above. It trundled to the exit and out of sight around the flats.
The door rattled open on a chain. Buster was still in his tartan dressing gown, with several layers of padding beneath.
‘What?’ he said, leering at Dryden.
Vee held up the Day-Glo yellow flier: ‘Hypothermia Trust, Mr Timms. You rang our number. We might be able to help warm you up. This is Mr Dryden – from The Crow – he’s going to put some of the advice in the paper for those we can’t visit. Would you mind?’
Dryden admired Vee’s doorstep technique, which he couldn’t have bettered.
Buster shrugged. ‘She’s just gone out – clinic for her eyes. Why not? I’ve met chummy before…’ he added, nodding at Dryden. Buster walked off towards his front room, the bow of the legs beneath the dressing gown suggesting childhood rickets. There was a hatch between the front room and the kitchenette and Buster was alreadymaking tea, a cloud of steam around him like dry ice.
Dryden knelt down before a five-bar fire. ‘What’s wrong with the central heating?’
Buster appeared with a tray. ‘We save that for the evenings. Keeps the bills down – that’s why she’s out, really; after the clinic she’ll go to that drop-in centre off the town square. Then there’s a new centre in the cathedral as well. Coffee, biscuits, she’ll be hours.’ He shrugged with unconcealed happiness.
‘The sister called,’ said Buster, nodding at the partition wall to Declan’s flat. ‘She’s taken a lot of stuff. Boxed the rest up. Left me his keys – all of them. Even the cupboard.’ Buster winked at Dryden. ‘It’s worth a look.’
Vee sat, taking out a fat Manila file from her satchel.
‘This isn’t gonna cost, is it?’ said Buster, eyeing the file and forgetting Declan’s flat.
Vee shook her head, taking the tea and turning aside the sugar bowl. ‘No. Not a penny. I need to do a heat audit on the flat. This electric fire, for example – it’s really very inefficient. You’d be better running the radiators for an hour in the morning… Can I have a look?’
Buster showed her the immersion heater and the gas boiler in a hall cupboard. She checked the windows, letting the cool air which slipped through the ill-fitting metal frames play on her lips.
Dryden wandered round, making an effort to collect the kind of detail that would bring the feature alive. The plastic Christmas tree with fairy lights unlit, the three cards on the mantelpiece, the puckered wallpaper in one corner of the ceiling where the damp had got through. A goldfish bowl stood on the bedside table, complete with underwater castle apparently without a resident. He flicked the bowl with his finger.
‘Belly up,’ said Buster from the doorway.
Dryden noted the slight sheen of ice on a family snapshot which stood framed on the window ledge.
Back in the front room Vee ran through the couple’s shopping list with Buster, trying to see if she could slip them on to the council’s meals-on-wheels service. That could save them enough cash to run the heating for longer, and stock up the cupboard with some soups, fresh vegetables and fruit. She did some sums on a pocket calculator, expertly summarizing their pension position and eligibility for winter fuel payments and the cold-weather bonus.
‘We might be able to get you a grant, Mr Timms – on top of the payments. It’s worth £2,500 – you could get double-glazing. And you know the hospital does sessions as well?’ she asked. ‘They do some very light physiotherapy – hot drinks. Just going would be good for you.’
Buster looked stoically unimpressed. ‘Your man did that already,’ he said.
Vee paused, sipping tea, thinking she’d misheard.
‘The doc. Called the other day with your flier. Did miracles with her shoulders, checked her temperature, pulse, the lot.’
‘And you?’ asked Dryden, catching Vee’s good eye.
Buster tucked the tartan dressing gown more securely around his waist: ‘He scarpered
The door rattled open on a chain. Buster was still in his tartan dressing gown, with several layers of padding beneath.
‘What?’ he said, leering at Dryden.
Vee held up the Day-Glo yellow flier: ‘Hypothermia Trust, Mr Timms. You rang our number. We might be able to help warm you up. This is Mr Dryden – from The Crow – he’s going to put some of the advice in the paper for those we can’t visit. Would you mind?’
Dryden admired Vee’s doorstep technique, which he couldn’t have bettered.
Buster shrugged. ‘She’s just gone out – clinic for her eyes. Why not? I’ve met chummy before…’ he added, nodding at Dryden. Buster walked off towards his front room, the bow of the legs beneath the dressing gown suggesting childhood rickets. There was a hatch between the front room and the kitchenette and Buster was alreadymaking tea, a cloud of steam around him like dry ice.
Dryden knelt down before a five-bar fire. ‘What’s wrong with the central heating?’
Buster appeared with a tray. ‘We save that for the evenings. Keeps the bills down – that’s why she’s out, really; after the clinic she’ll go to that drop-in centre off the town square. Then there’s a new centre in the cathedral as well. Coffee, biscuits, she’ll be hours.’ He shrugged with unconcealed happiness.
‘The sister called,’ said Buster, nodding at the partition wall to Declan’s flat. ‘She’s taken a lot of stuff. Boxed the rest up. Left me his keys – all of them. Even the cupboard.’ Buster winked at Dryden. ‘It’s worth a look.’
Vee sat, taking out a fat Manila file from her satchel.
‘This isn’t gonna cost, is it?’ said Buster, eyeing the file and forgetting Declan’s flat.
Vee shook her head, taking the tea and turning aside the sugar bowl. ‘No. Not a penny. I need to do a heat audit on the flat. This electric fire, for example – it’s really very inefficient. You’d be better running the radiators for an hour in the morning… Can I have a look?’
Buster showed her the immersion heater and the gas boiler in a hall cupboard. She checked the windows, letting the cool air which slipped through the ill-fitting metal frames play on her lips.
Dryden wandered round, making an effort to collect the kind of detail that would bring the feature alive. The plastic Christmas tree with fairy lights unlit, the three cards on the mantelpiece, the puckered wallpaper in one corner of the ceiling where the damp had got through. A goldfish bowl stood on the bedside table, complete with underwater castle apparently without a resident. He flicked the bowl with his finger.
‘Belly up,’ said Buster from the doorway.
Dryden noted the slight sheen of ice on a family snapshot which stood framed on the window ledge.
Back in the front room Vee ran through the couple’s shopping list with Buster, trying to see if she could slip them on to the council’s meals-on-wheels service. That could save them enough cash to run the heating for longer, and stock up the cupboard with some soups, fresh vegetables and fruit. She did some sums on a pocket calculator, expertly summarizing their pension position and eligibility for winter fuel payments and the cold-weather bonus.
‘We might be able to get you a grant, Mr Timms – on top of the payments. It’s worth £2,500 – you could get double-glazing. And you know the hospital does sessions as well?’ she asked. ‘They do some very light physiotherapy – hot drinks. Just going would be good for you.’
Buster looked stoically unimpressed. ‘Your man did that already,’ he said.
Vee paused, sipping tea, thinking she’d misheard.
‘The doc. Called the other day with your flier. Did miracles with her shoulders, checked her temperature, pulse, the lot.’
‘And you?’ asked Dryden, catching Vee’s good eye.
Buster tucked the tartan dressing gown more securely around his waist: ‘He scarpered
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