Page 38 of The Last Postcard

He set off, taking the road that led towards the beach. In the writing case beneath his arm was an address for Lillian Simcox, the woman Roger said had been in Tangier in the old days, and who might talk.

The address was for a private hospital, located in one of the tall modern buildings that overlooked the bay. Tangier had begun to stretch itself along the coast, and everywhere Sam looked there was steel and scaffolding, concrete and tinted glass. By the time he reached the building, the wine was wearing off; his reflection in the glass doors of the hospital looked scrubby and tired.

He sighed and rubbed his face on his sleeve. He shouldn’t be disturbing an old woman just to ask questions, but still, her memories could be invaluable. She could bring the city of the past to life for him; help him turn the Tangier of now into the Tangiers of then, from black and white to Technicolor. Was that selfish? He stared down at the bouquet in his hand. Probably. But then, perhaps she’d be pleased to have a visitor.

‘Bonjour,’ Sam murmured to the man at the front desk of the hospital. ‘I’m here to see Lillian Simcox.’

‘Your name?’ The receptionist didn’t seem too interested.

‘Samuel Hackett.’

‘She is expecting you?’

‘No. Well, sort of. Someone telephoned to say I might be coming.’

The man just gave a listless nod. Perhaps he was used to eccentric foreigners visiting unannounced. ‘Take the elevator to the third floor,’ he said, lifting the telephone. ‘Wait there. Someone will come.’

In the closed space of the elevator, the scent of the flowers was suddenly overwhelming. The roses smelled drunk with the sun, the tiny white flowers heady and unruly in that disinfected place, carrying the dust of the medina on their petals. He felt the same, with the wine growing stale on his breath and his sunburned cheeks and the grime of the markets on his shoes. He shouldn’t be here, dragging the city in with him. The elevator bounced to a stop on the third floor. He was about to turn around and press the down button when the doors slid open. A nurse in a white uniform and blue headscarf was waiting.

‘Monsieur Hackett?’ she asked.

He had no choice but to nod and step out of the elevator, trailing the feral scent of flowers behind him.

‘You are a relative?’ she asked, in near perfect English.

‘No, I’m, ah, an acquaintance. A friend of a friend. I’ve never actually met Ms Simcox before.’ He half hoped she’d tell him to leave.

But the nurse only smiled. ‘Madame does not receive many visitors. She will be pleased to see you.’ They stopped outside a door. ‘You know of her condition?’

He nodded. Roger had mentioned it.

‘Don’t worry if she seems confused. I will stay.’

‘Thanks,’ he murmured.

The room was bright and somehow cooler than the rest of the hospital. Two big windows were open, a breeze from the sea blowing the net curtains. He couldn’t see the street below, with its traffic and construction, only the dazzling blue water of the strait, and the dark shadow of Spain on the horizon.

‘Madame,’ the nurse said clearly, stepping towards a high-backed chair by the window, ‘this is Monsieur Hackett. He has come to visit you.’

Lillian Simcox was frail, a fine cloud of white hair about her face, one of her eyes milky. The other was blue, as bright as the sea outside the window. The deep tan of her skin spoke of a life spent outdoors, beneath Morocco’s fierce sun.

‘Hello ma’am,’ he said, sitting opposite her, holding the flowers and the writing case awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Roger gave me your address.’

She frowned slightly, her bright eye fixed on him. ‘Roger?’

‘Roger Jones, who runs The Hold, down near the beach.’

She just looked at him. He felt his cheeks begin to turn as pink as the roses.

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Dear Roger. He telephoned. He said something about an American.’

Her voice was soft, impeccably British. It was the kind of voice Sam had only ever heard in old black and white films.

‘That’s me,’ he said, feeling scruffier than ever. ‘I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about Tangier, in the old days, the nineteen twenties. Trying to, at least. Roger thought you might be able to remember what it was like back then.’

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to unsay them. Remember, what a stupid thing to say to an elderly lady in her condition. But she was smiling, her eyes half-closed.

‘Dear Roger,’ she murmured, as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘The number of times I fell out of that place three sheets to the wind.’ Her eyes drifted open again. ‘Are those for me?’ she asked.