escape en route at the traffic lights, and she was so busy trying to calm the poor woman down, she didn’t make it. They hadn’t ever called her back.
Miss Ambrose never walked quickly, although she wasn’t sure if it was because she felt ashamed at being able to manage it (against a backdrop of walking sticks and Zimmer frames), or whether old age had somehow leaked into her bones and persuaded her to join in. She’d never meant to work with the elderly. She’d meant to be an air hostess or something in publishing. Something glamorous. Something where she could walk quickly. But it was as though life had an undercurrent, and no matter how hard she tried to swim in the other direction, it was determined to pull her away. It would be so much easier, she thought, if you knew what the world’s intentions were in the first place. It would save such a lot of energy. Instead of paddling around aimlessly, you could swim with confidence towards your target, ignoring the temptation and the distraction, and all the other swimmers, who battled and argued with the tide.
The grounds were silent, and she passed vacant benches and a deserted gazebo. She glanced over at the Japanese Garden. It had taken an age to persuade Miss Bissell it was a worthwhile idea. She’d read about Japanese gardens in a magazine. They were supposed to promote inner peace and reflection, but Miss Bissell said it was perhaps unwise to encourage the residents to reflect too rigorously on anything at their time of life.
Actually, Miss Bissell just said, ‘I don’t think so, Anthea,’ and Miss Ambrose had offered up the rest in an effort to instigate a discussion. Miss Ambrose rarely stood up to Miss Bissell, but on this occasion she had persisted for several months, and eventually, Miss Bissell had given in. Although a line was drawn at lanterns, because of the moth issue. Miss Ambrose wondered if anyone ever used the garden, or whether it just stood as a giant Japanese monument to a time when she thought she could perhaps make a difference. There was no one in there now, of course, because the whole of Cherry Tree was deserted at this time of day. Residents tended to doze off in front of radios and cold cups of tea, and it was perfectly acceptable to fall asleep, as long as one remained vertical. It was very tempting to join them. Each afternoon was a battle for Miss Ambrose. A battle between denial and acceptance. Acceptance of the fact that, although there were no hand rails in her own apartment, there still remained a space on the wall for them to be attached.
As Miss Ambrose turned the corner, she spotted Gabriel Price. He sat on the very last bench before her front door, under a grey, paper-thin sky, his elbows resting on the back of the seat. Miss Ambrose was so surprised to see another human being this deep into the afternoon, a small sound broke free from the bottom of her throat. As she grew closer, she thought she saw him smile, but she had begun to realise that with Gabriel Price you could never quite be certain.
‘Miss Ambrose.’
‘Do call me Anthea, Mr Price.’
He didn’t.
She decided to plough on, nevertheless.
‘I’m surprised to see you out and about,’ she said. ‘Most of our residents are resting at this time of the day.’
‘I don’t believe in resting, Miss Ambrose. The devil makes work for idle hands, don’t you think?’
Miss Ambrose fiddled with the back of an earring.
‘Although you wouldn’t know anything about that, of course. Running this place is a twenty-four-hour marathon, I should imagine.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I—’
‘But of course you do. Look how you dealt with that debacle in the day room.’
‘Miss Claybourne? Well, I suppose …’
He smiled again. It was a full stop in disguise.
‘They get very muddled, the elderly.’ He spoke as though they were a tribe of people he observed from afar. ‘Easily confused.’
Miss Ambrose tried to summon up one of her understanding head-tilts, but she was distracted by the way he stretched his arms across the back of the bench. The way the light seemed to disappear the lines on his skin and fade the grey in his hair.
‘How old did you say you were again, Mr Price?’
‘I didn’t, Miss Ambrose.’ He replaced his trilby and stood so effortlessly, it looked as though the bench had somehow helped him on his way. ‘But I’m not quite ready for the dying of the light just yet.’
‘Well, no. Quite. Of course not.’
‘But a young woman such as yourself wouldn’t know anything at all about that.’
Miss Ambrose felt a flush on her skin. A jumble of words appeared in her mouth, but by the time she’d organised them into a sentence, he’d already disappeared around the corner.
‘How very extraordinary,’ she said.
Miss Ambrose walked the rest of the way to her flat. It was only when she turned the key, when she heard the door’s click of apology and felt the beige carpet under her feet, that she realised she had arrived there slightly faster than usual, and with a little more purpose.
I waited. I waited until coats had been hung up and kettles had been switched on, and tins of fruit had been emptied into bowls and drowned in Ideal Milk. I even waited whilst Elsie ate spoonfuls of oranges with a look of deep concentration. I waited until all of this was done with before I spoke.
‘I need to discuss someone with you,’ I said. ‘Someone from the past.’
Her chewing slowed a little.
There are times when sharing a problem only seems to make it grow. Hearing the words out loud gives them a strength they never seem to have inside your own head, and it’s easier sometimes to let them stay there, unnoticed. If you lock something away for long enough, if you can manage to keep it from escaping, eventually it feels as though it never really happened in the first place. But I knew as soon as I told Elsie, as soon as I allowed the problem to leave, I’d lose ownership of my worrying and I’d never be able to silence it again.
‘Someone I’ve seen,’ I said.
‘Who?’ Elsie placed the spoon at the edge of the bowl, and she became very still.
I had to force the words from my mouth. I had to push them away.
‘Ronnie,’ I said, eventually.
I watched her face. There wasn’t a jot of reaction.
‘Ronnie Butler,’ I said.
She looked at me for a moment, and she smiled. ‘You daft bugger. You can’t have. Dead as a doornail, Ronnie. They buried him, don’t you remember?’ She reached for the spoon again, but I held on to her wrist.
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s out there right now. I’ve seen him.’
‘How can you possibly have seen someone who’s been dead sixty years? You’re just getting confused.’
‘It’s him.’ I slammed my hand on the table, and Elsie rattled
