Twenties Girl - Kinsella Sophie - Страница 72

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“No. Actually that’s some CDs and DVDs. For the other residents.”

I open it and pull out the CDs. Charleston Tunes. The Best of Fred Astaire. 1920s-1940s-The Collection.

“I just thought sometimes they might like to listen to the tunes they danced to when they were young,” I say tentatively. “Especially the really old residents? It might cheer them up.”

“Lara, how incredibly thoughtful! We’ll put one on straightaway!” She heads into the dayroom, which is full of elderly people sitting in chairs and on sofas, with a daytime talk show blaring out of the television. I follow, looking all around the white heads for any sign of Sadie.

“Sadie?” I hiss, looking around. “Sadie, are you here?”

There’s no reply. I should have known this was a ridiculous idea. I should leave.

“There we are!” Ginny straightens up from the CD player. “It should come on in a minute.” She zaps the TV off and we both stand motionless, waiting for the music. And then it starts. A scratchy 1920s recording of a jaunty, jazzy tune. It’s a bit faint, and after a moment Ginny increases the volume to full blast.

On the other side of the room, an old man sitting under a tartan blanket with a tank of oxygen next to him turns his head. I can see the light of recognition coming on in faces around the room. Somebody starts humming along in a quavery voice. One woman even begins tapping her hand, her whole self lit up with pleasure.

“They love it!” says Ginny to me. “What a good idea! Shame we’ve never thought of it before!”

I feel a sudden lump in my throat as I watch. They’re all Sadie inside, aren’t they? They’re all in their twenties inside. All that white hair and wrinkled skin is just cladding. The old man with the oxygen tank was probably once a dashing heartthrob. That woman with distant rheumy eyes was once a mischievous young girl who played pranks on her friends. They were all young, with love affairs and friends and parties and an endless life ahead of them…

And as I’m standing there, the weirdest thing happens. It’s as if I can see them, the way they were. I can see their young, vibrant selves, rising up out of their bodies, shaking off the oldness, starting to dance with each other to the music. They’re all dancing the Charleston, kicking up their heels skittishly, their hair dark and strong, their limbs lithe again, and they’re laughing, clutching each other’s hands, throwing back their heads, reveling in it-

I blink. The vision has gone. I’m looking at a room full of motionless old people.

I glance sharply at Ginny. But she’s just standing there, smiling pleasantly and humming along to the CD, out of tune.

The music is still playing away, echoing through the rest of the home. Sadie can’t be here. She would have heard the music and come to see what was going on. The trail’s gone cold yet again.

“I know what I meant to ask you!” Ginny suddenly turns to me. “Did you ever find that necklace of Sadie’s? The one you were looking for?”

The necklace. Somehow, with Sadie gone, that all seems a million miles away now.

“No, I never did.” I try to smile. “This girl in Paris was supposed to be sending it to me, but… I’m still hoping.”

“Oh well, fingers crossed!” says Ginny.

“Fingers crossed.” I nod. “Anyway, I’d better go. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Well, it’s lovely to see you. I’ll show you out.”

As we make our way through the hall, my head is still full of the vision I saw of all the old people dancing, young and happy again. I can’t shake it.

“Ginny,” I say on impulse as she opens the big front door. “You must have seen a lot of old people… passing on.”

“Yes, I have,” she says, matter-of-factly. “That’s the peril of the job.”

“Do you believe in…” I cough, feeling embarrassed. “In the afterlife? Do you believe in spirits coming back and that kind of thing?”

My mobile phone rings shrilly in my pocket before Ginny can answer, and she nods at it.

“Please, do get that.”

I haul it out-and see Dad’s number on the ID display.

Oh God. Why is Dad calling? He’ll have heard about me leaving my job somehow. He’ll be all stressy and asking what my plans are. And I can’t even dodge the call, with Ginny watching.

“Hi, Dad,” I say hurriedly. “I’m just in the middle of something, can I put you on hold a minute?” I jab at the phone and look up at Ginny again.

“So what you’re asking is, do I believe in ghosts?” she says with a smile.

“Er… yes. I suppose I am.”

“Truthfully? No, I don’t. I think it’s all in the head, Lara. I think it’s what people want to believe. But I can understand what a comfort it must be to those who have lost loved ones.”

“Right.” I nod, digesting this. “Well… bye. And thanks.”

The door closes and I’m halfway down the path before I remember Dad, still waiting patiently on the line. I grab my phone and press Talk.

“Hey, Dad! Sorry about that.”

“Not at all, darling! I’m sorry to disturb you at work.”

Work? So he doesn’t know.

“Oh, right!” I say quickly, crossing my fingers. “Work. Yes. Absolutely. Work! Where else would I be?” I give a shrill laugh. “Although, as it happens, I’m not in the office right now…”

“Ah. Well, this may be ideal timing, then.” Dad hesitates. “I know this may sound odd. But I’ve got something I need to talk to you about and it’s rather important. Could we meet?”

This is weird. I’m really not sure what’s going on.

We’ve agreed to meet at Lingtons in Oxford Street, because it’s central and we both know it. And also because whenever we arrange to meet up, Dad suggests Lingtons. He’s unfailingly loyal to Uncle Bill, plus he has a Lingtons Gold VIP Card, which gets you free coffee and food, anywhere, anytime. (I don’t. I only have Friends and Family, fifty percent off. Not that I’m complaining.)

As I arrive at the familiar chocolate-brown-and-white frontage, I’m quite apprehensive. Maybe Dad’s got some really bad news to break. Like Mum’s ill. Or he’s ill.

And even if he hasn’t, what am I going to say about my bust-up with Natalie? How will he react when he realizes his flake of a daughter has invested loads of money in a business only to walk out on it? Just the thought of seeing his face crumple in disappointment-yet again-makes me wince. He’ll be devastated. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I have a plan of action.

I push open the door and inhale the familiar scent of coffee, cinnamon, and baking croissants. The plushy brown velvet chairs and gleaming wooden tables are the same as in every other Lingtons around the world. Uncle Bill is beaming down from a massive poster behind the counter. Lingtons mugs, coffeepots, and grinders are arranged on a display shelf, all in the trademark chocolate brown and white. (No one else is allowed to use that shade of chocolate brown, apparently. It belongs to Uncle Bill.)

“Lara!” Dad waves from the head of the queue. “Just in time! What do you want?”

Oh. He looks quite cheerful. Maybe he’s not ill.

“Hi.” I give him a hug. “I’ll have a caramel Lingtoncino and a tuna melt.”

You can’t ask for a cappuccino in Lingtons. It has to be a Lingtoncino.

Dad orders the coffees and food, then proffers his Gold VIP Card.

“What’s this?” says the guy behind the till, looking dubious. “I’ve never seen one of these before.”

“Try scanning it,” says Dad politely.

“Wow.” The guy’s eyes widen as something bleeps on the till screen. He looks up at Dad, a bit awestruck. “That’ll be… free.”

“I always feel a bit guilty using that card,” confesses Dad, as we collect our coffees and make our way to a table. “I’m doing poor Bill out of his rightful income.”

Poor Bill? I feel a tiny wrench in my heart. Dad is so good. He thinks about everyone except himself.

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