‘There I am,’ I say. ‘I’m there, look!’ as though I’ve bumped into an old friend.
We’re all in our uniforms, and everyone is saying cheese. Everyone except little Eileen Everest. It was as though she knew she wouldn’t have a future to look into. Run over by a tram on Llandudno seafront when she was seven. I often look at Eileen, imprisoned behind wood and glass, watching us all grow old without her. She never really belonged, even in that photograph. There’s always one child in a class. One who doesn’t fit in. A little soul at the edge of the playground, not knowing where they should stand. You can spot them a mile off. That was Eileen Everest. She was sickly, too. Bad chest. That’s why she went to Llandudno in the first place. We were standing on the town-hall steps, hiding behind our mothers’ coats whilst they had a conversation about how they were planning to go. I was going to tell her all about Whitby and say, ‘Why don’t you visit there instead?’ but I didn’t. Because no one ever spoke to Eileen Everest. It was just something we didn’t do.
It was the last I ever saw of her.
Next to the photograph, there’s a telephone, although it never gets used from one week to the next. If I ever need to give my number to someone, I have to look it up on a piece of paper.
‘All our residents have access to a telephone.’ I hear Miss Bissell say this sometimes, when she’s giving one of her guided tours. I don’t have access now, not from where I’m lying. I never used it even when I did. I don’t care what they all thought.
‘If you continue to misuse the telephone, Florence,’ said Miss Ambrose, ‘we’re going to have to take it away.’
I didn’t misuse anything. I didn’t ring for any taxis. What would I need with half a dozen taxis, all going to different places? She paid for the pizzas as well, out of the petty cash. She had to, because the man in the red apron wouldn’t leave. I knew it was Ronnie. Ringing up in that soft, whispery voice of his. Pretending to be anyone he wanted to.
‘Don’t look at me,’ I said, but she did anyway. She never took her eyes off me when she was handing them round. ‘There’s no point in anything going to waste,’ she said.
I didn’t have any. I’ve never eaten pizza in my life, I said, and I’m not going to start now. She didn’t even answer me. That’s the problem with Cherry Tree. People sometimes forget that you’re waiting for a reply.
Another problem with Cherry Tree is there are no cherry trees. I’ve had this out with Miss Bissell on more than one occasion, but she won’t be told. ‘One of them must be,’ is all she can come up with, but none of them is. It’s the kind of name you give to these places, though. Woodlands, Oak Court, Pine Lodge. They’re often named after trees, for some reason. It’s the same with mental health units. Forests full of forgotten people, waiting to be found again. The last time I spoke to Miss Bissell about it, she said we could grow a cherry tree and have a planting ceremony. Invite a celebrity to come and hold the spade, that type of nonsense. Nothing will come of it, of course. It feels like you can call a thing whatever you want to, in an attempt to turn it into something else. Everyone knows it doesn’t change what it is, but it alters people’s view of it, which is perhaps the only thing that really matters. You can’t trust anything to be what it calls itself any more.
It’s like the day room. It isn’t a day room, it’s an All The Bloody Time Room. Everybody will be in there now and it isn’t daytime. They’ll all be sitting on Dralon settees, living a soap-opera life through a television screen. Someone will lose the remote control in a jumble of cushions, and Miss Ambrose will have to appear from behind her glass and dig down the side of chairs until it’s found. People will doze off and wander off, and have muddled-up arguments about imaginary things, and no one will notice I’m not there. Because I am never there.
Elsie was forever telling me to join in. She always said, ‘You might enjoy it, if you try.’
Elsie found it easy, talking to people. If anyone new started at work, she was drawn across that factory floor like an iron filing. I couldn’t do it. You can’t just slip on a different coat and become someone else. So I would leave it to her, and spend my time listening to the leftovers of other people’s conversations. The only problem is, I’ve spent so long standing at the edge that when I finally turn away, I doubt there is anyone in this world who will even notice.
I do wish that gas fire was on.
FLORENCE
It was Tuesday. Tuesday was Healthy Hearts. Fitness Pete had a T-shirt with ‘Just Do It’ on the front, and a talent for making an hour pass very slowly, and so I walked back to the flat before anyone realised I wasn’t there. Thinking filled up my ears, and I almost didn’t hear Miss Ambrose calling my name.
‘Florence?’
And doing a strange little trot on the path behind me.
‘I’m giving it a miss,’ I shouted back. ‘I’m not allowed to do many things any more, but I’m still allowed to give things a miss.’
‘Florence, I wondered if I might have a little word?’
I rearranged my face before I turned.
The trot eventually brought her level. ‘Shall we go to your flat?’ She nodded across the courtyard. ‘To have our little chat?’
‘Let’s start now,’ I said. ‘If it’s that little, we might even finish it before we get there.’
‘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.