Rattling the Bones

by Ann Granger

  I accepted the silent invitation and nipped through into the hall before he changed his mind. A long gloomy corridor stretched out before us. The hall floor was tiled in cream, burgundy red and black in a startling geometric pattern which was probably original to the house and had suffered in the one hundred and fifty-odd years since it had been put down. It was chipped, cracked and scuffed but clean enough. The stairs, to my right, were carpeted in dull cord carpet and the banisters almost black. The landing above was plunged in darkness. The doors leading off the hall were impressively panelled but varnished dark brown. Why on earth didn’t they paint them white or a bright colour and cheer the whole area up? No wonder Sandra out there on the steps wept. If you got up in the morning feeling a bit low, by the time you got down to the hall you must feel suicidal. And Edna was right. The whole place did smell of baked beans.

  A door opened to our left and a rather tough-looking young woman in jeans and a well-worn denim jacket stepped out of what appeared to be an office and glared at me.

  ‘OK, Simon?’

  ‘OK, Nikki,’ he replied.

  I wished she’d been called something else, because I’ve a sister somewhere called Nicola. But that’s another story.

  To me, Simon said, ‘Come into the office.’

  We followed Nikki and found ourselves in a surprisingly comfortable room. ‘Office’ to me suggests desks and computer terminals, stacks of files and so on. It’s an impersonal environment although people do, like the woman at Social Services with her cat pictures, try and personalise their surroundings. This room had a computer on a little desk in a corner and Nikki had returned to it and sat with her back to us. But the rest of the room was furnished with battered but comfortable armchairs set in a circle before a fireplace which had once been rather splendid. The grate had an iron hood and patterned glazed tiles surrounding it, most of them now cracked. The fire bed itself was filled with large dusty pine cones painted gold and silver and I suspected they had been there since the previous Christmas. Clearly the hearth wasn’t in use for its intended purpose. An elderly white painted monster of a radiator under the window now served to warm the place in cold weather. But the hearth provided a home for an electric kettle which was plugged into a socket on the wall beside it.

  ‘You can put the dog down,’ said Nikki from her computer without looking round.

  I set down Bonnie who began to sniff around in a rather familiar way. She doesn’t have the best manners. But I felt that here it didn’t matter. It was a nice room, designed to make the frightened and bewildered people who came there relax. I felt better about Sandra out there on the steps. If Nikki and Simon were looking after her, her situation wasn’t as bad as it first looked.

  ‘Coffee?’ enquired Simon.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. Then, more honestly, ‘I’d love a cup, to tell you the truth.’

  He smiled. He wasn’t bad-looking now I had a chance to study him. I supposed him in his thirties. He needed a decent haircut but then, so did I. Nikki was probably about the same age. Her haircut was similar to his and I wondered if they cut one another’s hair. Neither of them was a snappy dresser. Simon wore jeans and a faded badly washed T-shirt stretched out of any shape. But his shoes were leather and although well worn looked as if originally they had been expensive. He went to switch on the kettle in the hearth. ‘Nikki?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, ta,’ she said, still rattling her keyboard.

  Simon took down mugs from a row of them along the mantelpiece and made us all coffee from a jar of cheap own-brand powder, adding coffee whitener powder from another jar. The result bore no resemblance to coffee as my grandma would have made it and would have horrified her. But it was hot and drinkable and I was glad of it.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon, seating himself opposite me. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  I sipped my coffee, burned my tongue, and put the mug down hastily by my feet. I’d already decided I owed Nikki and Simon the truth, or as much of it as I was prepared to tell them. This wasn’t just because they were nice people, but because they were experienced in hearing yarns of all sorts and would pretty soon suss out if I was making it all up.

  ‘A couple of years ago,’ I began, ‘I lived in Rotherhithe in a squat. I don’t live in squats now. I’ve got a flat. That is, a charity found a place for me in one of their converted houses. The rent’s dead cheap.’ I named the charity and Simon nodded.

  ‘So you’re one of theirs,’ he said amiably and seemed to relax himself. He knew of the charity, probably knew some of its workers and could, if necessary, check on me. I wonder if he would.

  I wasn’t sure I liked being spoken of as if I was some sort of waif and stray collected up from the gutter but, in a manner of speaking, it wasn’t that far off the mark. Things had been looking grim when the offer of the flat had come through.

  The keyboard had stopped rattling. Nikki was sipping her coffee. She either had an asbestos tongue or she was listening. I guessed both.

  I went on to explain about Edna living in the churchyard and how we had all been moved on and I’d not seen her since until very recently when I’d bumped into her in Camden High Street.

  ‘She told me she was living in a hostel,’ I said. ‘I meant to ask her which one but she decided to cut short the conversation and scurried off. She always did that. It wasn’t because of anything I’d said. It’s just Edna’s way.’

  Simon nodded and my heart rose. Edna was here. He knew her and her mannerisms.

  ‘I want to be sure she’s all right,’ I said. ‘She still talks about the cats she looked after in the churchyard and how they were taken away. I don’t want to think she’s living somewhere rough now. She’s too old.’ I stopped but neither of them said anything. ‘I don’t know her surname,’ I finished lamely.

  Nikki had swivelled round on her chair and was watching us, her mug cupped in her hands. I picked up my mug from the carpet for something to do and because the coffee was now cool enough to drink. Bonnie had settled before the hearth and was staring intently at the gold and silver pine cones, ears pricked. There were probably spiders in there. She chases a big spider that comes out in the evening and scuttles across my carpet. The spider plays dead; Bonnie loses interest and wanders away. When she’s gone, the spider comes back to life and resumes its nightly hunt. This means the average house spider is more intelligent than my dog.

  Simon turned his head and exchanged glances with Nikki. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He turned back to me.

  ‘We don’t normally give out information about our residents to enquirers,’ he said, ‘as I was telling you earlier. People are not always frank about their reasons for seeking someone out and the person concerned might not want to be found. It’s particularly tricky with youngsters, although we don’t deal here with too many young people. We’re a small charity, not unlike the one which housed you. It means we can know our residents rather better as individuals than in bigger organisations. We like to think we live here as a family.’ He must have seen something in my face because he gave a wry smile. ‘You’re thinking it must be a pretty dysfunctional kind of family. But we like to think we’re not more dysfunctional than many families in the more conventional sense.’

  I thought of my family. We’d been pretty dysfunctional. I nodded. But I was feeling a little guilty because I hadn’t told Simon and Nikki about the man in white who was my real reason for trying to track down Edna. But what was there to tell? Ganesh had said I was imagining the man’s interest in Edna. Who could be interested in an old bag lady? Ganesh was probably right, again.

  ‘We think that, in this case, it’s all right to make an exception - up to a point. We think we probably have your friend here. We do have an older lady by the name of Edna Walters. She’s somewhat uncommunicative and that means we know very little about her. She says she can’t remember her date of birth. However, we have managed to establish that she’s in her sixties.’

  Tactlessly I blurted, ‘Blimey, is that all?
’ I’d always imagined her to be about eighty.

  ‘Her lifestyle has aged her,’ said Simon simply. ‘Social Services had quite a time chasing her through the system and even now they can’t be sure they have tracked down the right Edna Walters. I think she is the same person as the one you know because our Edna Walters was at one time living rough in Rotherhithe as you describe.’

  I was beginning to feel the system was swallowing me. I opened my mouth to say that whichever Edna Social Services reckoned they had identified, I knew her to be the one who had been my sort-of neighbour, but Simon swept on before I could speak.

  ‘She isn’t here at the moment. She’s out for most of the day. We don’t know where she goes. She comes back at night, though, in time for our evening meal. I can’t tell you more. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that much. But it’s answered your question and I hope it’s put your worries about her to rest. It might not be a good idea if you made contact with her directly.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked bluntly.

  He looked embarrassed. ‘We’ve worked hard to gain her trust. Each time she leaves the house we’re not sure she’ll return. So far, she has.’When I said nothing he added emphatically, ‘Edna likes to be left alone. If you know her, you’ll understand. I’ve answered your original question.You have no need to be worried she’s sleeping rough.’

  He was right, of course. I stood and Bonnie jumped up from her place by the pine cones. ‘Thanks for telling me,’ I said. ‘Now I know she’s here with you I know she’s all right. I appreciate your telling me about it all. It’s awkward for you, I understand that. Thanks for the coffee.’

  As we approached the front door on the hall side I asked, pointing at the door panels, ‘Are you sure it’s all right for Sandra to sit out there crying like that?’

  ‘She’ll come in when she feels like it,’ he said. ‘We do check she takes her medication although that’s not always easy.’

  Sandra still huddled forlornly on the step but had stopped weeping. Simon stooped and touched her shoulder. ‘Coming inside, Sandy? How about a coffee?’

  She gave no sign of having heard.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ he said to her. He nodded brightly at me and shut the door.

  I walked carefully past Sandra and out onto the pavement. They were good people and Edna was in safe hands. I was glad I’d found out where she lived. I’d be able to tell Ganesh. Perhaps I’d been mistaken about the man in the baseball cap. It could be that everything was all right.

  I set off down the road feeling quite cheerful with Bonnie pattering alongside. Then I saw him, standing on the corner, seconds before he saw me. He was still dressed all in white or some very pale colour and, as before, he turned and made off round the corner the moment he realised I’d spotted him. That’s why he waited about on corners: it gave him a choice of escape routes.

  ‘Not this time, sunshine!’ I muttered grimly. ‘This time you’re not getting away from me!’

  Chapter Three

  I ran across the road and round the corner he had turned. Another long residential street stretched out before me, lined with houses much like the one I’d left. To my dismay the pavements were empty of pedestrians; no sign of the man in the baseball cap at all. He had simply vanished. I couldn’t believe it. I stood there open-mouthed.

  But there were two people in the street, house-painters in emulsion-stained white overalls, who stood in the roadway loading ladders and buckets into the rear of a van.

  I hurried down to them. ‘Hi!’

  They stopped work and surveyed me. One was short with curly fair hair and the other tall with lank shoulder-length dark hair. Tom and Jerry, or Jerry and Tom, if you want to be a stickler for accuracy.

  ‘Hullo, love,’ Jerry returned my greeting.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘I thought I saw a friend of mine turn the corner into this street so I ran after him, but I don’t see him. Have you noticed anyone? He’s young and wears a white baseball cap and T-shirt.’

  They exchanged glances and shook their heads in unison.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ said Tom.

  ‘We’ve been working in there.’ Jerry nodded his curly head towards the house behind us. I looked. The front door was open and I could see through it that the whole place was untenanted and obviously undergoing renovation.

  ‘Three flats,’ went on Jerry. ‘Three hundred grand apiece at least. Wouldya believe it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, at least they’ll be freshly done up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom. ‘New bathrooms, new kitchens. Don’t know about the wiring. You want to watch the wiring in these old places.’

  ‘Floorboards,’ said Jerry cryptically.

  ‘Yeah, floorboards, too,’ agreed his mate.

  We’d spent enough time on interior decorating. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I know you’ve been busy and not paying attention to anything but work but are you sure you weren’t aware of anyone going past? Even if you didn’t see him exactly, you might have heard him or just sensed someone was there.’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom said.

  ‘Will one of us do?’ offered Jerry.

  I thanked him and said perhaps some other time. We parted the best of friends.

  I made my way back to home turf a prey to turbulent emotions like the heroine of the Victorian melodrama Ganesh liked to cast me as. I wanted to tear my hair, short though it is, and beat my breast. (I’m somewhat deficient in that department, too. I’d never get a job modelling those lace and wire confections designed to lift and separate.) All I could do was scowl at innocent passers-by. They quickened their step in alarm. Understandably people do sometimes find me strange.

  I had seen him, dammit! There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight. I don’t indulge in banned substances. I hadn’t been hallucinating. He’d been there and he’d seen me. I knew him and he knew me. Once again, he’d proved too quick and too clever for me. Before, this had only been about Edna. Now it was getting personal. This guy was running rings round me. It was a matter of honour. I will track you down, mate, I promised.You won’t make me look like a blundering idiot. I will prove to Ganesh that you exist as some sort of genuine threat to Edna.

  I called at the newsagent’s. On the way in I passed a man coming out and holding the early edition of the Evening Standard, but otherwise inside it was customer-free. Hari stood disconsolately by his till.

  ‘Ah, Francesca, my dear,’ he greeted me with the air of an undertaker. He leaned forwards and whispered, ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Who?’ I asked foolishly

  He swept a hand around his shop. ‘The customers! Where are they? Where are the children? School is out, isn’t it? Why are they not here buying drinks and snacks and trying to pinch things, eh?’

  ‘Half term?’ I suggested.

  He shook his head. ‘It is worse, Francesca. I have a rival.’ He pointed somewhere behind me and down the road. ‘Supermarket!’ he hissed. ‘Isn’t it enough for them they sell food and washing powder? No, they sell newspapers and magazines, crisps and Coke and chewing gum. They have a kiosk by the door. The children go there. They wander round the shop floor and it is easier to pinch things, isn’t it, from a supermarket?’

  Hari seemed to have a very poor opinion of local youth. I supposed it was based on experience.

  ‘Here I watch them!’ he added grimly.

  The lack of welcome the young customers had got here might have contributed to their taking their trade elsewhere but it wouldn’t be tactful to say so. ‘Where’s Ganesh?’ I asked.

  ‘In the stockroom,’ said Hari. ‘We should be so busy at this time he should be needed here, watching those children.’

  If I was a school kid, I’d stay clear of Hari’s shop.

  ‘It is unfair competition, isn’t it?’ wailed Hari.

  Ganesh was in the dark dusty stockroom armed with a clipboard and pencil and counting boxes of confectionery. He looked up sharpl
y when I came in and then relaxed when he saw who it was.

  ‘Is he still moaning?’ he asked without any prior greeting.

  ‘About the supermarket taking his trade? Yes.’

  ‘Of course customers have moved there,’ said Ganesh crossly. ‘He’s such a miserable git. He’s paranoid, that’s what. He follows them round the shop. I’ve told him not to do it. You’ve got to be pleasant, make them feel welcome, that they’re individuals. Tell ’em it’s nice to see them again. Ask them how they are. It’s called customer relations. My uncle,’ said Ganesh, ‘lacks communication and interpersonal skills.’

  ‘Have you been reading those business studies books again?’ I asked him.

  Perhaps the difficulties with Hari had inspired Ganesh to broaden his horizons; though I doubted they would result in his actually moving on. However, he had recently been compiling an impressive collection of non-fiction books. Some were the usual self-help sort: train your memory; improve your diet; get super-fit with simple exercises; transform your wardrobe and by this means your life. Some offered to plug the gaps in your education: the business studies; computer programming (Ganesh doesn’t own a computer); present-tense Latin and so on. (‘Why present-tense Latin, Gan?’ ‘So that I can read inscriptions, you know, in old churches and that.’ ‘But for that you need past-tense Latin, Gan.’) Some were reference books should you feel like checking out anything. There wasn’t a decent paperback among them.