Broken Places (20 page)

‘He was a loony, though, wasn’t he?’ Graham said disparagingly, tipping back on his chair.

‘No more than any of us,’ Rita observed.

‘Speak for yourself!’

‘I am.’

‘Look, let’s get back to the poem’ Eric urged. ‘It’s a very famous work – one of the best-known of the—’

‘But it’s not exactly a laugh a minute,’ Graham interrupted. ‘I come here to feel better, not bash my brains out in despair. And it’s a crappy title anyway – “
I Am
”. What’s
that
supposed to mean?’

‘Well,’ Eric began to explain, ‘he’s lonely and confused and losing his sense of identity, so he’s trying to remind himself that he still exists and still has—’ ‘

And we’re meant to find that uplifting?’ Graham asked, with a sneer.

‘
I
think it’s very moving,’ Alice countered. ‘And all the more so when you consider that he wrote it when he was locked up in an asylum – with manicdepression, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, same as me,’ said Rita. ‘Only now it’s called bi-polar.’

‘Why all these saddoes?’ Graham demanded. ‘Gerard Whoever-it-was Hopkins made me want to top myself. Then we had Sylvia Plath, who
literally
stuck her head in a gas-oven – and good riddance, I’m inclined to say. And now it’s fucking miserable John Clare.’

‘Language!’ Eric warned.

‘OK, but the point still holds. Why the gloom, for God’s sake?’

‘Because depression’s part of life,’ Warren retorted, ‘so it’s better faced head-on.’

‘Anyway, a lot of poets find healing in their work,’ Sue added. ‘In fact, I’ve just started to write myself, so I know it can be therapeutic. And,
actually
, I love the poem, whatever Graham says. Can we hear it again, Eric?’

Thank God, he thought, for Warren and Sue. The rest of the group had been difficult today – lethargic or distracted, and a couple downright
truculent
. A fierce argument had even broken out, about the rights and wrongs of confinement in mental institutions – a touchy subject in this particular company. ‘OK, Donna, would you like to read it this time?’

Donna cleared her throat, shuffled her feet, flicked back the curtain of long, dark hair that fell across her eyes, and finally began.

Listening to the desolate words, intoned in Donna’s downbeat voice, Eric was again aware how totally out of synch he was, not only with the
dejection
of the poem, but with the low spirits of many of those present. He had established the group originally in the hope of helping people struggling with addiction, mental illness, bereavement and the like. And he had
deliberately
chosen poets who themselves had suffered, or come close to despair, so that their words would touch a nerve and offer consolation. Of course, when he’d first proposed the scheme, he’d been feeling pretty desperate himself, and thus naturally in tune with the dark mood of the works. Yet now his life was totally transformed and, in truth, he felt a hypocrite, expounding John Clare’s torment, while he himself was sitting smugly on cloud nine; elated by the momentous fact that Mandy’s entire family had accepted her pregnancy with delight – indeed, relief.

‘We’ve been telling her for ages,’ Prue had said, giving him a hug, ‘she shouldn’t postpone motherhood too long. She never took much notice, though, until
you
came on the scene. You’re the only man, Eric, who’s ever made her see sense!’

Donna’s voice jolted him back to the poem, although he felt only still more guilt that while John Clare found no pleasure in life, his own mood bordered on the euphoric. His former doubts about fatherhood had
dwindled
, and even the financial situation no longer looked so grim. Mandy had suggested that he move in with her and split the rent – an alluring prospect
to exchange his seedy basement for a stylish top-floor flat, and actually save money in the process. Also, his maintenance payments for Erica would be substantially reduced once his second child was born. Admittedly, Erica herself might feel a little jealous; maybe even see the baby as a rival for his love, but that was bound to pass, if he handled it with care. In fact, she had always wanted a brother or sister, so might actually welcome a step-sibling.

All at once, he realized there was silence in the room. He’d failed to notice that Donna had finished reading – indeed he’d barely taken in a single word of the poem. That was seriously remiss. In fact, the group’s unfocused mood today was probably his fault, since he himself was finding it so hard to concentrate; his mind more engaged with weighty personal questions: should he propose to Mandy and, if so, when – next month, next week, tomorrow? Would her family expect it? Was he even ready to marry again so soon? And if he was going to be a husband and a father, should he aim for promotion; try again for a manager’s job, despite his dislike of the role?

Looking up, he saw every eye focused on him, in expectation,
puzzlement
. Once the poem was re-read, he normally gave a little spiel, pointing out various things they might have missed first time. Quickly, he jumped in. ‘Now, you’ll have noticed in that final stanza, the poet longs for the
innocence
of childhood and what he sees as the peace of death. He’s sunk pretty low, to a state of utter misery, but there is some hope of redemption, as he imagines a sort of paradise, where he can be free and—’

‘Do you reckon he was feeling suicidal?’ Alice asked.

‘Well, he had a lot to contend with – that’s for sure. He was extremely poor as a child, and had to scribble his verses on odd scraps of grocer’s wrapping paper, and he wasn’t even properly fed. He grew up to be barely five foot tall, probably on account of malnutrition, and developed all sorts of health problems. And, on top of everything else, he had eight children to feed and clothe, by the time he was forty-odd.’

‘Heavens above!’ The new member, Beryl, gave a rueful laugh. ‘I only have the two, yet they’re a handful, even so!’

‘And I suppose it must be difficult,’ Warren remarked, rubbing his chin reflectively, ‘being a poet at all, when you’re the son of a farm-labourer.’

Eric nodded. ‘Yes; he didn’t really belong in either world. He was no longer a peasant, yet felt out of place in literary London, where he was viewed as a bit of a bumpkin, And he also—’

‘Isn’t it time for our soup?’ Graham interrupted, yawning hugely, then
cracking all his finger-joints in turn, as if to indicate his boredom by sound as well as gesture.

Marjorie peered at her watch. ‘Fifteen minutes
past
time,’ she confirmed – the only words she had spoken throughout the session.

Hell, thought Eric, he was truly losing his grip! Normally, he kept a strict eye on the clock and stuck carefully to schedule. In just the last few days, though, time had taken on new dimensions – the nine months of a pregnancy; the two months until his lease expired and he could move to St George’s Square; the four weeks till Erica’s visit, when he planned to tell her about the baby and hoped she would forge a close relationship with Mandy. ‘I’d better go and see what’s happened. Maybe Helen’s been delayed.’

It was a relief to leave the room. He was in need of a brief respite to pull himself together; reflect on why the group had been so much less successful today and why Graham, in particular, was in such a bolshie mood. Could that be his fault, too? Perhaps he was exuding an air of smugness that might well alienate a chap who happened to be homeless, epileptic and struggling to come off drugs? And the fact that Barry, Lee and Hannah had all recently dropped out was also a bad sign. Maybe he needed to reformulate the group’s basic aims and structure; get feedback from existing members as to a possible new format.

As he walked towards the staffroom, struggling between self-reproach and elation, he bumped into Stella, just returning from her lunch-break.

‘How’s it going, Eric?’

‘Well, to be honest, not that brilliantly. I think I’ve lost the plot a bit today.’

‘I’m not surprised. It’s a wonder you can concentrate at all, with all this drama going on in your life.’

He noted the edge to her voice. Last night, he’d invited her for a drink, for the specific purpose of revealing his foundling origins, at last, and also confiding the news of the baby. She had reacted to both bombshells with uncharacteristic coolness; annoyed, perhaps, that he’d concealed his
background
during all the years they’d known each other, and probably jealous of Mandy’s pregnancy, since she herself had always wanted children.

He and Mandy had discussed it later, in bed, and decided to ask her to be godmother – or maybe
un
godmother, in light of her agnosticism. At least it would build a connection between her and the new child; make her feel less excluded, more part of his new family.

‘Hey, there’s something I want to ask you, Stella. Would you have a minute after work?’

‘May do,’ she said grudgingly.

‘OK, I’ll recheck at ten to five and see how things are going.’

He dashed into the staffroom and found Helen visibly flustered; trying to heat the soup, wash up mugs and butter rolls, all at the same time.

‘Oh, Eric, gosh, I’m sorry! You must have been wondering where on earth I’d got to, but all hell broke loose downstairs. A gang of boys came racing in from the street, with this savage-looking dog, and no one could control them. We rang the police, but they took an age to come, so I had to stay there, with Harriet, to try to sort things out, which is why I’m so behindhand. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t hear the racket.’

He shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’ Sequestered in the study-room upstairs, he’d been blithely unaware of what must have been a very nasty incident. Not his fault, of course; none the less it returned him to his senses. He was meant to be a professional, and had no right to let his personal life take precedence over the interests of the group. His mind was in turmoil today, a joyous, jangling tumult of future plans and challenges – Mandy, Mandy’s family, marriage proposals, engagement rings, Erica, the new baby, the move to St George’s Square – but he made a silent vow that, after the
soup-break
, he would consign the whole imbroglio to temporary oblivion and focus solely on John Clare’s problems, not his own.

He picked his way with care between the sludgy piles of snow, in danger of measuring his length on the pavement, where the puddles had frozen into mini-skating rinks. The succession of snow, rain, sleet and floods over the last few days had made it impossible to use his bike and he was missing his normal exercise. His energetic workouts with Mandy provided perfect compensation, although tonight he was on his own at Vauxhall, catching up with admin work: a local government report to read on recent service
developments
, and an assessment to write on his outreach projects and how he planned to expand them.

In fact, it was hard to shift his mind from work, as he continued his zigzag progress to the tube. He was still assessing the performance of the group, which, fortunately, had rallied in the second half. Indeed, considering the weather, it was something of a miracle that nine of the usual fourteen members had managed to show up at all, and might even be seen as proof of their dedication. And Sue had stayed behind to show him some of her
poems, and told him that these meetings were more helpful for her
personally
than any other therapy she’d tried. On the other hand, Nadirah had remained silent throughout the session, despite his frequent attempts to draw her out. He suspected she was only semi-literate; none the less, he was determined to persevere. Growing up in care had left him with a burning wish to change the general consensus that poetry was ‘difficult’, inaccessible and the exclusive preserve of intellectuals.

‘Damn!’ he muttered, dodging back from the kerb to avoid a swash of muddy water thrown up by a passing car. Soon, he was soaked to the skin, as yet another snow-shower pursued him in a whirl of stinging flakes. At least he didn’t suffer from chionophobia: fear of snow. All those way-out phobias – fear of buttons, beards, shadows, stars, the number eight, even garden peas – made him feel exceptionally courageous. He could confront a beard or a button without so much as a tremor; multiply eight by eighty-eight without missing a single heartbeat; greet his shadow like a dear old friend, and eat garden peas for England. Perhaps Mandy’s calming influence was making him less panicky, although, admittedly, it hadn’t yet been tested. If she were to suggest a swim in the local pool or a trip in a hot-air balloon, he’d break out in a cold sweat and run shrieking from the room.

Indeed, as he approached the entrance to the tube, he felt his usual apprehension about going down in the lift, especially one so crowded. He glanced at the impassive faces, all deliberately avoiding eye-contact. Did
they
, too, fear the horror of being trapped for claustrophobic hours in a metal box suspended between floors? And the tube was even worse. Each time it stopped in the tunnel – which it did with spiteful frequency – he experienced a choking sense of panic. Yet the people all around him didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned, and were reading, chatting, even dozing, for God’s sake.

Only back at street level could he breathe again with any sort of ease, knowing he was safe from fatal crashes, terrorist attacks, burial alive, or a repeat of the King’s Cross fire. In fact, emerging at Vauxhall, he almost welcomed the treacherous pavements and the sheeting, blinding snow, because at least he wasn’t coffined underground.

It was a relief, though, to get in, remove his sodden coat and make himself a warming cup of tea. He had barely swallowed the first sip, when his mobile rang – Mandy, with good news.