Chapter fifteen
‘It’s not that I don’t believe Gordon Watson is a brave man,’ said Ellie. ‘It’s just that World War Two had been over for two years before he was born, which makes it unlikely that he flew a Spitfire in the Battle of Britain.’
‘I see,’ said Lewis.
‘I don’t know whether Gordon’s delusional, or if he’s winding me up,’ said Ellie. ‘Either way, I’m kind of insulted that he thinks I can’t do simple maths.’
‘And I’m pretty sure Nutella was invented in Italy,’ added Pam. ‘If Nutella was British, I’m sure we’d have called it something like Spready Chocolate.’
‘I see,’ said Lewis again and steepled his fingers.
He was struggling to concentrate, thanks to two difficult phone calls he’d taken shortly before this delegation pitched up in his office.
The first had been from Carrie Clark of the Longhampton Gazette, ‘reassuring him’ that she had nothing to do with the ‘other story’ running in this week’s edition, and the second had been from Sharon McDowall, daughter of Mary McDowall, demanding an explanation for the ‘haunted old people’s home’ story that she’d just read about on the Gazette’s Facebook page.
Hauntings, for God’s sake. The only thing haunting Rosemount was David bloody Rigg.
First things first, Lewis told himself, and refocused on Ellie and Pam.
‘So what you’re asking,’ he said, ‘is how do we know if they’re making up stories? And what do we say if they are?’
‘In a nutshell,’ said Pam. ‘Yes.’
It was undeniable that the Story of My Life project had turned up some startling facts about the residents.
Like Iris Johnson’s moment in the sun as a background dancer in the Cliff Richard film Summer Holiday, a revelation shared with volunteer, Janice Dolan, and then shared with the rest of the community in a special screening in the television room.
‘Why didn’t you tell us your mum was a movie star, Angie?’ Pam had asked Iris’s daughter, as she and her stunned family stared at the projector screen Ellie had rigged up in the lounge, watching Iris’s lissom eighteen-year-old self frug with barefoot abandon on the studio sand.
‘First thing we knew about it was last week. Right, Mum?’ Angie shot a narrow look at her mother, who was tilting her white head side to side to the beat and smiling nostalgically at the Shadow pretending to flirt with her.
‘I’d almost forgotten about it, hadn’t I?’ Iris had said equably. ‘My boyfriend at the time wasn’t too happy about me dancing, so I turned down the chance to do the next film when they asked, and then I married him, and that was that.’
‘She’s not talking about Dad, by the way,’ her son Jason interrupted. ‘She married some other bloke before Dad.’
‘And we only just heard about the first husband last week! After the story volunteer lady mentioned it to us.’ Angie turned to her mother. ‘Mum, why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Well, it didn’t last. We were young and daft. Gretna Green, spur of the moment. Best put behind us.’ Iris smiled at herself on the big screen, as if she was watching a different film playing in the back of her mind.
‘We’ve really learned a lot about Mum in the last week or so,’ said Jason drily.
Lewis, sitting at the back with a box of popcorn handed out by carers dressed as usherettes, noted the tension in Jason’s face, and the bewilderment in Angie’s.
Personally he admired Iris for putting a false start behind her and moving on – not easy back then, as Gayle had noted in her write-up – but did Iris’ children see it like that?
Was the omission worse than any scandal? It gave him a moment’s pause.
‘I don’t think we should be too quick to assume an extraordinary story can’t also be true,’ said Lewis carefully. ‘The whole point of this project is to find out who our residents are.’
‘Maybe they’re just embellishing?’ suggested Pam. ‘I mean, Helen Kelly was a parliamentary speechwriter, Jack Drabble played water polo for Wales – how are you meant to follow that? You can’t blame people for wanting to sound a bit more exciting.’
Lewis nodded. Gayle had said something similar in her induction meeting, and it had stuck in his head: ‘People don’t always see the value in a quiet life lived kindly and honestly; I always hope the story project puts that into a different perspective.’
‘No, I reckon it’s a game,’ said Ellie. ‘There’s one thing that all these stories have in common. And that’s who they’re coming from. The question is: why?’
‘No need to be cryptic, Ellie,’ said Pam. ‘You’re not Hercule Poirot and I’ve got a laundry delivery to sign off. Who?’
‘Maybe you should go and have a chat with Nigel Callaghan.’ Ellie folded her arms. ‘He’s in the library, doing the crossword.’
Nigel was in his usual chair, filling in the squares of the quick crossword with a red pen. He didn’t stop when Lewis approached, but grunted an acknowledgement when Lewis asked if he could sit down.
Eventually, Nigel tossed the completed crossword down on the side table, and said, ‘Good day to you, Mr Levison. Are you here to ask me for my memories of the Suez Crisis? Or would you prefer me to talk about how moved I was when Abba won the Eurovision Song Contest?’
Lewis didn’t take Nigel’s prickliness personally; he’d seen an active mind rattling the bars of a care home plenty of times.
‘I’d love to hear your memories of both,’ he said.
‘I realise our project must feel a bit coals to Newcastle to you, though. If there are any news-gathering techniques you could share, I know Gayle and her team would really appreciate your help.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Nigel, but Lewis wasn’t deterred.
‘Would you consider talking to the residents about some of your experiences? Personally, I’d be fascinated to hear how news events unfold, from the viewpoint of a real insider.’
Beth had emailed the story team, highly excited, with the revelations about Nigel’s previous life, and even as he was enjoying Beth’s chatty communication Lewis was kicking himself for not doing better research himself.
‘Flattering, but no,’ he said. ‘As I told that nice blond girl, memory is a funny thing. It’s a lens.
You don’t always see things as they were, in the rear-view mirror.
You don’t always see them as they really are when you’re right there, let alone sixty years later.
I don’t want to be that boring old fart, telling everyone how much better things used to be. I’m not sure they were.’
Lewis shuffled the cards in his head. He didn’t need Ellie to tell him who Nigel ate his lunch with: Ken, and Gordon, and Brian.
The spy and the fighter pilot and the inventor of chocolate spread.
He could imagine the game they were playing: what was the most outrageous story they could persuade Janice or Beth to write down.
Fun for them, but would the other residents feel mocked?
Would the volunteers see the joke? A bored resident was never good for morale.
A bored resident with a brain like Nigel’s was a disaster waiting to happen.
A small voice even wondered if it was Nigel planting stories of ghosts and encouraging mice into the kitchen, just for something to do.
‘Then I wonder if I can engage your investigative powers on something else,’ he said, and reached under his jacket for a copy of the Longhampton Gazette.
‘Did you see the feature about the story sessions in here this week? It’s a great feature – nearly a whole page!
I believe you’re in one of the photographs. ’
Nigel grunted.
‘What is less good, however,’ Lewis went on, under his breath, ‘is the feature on page twenty. Which seems to suggest that Rosemount Court isn’t merely failing inspections, it’s haunted.’
‘What?’ He showed a glimmer of interest as Lewis offered him the paper.
‘Yes, apparently. Look.’ The article was illustrated with an unambitious stock photograph of a Gothic mansion that wasn’t Rosemount, but for the purposes of negative publicity was close enough.
A distressed resident, speaking off the record to our reporter, told us of nightly temperature drops, strange noises behind blocked-off doors, and other unexplained disturbances.
‘How original,’ Nigel scoffed. ‘They could at least have been specific. Headless parlourmaids or something. What nonsense. Utterly unprovable, of course. If you’re asking me for libel advice, I’m afraid it’s not my department.’
‘I’ve sent it to our legal team – but there’s not much they can do now.
Any damage is already done. What I was hoping you might be able to help me with is .
. .’ Lewis took a deep breath, and hoped he wasn’t making a tactical error.
‘Can you help me find out who’s doing this?
It has to be someone on the staff, or one of the residents. I have my theories, but no proof.’
Lewis liked to believe the best in everyone, which made it hard to think badly of any of the staff, whom he wanted to trust, or the residents, whom he also wanted to trust but additionally didn’t dare offend, for fear of losing vital revenue.
But he needed to get to the bottom of this, and Nigel, he suspected, was not burdened by either of these disadvantages.
Nigel tipped his head, amused. ‘Is this another of your bespoke enrichment projects, Mr Levison?’
‘If you like. But joking aside, if someone is trying to sabotage Rosemount’s future, I need to know.’ He met Nigel’s gaze. ‘It might be amusing for them, but believe me, this isn’t the time for playing games. Much is at stake.’
Nigel, to his credit, registered the understatement. ‘Understood.’
Lewis slapped his thighs, the quintessential British end to a tricky conversation. ‘And on that note, I am off to provide some bespoke enrichment for another of our residents. You might want to have a look out of the window in about fifteen minutes.’
As he got up to leave, Lewis glanced down at the coffee table and saw that Nigel had filled in every square of the quick crossword with the words bugger off.