I was following Nancy’s advice of words, words, words, without any of the technicalities like motivation and plot trajectory. That morning I tried to write up the story of Jack and me so far; Jack who wanted a relationship without the admin and me the bitter heroine who didn’t believe in love.
Mid-morning, after a bacon roll, I had a call from the letting agent who said that the new tenants wanted to come for a final look before they moved in the following Friday.
I asked him if I could have my deposit back in cash, to save it going into my bank account and being swallowed up by my overdraft, but he refused for administrative reasons.
So I rang Josie at the Caring Share. ‘Hello, it’s Lana Green. I wondered if anything has turned up for me yet?’
‘Unfortunately we don’t have a placement at the moment,’ she said, ‘but things will pick up towards the end of October when the clocks change.’
I tried not to panic. That was a month and a half away. ‘Seriously?’ I asked sceptically. ‘What difference will that make?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Sundowning,’ she said cryptically, lowering her voice.
Sundowning: yes, I could see it now; coyotes howling as the wagon train circles for the night. I lowered my voice too.
‘What does that mean?’
‘When it gets dark, the elderly start to wander. We get a lot of calls in the winter from relatives about wandering.’
As an ex-journalist, I was quite surprised I’ve never heard of this phenomenon of sundowning and wandering old people. But there again, how would I know the difference between an old person wandering and a pensioner going out to buy milk and a bottle of Scotch?
‘What’s the reason for that?’
‘Nobody knows.’ Her voice went back to normal. ‘As soon as I get someone, you’ll be the first person I call. You’re top of the list.’
‘Okay,’ I said reluctantly. I gave my pillow a shake to get rid of my frustration and get comfortable again and sat back on the bed. Trouble was, I had no assets, I thought, gazing at the bike.
Well – apart from the bike, that was.
I unhooked the clothes off it. It really was magnificent. It was built for speed. It deserved to be ridden. The black and red paintwork was shiny and as unmarked as the day I bought it. For an inanimate object, I’d always felt deeply attached to it, but now I looked at it speculatively with fresh eyes, much like hungry Old Mother Hubbard when she turns from the empty cupboard and suddenly views her dog in a different light.
Twenty minutes later I left the house, wheeling the bike up Arlington Road and through Camden Lock to the bike shop in Chalk Farm where I bought it from, feeling as treacherous as if taking my beloved old pet to the vet for the last time.
I like the smell of bike shops – a purposeful mix of rubber and oil. I like the rows of bikes and the racks of neon reflective jackets and functional padded shorts. I like the intensity of the men who work there – it’s almost always men. I like the focus they give the conversation, even when it means there’s a queue building up, and I like the way nobody minds queueing because they know that their turn will come and at that moment all the focus will be directed at them.
So I stood protectively with the bike at my side until it was my turn.
My guy was the one in the red bandanna.
‘I bought this a year ago and it’s hardly been used and I wondered if you would buy it back from me,’ I said, flashing him the wide smile I normally keep for group photographs. ‘I’ve got the receipt here,’ I added, handing it over.
He looked at the receipt and then he looked at the bike, checking the tyre tread and rotating the pedals. ‘So what you’ve got is an ultra-lightweight Trek, OCLV carbon, eleven speed.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said, mindful of the queue behind me.
‘I can give you three hundred for it,’ he said.
In books, people often reel with shock. I’ve never really understood what this was until that moment, when I reeled into the queue of people behind me.
‘But it’s almost new,’ I said hoarsely.
‘Trek don’t do this model any more; they’ve got a new one out. It’s lighter.’
‘Why would you need lighter bike than this? I can pick it up with my little finger. Look!’
The guy and all the other people in the queue watched me try to pick it up.
‘I’ve got short fingers,’ I explained. ‘Honestly, it’s hardly been ridden.’
‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘But this is what you have to take into account. I have to make money from it. Trust me, no one’s going to pay any more than that because it’s last year’s model. You’d be better off selling it privately. There’s a website called Gumtree—’
‘I know Gumtree,’ I said irritably, ‘I’ve already sold all my stuff on that.’
‘That’s your answer,’ he said. He gave me my receipt back and he looked over my shoulder at the man behind me.
I wanted to continue the argument but I’d had my allotted share of attention so I kicked up the bike stand and wheeled it out onto Chalk Farm Road feeling extremely discontented.
A combination of stress and the saltiness of a bacon roll had made my mouth dry. But I couldn’t get a drink because I hadn’t brought a bike lock with me. I couldn’t leave the bike without one because it wouldn’t last five minutes without being stolen. Even with a lock on, bikes get stolen every day in London. What you need is a couple of D-locks and to always fasten them through the back wheel and the frame. Otherwise you will come back to the bike rack to find all that’s left of your chosen mode of transport is the lonesome front wheel. And I couldn’t take it into Sainsbury’s because it had ‘No Bikes!’ written on the door.
My phone rang; it was Jack. I could hear the undulating wail of a police car in the background.
‘Have you read the Camden Journal?’ he asked abruptly.
‘No. I’m not at home at the moment, I’m in Camden. I’ve just been to the bike shop.’
‘You’re buying a bike?’
‘No, I’m selling one. Where are you?’
‘I’m in Costa in Camden Road having a sandwich. Can I get you anything?’
‘Yes, please! I’ll have a Pepsi Max!’ I said, then realising that would be classed as rude, added quickly, ‘Only joking. I won’t be long.’ I wheeled the bike past Sainsbury’s and up towards the railway bridge.
Costa Coffee is right next to the canal. I propped the bike against the railings – down below us on the still green water, a red narrowboat was moored up and a black and white cat lay curled on its roof.
Jack came out with the drinks and the sandwiches. His yellow T-shirt accentuated his tan. He looked at me in that direct way of his.
‘Take a look at this.’ He flattened the freesheet out for me to read. The headline on the front page read: Camden Pensioner in Sex Abuse Arrest.
A forty-year-old sex offender was today arrested after breaking the conditions of his licence by taking an elderly Hampstead resident for a drink in the Rat and Parrot. The offender had recently been released from a twelve-year prison sentence for the rape of a ninety-three-year-old woman and the sexual assault of an eighty-seven-year-old.
Tony Jackson, the manager, said that the pensioner was a regular customer who he’d had trouble with in the past. ‘She often buys people a drink,’ he said. ‘People take advantage. This time, it could have got her into serious trouble.’
The story was disgusting, appalling. ‘They should have told you what he’d done at the time – their whole attitude would have made more sense if you’d known.’ I sincerely hoped Nancy wouldn’t read it.
‘Hampstead pensioner.’ Jack gave a dry laugh. ‘She’ll hate that.’ He looked back at me, rubbing his hands wearily over his stubble. ‘I’ve just had a meeting with Nancy’s social worker. They’ve got a doll order against her.’
‘Sounds cute.’
‘Doesn’t it? It’s not,’ he said, flushing. ‘Turns out that it is a D-O-L order and that stands for deprivation of liberty. Who knew? You can deprive someone of their liberty as easily as that.’
I was shocked. ‘That is the most awful thing I’ve ever heard,’ I said heatedly. ‘You can deprive someone of their liberty just because they’re a bit eccentric?’
I suppose social workers must do a good job generally, but it did seem unfair.
The man vaping at the next table turned to look at us.
‘It’s because of that guy she had a drink with.’
‘But why should Nancy be deprived of her liberty, when he broke the law?’
Jack looked weary. ‘The way they see it, she hasn’t got the capacity to judge whether a situation is good or bad. But they’re wrong. What they don’t realise – what they don’t know, what they don’t want to know – is that she’s always been like that, sociable and impulsive. It’s not the illness; it’s how she is, it’s her nature. Just because she’s not like other old ladies doesn’t mean she’s not capable of looking after herself. Nancy is generally okay, she’s still in the early stages, and I don’t want them making it worse for her than it already is. I’m not in denial, Lana; I know it’s going to progress. But I want to look back on these times as her good times, when things weren’t too bad, when she just needed a bit of support.’
My heart went out to him. ‘Does she have any other family that could help?’
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. ‘It’s just her and me.’
He looked so alone. I wanted to hug him, because I knew how that felt. I thought of the times that I’d stood behind someone and wanted to press my cheek against their back just for a moment, to feel close to another human being.
Instead, I got back to practicalities, which is what I’m good at.
‘How are they going to deprive her of her liberty?’
‘She’s not allowed to go to the pub unsupervised.’
‘But …’ I could see a huge flaw in this. You didn’t have to be with Nancy long to know how bad her memory was. ‘Even if they told her not to go, she wouldn’t remember, would she? And even if she did remember, she’d still want to go, DOL order or not.’
‘That is perfectly correct.’ Jack nodded. ‘My job is all about problem-solving but I can’t solve this one. There’s no good answer. I can’t give up my business to look after her and she won’t have carers – they send different ones each time and she won’t let them in when they call, which ironically shows good sense. Catch-22, right?’
He stood up and went to look over the railings.
I sat back and tried to see him objectively. In his yellow T-shirt he had the fanciable hard-bodied look that I’d caught a glimpse of by the river. Broad shoulders, slim waist. Really, he was fit, despite all his worries. Aw, Jack.
I understood for the first time the strain that he was under.
At the same time, there was something intriguing about illness, in a horrible sort of way. Three bestsellers popped into my mind: Elizabeth Is Missing, The Memory Book and Iris. Dementia is the new autism, as autism was the new AIDS. Illnesses are good subjects for books – where would Edgar Allen Poe be without consumption? How would Love Story work without leukaemia? (Seriously, that class thing was always an issue for Jenny and Oliver. If the heroine hadn’t died they’d have been divorced by now for sure.) I suddenly had the beginning of an idea involving Nancy, but then I realised I was wandering dangerously into Jojo Moyes territory. Still; serendipity!
A black-headed gull swooped over us and rested on the narrowboat below.
‘Jack, you should talk to Josie at the Caring Share,’ I said. ‘She’ll find you someone to take a room in Nancy’s house. That means there’ll be somebody around to keep an eye on her and take her for a drink.’
I wasn’t being disingenuous. I didn’t necessarily mean me. Mrs Leadbetter would have suited me fine, but Nancy Ellis Hall was a different proposition altogether.
But.
Think about it.
Was it such a bad idea, in the circumstances; the circumstances being I was five days away from homeless?
The thing about writers is, we’re always searching for the story. We are also aware of the signs of the times, the zeitgeist (as I knew from Kitty).
Jack had his phone out. ‘Caring Share? Do you have a number for them?’ he asked.
‘I probably ought to tell you, though,’ I said. ‘If you do ring Josie, she’s going to ring me because I’m at the top of the waiting list for a room.’
One thing I’ll say about Jack, he catches on quickly.
‘Is that so?’ He narrowed his eyes against the sun, poised with his phone in his hand. ‘When she calls you, what will you tell her?’
He watched me while I thought about it and I could see the combination of doubt and hope in his expression too, like a reflection of my own.
It could work.
Why shouldn’t it?
‘I’m happy to do it,’ I decided. I lusted over that damask pink parlour with the photographs of Beryl Bainbridge and Molly Keane; the floor-to-ceiling books snug on mahogany shelves; the scraps of paper scattered around with verbal gems on them. And there was Nancy’s simple insight into the writer’s craft – words, words, words – which had got me writing again. ‘I’ve met Nancy so it’s not as if we’re strangers. We’ve got a lot in common with the writing.’
‘Are you sure? Nancy’s not always an easy person to be around,’ he warned, giving me a ready-made excuse.
But …
‘Hey, you should meet my mother. I’ve had plenty of experience with bossy women.’ I imagined telling her I was living with Nancy Ellis Hall … where better to move to than Nancy’s? There is no doubt about it; the atmosphere of creativity makes you feel as powerful as God. ‘How about this; I’ll try it for a month. Don’t bother going through the Caring Share – it will be less admin this way.’
And I didn’t want to ruin my chances of another placement if it didn’t work out.
Jack looked me in the eye with a certain interest. The warmth seemed to come back into him.
I’d always imagined relationships developing in a slow build-up, but the friendship between Jack and me was more like climbing uneven steps; uncertain and perilous. It felt as if either of us could lose our footing at any moment and go tumbling back to the start line.
He was studying me carefully, speculatively. ‘But I don’t understand why you would do that,’ he said. ‘You’re a bestselling novelist with a book to write.’
‘True. But I’m broke and I’m looking for a place to stay. And with the kayaking and you as hero and your novelist stepmother with Alzheimer’s, I think I can probably make it work as a romantic novel.’
‘So you liked the kayaking,’ he said softly, his eyes clear beneath his straight dark eyebrows.
‘Yes. The sunrise and the silence …’ I looked from his eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes again.
‘Obviously I’d organise the funding,’ he said. ‘You’d get Nancy’s Attendance Allowance.’
I sat back, surprised at this business-like turn of events. Funding? I was going to get paid?
‘I’ll do it!’ I said. I stuck my straw in the bottle, watching the brown foam rise, thinking of Nancy.
You know how it is when someone buys you a Christmas present and then you have to buy one for them because you don’t want them to think you like them less than they like you, and you don’t want to feel, to use one of my mother’s favourite words, beholden?
I’m sure that’s what happened, because Jack looked at the bike thoughtfully.
‘Is that yours? Isn’t it a man’s bike?’
‘Yes. It’s an ultra-lightweight Trek, OCLV carbon, eleven speed.’
‘I’ve been thinking of getting a bike,’ he said. He swallowed the last of the sandwich, wiped his hands on his jeans and got to his feet. ‘How much are you asking for it?’
‘Three hundred,’ I said apologetically.
Jack rubbed the edge of his jaw with the flat of his hand.
‘It’s like new. I bought it for someone. Mark, actually.’
Jack whistled appreciatively. ‘Lucky guy.’
Lucky guy. A feeling of sadness bunched in my chest when he said that. Lucky guy.
I glanced at Jack.
That was what Mark was supposed to feel; that should have been his dialogue. If he’d taken the bike with him when he left me, even if he’d just left it at his parents’ house, I honestly believe it wouldn’t have hurt as deeply as it had. (I accept I could be wrong about that. It might have made me angrier that he took the bike and left me; I will never know, will I?)
‘Yeah, well.’ I shrugged.
I moved the black and red Trek bike away from the railings for him to see it in its full glory.
‘It looks in good condition,’ he said.
‘It should be. It’s a house bike. It’s lived a pampered, indoor sort of a life. It’s been in my hall for a year.’
To my delight, he laughed.
Jack lifted the bike with one hand, got down on his knees and felt the tyres, turned the bike over, rotated the pedals, straightened, rang the bell, tested the brakes and, finally, sat on it.
All serious man stuff.
Finally he came to a conclusion. ‘Awesome,’ he said. ‘Mind if I test drive it?’
‘Go for it,’ I said happily and he took it onto the road. There was a breeze which chased the leaves along the pavement and into the gutter. Jack cycled across the road and down Royal College Street, out of sight.
The guy who was vaping on the next table squinted at me through vanilla-scented clouds. ‘Where’s he off to?’
‘Test drive,’ I said, holding my Pepsi.
We were both silent for a moment, looking across the small square of garden towards the traffic lights. A cat scurried past us and disappeared between parked cars.
‘Be funny if he’s nicked it,’ he said.
I’d just been thinking exactly the same thing. ‘I’ve got his phone number.’
‘So?’ He raised his eyebrows sceptically.
Unexpectedly I felt a low-level anxiety at the stranger’s comment. It was true; I hardly knew Jack Buchanan at all.
Just then a cyclist turned the corner and came towards us, but it wasn’t Jack.
‘How long are you going to give him?’ the guy asked, breaking into my pondering, when suddenly there was a squeal of brakes from behind us and I clutched my drink in panic.
Jack laughed. ‘Jump on, Lana,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you for a spin.’
He moved over the crossbar and I sat precariously on the saddle and off we went, me clutching his hard, flat stomach under his T-shirt, my hair flying around my face and him pedalling fast in the bike lane along Royal College Street, avoiding parked cars, curving steeply around the bend by the pub and bumping up the kerb before finally looping back to Costa where our drinks were still waiting.
The vaping guy blew out a final cloud in our direction and shook his head at us like a disappointed father and went back inside to get warm.
Jack and I were laughing, both in high spirits as he lifted me off the bike. We were looking at each other eye to eye, and I got this feeling that was hard to describe. Obviously as a writer my job is to describe things that are hard to describe so I would say it was a blend of excitement, the butterflies-in-the-stomach sort, and the kind of relaxed feeling that you get when you are emotionally close to someone. Which is strange because it was impossible to be emotionally close to someone I hardly knew. Mainly I wanted to put my arms around him again, and keep them there.
‘I’ll take it,’ Jack said, propping the bike against the table. ‘I’ll do a bank transfer, it will be in your account this afternoon.’
We broke our gaze; the deal was done and I patted the bike’s handlebars fondly. It had been a good coat-stand and a good clothing rail and now it was off to fulfil its destiny as a bicycle.
‘You’ll need a strong lock for it,’ I said anxiously. ‘A D-lock would be good.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured me, ‘it’s going to a good home. And,’ he added seriously, ‘you can visit it any time you like.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He folded up the Camden Journal and put it back into his pocket. ‘When do you want to move into Nancy’s?’
‘How about Saturday lunchtime?’ I said. The perfect relationship: no admin.
‘Fine. I’ll be there to meet you,’ he said.