Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

We heard the sirens and Raymond handed me my jerkin. The ambulance pulled up alongside us and two men got out. They were in the middle of a conversation and I was surprised at how proletarian they sounded. I thought they’d be more like doctors.

‘All right,’ said the older one, ‘what do we have here, then? The old boy’s taken a tumble, has he?’

Raymond filled him in and I watched the other one; he was bent over the old man, taking his pulse, shining a little torch into his eyes and tapping him gently to try to elicit a response. He turned to his colleague.

‘We need to get moving,’ he said.

They fetched a stretcher and were fast and surprisingly gentle as they lifted the old man and strapped him on. The younger man wrapped a red fleece blanket around him.

‘Same colour as his jumper,’ I said, but they both ignored me.

‘You coming with him?’ the older man asked. ‘Only room for one in the back, mind.’

Raymond and I looked at one another. I glanced at my watch. The visitor was due chez Oliphant in half an hour.

‘I’ll go, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to miss your chiropody appointment.’

I nodded, and Raymond climbed in beside the old man and the paramedic, who was busy connecting drips and monitors. I picked up the shopping bags and lifted them high enough to pass across to Raymond.

‘Look,’ said the paramedic, sounding slightly tetchy, ‘this isn’t the Asda van. We don’t deliver shopping.’

Raymond was on the phone, and I heard him talking, apparently to his mother, telling her that he’d be late, before he quickly hung up.

‘Eleanor,’ he said, ‘why don’t you give me a call in a bit, and maybe you could bring his stuff over to him?’ I considered this, nodded, watched as he rummaged in his coat pocket and took out a biro. He grabbed my hand. I gasped and stepped to the side, shocked, placing my hand firmly behind my back.

‘I need to give you my phone number,’ he said patiently.

I took out my little notebook from my shopper, which he returned with a page covered in blue scribble, his name barely legible there, and a series of numbers scrawled below it in an awkward, childish hand.

‘Give it an hour or so,’ he said. ‘Your bunions will be dealt with by then, won’t they?’

6

I HAD BARELY HAD TIME to get home and divest myself of my outer garments when the doorbell rang, ten minutes earlier than I’d been expecting. Probably trying to catch me out. When I opened it, slowly, keeping the chain on, it wasn’t the person I’d been expecting. Whoever it was, she wasn’t smiling.

‘Eleanor Oliphant? June Mullen, Social Work,’ she said, stepping forward, her progress blocked by the door.

‘I was expecting Heather,’ I said, peering around.

‘Heather’s off sick, I’m afraid; we’ve no idea when she’ll be back. I’ve taken over her cases.’

I asked to see some form of official identification – I mean, you can’t be too careful. She gave a tiny sigh, and began to look in her bag. She was tall, carefully dressed in a black trouser suit and white shirt. As she bent her head, I noticed the white stripe of scalp at the parting in her shiny, dark bob. Eventually, she looked up and thrust out a security pass, with a huge council logo and a tiny photo. I scrutinized it carefully, looked from the photograph to her face and back again several times. It wasn’t a flattering shot, but I didn’t hold that against her. I’m not particularly photogenic myself. In real life, she was about my age, with smooth, unlined skin and a slash of red lipstick.

‘You don’t look like a social worker,’ I said. She stared at me but said nothing. Not again! In every walk of life, I encounter people with underdeveloped social skills with alarming frequency. Why is it that client-facing jobs hold such allure for misanthropes? It’s a conundrum. I made a mental note to return to the topic later, unhooked the chain and invited her in. I showed her into the lounge, listening to her high heels clicking across the floor. She asked if she could have a quick tour; I’d been expecting that, of course. Heather used to do that too; I assume that it’s part of the job, checking to make sure that I’m not storing my own urine in demijohns or kidnapping magpies and sewing them into pillowcases. She complimented me unenthusiastically on the interiors as we went into the kitchen.

I tried to see my home through the eyes of a visitor. I’m aware that I am very fortunate to live here, social housing in this area being virtually non-existent these days. I couldn’t possibly afford to live in this postcode otherwise, certainly not on the pittance that Bob pays me. Social Services arranged for me to move here after I had to leave my last foster placement, the summer immediately before I started university. I’d just turned seventeen. Back then, a vulnerable young person who’d grown up in care would be allocated a council flat close to her place of study without it being too much of a problem. Imagine that.