Three Things About Elsie CHAPTER ONE It all started a month ago. A Friday morning. I was glancing around the room, wondering what I''d done with my television magazine, when I noticed. It was facing the wrong way. The elephant on the mantelpiece. It always points towards the window, because I read somewhere it brings you luck. Of course, I know it doesn''t. It''s like putting new shoes on a table, though, or crossing on the stairs.
There''s a corner of your head feels uncomfortable if you don''t follow the rules. Normally, I would have blamed one of the uniforms, but I always go over everything with a duster after they''ve gone. There''s usually a need for it and it helps to pass the time. So I would have spotted it straightaway. I notice everything. "Do you notice anything different?" Miss Ambrose had arrived for our weekly chat. Fidgety. Smells of hair spray.
A cousin in Truro. I decided to test her. She scanned the room, but any fool could tell she wasn''t concentrating. "Look properly," I said. "Give it your full attention." She unwound her scarf. "I am," she said. "I am.
" I waited. "The elephant. The elephant on the mantelpiece." I prodded my finger. "It''s facing towards the television. It always faces towards the window. It''s moved." She said, Did I fancy a change? A change! I prodded my finger again and said, "I didn''t do it.
" She didn''t take me seriously. She never does. "It must have been one of the cleaners," she said. "It wasn''t the cleaners. When I went to bed last night, it was facing the right way. When I got up this morning, it was back to front." "You haven''t been dusting again, have you, Florence? Dusting is our department." I wouldn''t let her find my eyes.
I looked at the radiator instead. "I wouldn''t dream of it," I said. She sat on the armchair next to the fireplace and let out a little sigh. "Perhaps it fell?" "And climbed back up all by itself?" "We don''t always remember, do we? Some things we do automatically, without thinking. You must have put it back the wrong way round." I went over to the mantelpiece and turned the elephant to face the window again. I stared at her the whole time I was doing it. "It''s only an ornament, Florence.
No harm done. Shall I put the kettle on?" I watched the elephant while she rummaged around in the kitchen, trying to locate a ginger nut. "They''re in the pantry on the top shelf," I shouted. "You can''t miss them." Miss Ambrose reappeared with a tray. "They were on the first shelf, actually. We don''t always know where everything is, do we?" I studied her sweater. It had little pom-poms all around the bottom, in every color you could possibly wish for.
"No," I said. "We probably don''t." Miss Ambrose sat on the very edge of the armchair. She always wore cheerful clothes, it was just a shame her face never went along with it. Elsie and I once had a discussion about how old Miss Ambrose might be. Elsie plumped for late thirties, but I think that particular ship sailed a long time ago. She always looked like someone who hadn''t had quite enough sleep, but had put on another coat of lipstick and enthusiasm, in an effort to make sure the rest of the world didn''t ever find her out. I watched the radiator again, because Miss Ambrose had a habit of finding things in your eyes you didn''t think anyone else would ever notice.
"So, how have you been, Florence?" There are twenty-five grooves on that radiator. "I''m fine, thank you." "What did you get up to this week?" They''re quite difficult to count, because if you stare at them for any length of time, your eyes start to play tricks on you. "I''ve been quite busy." "We''ve not seen you in the dayroom very much. There are lots of activities going on, did you not fancy card making yesterday?" I''ve got a drawer full of those cards. I could congratulate half a dozen people on the birth of their beautiful daughter with one pull of a handle. "Perhaps next week," I said.
I heard Miss Ambrose take a deep breath. I knew this meant trouble, because she only ever does it when she needs the extra oxygen for a debate about something. "Florence," she said. I didn''t answer. "Florence. I just want to be sure that you''re happy at Cherry Tree?" Miss Ambrose was one of those people whose sentences always went up at the end. As though the world appeared so uncertain to her, it needed constant interrogation. I glanced out of the window.
Everything was brick and concrete, straight lines and sharp corners, and tiny windows into small lives. There was no horizon. I never thought I would lose the horizon along with everything else, but when you get old you realize whichever direction you choose to face, you find yourself confronted with a landscape filled up with loss. "Perhaps we should have a little rethink about whether Cherry Tree is still the right place for you?" she said. "Perhaps there''s somewhere else you''d enjoy more?" I turned to her. "You''re not sending me to Greenbank." "Greenbank has a far higher staff-to-resident ratio." Miss Ambrose tilted her head.
I could see all the little lines in her neck helping it along. "You''d have much more one-to-one attention." "I don''t want one-to-one attention. I don''t want any attention. I just want to be left in peace." "Florence, as we get older, we lose the ability to judge what''s best for us. It happens to everyone. You might enjoy Greenbank.
It might be fun." "It''s not much fun when no one listens to what you say." I spoke to the radiator. "Pardon?" "I''m not going. You can''t make me." Miss Ambrose started to say something, but she swallowed it back instead. "Why don''t we try for a compromise? Shall we see how things go over the next . month, say? Then we can reassess.
" "A month?" "A reevaluation. For all of us. A probationary period." "Probation? What crime did I commit?" "It''s a figure of speech, Florence. That''s all." Miss Ambrose''s shoes tapped out a little beige tune on the carpet. She pulled out a silence, like they always do, hoping you''ll fill it up with something they can get their teeth into, but I was wise to it now. "It''s Gone with the Wind tomorrow afternoon," she said eventually, when the silence didn''t work out for her.
"I''ve seen it," I said. "The whole world''s seen it. That''s not the point." "I was never very big on Clark Gable." I was still looking at the radiator, but I could hear Miss Ambrose lean forward. "You can''t just bury yourself in here, Florence. A month''s probation, remember? You''ve got to meet me halfway." I wanted to say, "Why have I got to meet anybody halfway to anywhere?" but I didn''t.
I concentrated on the radiator instead, and I didn''t stop concentrating on it until I heard the front door shut to. "He had bad breath, you know, Clark Gable," I shouted. "I read about it. In a magazine." * * * There are three things you should know about Elsie, and the first thing is that she''s my best friend. People chop and change best friends, first one and then another depending what kind of mood they happen to find themselves in and who they''re talking to, but mine has always been Elsie and it always will be. That''s what a best friend is all about, isn''t it? Someone who stands by you, no matter what. I can''t say we haven''t had our arguments over the years, but that''s because we''re so opposite.
We even look opposite. Elsie''s short and I''m tall. Elsie''s tiny and I have big feet. Size eleven. I tell everybody. Because Elsie says there comes a point when feet are so large, the only thing left to do is to boast about them. We spend most of our time with each other, me and Elsie. We even opted to eat our meals together, because it makes it easier for the uniforms.
It''s nice to have a bit of company, because nothing in this world sounds more lonely than one knife and fork rattling on a dinner plate. It was later that day, the day Miss Ambrose gave me my ultimatum, and Elsie and I were sitting by the window in my flat, having our lunch. "They''ve still not shown their face," I said. I knew she''d heard me, the woman in the pink uniform. She was dishing up my meal on a wheel three feet away, and I''m a clear speaker, even at the worst of times. Elsie says I shout, but I don''t shout. I just like to make sure people have understood. I even tapped on the glass to be certain.
"Number twelve." I tapped. "I said they''ve still not shown their face. They''ve been in there a few days now, because I''ve seen lights go on and off." The woman in the pink uniform spooned out a puddle of baked beans. She didn''t even flinch. Elsie looked up. "Don''t shout, Flo," she said.
"I''m not shouting," I said. "I''m making a point. I''m not allowed to do very much anymore, but I''m still allowed to make a point. And that Dumpster hasn''t been collected yet. They need to be told." "So why don''t you write a letter?" said Elsie. I looked at he.