Lost: Part 5

‘Grandma Annie, I’m home!’ she shouted as she raced inside. ‘I’ll unpack the shopping for you.’ Nell emptied the bag on the kitchen table. She tossed the neatly wrapped brown paper parcels to one side as she searched for her treasure. There it was: a tiny, navy blue button. She held it in the clear light of the kitchen window. It had a shell-like opalescence as if it had emerged from the depths of the sea bed. It had two tiny eyes for thread. To the touch, it felt as smooth and cool as the silken edge of the blanket on her bed. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

             Annie laboured into the room, rubbing her eyes. She’d been napping on the sofa, no doubt. ‘Lunch in half an hour. I’ll make a start on the sandwiches. Ham and mustard, Nell?’

            ‘Lovely. I’ll be in my room reading. There’s a new Delia on the table for you. It’s called How to Cook.’ 

Nell picked up her pile of books and left Annie to her dark mutterings about Delia and rotten eggs. She leapt up the stairs to her bedroom two at a time. There was so much to think about.

Years ago, when she had first arrived at the cottage, Nell’s bedroom had been neat and spare. It contained a single bed with a black iron frame, a wardrobe (Nell had never seen such a thing before, had never understood that clothes should be folded or placed on things called hangers), a bookcase and a chest of drawers. The walls were white and the fuzzy blankets on the bed were kingfisher blue. There was a gilt-framed painting of copper-coloured roses waning in an emerald green vase. Fallen petals, curled like shavings of wax, lay around the base of vase. In the shadowy light of dusk, Nell could see indistinct faces peering at her from the blooms. Those copper roses had been the only decoration in the austere room.

The room was very different now: Nell was a hoarder, a collector and archivist and tiny room was cluttered with her finds. Every surface was covered: piles of sea-glass arranged by colour, towers of shells, smooth pebbles from the beach and bunches of dried wild flowers in Annie’s old Tale and Lyle treacle jars. Her grandmother had long since refused to dust Nell’s bedroom. As long as the floor was clear and Nell’s clothes were neatly stored, she was content.

Nell kept her most beloved artefacts in an old Clark’s shoe box under her bed. Each object was carefully wrapped in silver tissue paper. Here she kept mementos that possessed special, otherworldly powers: the sun-bleached skeleton of a weasel, bus tickets from summer days out, an ammonite fossil, a Queen of Spades playing card unearthed in the churchyard by the grave of a drowned sailor. This was also where Nell kept her moss-green notebook. If the silver papered objects within the box were Nell’s relics, the tools of her craft, the notebook was her spell-book. Its words held unfathomable power. Nell’s enterprise was to record the events of the morning in her notebook with the truth and clarity of a Spring dawn.

In fact, the morning was so spectacular, so full of wonder, she did not know where to start. She lay straight on her bed, rested the book on her chest, closed her eyes and breathed deeply – she imagined herself soaking up the power of the notebook. She felt Ferdinand huddle close, his cold nose nestled into the crook of her neck. In the false night-time of her consciousness, colours and lights and shapes shimmered and exploded like shooting stars. Nell ignored them and allowed herself descend into an inky darkness. She began to retell the events of her morning: slowly, reverently, turning each over in her mind like the faithful reader of the tarot. It was important that she reconstruct her journey with the grey man word by word, colour by colour, silence by silence, step by step. Nothing could be missed. Every element had meaning, every detail was important. 

 

Downstairs, Annie poured strong, steaming tea from a heavy orange teapot. ‘About time girl, I’ve been wasting away down here.’ she complained when Nell entered the kitchen. ‘Custard tarts too! What a treat. We’ll have them for afters. What made you get three? Not that I am complaining, I am sure the extra one won’t go to waste!’ The old lady plopped into her chair like rose-pink blamanche. She looked at the opulence of the feast set out on the table and sighed with pleasure.

Nell bit into a sandwich. The bread was soft and fluffy, thick with butter. The salty ham and fiery yellow mustard made her tongue fizz and tingle. Years back, when she first lived with Annie, Nell’s notebooks and diaries mostly recorded her meals: inventories of every delicious morsel eaten. Annie had once asked what she scribbled about, and when Nell explained, her grandmother had given an understanding nod: food was life-giving, after all. What could be more important?

             ‘Mr Winter helped me carry the shopping back home. I couldn’t afford the bus after I got the custard tarts.’

            ‘Mr Winter? Him next door? Whatever was he doing down in the colliery?’

            ‘He was looking at the old shop next to the bakery when I bumped into him. Staring at it like he’d seen a ghost, he was. He was a help though; the shopping was heavy today. I got loads of books at the library for my schooling.’

            Annie put out down her sandwich. She fussed about with her bosom for a while, hoisting it this way and that, ‘The old shop, you say? The one next to the bakery?’ Her face had become wily and fox-like. 

The skin on Nell’s arms prickled, it was as if the temperature in the room had inexplicably plummeted. She had said too much, she realised. She had betrayed a confidence. ‘Maybe, or he might have been just looking in the bakery window at the sausage rolls. Yes, that was it. I expect. Can I have some more tea, Grannie please?’

            ‘Of course, help yourself, Nell.’ 

            ‘Grannie, when Mr Winter first moved in you said he was a famous policeman. Why was he famous?’ 

Nell’s question was asked with an affected neutrality. She stirred her tea, watching the sugar dissolve into the amber liquid It was a question that had gnawed at her for some time. She casually glanced at her Grandmother. Her colour had flamed and deepened suddenly, to a dangerous dragon red. Her eyes were lowered.

‘Oh, something and nothing, Nell. He was in the paper a few times for cases he solved, that kind of thing. Not really famous. Not like Tom Jones or Lady Delia Smith.’

            ‘What kind of cases, Grannie?’

            Annie’s hands fluttered like agitated birds. She plucked and picked at invisible crumbs caught in the folds of her apron. 

‘Oh, gangs of kids pinching crisps from the newsagents, thing like that, I think.’

            She was lying. Nell could see that. She could see it as clearly as she could see her grandmother’s plump red face, as clearly as she could see the bright orange tea pot on the table in front of her.

            ‘He was famous for catching crisp burglars? Not exactly James Bond then.’ Nell rolled her eyes dramatically and helped herself to another sandwich. Her grandmother seemed uncharacteristically flustered by the conversation. 

            ‘Well maybe not crisps. More serious cases too. Not nice things to talk about at lunch and certainly not subjects suitable for young ears. Well, I think I am ready for pudding, Nell.’ She picked up a tart and gave it a little shake to determine whether the custard had achieved the appropriate wobble. ‘Perfect, not overcooked. Look at that glorious yellow, Nell. What a beauty!’ She closed her eyes as she sank her teeth into the custard and sighed. A tremor of delight shimmied down her body.

            ‘Lovely!’ she exclaimed, licking the crumbs of pastry from her lips. ‘You’re a good girl, Nell. I wonder if Delia has a recipe for custard tarts in that book you’ve brought from the library. Probably has, with sun dried whatnots and milk from free-range unicorns.’ One more bite and the custard tart was gone. She groaned again with pleasure. 

‘What did Mr Winter talk about on your walk?’

         ‘Oh, my books and things. He didn’t say much. He’s a quiet man, I think.’

            ‘I wouldn’t know about that, but to look at him you wouldn’t think he had the energy or strength to fight criminals. Looks as frail and hollow as a bonfire night guy - made of old sticks and dried leaves. I suppose he’s seen some things, Nell, in his job. Some terrible things. No wonder he doesn’t have much to say, poor man. One thing I do know is he looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal since 1978.’ 

            Lunch was finished and the plates and cups were emptied. The extra custard tart sat expectantly in the centre of the table. 

‘Nice cauli you chose today, Nell. Good size and firm. Maybe I’ll teach you how to make a cheese sauce this afternoon? Are you listening?.’

Nell was on her feet. She grabbed the plate with the custard tart and rushed out of the door. When she got to the grey man’s cottage she set the plate carefully on his step and rapped lightly on the door. As soon as she heard his footsteps, she ran away as fast as she could. She heard the creak of his door just as she slammed her own.

Back in the kitchen, Annie watched her with keen, bright eyes. 

‘Where the devil have you been, girl?’ 

Nell shrugged, ‘I thought Mr Winter might like the last custard tart, Grannie. You said he needed feeding up.’

            Annie harrumphed, ‘Well, I suppose so. It was kind of him to help with the shopping and to put up with your yipping and yapping, no doubt. I could have quite fancied that last one myself, tell you the truth. Well, this can be one of my diet days, I suppose. Come on, let’s get the table cleared.’

            Nell smiled. She was content. Everything was settled. Everything was in its place. She had the grey man’s button and had paid for it with the custard tart - a fair exchange. She had the afternoon to work in her notebook, there would be cauliflower cheese for tea and a new book of fairy tales to share with Ferdinand at bedtime. She was happy, she realised, with quiet astonishment: happy.