The Skeleton Man

29

The North Sea was a grey slate, ruffled only by a squall of rain moving in from the east. The cab had cruised the front twice already but still they’d failed to see the sign. Perhaps it had long closed, perhaps it had been renamed, perhaps the picture had been a fake all along.

‘Remind me,’ said Humph, winding down the driver’s side window to clear it of the droplets which obscured the view.

‘The Royal Esplanade,’ said Dryden.

It was dusk and the promenade lights flickered once then came on, somehow adding to the gloom. At sea a single trawler headed in, its green and red lights hinting at a subtle swell.

They reached the miniature clock tower by the marine gardens which was the centrepiece of Lowestoft’s sea front.

‘One more time,’ said Dryden, wishing he’d done some research before they’d undertaken the trip.

Humph swung the cab in a circle and headed south.

Dryden was looking at the double-bayed fronts of the B&Bs with their winking ‘Vacancy’ signs when they came opposite a small park set back from the prom. Trees, heavy with summer leaves, obscured the buildings beyond.

‘Take the next right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go round the square.’

And there it was, behind elegant Edwardian railings – the Esplanade.

Dryden fished a tie out of the glove compartment and ran a hand through his hair, examining his face in the vanity mirror.

‘I need to look like an accountant,’ he said.

Humph was biting the top off a pork pie. ‘Thank God you’ve failed,’ he said, wriggling his backside down into the seat.

‘Thanks for the support.’

A female nurse in uniform answered the door, ushering him inside beneath a chandelier which failed to provide enough light. A long corridor led off into the heart of the building, the lino reflecting institutional lights, a distant wheelchair being pushed across from one room to another.

The nurse left him in an office by the door, a room which had once been elegant, but was now disfigured by an electronic intercom board and a semi-circle of high-backed chairs.

A tall man in a suit appeared through a connecting door, his hand already raised in welcome. ‘Mr Dryden? Dr McNally – I’m the head of care strategy here at the Esplanade – and at our other two establishments along the coast. I understand… please take a seat.’

Dryden nodded. They both sat, a coffee table between them covered in old editions of Country Life.

‘It’s my aunt. She’s eighty-four. I’m thinking of suggesting she should… well, be looked after. She’s had several strokes and she’s now confined to a wheelchair. There are complications – mainly circulation. She needs a lot of looking after.’

Dr McNally’s eyes flickered down to a notepad on the tabletop where his silver pen skated smoothly.

‘There’ve been a few accidents. It’s upset her, just the thought she’s a burden on anyone. And even with a couple of care visits a day I think she’s beginning to get frightened – worried that something will happen and there’ll be no one there. So we’ve talked about it – which is when she mentioned the Esplanade.’

McNally nodded, letting him go on.

‘She had a friend who came here I think – back in the nineties. Ellen Woodruffe? She always spoke very highly of the quality of the care so I think Miriam – that’s my aunt – would be happy to at least consider a move. But she wasn’t quite sure this was the right place. She seemed to think it was near the pier – which doesn’t sound right.’

Dryden looked out of the window on to the dripping leaves of a plane tree.

McNally nodded, stood, and went behind the desk, tapping the keyboard on an AppleMac. ‘Woodruffe, you said?’

‘Right. With a final “e”. She would have arrived in June 1990, I think.’

‘Let’s see…’

‘Miriam said she had a wonderful room, with a balcony. If there was any chance we could offer her something similar…’

‘Indeed, indeed. Have you seen our charges, by the way – there’s a schedule in this leaflet.’

He pushed a brochure across the leather desktop. Dryden opened it, breathing in the mildly hypnotic whiff of freshly printed paper. The annual charges were listed in a small box and Dryden surreptitiously tried to hide his battered shoes by pushing his heels back under the chair.

‘Here she is,’ said McNally, and Dryden fought to hide his disappointment. ‘Let’s look at her file.’

Dryden nodded. ‘Thanks. These charges seem very reasonable,’ he lied.

McNally left the room, returning quickly with a box file.

‘Yes. Ellen Woodruffe. She came to us much later than that actually – 1992 – in the December. She was in Rosemary, that’s one of our best suites, looking out to sea. That’s a sitting room with en suite facil ities and a bedroom.’

Dryden rubbed his hands together. ‘Right – now I need to tell her all of this if we’re going to get her out to visit. Would that be OK?’

Dryden took out his wallet, making sure McNally could see the chequebook. ‘It’s odd though,’ he said, letting his pencil hover over a scrap of paper he’d got out of the wallet. ‘She’s got such a great memory Miriam – and that’s certainly not fading. She was sure she came here in ’90. That’s the year Uncle Bernard died.’

McNally nodded as if he knew who the fictional Bernard really was, while he flicked nervously through the box file.

‘Yes. Well it does look like she was meant to be with us then. According to the file she was booked in for that year, and she was examined by the medical staff here and assessed for her needs. But there was a late change of plans. The contract was cancelled in May 1990. Looks like she went abroad with her son – Kenneth. Spain – Sitges on the Costa Dorada. They reapplied from there, that was in ’92, and we undertook a fresh medical examination on her arrival. Her condition had deteriorated further. Stomach ulcers, and some early signs of diabetes setting in, alongside the chronic heart condition.’

He nodded, closing the file.

Dryden looked out of the window. ‘We stopped getting Christmas cards in – what was it? Late nineties?’

McNally held his eyes for just a second beyond the point of politeness. ‘Ninety-seven. She died here, in fact – I recall her now actually. Wonderful woman, terrible illness, but bravely borne.’

Dryden guessed he’d been sussed but went through the charade of fixing up a visit. Miriam would have been proud of him. McNally left him in the office while some forms were printed out off the computer in a side room.

He was looking out the window watching Humph complete his daily exercise by walking round the Capri when he saw a woman reflected in the glass. Dryden thought she was in her seventies, small sparrow-like frame, but her movements were quick and fluid. She edged in through the door clutching her hands together and Dryden guessed she’d been listening outside.

He turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Rosa, the nurse – said someone had called asking about Ellen. It’s nearly ten years, isn’t it? I just can’t believe the time has gone so quickly. I miss her terribly. We were in cahoots, Mr Dryden: partners. I’m Joyce, Joyce Cummings.’

Dryden took the paper-dry hand. ‘Cahoots about what?’ he asked, smiling, but she didn’t seem to hear. ‘My aunt was an old friend of Ellen’s. They’d lost touch. She’s hoping to come here too – Ellen recommended it.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said, the hand vanishing back into the folds of her dress. ‘I’d very much doubt that. Ellen hated it here, every moment, so I can’t imagine where you got that idea. We both hated it but, well, you know, we were dumped here so that was that. It’s like the old joke – the food’s dreadful here, but the real problem is that you get such small portions.’

She laughed, her eyes dancing around the room, and Dryden tried not to think what it took to keep a sense of humour alive for a decade in a place like the Esplanade. He could hear the printer still clattering in the back office. ‘Did you meet Kenneth too – her son?’ asked Dryden

‘He more or less ran the pub, didn’t he?’ Dryden nodded. ‘Never. She didn’t want to see him. She always said that he’d let her down very badly. That he’d promised she’d never come to a place like this, that she’d never leave her home, that she could die in her own bed. But people break promises when you’re old – that’s something you’ll discover for yourself.’

McNally came back in the room with a plastic folder, his irritation at the intrusion palpable.

Joyce Cummings put a finger to her lips, smiled beautifully at the doctor and fled.