‘Can’t it wait? I had my mind especially set on mandarin segments.’
‘I’ll open a tin when we get home.’
‘And what about the raffle? It’s a rollover week.’
‘There’s a box of shortbread in the bottom cupboard. You can have that.’
‘It’s not the winning, Florence. It’s the anticipation,’ she said. ‘The thrill of the chase.’
‘I just want to get out of here.’ We stopped halfway along the path that led behind the blocks of flats, and I let go of her elbow. Not many people used this path. There were leaves collected around its edges, and the grass there seemed to have forgotten it needed to grow. Most people liked the front path, with its handkerchief borders and opportunities to pass the time of day, because people always seem to like to walk the same way everyone else walks. But I preferred this one. It was a forgotten path. A path that could sort out a problem.
I saw the tick of confusion in Elsie’s eyes. ‘What on earth’s the matter, Flo?’
‘Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. Whatever makes you think that?’
She looked down. ‘Because your hands are shaking,’ she said.
‘Off her rocker, if you ask me.’
No one had. However, to Handy Simon, questions were only ever optional. To Handy Simon, the world was a place in need of a running commentary, and he seemed to have volunteered himself to provide an explanation, just in case anyone might find themselves in need of one.
‘Hmmm?’ Anthea Ambrose peered into her compact mirror. She had bought it because everything was magnified by the power of ten. This was something she was now beginning to regret, but she found herself unable to look away. It was like watching a car accident on the opposite side of the motorway.
‘Leaping up and shouting like that.’ Handy Simon dragged a table back to its rightful place, and the sound of an abandoned plate of egg sandwiches rattled across the empty room. ‘Whatshername.’
Miss Ambrose shut the mirror, and all her worries hid themselves behind the click of a compact. ‘Florence,’ she said. ‘Miss Claybourne. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before she goes to Greenbank.’
‘I don’t know how you tell them all apart.’
Miss Ambrose returned the mirror to her handbag. ‘It’s my job.’
Handy Simon took an egg sandwich, and launched it into his mouth. ‘There’s so many of them, and they all look the same,’ he said, without giving the sandwich an opportunity to leave. ‘I’ll pop outside now, if that’s all right with you. Clean some of the mess out of the guttering. Or we’ll have a blockage to deal with.’
There was a time when Anthea Ambrose had briefly considered the merits of Handy Simon. After all, trainers can be cleaned. Hair can be trimmed. You see it on television programmes. People buy a whole new wardrobe from John Lewis and part their hair on the opposite side, and all of a sudden they’re completely different people. It was a time when Miss Ambrose had scanned the horizon for a possible husband, like a castaway searching for the arrival of a distant ship.
‘Preventing the efficient flow of rainwater.’ He took another sandwich. ‘Which could eventually lead to permanent damage.’
Although some ships were perhaps best left unboarded.
‘And potential structural problems, if the situation isn’t addressed promptly.’
For fear of having the entire rest of your life explained to you.
Anthea Ambrose walked back to her flat at the far edge of the grounds. It was separate from the residents’ apartments, but she trod on an identical beige carpet (‘Universal beige,’ said Miss Bissell, ‘goes with everyone,’) and the doors closed with the same faint click of apology. Her flat also offered a similar view, through windows that opened only a fraction of an inch, because the fear of residents slipping through and defenestrating also seemed to extend to the staff. When Anthea Ambrose looked out from her kitchen window, a concertina of old age unfolded before her, beckoning into the future. The flat came with the job (a job she had only planned to stay in for twelve months). She’d applied for others, she’d even got an interview for one, but it was on the day that a new resident had decided to 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,