‘Florence. I just want to be sure that you’re happy at Cherry Tree?’
Miss Ambrose was one of those people whose sentences always went up at the end. As though the world appeared so uncertain to her that it needed constant interrogation. I glanced out of the window. Everything was brick and concrete, straight lines and sharp corners, and tiny windows into small lives. There was no horizon. I never thought I would lose the horizon along with everything else, but it’s only when you get old that you realise whichever direction you choose to face, you find yourself confronted with a landscape filled up with loss.
‘Perhaps we should have a little rethink about whether Cherry Tree is still the right place for you?’ she said. ‘Perhaps there’s somewhere else you’d enjoy more?’
I turned to her. ‘You’re not sending me to Greenbank.’
‘Greenbank has a far higher staff-to-resident ratio.’ Miss Ambrose tilted her head. I could see all the little lines in her neck helping it along. ‘You’d have much more one-to-one attention.’
‘I don’t want one-to-one attention. I don’t want any attention. I just want to be left in peace.’
‘Florence, as we get older, we lose the ability to judge what’s best for us. It happens to everyone. You might enjoy Greenbank. It might be fun.’
‘It’s not much fun when no one listens to what you say,’ I spoke to the radiator.
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m not going. You can’t make me.’
Miss Ambrose started to say something, but she swallowed it back instead. ‘Why don’t we try for a compromise? Shall we see how things go over the next … month, say? Then we can reassess.’
‘A month?’
‘A re-evaluation. For all of us. A probationary period.’
‘Probation? What crime did I commit?’
‘It’s a figure of speech, Florence. That’s all.’ Miss Ambrose’s shoes tapped out a little beige tune on the carpet. She pulled out a silence, like they always do, hoping you’ll fill it up with something they can get their teeth into, but I was wise to it now.
‘It’s Gone with the Wind tomorrow afternoon,’ she said eventually, when the silence didn’t work out for her.
‘I’ve seen it,’ I said.
‘The whole world’s seen it. That’s not the point.’
‘I was never very big on Clark Gable.’
I was still looking at the radiator, but I could hear Miss Ambrose lean forward. ‘You can’t just bury yourself in here, Florence. A month’s probation, remember? You’ve got to meet me halfway.’
I wanted to say, ‘Why have I got to meet anybody halfway to anywhere?’ but I didn’t. I concentrated on the radiator instead, and I didn’t stop concentrating on it until I heard the front door shut to.
‘He had bad breath, you know, Clark Gable,’ I shouted. ‘I read about it. In a magazine.’
There are three things you should know about Elsie, and the first thing is that she’s my best friend.
People chop and change best friends, first one and then another depending what kind of mood they happen to find themselves in and who they’re talking to, but mine has always been Elsie and it always will be. That’s what a best friend is all about, isn’t it? Someone who stands by you, no matter what. I can’t say we haven’t had our arguments over the years, but that’s because we’re so opposite. We even look opposite. Elsie’s short and I’m tall. Elsie’s tiny and I have big feet. Size eight. I tell everybody. Because Elsie says there comes a point when feet are so large, the only thing really left to do is to boast about them.
We spend most of our time with each other, me and Elsie. We even opted to eat our meals together, because it makes it easier for the uniforms. It’s nice to have a bit of company, because nothing in this world sounds more lonely than one knife and fork rattling on a dinner plate.
It was later that day, the day Miss Ambrose gave me my ultimatum, and Elsie and I were sitting by the window in my flat, having our lunch.
‘They’ve still not shown their face,’ I said.
I knew she’d heard me, the woman in the pink uniform. She was dishing up my meal on a wheel three feet away, and I’m a clear speaker, even at the worst of times. Elsie says I shout, but I don’t shout. I just like to make sure people have understood. I even tapped on the glass to be certain.
‘Number twelve.’ I tapped. ‘I said they’ve still not shown their face. They’ve been in there a few days now, because I’ve seen lights go on and off.’
The woman in the pink uniform spooned out a puddle of baked beans. She didn’t even flinch.
Elsie looked up.
‘Don’t shout, Flo,’ she said.
‘I’m not shouting,’ I said. ‘I’m making a point. I’m not allowed to do very much any more, but I’m still allowed to make a point. And that skip hasn’t been collected yet. They need a letter.’
‘So why don’t you write one?’ said Elsie.
I looked at her and looked away again. ‘I can’t write a letter, because I’ve been given an ultimatum.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Miss Ambrose has put me on probation.’ I spoke into the glass.
‘What crime did you commit?’
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’
‘They’ll clear the skip away soon, Miss Claybourne,’ said the woman.
I turned to her. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to sweep a person away like that. Someone ought to be told.’
‘They can do whatever they want when you’re dead,’ said Elsie. ‘Your world is their oyster, Florence.’
In the courtyard, a tumble of leaves gathered at the edge of the grass, and oranges and reds turned over and over on the concrete. ‘I only saw her last week. Walking along that path with a shopping bag.’
The woman in the pink uniform looked up. ‘It should make a difference,’ I said. ‘That I saw her. Now everything she ever was is lying in that skip.’
‘They had to clear the flat,’ she said, ‘for the next person.’
We both watched her. She gave nothing away.
‘I wonder who that is,’ I said.
Still nothing.
‘I wonder as well,’ said Elsie.
The woman in the pink uniform frowned at herself. ‘I’ve been off. And anyway, Miss Bissell deals with all of that.’
I raised my eyebrow at Elsie, but Elsie went back to her fish finger. Elsie gave up far too easily, in my opinion. There was a badge on the front of the woman’s uniform that said ‘Here to Help’.
‘It would be quite helpful,’ I said to the badge, ‘to share any rumours you might have heard.’
The words hovered for a while in mid-air.
‘All I know is, it’s a man,’ she said.
‘A man?’ I said.
Elsie looked up. ‘A man?’
‘Are you certain?’ I said.
Yes, she said; yes, she was quite certain.
Elsie and I exchanged a glance over the tablecloth. There were very few men at Cherry Tree. You spotted them from time to time, planted in the corner of the communal lounge or wandering the grounds, along paths that led nowhere except back to where they’d started. But most of the residents were women. Women who had long since lost their men. Although I always thought the word ‘lost’ sounded quite peculiar, as though they had left their husbands on a railway platform by mistake.
‘I wonder how many people went to her funeral,’ I said. ‘The woman from number twelve. Perhaps we should have made the effort.’
‘There’s never a particularly good turnout these days.’ Elsie pulled her cardigan a little tighter. It was the colour of mahogany. It did her no favours. ‘That’s the trouble with a funeral when you’re old. Most of the guest list have already pipped you to the post.’
‘She wasn’t here very long,’ I said.
Elsie pushed mashed potato on to her fork. ‘What was her name again?’