A woman with thick white hair curled in the old-fashioned way answers the door. He scrutinises her while trying to look like he’s doing no such thing.
‘Good morning,’ he says and treats her to his best smile. ‘My name is Benjamin Bradbury and I’m the son of a friend of Phyllis Curtiss.’
The woman blinks and says, ‘Oh yes?’
‘That’s right. My mom gave me this address. Forgive me, but are you her mother?’ When she says nothing, he continues quickly. ‘Let me explain. I live in the US, San Francisco, but my mother is from here, from Runcorn. She emigrated a long time ago but she went to school with Phyllis. I’m over here on business and Mom asked me to try and look Phyllis up. She wants to write her and find out how she is and all. Do you think you could help me?’
She still has hold of the door edge; her eyes have narrowed. Holy shit, this could be his grandmother.
‘Where did you get our address, did you say?’ she says.
‘From my mom. I think she used to live in, let me see, is it Balfour something?’
‘Balfour Road?’
‘Yes. That’s right. Is that near here?’
She nods, but he can see she’s still unsure.
He throws up his hands. ‘Listen, if it’s a trouble to you, I’ll be on my way. But if you can tell her that Dorothy said hello. She’ll remember. I can leave her address with you if you prefer.’ He smiles again, takes a step back. ‘I appreciate your time.’
‘Hold on,’ the woman says. ‘Have you got a pen?’
* * *
He heads back the way he came, the sports field now on his left. At the junction, he heads left down the long hill of Heath Road. If he goes under a bridge, he’s gone too far apparently. He should look out for the town hall, just after the roundabout. It’s a white building, she said. With big gardens all round it and railings. After that you take the first left.
He reaches the roundabout, sees the railings and the grounds. Everywhere is so green around here, so leafy. He reaches the left turn. Ivy Street, that’s right. He turns. On his right is the big church that she said would be there: red brick, a stone JC set in the wall, flanked by a row of portholes, arched windows below. A small green spire poking skywards like a stylus from a square tower.
‘Hi,’ he rehearses into the rear-view mirror. ‘My name’s Benjamin Bradbury. I’m looking for Phyllis Griffiths.’
He takes a left, into Langdale Road.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nurse came late today. I have never seen her look flustered, but today she did. Her face was pink and her hair, usually combed with flat perfection into her ponytail and shining with cleanliness, had been yanked into a bumpy knot. But it wasn’t that. Nor was it the tired slope of her eyes or the crackle of thread veins in her cheeks. It was the set of her mouth. She had clamped it into a smile, wide and closed like a frog’s, and while every day of my stay here so far she had looked me steadfastly in the eye – and God knows this must have been a challenge – today she looked at the floor.
She handed me my dish of pills.
‘And how are you this morning, my darling?’ she asked me as she does every day, knowing that I will not answer.
And it struck me that this flat smile of hers was a smile of pain. And that here she was, uniform on and hair pulled back, asking me how I felt. How I felt. The plant that blooms no matter how many times it is cut down, and still the weed sits there trying to poison it. I wondered what in her life had cut her down. I wondered if she’d tell me as we walked around the yard, and if she was silent, whether I would find the words to ask her what was wrong.
‘I’m all right,’ I said. No more than a croak.
Her eyes widened; her eyebrows shot into her brow.
‘Are you now?’ she said. ‘Well that’s grand.’
I gestured for the water. She held it out to me. I took my pills and sipped.
‘Nurse.’ Throat still scratchy, I coughed. Gently I reached for her wrist and held it. I met her eye. ‘What’s your name?’
Slowly she took the paper cup from me. ‘It’s Betsy.’
‘Betsy,’ I repeated, the name giving me the woman, giving me my voice. ‘You have been very kind to me. Thank you.’
* * *
But now, there’s no more going round the houses. That Wednesday, it was Christopher, not Phyllis, who opened the door. It was Christopher who found himself face to face with a man on the doorstep, a man he thought he recognised from somewhere. A man with brown shoulder-length hair pushed back from his face, a lopsided smile and inquisitive dark green eyes.
‘Hi there.’ His accent was American, which came as a shock. ‘My name’s Benjamin Bradbury. Ben. Pleased to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand and smiled as if a handshake was non-negotiable – as if in his world rejection was not and never had been a possibility. His green eyes creased at the edges, his pale cream teeth were even and strong. His trousers were pale cream too, as if to match, and his shoes were brown, highly polished leather. He looked American as well as sounding it, Christopher thought, leaning forward to shake the man’s hand.
‘Christopher,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Phyllis Curtiss… actually, what am I talking about, her name is Griffiths now, I believe, excuse me. Curtiss is her maiden name.’ His voice rose at the end of each sentence, as if he were asking a series of questions. But they were not questions.
‘Phyllis?’
‘Phyllis Griffiths. She lives here, I believe.’
‘Curtiss,’ said Christopher. The word blocked his throat. He coughed – coughed again. ‘I mean Griffiths. No. I mean she used to but she – she moved. Away.’
Ben opened up the piece of paper in his hands. ‘That’s strange. Actually, I’ve just come from her parents’ home over on Greenway Road, and they said she lived here. Is there another Langdale Road around these parts? Maybe I’m mistaken.’
The pulse in Christopher’s forehead throbbed so hard he felt sure this man, Ben, would see it: a raised purpled vein, a blood beat fit to burst. Instinctively he put up his hand to hide it. ‘No. Yes. She does live here but she doesn’t like visitors. That’s why I answer the door, you see. She doesn’t like people coming to the house. She gets… she gets nervous. She’s a very nervous person. Can I ask what it’s in connection with?’
Ben looked down at his shiny shoes, but from the set of his brow Christopher could see he was still smiling. ‘Actually, it’s kinda personal. It’s real important I get to see her.’ He looked up and fixed Christopher with his unflinching green gaze, his wide cream teeth.
‘I would recommend you drop her a line,’ were the words that left Christopher’s mouth. ‘If you like, you could give me a letter and I’ll make sure she gets it.’
‘Ah, gee.’ Ben looked behind him, into the road, and back again at Christopher. ‘Thing is, I have to fly back to the States in a few days and it’s real urgent.’
‘I’m sure if you write something now she will get it tonight,’ Christopher insisted. ‘In fact I’ll make sure she gets it. I give you my word.’