It’s still there now.
I can’t even see the bathroom from where I’m lying. I wish that big lamp was on. The dark shrinks your common sense, doesn’t it? There’s a bulb lit in the hall, but it’s one of those energy-saving ones, and you might as well not bother and strike a match instead. It must be getting on for seven, now. The little shop will be closing soon. The man behind the counter will be taking out his earphones and emptying the till. Perhaps he’ll think about me as he’s counting the coins. Perhaps he’ll remember me offering to clean the shelves, and he’ll have a bit of a reconsider. He’ll lock up and check the door a few times, then he’ll wander across and look up at my flat. When he knocks, he’ll call out, ‘It’s only me, Miss Claybourne,’ and I’ll call back, ‘You’ll have to let yourself in, I’m afraid.’ I’ll keep the tone light-hearted. I don’t want to alarm him.
He’ll come to the hospital with me. He’ll insist on it.
‘It’s the least I can do, Florence.’
We’ll talk about the shop and he’ll talk to me about what I think he should stock. He’ll probably ask if I can pop over and help out from time to time. ‘Of course I can,’ I’ll say. ‘And don’t even think about paying me. Put it in the charity tin. Give it to the little kiddies instead.’
We’ll sit in A&E and people will rush past us. I’ll have all these leads attached to me and the wires will travel to a machine that bleeps and counts, and dances with lights, and I will watch it dance, because it’s soothing to see all the things that matter about you held together on a screen. Curtains will swish and trolleys will rattle past, and the voices will roll into a giant ball of sound, but all the time when we’re in the ambulance, and all the while we wait in A&E for the doctor to see us, the man from the little shop won’t feel the need to shout. Not once.
FLORENCE
I could see all the whites of Miss Ambrose’s eyes.
‘You want me to organise a coach trip?’ she said.
We’d tried to ring the music shop, but no one ever answered the telephone. I thought it might have closed down, but Jack said it was unlikely, being as they were still on the internet; then out of the blue, he suggested we all go up there.
‘To Whitby?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do us all the world of good. When was the last time you saw the sea?’
I tried to think, but my thinking wouldn’t cooperate. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think I’d see it again, and I’d just have to lump it.’
‘Everyone should see the sea.’ He nodded towards the mantelpiece, as though the sea were just the other side of it, waiting for us. ‘It does a body good. We’re supposed to have trips, you know?’
‘Trips?’ said Elsie.
‘There’s a kitty. It’s in the small print.’ He took a large piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, and stabbed at it with the arm of his spectacles. ‘We pay into a “recreation fund” as part of our annual fee.’
‘I can’t remember the last time we had any recreation,’ I said. ‘Unless you count Justin, and recreation isn’t really a word I’d associate with a piano accordion.’
‘Exactly.’ He stabbed at the paper again.
An hour later, we found ourselves standing at Miss Ambrose’s desk, with Jack at the front, because he decided before we set off that he was likely to be the most persuasive.
‘A coach trip?’ she said again.
The three of us nodded.
‘Oh, a coach trip is out of the question,’ Miss Ambrose said. ‘Some of us are still on probation. And it’s far too much red tape.’
Red tape. It was an excuse Miss Bissell used all the time. If anyone were to be listening in, they might think the whole of Cherry Tree was decorated with red tape, like tinsel on a Christmas tree, twisting around the doors and the windows, and keeping us all where we were supposed to be.
‘Health and safety,’ said Miss Ambrose. ‘Risk assessment.’
All the excuses fell out of Miss Ambrose’s mouth, but we had our hopes pinned. She had to be persuaded.
Jack leaned on the desk. ‘All the other nursing homes have trips out,’ he said. ‘All the other nursing homes …’ he glanced at the scissors on her desk, ‘… manage to cut through the red tape.’
‘They do?’ Miss Ambrose said.
‘Pine Lodge went up the Gherkin.’ He paused. ‘Cedar House spent a weekend in Marbella. It’s a buyer’s market, Miss Ambrose.’
Miss Ambrose swallowed rather violently.
‘And then there’s the kitty,’ he said. ‘We could always go through the accounts.’
‘The accounts?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
‘Have you taken your Kwells? It’s four hours on a motorway,’ Elsie said.
I took the packet out of my bag and popped one out of its little silver shell.
‘You know your stomach can be a law unto itself.’
Miss Ambrose had been persuaded. It had taken several meetings in Miss Ambrose’s office, all of which we’d observed from the day room with held breath. Miss Bissell had done a lot of pacing and throwing her arms around, and Miss Ambrose had pushed her chair as far into the corner as it could possibly go.
After forty-five minutes Miss Bissell’s arms weren’t moving around quite as much, and Jack said, ‘I think she’s being won round.’
Handy Simon stepped into the room at one point, and immediately tried to leave again, but he was directed back inside by Miss Bissell’s forefinger, and the three of them played out a lengthy discussion behind chequered glass, although none of us could hear what was being said. Eventually Miss Bissell left, but not before she’d stood by the weeping fig for a good five minutes, and stared at us all with her eyebrows.
An hour later, Miss Ambrose pinned a notice to the board, inviting people to sign up for a weekend in Whitby. Dracula, the West Cliff and Botham’s Tea Rooms. By three o’clock, she needed a second sheet. By four o’clock, I’d started packing.
‘We’re not going anytime soon.’ Elsie watched me roll a pair of socks up and put them inside my spare shoes.
‘I’m frightened of forgetting something,’ I said.
‘I won’t let you forget. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we have everything.’
She gave me a little hug, and I unrolled the socks and put them back on my feet.
It was another week before we went to Whitby. A week of wondering if Ronnie had found the sheet music and what he was going to do about it. I thought he might react straight away, but there was nothing. Not a peep. It was strange, because the quietness seemed worse than anything. Although perhaps it’s only in the silence that you’re able to hear just how loud your own worrying is. It was a relief when Friday finally came around. I knew I’d still be worrying, but at least I could worry with a different view.
I hadn’t been on a coach trip for years, and the improvements were very pleasing. There was a small pocket in the back of the seat in front, although when I looked inside, all I could find was a sick bag. ‘It’s for magazines, as well,’ Elsie said, because she knows I can be quite suggestible.
‘Decent charabanc, isn’t it?’ Jack settled himself into the seat across the aisle so he could stretch out his walking stick. He was wearing the same grey anorak he always wears. It’s developed a shine on the elbows and one of the buttons is escaping, and Elsie has to keep reminding me not to point it out. ‘Quite roomy.’ He lifted himself up to see over the back of Mrs Honeyman from number four. ‘We could do worse.’
The driver was called Eric. Far more hair on his face than on his head, as if it was trying to make up for it. Poor whistler. Insisted on saying, ‘That’s the job, then,’ every few minutes for no distinguishable reason.