Three Things About Elsie(90)

Jack gestured for him to go on.

‘And everything it influenced,’ Simon said, ‘all those things will change the universe in some way, too. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the impact it made.’

‘I don’t suppose we will,’ I said.

Simon stood back, as though the realisation that such a small thing had such a large consequence meant that he should allow it a little more space in the world.

I picked up the ammonite and held it in the palm of my hand. ‘No matter how long or how short a time you are here, the world is ever so slightly different because you existed. Although I’m not sure how anyone can ever prove it.’

‘Perhaps we don’t have to,’ said Simon. ‘Perhaps just knowing that is enough.’

After Simon and his new viewpoint on life had left the room, the three of us sat in silence around the table.

‘What now?’ I said, because it seemed like no one else was going to speak.

‘Perhaps,’ said Jack, ‘perhaps we should just let Ronnie disappear again.’

‘How can you say such a thing?’ It was the closest Elsie ever got to a shout.

‘That’s not like you, Jack.’ I frowned at him. ‘Where’s your fighting spirit?’

‘All fought out,’ he said, and he tried to smile. ‘The police obviously don’t believe us, Ronnie’s managed to terrify anyone who could identify him, and who’s going to listen to what we’ve got to say anyway?’

‘We can’t just let him win.’ I looked at the ammonite. ‘We can’t just let him alter the world as he pleases.’

‘But how can we stop him?’ Jack stood and held on to the back of a chair. ‘The bus leaves in a couple of hours, Florence. I think I’m going for a lie-down.’

We watched him shuffle out of the dining room, worn down by all the years and all the thinking. Perhaps it was the sea air. It made a body tired somehow, as though the salt pulled away all your energy. I looked at Elsie.

‘So, are you going for a lie-down as well?’ I said.

‘Of course not. You’ve gone and forgotten, haven’t you?’

‘Forgotten what?’

She winked at me. ‘We’ve got to say goodbye to the sea.’

We walked past the stalls selling Whitby fudge and thick sticks of rock, past the shells and the beads, and the rows of postcards, towards the abbey steps, where the shops lay hidden on cobbled streets, waiting to be found.

‘Do you remember,’ said Elsie, ‘we used to spend hours trying to choose what to take home with us?’

‘Nothing much has changed, then.’ I looked at my watch. ‘We have to be back soon, or Miss Ambrose will have a coronary.’

Elsie gazed in the window of a gallery.

‘Perhaps I’ll buy a painting,’ she said, ‘of the harbour. Or perhaps a picture of some beach huts.’

I thought about the skip outside number twelve and the crash of glass against metal. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘Why ever not? Who doesn’t love a row of beach huts? They look just like a smile.’

‘Perhaps a tin of biscuits,’ I said. ‘More practical.’

‘Holidays aren’t the time to be practical, Florence. You can save practical for all the other weeks of the year.’

We walked a little further, to a window filled with Whitby jet, smooth and dark, with a reflection that felt almost like a mirror. There were rings and necklaces, bracelets and earrings, all shining back at us from their trays.

‘It’s a beautiful stone, isn’t it?’ said Elsie. ‘Whitby jet.’

I stared into the window. ‘It’s a fossil,’ I said.

‘Is it?’

‘Well, fossilised wood. Thousands of years’ worth of existence, carved into a shape we can recognise.’

‘How do you know that?’ said Elsie.

‘I read about it,’ I said. ‘In a magazine. The Victorians wore it as part of bereavement. As a remembrance of their loss.’ I pointed to a brooch in the far corner of the display. ‘Although how something so beautiful can be associated with sadness is a little bit beyond me.’

‘Perhaps it helped them to accept the loss, knowing something from so long ago still had a place in the world.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said.

The brooch watched us through the shop window. It was a perfect circle, flawless and shining and inky black. Surrounding it was a silver rope, which held it forever in a polished frame.

‘Why don’t you treat yourself,’ said Elsie. ‘Something to look back on.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? You obviously love that brooch.’

‘It’s a gift you’d buy for someone you love, isn’t it? Not something you buy for yourself. Anyway, I don’t wear jewellery.’

‘Perhaps you should start?’ said Elsie, but I had already moved along the street.

‘Shortbread,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy a box of shortbread, and if I don’t get around to eating it, Miss Ambrose can have it for the raffle.’

In the end, we both decided on a box of shortbread, and while Elsie disappeared to the toilets, I listened to the church bells and bought us both an ice cream, and we made it last all the way back to the hotel.