‘No one is sending anyone to Greenbank,’ said Jack.
We sat on one of the benches, the three of us, in a row of thinking. As we watched, leaves broke free from tired branches, and an autumn cemetery lay at our feet. Even the bench felt graveyard cold. An early frost had crept into the wood, and it had left its hiding place and found its way into my bones.
‘They’re probably coming for me right now,’ I said. ‘They’re probably on their way.’ Panic abandoned my stomach and climbed towards my throat.
Elsie said, ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours, Florence, getting in a state. You’re on probation, remember?’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ I said.
She sighed. ‘It’s a figure of speech, that’s all.’
‘A crow!’ I shouted. I knew I’d shouted, but sometimes it happens before I can put a stop to it. ‘It was a crow. They can’t send me to Greenbank, because I’ve remembered it was a crow.’
Jack looked up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I couldn’t remember what that bird was called. Now I remember. It’s a crow. There’s another one there, look.’
‘Does it matter what it’s called? What would you like to call it?’ he said.
I stared at the crow. ‘Black, Not A Pigeon,’ I said.
Elsie raised her eyebrows.
‘Does it look any different, now you’ve given it a name?’ said Jack.
I shook my head at Black, Not A Pigeon.
‘You’re still here to see it and listen to it, and watch it fly. So does it really matter if you can’t remember what it’s called?’ he said.
‘I don’t suppose it does,’ I said.
‘So why don’t you sit down, and we’ll try to work out this problem.’
I didn’t realise I had stood.
Jack sighed. The breath left his body, and clouds of white thinking drifted across the courtyard. ‘I think you need to tell me about Beryl,’ he said.
They met at the dance, Beryl and Ronnie.
I never know where to begin, so I began with that. I told Jack about how, whichever band was playing that week, they would conjure up Al Bowlly and send him spinning across the room. About how we all travelled across a Saturday-night dance floor without a backward glance, before old age arrived and kept us in our seats.
‘Elsie and I always danced together,’ I said, ‘before she met her Albert.’
‘Who’s Alb—’ said Jack.
‘The love of my life,’ Elsie answered before he’d even finished the question.
‘She had her head turned by a young man,’ I said. ‘Most of them did.’
‘But not you, Florence?’ Jack leaned a little further forward in his seat.
‘No. Not me.’ Before I explained, I looked at Elsie for reassurance, for confirmation that my mind hadn’t embroidered on to the memories, because I knew she hadn’t forgotten any of it. ‘Beryl did, though,’ I said.
Whenever you dance, you see a showreel spin of people as you move around the floor. The stop-start of conversation. Glances across the room. That night, I remember Beryl standing in the far corner, trying her utmost to have nothing to do with us. There were machinists from the factory as well, elbowing attention away from each other by the door, and for all his dislike of conversation, Ronnie Butler was leaning against the stage. Feeding his eyes. Each time Elsie and I turned, the room had moved. People shifted, drinks changed hands, but Ronnie never altered. Some people are watchers. Observers. They stand just a fraction further away from everyone else, but those inches separate them from the rest of the world like an ocean.
We sat the next dance out. I could see Beryl across the crowd, snatches of her between the dancers. I saw Ronnie walk towards her. She looked up at him, and played with the necklace around her throat, moving the beads between her fingers. The floor turned and I lost them. Even when I lifted myself up and tried to see over the top of people, they had both disappeared. I didn’t realise, until she spoke, that Elsie had been watching them too.
‘I know we work with him, but I’ve never liked Ronnie Butler,’ she said. ‘Do you think Beryl will be all right?’
We both leaned against the wall, finding our breath.
‘She’s a grown woman. Of course she’ll be all right.’
I don’t think it was what I said that made her worry. I think it was the beat of silence before I answered.
‘And was she all right?’ said Jack.
‘At first,’ I told him. ‘But isn’t everybody?’
I looked for the next piece of the story, but I couldn’t find it.
Elsie tapped my arm. ‘You always stayed over at our house on a Saturday night, Florence. You can remember. If you’re going to tell it, at least tell it properly.’
On the Sunday, Beryl was late to breakfast. When she did get there, she snapped her way through it, fighting with the porridge bowl and the teapot, and anything else that came within an inch of her.
‘What’s got your goat?’ Gwen poked at the fire and it replied with thick clouds of smoke.
Beryl waved her hands around. ‘Can’t you do that when the back door’s open?’
‘It needs mending. There’ll be such a song and dance if the fire’s out.’
‘Is she awake yet?’ Beryl stopped waving and looked up at the ceiling. We all did.
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’
I hid the question in another sentence.
‘What’s it to you?’
But she found it.
‘We saw you talking to Ronnie Butler,’ Elsie said.
Gwen stopped poking the fire and looked at us both.
‘I can talk to who I want,’ Beryl spoke to the whole room.
‘Florence says he’s a bad sort.’ Elsie looked over at where I sat at the other end of the table. ‘She doesn’t like him.’
Beryl forced porridge into her throat and stared across at me. ‘Florence doesn’t like anyone. I don’t think Florence even likes herself most of the time.’
The following week, Beryl brought Ronnie round to meet everyone. He was presented as an achievement. For an achievement, he didn’t speak much. In fact, he got through an entire pot of tea without saying a single word. Beryl did all the talking for him. She asked him a question and answered it herself within a few seconds to save him the trouble, and when she looked across, he only nodded back.
Even their mother tried to get a conversation out of him.
‘Do you know my Charlie?’ she said.
Ronnie leaned back and shook his head.
‘He’ll be as pleased as punch when he finds out our Beryl’s got herself a young man.’
Ronnie looked over at the mantelpiece.
Their mother reached for the teapot. ‘He’s away at the moment. Government business.’ She stood and blocked Ronnie’s view of the telegram. ‘He’ll be back. Any day now.’
We all watched her disappear into the kitchen, and Ronnie leaned further back in his chair. ‘She’s soft in the head, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘Your mam.’
‘He’s just shy,’ Beryl said afterwards as she cleared the table. ‘You’ll like him when you get to know him.’
Neither Elsie nor I had any intention whatsoever of getting to know him, but as it happened, he didn’t give us the chance. Whenever he paid a visit, he moved wordlessly around the house. He watched everyone over the tops of newspapers and fattened himself in silence with someone else’s food. We once caught him in the kitchen, with his feet on the table, shoes pressing into a linen cloth. Before Elsie had a chance to say anything, he removed them. Slowly. Silently. Kicked his boots across the floor.
‘Can’t have your father coming back and seeing another man’s feet on his table, can we?’ and he tapped the side of his head and laughed.