Chapter One Henrietta
Chapter One
Henrietta
The bench Henrietta Lockwood chooses to sit on is at the junction of three main roads.
It could not be considered a peaceful spot, but it is convenient.
She estimates it to be one minute’s walk from this bench to the Rosendale Drop-In Centre, where she has a job interview in twenty-two minutes.
She will leave the bench in twelve minutes, just to be sure.
Despite the weather, Henrietta can feel a sweaty patch collecting on her back, so she leans forward to ensure it doesn’t seep into her blouse.
It is a result of her keeping her backpack firmly on.
Granted, the only person who has even glanced at her was a sad-looking woman walking two chihuahuas, but muggings are on the rise.
Henrietta knows this is true because she reads about them on a daily basis in the city’s free newspaper.
The drop-in centre (why don’t they just call it the I’ve Got Cancer Centre, she thinks) is located in the west wing of a hospital in an exclusive part of London, all Victorian squares, private gardens and tall plane trees.
Henrietta can see it from her bench: a handsome double-fronted building with fluted pillars either side of glass front doors.
The building may be elegant but the people who come and go are all sorts.
A rake-thin woman in a Puffa jacket and a billowing skirt is making slow progress up the ramp: she keeps a firm hold on the handrail and her body is oddly tilted.
As she reaches the doors, an elderly man in a camel coat is on his way out.
Wordlessly, he steps aside to let her pass, his face ashen, fingers fumbling for his buttons.
The Rosendale Drop-In Centre does not, Henrietta has to admit, look like the jolliest of workplaces.
The advertisement for this job had been buried in the back pages of the London Review of Books.
Since she inadvertently became a lady of leisure, Henrietta rather enjoys her fortnightly read of the classified section, tut-tutting at the frivolity on display.
Yoga and writing retreats in Greece. People seeking a mate to share interests in poetry, hillwalking ‘and possibly more’. But then she spotted this:
The Life Stories Project
Interviewer and transcriber required three days a week, including Saturdays.
Typing, copy-editing skills and empathetic manner essential. Six-month contract with possibility of renewal, funding pending.
A short-term job is far from ideal, but with a CV peppered with unexplained gaps and abrupt terminations, Henrietta can’t be too picky.
The ‘empathetic manner’ bit of the advertisement is also slightly concerning, so for the past week Henrietta has been practising facial expressions in front of a mirror.
In the privacy of her bathroom, she tried out a wide smile. This would be her ‘hello’ face. Then she tilted her head to one side, to show empathy. Even to Henrietta, the results looked alarming. There is a reason, she realised, why monkeys bare their teeth as an act of aggression.
Luckily, Henrietta’s teeth are pleasingly even.
Her face is round and her hair is cut to shoulder length, a style bestowed upon her at the age of eleven that she has never felt the urge to change.
She does not indulge in make-up. Even at the age of thirty-two, her efforts always look like those of a child let loose with a set of crayons.
However, she knows that clothes make a good impression, so she spent an entire evening removing the lint from some navy British Home Stores trousers that served her well in her old job.
A blue blouse ordered from an advertisement in the Radio Times some years ago is, she judges, formal and yet casual.
The hands of her Timex watch (a sixteenth-birthday present, still going strong) tell her it is time to leave her bench. Swallowing down a familiar knot of dread, Henrietta puts on her ‘hello’ face and strides towards the Rosendale Centre.
‘So . . .’ The woman in the pink sweater is shuffling pages around her desk in a random manner that indicates she is rather ill prepared. Finally, Pink Sweater looks up at her. ‘Aha. Henrietta Lockwood. Why do you think you would be suited to this job?’
Henrietta clears her throat and begins. ‘I believe I am suited to this post on several counts. One: I am not prone to outbursts of emotion or sentimentality. Two: I possess excellent editorial skills, so I am well equipped to transcribe and then type up people’s life stories before they die. Three: I like a deadline.’
It is almost word for word what Henrietta had written in her application letter. But Pink Sweater – ‘Call me Audrey’ – doesn’t seem to notice. Audrey looks across the desk through thick glasses that magnify her eyes into two huge fish-like orbs.
‘It’s not always that simple,’ she sighs, bringing her hands together. ‘But, yes, here at the Life Stories Project, detachment can be an advantage.’
She swivels the computer screen around to face Henrietta.
‘The final part of your interview is a proofreading test. This is Kenton’s Life Story, which I wrote up myself.
We lost him last week, but I got most of it down.
His family would like copies in time for the funeral.
That’s often what happens. Unless we are caught unawares .
. .’ She trails off. ‘Anyway, you have forty-five minutes. Are you familiar with “track changes”?’
She needn’t have worried because track changes is Henrietta’s very favourite thing to do.
She is happiest when she can correct punctuation, spelling and facts, and highlight her superior knowledge in red.
As Audrey leaves the room, Henrietta is already tapping away, scoring through words, frowning at the shockingly poor grasp of grammar.
When Audrey shows her out, she points to where Henrietta will conduct the Life Story interviews if she gets the job.
Momentarily, Henrietta is confused because she had pictured herself in a private office, rather like Audrey’s but with a window.
And a pot plant. Perhaps one of those scent diffusers, too.
But it seems that Audrey is gesturing towards a corner table in the centre’s coffee bar, just by the main entrance foyer.
‘People prefer the informal atmosphere. They like to talk over a cuppa,’ Audrey says, as Henrietta hovers by the automatic doors. The glass panes judder, trying to open and shut, leaving Henrietta unsure whether to step outside or move back into the warmth, because Audrey is still talking.
‘Officially it’s called the Reith Café – after a generous donor.
But all the staff call it the Grief Café!
’ Audrey delivers this as if it is a punchline to a joke, but Henrietta thinks it best to ignore this.
Jokes, in her experience, feel like a ball thrown at great speed: hard to catch; even trickier to keep a rally going.
And Henrietta has never been a games person.
‘I can see how the coffee bar setting would facilitate conversation,’ she replies levelly, stepping out on to the stone steps.
‘I look forward to hearing from you presently,’ she adds, as the glass doors snap shut.
It feels good to walk away from the fug of hand sanitiser, old, unwashed clothes and old, unwashed people.
Henrietta admits she is a little disappointed by the Rosendale’s down-at-heel ambiance.
Having done her research thoroughly, Henrietta knows that this centre is the first to pioneer the Life Stories Project, an initiative funded by Ryan Brooks, a 1980s pop star who lost his wife to ovarian cancer.
She’s watched the video where Ryan does a walkabout at the Rosendale Centre, high-fiving his way round a TV lounge, then looking more serious as he talks about his wife, Skye, who had died swiftly and too young.
‘If someone had helped Skye to write her life story, our little girl could read it when she’s older,’ says Ryan, jiggling his bald, scrunch-faced baby.
‘Everybody has a story – and these life stories should be heard.’
Having so much time these days to listen to the radio and watch daytime TV, Henrietta is not surprised that Ryan’s idea has hit a nerve.
There are grief podcasts, cancer blogs about good days, bad days and chemo days, and vlogs on dying well and making bucket lists.
Henrietta finds it all rather unseemly, but she’s clearly in a minority because other people are falling over themselves to talk about grief or their own imminent death and Ryan’s hashtags – #lastwords, #lifestories and #grievingwithryan – went viral for a while.
As a reward for getting through her interview, Henrietta treats herself to a scone from the Plant Life café. There is some confusion over the price, but it seems ￡4 is deemed perfectly reasonable for an artisan baked product in this neighbourhood. Vegan, apparently.
She carries the paper bag to what she now considers to be ‘her’ bench and eats her scone in small chunks, chewing and swallowing each morsel before picking off the next.
It’s a little dry, in her opinion. A pigeon is making its jerky, circuitous way towards her, looking at her sideways with one orange-ringed eye.
Henrietta quickly drops the last of her scone back in the bag and folds over the top.
She’s wary of these bold, unpredictable birds, but will try not to let the incursion spoil her moment: the sun has come out and she might have a new job.
In fact, there is already a voicemail from Audrey on her phone, but she will wait until she gets home before listening to it, with Dave by her side. Dave likes to share her news, good or bad, and has seen her through some difficult times.
Henrietta is about to place her paper bag in the bin when she has a change of heart. Making sure no one is looking, she tips the remaining crumbs into a small pile on the pavement. Being a resident of Chelsea, that pigeon probably has more of an appetite for vegan scones than Henrietta.
Back in her flat, she sits on the sofa and listens to Audrey’s message several times.
After the third time, Henrietta allows the smallest bubble of pleasure to rise up inside her.
Dave, however, has already lost interest and is busy making a burrow in the cushions next to her, leaving a scattering of coarse black and tan hairs in his wake.
He’s panting slightly, waiting for her toast crusts, and his breath leaves something to be desired.
She loves Dave dearly, but it would be nice to have someone else to share her news with.
She could ring her parents, she supposes, but she’s not ready to have her bubble burst just yet.
Henrietta pads into the kitchen, drops two more slices of white bread into the toaster and, after they pop up, slathers them with dairy spread.
She eats standing by the window, looking out at the street.
After a while, Upstairs Woman comes out of their shared front door and sets off at a clip to the bus stop.
She’s wearing her blue coat, which Henrietta worries will be far too flimsy for this time of year.
Henrietta steps back behind her curtain, just in case her neighbour looks back, but she never does. She’s always in such a hurry.
All communication between Henrietta and Upstairs Woman is done via notes or texts.
Henrietta prefers the former, which she writes in neat cursive letters and slides under her neighbour’s door.
Then Upstairs Woman replies by text. Their messages say things like ‘Your food waste caddy is on pavement. Unsightly. Please remove ASAP’ (from Henrietta).
Or ‘Your dog sounded lonely. Used spare key to let him into courtyard. Hope was OK’ (from Upstairs Woman).
On cue, Dave saunters in, hoping for more crusts.
He’s starting to smell again and Henrietta isn’t sure if it’s his ears or his glands.
She sighs. Either way, it’s time to take him out for his constitutional.
Pushing her feet into her Crocs, Henrietta bends down to clip on his lead.
It’s a special orange one that has RESCUE DOG printed along its length.
This gets them a few sympathetic looks when Dave lunges, barks and snaps his way around the streets because Dave hates, in no particular order, cyclists, pedestrians, buggies, skateboards, cats, Labradors and German shepherds.
Well, most dogs really. Next, Henrietta puts a fluorescent dog coat over Dave’s head and fastens the Velcro.
This time, its lettering reads IGNORE ME.
‘Right, walkies!’ she chirrups, without conviction.
Already Dave’s claws are scrabbling on the laminate flooring and a low growl is building at the back of his throat.
As she opens the front door, Dave’s furious barking begins, a sound that is surely now familiar to every one of her neighbours.
His barking reaches a crescendo as they head off down the street, one woman and her dog against the world.
Henrietta’s new position might not be everyone’s dream job, but it will suit her just fine.
There will be no team targets or bonding sessions and at least the dead can’t file official complaints about ‘dangerous and intimidating behaviour’ from beyond the grave.
The people she’ll meet won’t be around for long – all she will have to do is transcribe their rambling, probably quite tedious memories, sort them into chronological order and turn them into Life Story books.
The drop-in centre may be in the business of death, but Henrietta is only too glad that business is booming.