

We sat opposite Jack and two scrambled eggs. He’d been pushing them around his plate for the last half an hour.

‘Near the library,’ said Jack. ‘I spotted it yesterday when we were getting in the taxi.’

‘Do you think they’ll let us in?’ I said. ‘Perhaps she’ll have a policeman sitting outside her room.’

‘She’s not a criminal,’ said Elsie. ‘Or a pop star.’

‘If she wants to see us,’ said Jack. He gave up on the eggs and edged the plate away.

I looked over to where Ronnie sat in the corner of the dining room. He wasn’t eating breakfast, either. Instead, he watched us all over a pot of coffee. There was a smile hidden in his eyes, a flicker of victory. I was in a mind for going over there, but Elsie made me sit down again.

‘Don’t aggravate things, Florence.’ Elsie pulled at my arm. ‘Just ignore him.’

‘I want to give him a piece of my mind.’ I was in the middle of pouring more tea, and I realised my hand was shaking. ‘Tell him how much misery he’s caused everyone.’

I didn’t mean to shout. I only realised I was doing it when people turned around and Miss Ambrose peered at us from the other side of the room. ‘Try to use your indoor voice,’ my mother used to say. Only there were certain times in life when your indoor voice just wasn’t quite adequate.

‘Let’s just stay calm and see what Mrs Honeyman has to say.’ Jack stood up.

‘If Mrs Honeyman has anything to say at all,’ said Elsie, and we followed him out into the sunshine, amongst the holiday clatter and the ribbons of cars, and the scream of the seagulls, all the way along the West Cliff, until the town swallowed us up into the rush of a Sunday morning.

Depressing places, hospitals. I’ve never enjoyed visiting them, because each time I have, the experience has been knitted with misery. My mother. My father. Various friends over the years whose lives have stumbled and faltered long before mine.

‘I detest hospitals,’ said Elsie, as if she could read my mind.

We walked along a main corridor, behind a belted blue uniform who had deliberated for a good fifteen minutes before she decided to allow us inside. Even Jack and his charm struggled to win her over.

‘It’s most unusual,’ she said. ‘Visiting at this hour on a Sunday.’

We were eventually allowed ten minutes, and after we left the corridor, we arrived at a side room, which was washed in early-morning sunlight and smelled vaguely of soap. Mrs Honeyman lay in a bed, with the same expression she’d been wearing the previous evening, only perhaps looking slightly less tired.

‘She’s fine, physically,’ said the nurse. ‘But her mind might not have fared so well. The only problem is, we don’t know her baseline.’

‘Baseline?’ said Jack.

‘What she’s like normally?’ It was presented as a question, and I realised for the first time that I hadn’t had a conversation with Mrs Honeyman for the entire time I’d been at Cherry Tree.

‘She’s usually very quiet,’ I said.

‘But presumably not as quiet as this?’ The nurse smoothed down a sheet and pulled the curtain back a little more.

‘No,’ I said, ‘not as quiet as this.’

‘She sleeps a lot,’ said Jack.

‘Why?’ said the nurse.

We looked at Mrs Honeyman and looked back at the nurse. No one replied.

‘Because she’s old?’ I said, eventually.