Una
I laugh at something Elspeth is saying as we walk through the arcade on Friday morning. She’s on good form today, as though getting out of the house has lifted her spirits. We’ve just come from the wool shop because Elspeth said she’d like to take up crocheting again. She was surprised when I told her I also liked to crochet and that my mum had taught me. We used to sit and make blankets for the NSPCC while she was recovering from chemo, chatting about travelling to an exotic destination. When I relayed this to Elspeth in front of a triangular display of blue-hued wools she went quiet and gripped my arm, her fingers surprisingly strong. ‘What a wonderful thing to do,’ she’d said. ‘I’d love to make a blanket for charity. Will you help me?’ I’d agreed eagerly and we spent a pleasant half-hour picking out the colours we would use. She refused to let me pay for any of the bundles and as we left the shop I felt relief that we’d found something we have in common – tinged with sadness that I can no longer do it with my mum.
Afterwards, she shows me her antiques shop, Viola’s, and the jewellery store, Kat’s. I like that she’s named them both after her daughters. I want to ask about Viola but Mum’s voice pops into my head: Curiosity killed the cat, Una. And I know she’s right. Particularly about this.
Elspeth’s arm is linked through mine and she’s telling me how she used to drive to the markets in northern France to pick up bargains for the antiques shop back in the early 1990s, when I notice Kathryn ducking into a card shop. I’m sure she saw us. I don’t mention it to Elspeth but let her talk as she steers me down the corridor and towards the art gallery. It’s called simply McKenzie’s.
‘Kathryn runs this one for me,’ she says, as I push open the door. The bell tinkles. Inside, the space is quite big, with some beautiful paintings on the wall – not that I know anything about art – but there are no customers milling about. ‘Oh,’ says Elspeth, looking around her. ‘I thought Kathryn would be here now.’ She checks her watch. ‘It’s ten o’clock.’
A girl younger than me emerges from the back, clearly surprised to see us – it’s as though she was expecting someone else. Elspeth introduces her to me as Daisy, Kathryn’s assistant. ‘Do you know where my daughter is?’
Daisy is wearing bright red lipstick and her caramel-streaked hair is gathered on top of her head in a mass of curls, held back by a floral headband. She’s attractive with a wide, smiling face and a 1940s vintage look about her. ‘She went out to check the other shops.’
Elspeth looks puzzled. ‘We’ve just come from the other shops. We didn’t see her.’
‘Oh.’ Daisy shrugs. ‘She might have gone to get a coffee. She doesn’t really like the instant stuff,’ she says, pointing vaguely towards the back of the shop, presumably where the ‘instant stuff’ is kept.
Elspeth stiffens. ‘Very well. Can you please tell her I popped in.’ It’s not a question. Elspeth offers her arm to me and I take it. She doesn’t bother telling Daisy my name and this rankles a little. Am I that disposable? As we leave, I throw Daisy a warm, conspiratorial smile, which she returns.
Something is clearly bothering Elspeth after we leave the gallery. As we walk through the arcade in silence I notice how her eyes dart about and I know she’s looking out for Kathryn. She only saw her yesterday morning. I’ve known them just a week but I can’t get to grips with their relationship. When Elspeth is with Kathryn she acts as though she finds her presence an annoyance, but now it’s clear she’s disappointed to have missed her.
‘I know!’ Elspeth exclaims, when we’ve exited the arcade. The rain has stopped, the pavements are all shiny, and there’s that fresh-washed smell in the air. The sun is struggling to come out from behind a cloud. ‘Let’s go for a cup of tea. There’s a quaint tea room around the corner that does the most delicious cakes. Would you like that?’
I’m surprised by her sudden change in mood. Elspeth’s dark expression has cleared and she’s beaming again.
‘That sounds lovely,’ I say. Anything to fill the hours. The day stretches ahead of me, long and dull.
‘Here we are, then,’ says Elspeth, as we head into a little tea room with rose-printed bone-china cups and rustic furniture. I order a carrot cake and Elspeth has some banana bread. I shove the bag of wool under my chair.
‘Have you ever thought about using your walking stick more?’ I suggest, when the waitress has brought our drinks and cakes. We have a table by the window and sit opposite each other. The place is surprisingly full. ‘One of the residents of the care home had one and it gave her that little bit of confidence on her feet …’
Elspeth’s scowl stops me in my tracks. I’ve said the wrong thing again.
‘I don’t need that stick. I’m not an invalid.’
‘Well, no …’ I’m flustered. ‘But I’ve seen yours at home and … it’s just … you know, after your fall …’
‘Why would I need a stick when I have you?’ she says, cutting her banana bread into squares. ‘And it’s only pavements I have a particular concern for. And stairs.’
I want to say that she’s wasting her money having me live in. That I could just as easily come over for a few hours a day to sit with her or help her dress, not that she really needs that. She’s perfectly capable of dressing herself and is steadier on her feet than she gives herself credit for. I wonder if she’ll ever go into a home. With her money she could afford a really plush one, not like the one I was working in. But it’s clear it’s companionship she’s after, and not just the type you get from a few hours’ meeting up with friends. She wants a constant companion. I wonder why she never married again.