The Skeleton Man

The North Sea was a grey slate, ruffled only by a squall of rain moving in from the east. The cab had cruised the front twice already but still they’d failed to see the sign. Perhaps it had long closed, perhaps it had been renamed, perhaps the picture had been a fake all along.

‘Remind me,’ said Humph, winding down the driver’s side window to clear it of the droplets which obscured the view.

‘The Royal Esplanade,’ said Dryden.

It was dusk and the promenade lights flickered once then came on, somehow adding to the gloom. At sea a single trawler headed in, its green and red lights hinting at a subtle swell.

They reached the miniature clock tower by the marine gardens which was the centrepiece of Lowestoft’s sea front.

‘One more time,’ said Dryden, wishing he’d done some research before they’d undertaken the trip.

Humph swung the cab in a circle and headed south.

Dryden was looking at the double-bayed fronts of the B&Bs with their winking ‘Vacancy’ signs when they came opposite a small park set back from the prom. Trees, heavy with summer leaves, obscured the buildings beyond.

‘Take the next right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go round the square.’

And there it was, behind elegant Edwardian railings – the Esplanade.

Dryden fished a tie out of the glove compartment and ran a hand through his hair, examining his face in the vanity mirror.

‘I need to look like an accountant,’ he said.

Humph was biting the top off a pork pie. ‘Thank God you’ve failed,’ he said, wriggling his backside down into the seat.

‘Thanks for the support.’

A female nurse in uniform answered the door, ushering him inside beneath a chandelier which failed to provide enough light. A long corridor led off into the heart of the building, the lino reflecting institutional lights, a distant wheelchair being pushed across from one room to another.

The nurse left him in an office by the door, a room which had once been elegant, but was now disfigured by an electronic intercom board and a semi-circle of high-backed chairs.

A tall man in a suit appeared through a connecting door, his hand already raised in welcome. ‘Mr Dryden? Dr McNally – I’m the head of care strategy here at the Esplanade – and at our other two establishments along the coast. I understand… please take a seat.’

Dryden nodded. They both sat, a coffee table between them covered in old editions of Country Life.

‘It’s my aunt. She’s eighty-four. I’m thinking of suggesting she should… well, be looked after. She’s had several strokes and she’s now confined to a wheelchair. There are complications – mainly circulation. She needs a lot of looking after.’

Dr McNally’s eyes flickered down to a notepad on the tabletop where his silver pen skated smoothly.

‘There’ve been a few accidents. It’s upset her, just the thought she’s a burden on anyone. And even with a couple of care visits a day I think she’s beginning to get frightened – worried that something will happen and there’ll be no one there. So we’ve talked about it – which is when she mentioned the Esplanade.’

McNally nodded, letting him go on.

‘She had a friend who came here I think – back in the nineties. Ellen Woodruffe? She always spoke very highly of the quality of the care so I think Miriam – that’s my aunt – would be happy to at least consider a move. But she wasn’t quite sure this was the right place. She seemed to think it was near the pier – which doesn’t sound right.’

Dryden looked out of the window on to the dripping leaves of a plane tree.

McNally nodded, stood, and went behind the desk, tapping the keyboard on an AppleMac. ‘Woodruffe, you said?’

‘Right. With a final “e”. She would have arrived in June 1990, I think.’

‘Let’s see…’

‘Miriam said she had a wonderful room, with a balcony. If there was any chance we could offer her something similar…’

‘Indeed, indeed. Have you seen our charges, by the way – there’s a schedule in this leaflet.’

He pushed a brochure across the leather desktop. Dryden opened it, breathing in the mildly hypnotic whiff of freshly printed paper. The annual charges were listed in a small box and Dryden surreptitiously tried to hide his battered shoes by pushing his heels back under the chair.

‘Here she is,’ said McNally, and Dryden fought to hide his disappointment. ‘Let’s look at her file.’

Dryden nodded. ‘Thanks. These charges seem very reasonable,’ he lied.

McNally left the room, returning quickly with a box file.

‘Yes. Ellen Woodruffe. She came to us much later than that actually – 1992 – in the December. She was in Rosemary, that’s one of our best suites, looking out to sea. That’s a sitting room with en suite facil ities and a bedroom.’

Dryden rubbed his hands together. ‘Right – now I need to tell her all of this if we’re going to get her out to visit. Would that be OK?’