Broken Places (15 page)

‘Sorry. Haven’t read a word of it.
You
try reading when you share a cell with a nutcase. There’s never a moment’s peace. Even at night, he keeps moaning and groaning or shouting out in his sleep.’

‘I do sympathize, believe me. It must be so hard to concentrate.’

‘I’d say!’ Kevin was now unbending slightly. ‘Though I suppose I should
count myself lucky. One of the blokes on B-wing was murdered by his
cell-mate
.’

Eric was wondering how to respond to such a statement, when Kevin suddenly opened up himself.

‘Anyway, I don’t come here just for the books. It’s the only place I can forget about being in prison and sit and chat with people, like I used to do outside. It’s a sort of escape, I suppose; makes me feel less cut off. Mind you, at first I thought it was really naff, getting together to talk about a book. I mean, I’ve never been a reader, or had books at home as a kid. But we often start discussing – you know, important things, like justice, or divorce, or whether it’s brave to top yourself or just a coward’s way out. Last month, we got so heated about suicide, we almost came to blows!’

Eric nodded encouragingly. Wasn’t this the reason he was here: to give men like Kevin some tiny means of ‘escape’, and to widen their horizons, if only for a couple of hours and if only once a month?

‘And I did finish one book, way back in July.
Man and Boy
, it was – about this bloke who messes up his marriage, then makes a song and dance about bringing up his kid alone. He ought to be in here, then he’d know the difference. Life’s on hold for us. I’d do anything to be living with my son again, getting him his breakfast, taking him to school. But the bloke in the book sees all that sort of stuff as just a chore. It made me mad, to be honest. I wanted to keep telling him – listen, for someone who’s locked up, it’s a real blessing to share life with your kid.’

‘Yes, I must say I agree. So how old’s your son?’

‘Just six. Jack, he’s called and he’s already quite a—’

Unfortunately, Eric had to interrupt him, since the rest of the group were now arriving, escorted by a surly-looking officer. But Kevin’s words echoed through his head. Erica would be with him in just over eleven weeks, and, yes, it would be ‘a real blessing’ to get her breakfast and share his life with her, if only for a shortish time. However flaky he might feel today, he did have his precious freedom; did have his precious daughter. And, all at once, the sheer magnitude of those two facts seemed to release him from the cellar of his past, as if a door had been unbolted and he was streaking out to light and air and able to breathe free. At last, he’d stopped his fruitless agonizing and did definitely feel better – almost normal, for God’s sake – and
determined
to play a useful part in making some small difference to this group.

But, before he went to greet them, he made a mental note to ensure that Kevin got a good supply of children’s books – for Jack.

Should he have aimed higher, Eric wondered anxiously, as he opened the oven door to check on the roast chicken? After all, he was cooking for a semi-pro, so perhaps he should have pulled out all the stops and served up something fancy such as venison or grouse. Except his elementary culinary skills wouldn’t stretch to preparing game – even if he’d had a clue where to buy it. And what about the starter? The melon slices, bought ready-cut from Sainsbury’s, were hardly likely to impress. Mandy was used to gourmet meals, so she would probably be expecting an elaborate home-made terrine or some high-falutin soufflé. Although, even if he had spent all week laying on a ten-course banquet, it wouldn’t divert attention from the basic squalor of the flat. Despite his heroic efforts yesterday, cleaning the place from top to toe, it really required a fairy godmother to effect a total metamorphosis.

He started as the doorbell rang. Not Mandy, surely – she was always late, he’d discovered. Well, if it
was
a fairy godmother, his wish-list was at the ready: a penthouse in Park Lane; a king-size bed with built in
massage-function
; a dial-a-feast from Gordon Ramsay and …

‘Mandy!’

‘Well, don’t look so surprised. You invited me for dinner and here I am – though late again, as usual. I’m sorry, darling, honestly. I just can’t seem to get my act together when it comes to time.’

‘Actually you’re early.’

‘I thought you said seven.’

‘No, eight.’

‘Shit! I do apologize. Want me to go away again?’

‘Not likely!’ It was so fantastic that she still seemed keen; hadn’t
subsequently
decided that a foundling with a chequered past should have no place in her life, it was all he could do not to kidnap her and keep her here for ever. He pressed himself against her, trying, for once, not to get a
hard-on
,
as he inhaled her musky scent; felt the luscious contours of her body beneath the cuddly coat. It was vital to stay in chef mode – at least until he’d served the coffee.

Finally withdrawing from the embrace, she picked up her wicker basket and took out a large glass bowl. ‘I’ve made us a sherry trifle, as my little contribution to the meal.’

Having carried it into the kitchen, he stood gazing in admiration at the rosettes of whipped cream, studded with whole blanched almonds,
crystallized
violets and chocolate curls. ‘Mandy, this puts me to shame! I just can’t compete in the cooking stakes. And I’m still feeling bad about you coming here, when—’

‘Eric,
will
you stop apologizing! You spent the whole of last week telling me how grotty your flat was and’ – she paused to remove her coat, then made a lightning tour from sitting-room to bedroom – ‘all it needs is a bit of jazzing up. I could make you a new bedspread, if you like, and a nice bright throw for the sofa, with a few contrasting cushions. And I’m a pretty dab hand at painting, so if you want me to slap some colour on these walls … What do you think?’

‘I think,’ he whispered, kissing her again, ‘that you’re the most amazing woman in the world.’

‘Well, actually, I
have
been rather amazing! You’ll never believe what I’ve managed to track down.’ Rooting in her bag, she withdrew a large white envelope.

His mind was still on furnishings; relieved by the thought that when Erica came over, the flat would be transformed – not that he’d mention Erica just now. Although Mandy knew about his ex-wife and daughter, he didn’t want to labour the point so early in their relationship. She herself had never married or had children – came ‘without baggage’, as she’d put it, which to him was quite extraordinary. A woman of her charm should have had swarms of men queuing up to claim her, from the age of
seventeen
, so how could she have reached thirty-five without a permanent partner?

Lord, he thought, he was neglecting his duties as host! He should be pouring her a drink, offering her some nibbles. So, having ensconced her on the sofa with a glass of wine and a saucerful of nuts, he dashed towards the kitchen, to turn the oven down. They must spin out their drinks a while, to allow time for a few long, impassioned kisses.

‘Don’t disappear!’ she called, extracting a sheet of paper from the
envelope
and waving it in front of him. ‘Come and sit beside me. In fact, you
ought
to sit down before you look at this. It may be a bit of a shock.’

MIRACLE BABY SURVIVES!
the headline shrieked, and beneath it a picture of a tiny infant cradled in the arms of a triumphantly smiling elderly man, clad in a smart uniform and cap.

‘That’s
you
, Eric, with the other Eric – the park-keeper who found you! Isn’t it incredible?’

He didn’t trust himself to speak. His first instinct was to shut his eyes; close his ears; even bolt out of the flat. All the pain and uncertainty of his past seemed to be crashing in dangerous waves about his head.

‘Don’t you think I’m clever? I just couldn’t get your story out of my mind and I knew I had to help you in some way. So I went down to Croydon Library and managed to see their archivist, who told me the local papers were now on microfilm, and gave me the roll for the
Croydon Advertiser
, January to March, 1964. You’d told me the month of your birth, but not the actual date, but it’s only a weekly paper, so it didn’t take long to scroll through all the February editions and – bingo! – there it was. Do read it, darling. It’s riveting.’

He had to force himself to take hold of the sheet, but the type began
blurring
on the page, so that he couldn’t decipher so much as a word. He himself had worked in Croydon Library for close on twenty years; been friendly with their archivists, familiar with the records, and could have found this paper easily, years and years ago – in fact, had been on the point of doing so a hundred-thousand times. Yet, in the end, caution had always prevailed. He knew at some deep level that it was essential
not
to
investigate
, in case something he read should implicate his mother.

What Mandy didn’t understand was that there were two types of
abandonment
: the caring kind, when the mother wanted desperately for her infant to be found, so she would leave it well-wrapped up in a public place such as a hospital or shop, where there were people around who would immediately take action. The opposite kind was akin to infanticide, when the baby was asphyxiated in a plastic bag, or plonked in a dustbin and left to die amidst the trash, or shoved into a toilet-bowl, to drown. Admittedly, none of the latter had happened to him, but none of the former, either. All he knew was that he’d been discovered in a recreation ground, which sounded decidedly dodgy. Such a place might well have been deserted on a bitter February morning, and it would also have litter-bins and toilets, where an infant could be summarily dumped. It was crucial to his peace of
mind that his mother remained a kindly, caring person, not a callous
criminal
, so wiser to keep his fantasies intact than start searching out hard evidence.

‘I mean, it gives you all the information you said you wished you knew. See that.’ Mandy jabbed her finger halfway down the column. ‘It says you were taken to the Mayday Hospital, so that’s one of your questions answered. Of course, I went straight on to see it, from the library, although it was quite a little trek. The present hospital looks newish, but there’s one wing left of the old building – the one where
you’d
have gone.’ She rummaged for her mobile, clicked it on. ‘I took a lot of photos, darling, so you’d get the feel of the place. Actually, I reckon it looks nicer than the new hospital – sort of faded brick, but with loads of character.’

It was all he could do not to push the phone away. They were going far too fast. His early history was being excavated, fact by fact by fact, and all he felt was panic. Suppose he couldn’t handle the turmoil of emotions this knowledge might evoke? It had been bad enough in the prison, last week, and since then he’d been extremely careful not to risk another
disorientating
state.

‘And do you know why it’s called the Mayday?’

Before he could answer, she had plunged straight on again. ‘There are several different theories, in fact, but the one I like best is that it comes from the French distress-call, “
M’aidez
!” And that’s wonderfully apt, don’t you think? I mean, they
did
help you, Eric – saved your life, most probably. Oh, and by the way, I’ve written down most of the stuff I’m telling you. You see, I thought it would be a great idea to re-make your Precious Box. Then we can put in all the information, as we gradually get hold of it, and the
photographs
, of course, and this article in pride of place. And the nationals may have also run the story, so if we go to Colindale, we can check their records, too, and gradually build up your personal dossier.’

She paused for breath, but only for a second, clutching his arm in
excitement
. ‘And, listen – there’s even better news. I was determined to dig a bit deeper, so I asked if I could have a word with someone at the hospital who might let me see the records from the sixties. The receptionist tried several different departments, and there was a whole lot of palaver while they put me through to various bods, but they all told me the same thing – they never keep records that far back. Eventually they let me speak to the
data-protection
manager – a lovely man called Oliver Birch, who actually came down to see me and was more helpful altogether. I showed him the piece in the
Advertiser
and said I was a close friend of yours and that you were longing to discover more about your—’

She was interrupted by the noise of banging, vibrating through the ceiling in a series of sharp hammer-blows. At least it gave him an excuse to stay silent, since he’d just realized, with a jolt, that her detective work was totally his fault. He
had
given the impression of someone desperate to know about his origins, unaware how threatening it would feel to be actually faced with the facts.

Mandy glanced up with a grin. ‘Those must be the neighbours you told me about – the DIY fanatics!’

‘Dead right!’ he said, glad to change the subject. ‘It beats me how they can still find things to do, when they’ve been hammering and drilling ever since I first moved in. We’ll probably hear the other couple soon – shrieking at each other or hurling crockery about! Hey, darling, do drink up. You haven’t touched your wine.’

Mandy, however, refused to be diverted, either by her wine or by the neighbours, and merely raised her voice above the din. ‘Well, this Oliver chap confirmed that, after eight years, all records are destroyed, but he said one of the present staff might know a much older nurse – you know, someone retired but who still lived in the area and would remember back to 1964. And, bless his heart, he promised to ask around – said he’d send a memo to all the nursing staff and, if a name did come up, he’d drop that person a line. He said he’s not allowed to give me their details, because of data-protection issues and stuff, but he can give
mine
to them, and leave it up to them whether they get in touch or not. And he thought it was quite possible – you know, someone old, with nothing much to do except sit and watch TV, might welcome the chance to revisit such a drama from their past. So, who knows, darling, in just a week or so, you might be face to face with one of the nurses who actually held you in the first days of your life!’

He seized his glass and drained it in a few choking gulps, while he
struggled
through a maelstrom of emotions. One part of him ached to meet such a person, so that he could discover what he’d been like as a baby: a bawling brat, or a charmer; a clingy, sickly infant, or a stout-hearted little fighter? Perhaps it was downright stupid to put his head in the sand; refuse to take this chance to fill the gaps. Certainly he was deeply touched that Mandy should have gone to so much trouble purely on his behalf – all the more so because her approach was such a contrast to Christine’s. The latter’s uptight, conventional family had regarded the idea of a foundling as
suspicious
and unsavoury, so his wife had followed their lead in sweeping the whole thing under the carpet. When people enquired, she had sometimes even pretended that both his parents had died young. And yet, strange as it might sound, that felt safer, somehow. Admitting you’d been dumped could turn you into a piece of rubbish – dross, to be discarded.

‘I just wish you could meet the park-keeper, as well, but he must be dead and gone by now. It says here that he was sixty-three when he found you and very near retirement. But Oliver did suggest a few other things. Apparently, there’s this outfit called NORCAP, who help people trace their origins and have a separate group specifically for foundlings.’

Yes, he knew about NORCAP but, once again, he’d concluded that the dangers in the search might outweigh the benefits. But couldn’t he change his stance? Did he have to be so stubbornly determined to leave things under wraps? He sat wrestling with himself, but the maddening noise
reverberating
overhead made it impossible to come to a decision.

Mandy, though, seemed unfazed by the racket and, after a quick sip of wine, returned to her account. ‘And he mentioned a Foundling Museum – in Brunswick Square, I think he said. Apparently, it’s quite well-known. Have you ever heard of it?’

Certainly he had, but its very name was enough to reignite his former reservations. He had never had the slightest wish to see those pathetic ‘exhibits’. In the past, most foundlings had died, whether in the workhouse or the famous Foundling Hospital. Bastard kids had been treated like dirt; fed on watery soup; sometimes even forbidden to speak, or known simply as girl fifty or boy ninety, without so much as the distinction of a name.
Royal
bastards were different, of course. Charles II’s illegitimate sons had all been created dukes. But for a commoner like him, the whole concept of illegitimacy remained a source of shame.