Somewhere: Chapter 3 (Pt 1)

CHAPTER THREE

 

Liam Mayfield had been discharged back to his shared house in Culloden Terrace. Both the hospital and the police gave his uncle, Simon Mayfield, as a contact and the person he had been visiting in Minster Yard. Elsie rang him to enquire after Liam and arrange a visit.

Uncle Simon’s clipped, RP tones were irritated. “I thought the police had all the details. My nephew is still very shaken. He won’t even come back to stay with me in Minster Yard. He’s not…keen on the idea. I don’t think it will do him much good to go over the whole thing again.”

Elsie put on her customer-soothing voice. “We’re hoping to be able to provide some answers for Liam, but we need to make sure we have all the details right. It’s only fair he gets the chance to tell us about it first hand, rather than us relying on other people’s interpretations of what happened.”

“And what exactly will you be able to do about it?” asked Simon Mayfield.

“Well, that rather depends on what he tells us,” said Elsie. “There’s nothing worse than being given answers by people who haven’t listened to the questions.”

After a moment Simon Mayfield said, “I’ll speak to Liam and get back to you.”

Elsie ended the call and said to Chris, “I think he’s going to try and persuade Liam not to see us.”

“Why would he do that?”

She shrugged. “Genuine concern? Maybe he doesn’t believe it? I don’t think he’s seen the video. Perhaps somehow a nephew with a weird story about a monster isn’t good for Uncle Simon.”

“Do we know who he is?” Chris asked.

Elsie looked at her notes. “According to the police he’s a businessman from London. Not particularly helpful.”

“So could be a greengrocer or the Russian Mafia,” said Chris. “Or both.”

“You think anyone with a decent suit is either the mafia or the freemasons.”

“Prove me wrong.”

“I’m going to the loo,” said Elsie, in case Chris was about to deliver a discourse on economics in general and high-level corruption in particular. “If Uncle Simon rings, see if you can get us an appointment for this morning.”

The Ladies was empty. Elsie paused in front of the mirror and took a few deep breaths.

Professional Elsie looked back at her. Grey trousers, white blouse, silver locket round her neck, small silver studs in her ears. Rebellious hair as neat as it was ever going to get. A bit of foundation, a bit of eye shadow and mascara. Eyebrows that both followed more or less the same arc.

Competent Elsie. A bit haphazard maybe, but nothing to alarm the punters. No sign of tears, or nights without sleep. Concealer was the greatest gift the modern world had to offer. No signs of insides that frequently felt they were being twisted into a knot that would never undo.

It was possible, Elsie had learned, to love someone so fiercely that their welfare was the most important thing in the world to you and always would be, and yet to dread hearing their voice on the phone.

Viola had called her on Sunday. “Hi Mum.”

“Hello sweetheart! How are you? How’s Iris?”

“She’s OK. But Mum, that fucking landlord…”

Elsie agreed to pay the two months’ rent owing, saying she would send it straight to the agents “because it’ll be quicker”, rather than because she didn’t trust it making its way out of Viola’s bank account once it landed there. Doubtless there would be other bills waiting to be paid, or it would be swallowed by a gaping overdraft. Viola giving notice to leave rather than being chucked out of the flat would undoubtedly sit better with future landlords, so she agreed that Viola and Iris, who was three years old and the image of Viola herself at that age, could come and stay “just until we get sorted, Mum.”

“The job didn’t work out then?” she asked gently.

“Fucking wankers. I mean, I can’t help it if…”

There were a lot of things Viola couldn’t help if. Like her alarm not working, Iris’s nursery or childminder never being quite right, the nursery or childminder being picky about timely fee-paying. Mother and daughter had rowed over Viola leaving York, again, in the first place. Viola screamed that Elsie had no right to assume it would all go as badly as it did last time, and the time before.

But it did.

Of course she would take them in. Of course. And she felt so bitterly guilty for the resentment snapping at her insides. Always on call. Always putting money aside, not for a holiday or new clothes or a decent haircut, but to bail Viola out when the inevitable happened. Always knowing that any plans might have to be put on hold, because Viola and Iris couldn’t be.

On the last occasion Viola came home, Chris told Elsie she should apply tough love: no money or living space without contributing to household expenses. The only way to get the message across, as he put it.

“How can I do that?” Elsie asked him. “She’d call my bluff, and then what? You expect me to see them on the streets? Would you do that to one of your kids?”

“Viola could present to the Council.”

“And the Council would find her intentionally homeless. She spent her rent money on other things! Then it’s temporary accommodation and a Child in Need assessment.” Elsie sighed. “She’s only managed to avoid children’s services so far by legging it back to me when things go tits up. If I don’t house them, children’s services might get very interested indeed.”

At least he hadn’t suggested Viola should turn to Iris’s father for help. That would be an exercise in futility.

Elsie hadn’t told Chris about the latest phone call. The last thing she needed was another lecture, however well meant.

She ran a hand over her hair, took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror. Echoes from the past, even possible monsters from God knows where, were a doddle compared to human beings who could rip your heart out with claws of love.

*   *   *   *   * 

 

They got to Culloden Terrace at eleven o’clock. Elsie manoeuvred Ermintrude, her yellow VW Beetle, into a parking space.

“My cousin Jill – you know my cousin Jill - she nearly bought one of these houses,” Chris said, as Elsie checked her distance from the kerb. “Years ago, before they all went studenty. But her husband – he’s the one from Glasgow - he said he wasn’t going to live in Culloden Terrace.” Chris chuckled. “They went to Marshall Street instead. Then they moved up to Aberdeen, when it was all the oil boom, and then they came back and bought a bloody great place in Copmanthorpe.”

“Very nice,” said Elsie, turning off the engine. Chris’s mood seemed to have improved since the allocation meeting.

“They would have stayed up in Scotland,” he went on, “except her mother, you know, my Auntie Sue…”

“Signs of life,” Elsie interrupted him, nodding at the house. The net curtain at the front window twitched. “I half thought Uncle Simon might spirit Liam away. He didn’t sound best pleased when he phoned back.”

“Well done the lad for telling him where to go.” Chris had obviously made up his mind about Uncle Simon.

“I’ll deal with the uncle,” said Elsie, “assuming he’s there. I think he will be. You’re better with the younger generation than I am.”

Chris didn’t contradict her.

Elsie put her SES parking permit on the dashboard and got out of the car. Culloden Terrace was indistinguishable from dozens of other streets in York. These streets were where, in the second half of the twentieth century, young couples often bought their first home. Elsie had been part of one such couple. Houses that were previously homes for life became a first rung on the ladder to something more substantial, with a garden and a garage. These days newly built flats were usually the first choice, for those who could afford to buy a starter home; their value appreciated more in a shorter space of time. Meanwhile a great number of the solid terraces provided shelter for temporarily constructed families: people on the same Uni course, or with the same interests, or whose only affordable option was a room among strangers.

Elsie pressed the black plastic bell. They waited.

 

Pt 2 is here: Somewhere Chapter 3 (Pt 2) | ABCtales

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