Broken Places (34 page)

‘Don’t worry, I eat anything and everything – fat, sugar, gluten, eggs and every sort of nut – the more the merrier, in fact!’

‘Oh, isn’t he just darling!’ Eleanor exclaimed to her band of lady
assistants
. ‘And don’t you just love that accent?’

‘And what fantastic hair!’ one of her acolytes put in. ‘Would you mind me asking, Eric, is that a God-given colour?’

‘’Fraid so,’ Eric grinned, although entertaining serious doubts that any actual deity had been involved in the matter.

Reaching out a tentative finger to touch his mop of curls, the woman gave a little squeal of approval. He was beginning to feel like the family pet – patted, fondled, stroked, admired and, yes, royally fed and watered. A large assortment of cakes had been piled onto a plate and pushed into his hand, while another beaming female offered him juice, tea, Coke or coffee – the latter decaffeinated, of course. It appeared that, in America, if they could remove the things that gave food and drink its kick, they would have no compunction in doing so. However, his wodge of chocolate gateau gave little cause for complaint, exploding on his tongue in a symphony of creaminess and sweetness, with even a shot of caffeine in the ultra-strong, dark-chocolate flavour.

Stuffing in another chunk, he was seriously engaged in chewing when Peggy chose that moment to introduce him to the pastor, the Reverend Marcus Matthews.

Making heroic but vain efforts to swallow the whole large mouthful, he had to rely on dumb-show in response to the reverend’s greeting. He was also shamingly aware that he probably had a whipped-cream moustache and that he’d just dropped a shoal of crumbs on the floor.

‘I hear you’re visiting from England, Eric.’

Mumble, mumble, was all he could manage, as he continued desperately chewing, having encountered an intractable piece of nut that wouldn’t seem to go down. Nut-free might have been wiser, after all.

‘And how did you find our service?’ the reverend continued
imperturbably
.

‘Er, awesome!’ he gasped, disposing of the nut, at last.

Another man had now joined their little group – a bloke so big and bulky he made Eric feel a dwarf.

‘I don’t quite understand the terms you use in England,’ he remarked. ‘I gather you have High Church and Low Church. Is that correct?’

‘Absolutely,’ Eric said, hoping the conversation wouldn’t develop into a discussion of the finer points of theology, otherwise he’d be woefully out of his depth.

‘And which are you?’ asked Peggy, still hovering beside him with a
definite
air of proprietorship.

‘Er, Low.’ Certainly the more truthful option, since there’d been nothing ‘high’ about either his birth or education.

‘And what’s the name of your church?’ an attractive girl enquired – one he hadn’t seen before, but who looked alluringly well-stacked. If only all these females were interested in his body, rather than his soul.

‘Um, St Matthew and St Mark’s,’ he said, ad-libbing on the pastor’s names. He could hardly say the Dog and Duck.

‘Is it big or small?’ she persisted. ‘I’ve seen pictures of your English
cathedrals
, so would it be something on that scale?’

‘Oh, no. Small and cosy. And extremely old.’ That was true, at least. The pub boasted genuine sixteenth-century beams. ‘With lots of brass and an uplifting atmosphere.’ There was nothing more uplifting than a foaming pint of bitter – or three.

‘Is yours a large congregation?’ the reverend asked.

‘Yes, it’s usually pretty crowded.’ Sometimes he had to wait a whole ten minutes before he caught the barman’s eye.

Peggy gave a nod of approval. ‘Well, that sounds very commendable – so long as you’re there in person, Eric. I only hope you’re not a CEO.’

He failed to see the relevance of the question. However, if she was labouring under the false impression that he earned a top-notch salary, he’d better put her right immediately, otherwise she might expect a huge
donation
to the church.

‘Perhaps Eric doesn’t know what that means,’ the attractive girl put in, before he’d had a chance to reply.

‘Of course I do,’ he said, indignantly. ‘Chief executive officer.’

Several people laughed. ‘In a Christian context,’ the girl explained, ‘it actually means “Christmas and Easter Only” – you know, the sort of apathetic people who only think about God a couple of times a year.’

‘Oh … I see.’

‘What we’re trying to establish’ – Peggy fixed him with her gimlet eye – ‘is whether
you
attend church regularly, each and every Sunday?’

‘Far more than that!’ he retorted. Who did this bloody woman think she was, checking on his religious credentials? ‘Three or four times a week, in fact.’ Frequent attendance wasn’t a hardship, since the Dog and Duck was so conveniently close to the library.

They gazed at him with new respect, as someone supremely devout. However, he sincerely wished they would stop the interrogation. Not only was he bound to make a boo-boo, once the questions became more
challenging,
he was also being prevented from eating. The enticing smells wafting from his plate – not just chocolate, but almond, ginger and coconut – kept reminding him how ravenous he was. Indeed, he envied the troupe of little kids, blithely stuffing themselves with chocolate brownies or raisin cookies, without a care in the world. They were even free to run around the room, rather than being held captive by a bunch of pious inquisitors.

‘Tell me more about your community here,’ he urged, hoping that if someone else held forth, he might be able to swallow a few mouthfuls, whilst giving attentive nods.

Needing no second invitation, the pastor launched into an elaborate account of the entire history of his ministry, along with the successes he’d achieved in bringing new souls to Christ and his particular interest in the Sunday school and youth groups.

‘That reminds me, Eric,’ Peggy interjected, ‘I’ve been meaning to suggest to Christine that she take Erica to Sunday school. I’m sure the child would benefit. She’s growing up far too fast and it might serve as a restraining influence.’

Nonsense, Eric thought, bristling at the woman’s unspoken criticism.

‘It’s a lovely little group,’ Peggy persisted, unabashed, ‘with an inspiring teacher, who’s had years and years of experience. She encourages the kids to memorize verses from the scriptures and reads them Bible stories. And, in
my
opinion, that would be highly beneficial for your Erica.’

He all but choked on his carrot cake. The only verses from scripture likely to interest his Lolita of a daughter would be the Song of Solomon; the only Bible story some salacious shocker unfit for children’s ears. ‘She’s … rather tied up with school at present.’

‘But Christine distinctly told me that they’ve given her extra time off school, so the two of you can be together while you’re over here.’

This nosey-parker Peggy knew far too much about his life and family. He searched in vain for some appropriate reply. His lying skills were patently inadequate and, besides, he despised himself for lying in the first place.

‘Not all youngsters want to go to Sunday school,’ a bespectacled lady observed; kindly saving him from the prospect of having to frogmarch his protesting daughter to a Bible Study class. ‘But one thing, Eric,
you
shouldn’t miss is our Maundy Thursday service. It’s truly awesome and sometimes even reduces me to tears. All the elders of the church, along with our dear pastor here, literally get down on their knees and wash the feet of twelve members of the congregation, like Christ did at the Last Supper.’

‘Yes,’ said Peggy, with barely disguised smugness, ‘and I’m one of the chosen twelve. Which makes me almost a disciple – or so I’d like to think.’

‘We’re
all
disciples,’ the pastor said, sanctimoniously. ‘And, actually,’ he added, ‘we have only eleven candidates, so far. So if you would like to be the twelfth, Eric, it would be a privilege for me to wash your feet.’

Eric removed a piece of carrot from his tooth. How on earth could he refuse what was obviously a signal honour?

‘All the more so,’ Matthews continued, ‘because we have a tradition in this community of honouring the stranger in our midst.’

Yes, too right – he
was
a stranger here. Although unsure of the exact
statistics
, he knew some 80% of Americans happened to believe in God, which made him an outcast straight away. And a third of those believers claimed to be ‘born again’. The phrase struck him with new force. If only
he
could have been born again – to a different mother, willing and able to keep him.

‘Well, how do you feel about it, Eric?’ the pastor smiled, displaying
enviable
dentition.

That was another thing that meant he didn’t fit: a good ninety-nine per cent of Yanks appeared to have flawless teeth. But he must shift his mind from orthodontics and try to drum up some rational reason for refusing Matthews’ offer. Then, all at once, he remembered, with relief, that he already had the perfect excuse – and a genuine one at that. ‘Maundy Thursday is my daughter’s thirteenth birthday, so I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to get away.’

‘Bring her too,’ Peggy suggested, most unhelpfully. ‘It only lasts an hour, from six to seven in the evening, so you’ll have plenty of time to celebrate before and afterwards.’

‘I … I’d need to consult her first.’

‘Of course,’ the pastor said, soothingly. ‘But even if it’s not her sort of thing, do try to be there yourself, Eric.’

Forlornly, he put his plate down, having completely lost his appetite. His feet were little better than his teeth – callused, with the beginnings of a bunion, so the last thing he wanted was for them to be on public view. And because he always sweated in any alarming situation, they were bound to be hot and fetid. The thought of this fastidious-looking pastor handling his misshapen toes had already brought a flush to his face. ‘Honestly, Reverend Matthews, I just couldn’t allow you to wash my feet. It would seem completely wrong – I mean,
you
an important minister, demeaning yourself like that.’

‘No way is it demeaning. And please do call me Marcus. Washing the feet of my congregation is, indeed, a symbol of humility, but Christ enjoined us all to serve each other, and service is a joy, Eric. And, yes, it may be a humbling experience, but only in the best sense. It’s also incredibly freeing. To abase oneself for others, as our Lord and Master did Himself, is truly the work of God.’

‘No, really, you don’t understand. I’d feel extremely uncomfortable.’

The pastor gave a reassuring smile. ‘The great disciple Peter made exactly the same objection, Eric, but I’ve no need to remind you what Christ said in reply.’

There
was
a need to remind him. Any knowledge he had of the Gospels appeared to have deserted him, although he could hardly say so here. In any case, the great disciple Peter probably had near-perfect feet, having worn sturdy open sandals all his life.

‘In fact, He even washed Judas’s feet,’ the pastor pointed out, ‘to
emphasize
the fact that He came down to earth to minister to sinners.’

So now he was a sinner – even a traitor on a par with Judas. Well, he deserved the accusations. He had been lying through his teeth for the best part of an hour, and had also failed abjectly in all his relationships, including that with Erica. Yet, sinner or no, he was still desperate to be let off the hook. He already had reason enough to dread his daughter’s birthday, without adding yet another. On the other hand, since he was destined to spend the day alone, with the birthday-girl otherwise engaged, was there really any point in continuing to resist? After all, if he was
seriously
worried about his feet, he could always ask Kimberley for the name of the nearest salon and book a pedicure. Yes, good idea. Why not join the Yanks in their devotion to the Body Beautiful?

‘All right, Reverend – sorry, Marcus – I
will
be there on Thursday.’ He suppressed a shudder as he uttered one last lie. ‘It’ll truly be an honour to have you wash my feet.’ 

‘It’s a must-see, Eric –
the
symbol of Seattle….’

‘You can’t come to Seattle and not go up in the Space Needle….’

‘The views are awesome, breathtaking….’

So what the hell should he do? Overcome his fears – new fears now, of lifts, of heights – or have to face those people at the church and admit he’d been too scared to take their advice? The Space Needle’s observation-deck was nearly 600 feet high, and the elevators travelled at a dizzying rate of 800 feet per minute – facts that had made him nervous even sitting safe at home. He could, in fact, avoid the lifts if he toiled his way up the 848 steps, but there would still be a sickening sense of vertigo once he reached the top. How had he developed acrophobia, for God’s sake, when he’d always prided himself on being able to cope with heights? No wonder his daughter dismissed him as a freak. Indeed, he felt the deepest self-contempt, knowing she – and everyone – would laugh him to scorn for quaking in the face of a simple tourist attraction.

‘So go
up
, then,’ he instructed himself, gazing once again at the beetling, daunting structure – a sort of flying saucer tethered to a gigantic pylon, towering high above him. He had been prowling round the vicinity for at least the last half-hour, determined to ratchet up his courage, yet depressingly aware that he and courage had never been natural
bedfellows
.

‘They say it’s as high as thirteen hundred and twenty candy-bars, balanced one on top of the other,’ Peggy had told him on Sunday; going on to enthuse about the 360-degree views of the Olympic Mountains, the Cascade Mountains, Elliot Bay, the surrounding islands, etcetera, etcetera. He should never have mentioned sightseeing, since it had sparked off a storm of other suggestions from his enthusiastic Christian friends, urging him on no account to miss the Art Museum, Pioneer Square, Capitol Hill,
the Pike Place Market and so many other places he would have to resign his job and spend a year in Seattle, just to tick them off the list.

Although, actually, he had done quite well already; devoting the whole of yesterday to viewing the city’s landmarks; starting with the Central Library, whose exhilarating structure and 1.5 million books had put his modest Balham workplace in the shade. And, even this morning, he had taken in the ‘Experience Music’ Project and the Science Fiction Museum, just a stone’s-throw from the Needle. Yet both tours had seemed achingly hollow without Erica beside him to marvel at Captain Kirk’s
command-chair
, or join him in a jam session, complete with ready-made fans. His daughter seemed to have deliberately planned to be out all day, every day, and must even have persuaded her friends’ mothers not to include him on the excursions. There was always a reason, of course. It was a ‘girly’ thing they were doing, or some pursuit that would bore him to tears.

Nothing would bore him, if only he could be with her, but how could he impose himself when she had no wish for his company? All he could do was hope that things would change. Today was only Tuesday, after all, which meant he’d been with her – or
not
with her – a mere three and a half days. Strange, though, how that stretch of time felt as long as three and a half months.

So what now? Did he brave the elevator and go whizzing up to the
observation
deck?
Yes
, was the obvious answer – except he was uncomfortably aware that, in 1965, an earthquake had jolted the structure sufficiently to send the water sloshing out of the toilets, despite the fact it had been
specifically
built to withstand the fiercest pressures. Were earthquakes common here, he wondered, glancing at the long line of people waiting to buy their tickets, all putting him to shame? If only he could reincarnate himself as some intrepid person: Douglas Bader, Scott of the Antarctic, Edmund Hillary.

Cloaking himself in Hillary’s skin, he took his place in the queue. Now he
had
no fears. What was a mere 600 feet compared with Everest? But a brief glance at the placard, ‘Take a test-drive in the sky!’ sent him skulking out again. He would have to tell Peggy that the queue had been so slow to move, he’d decided not to waste his precious time standing about in line.

Disconsolately, he mooched into the gift shop. Erica’s presents were still lost, along with all his gear, and the airline now suspected that the case might never turn up. They had offered compensation, of course, and, on the strength of that, he had bought himself some decent clothes, reflecting, while he shopped, on the idea of compensation. Shouldn’t people be compensated for never having had a mother, or for growing up in care? Or
perhaps the whole justice system should be completely overhauled; the judges made to bear in mind that while less than one per cent of children were taken into care, some twenty-five per cent of the adult prison
population
had, in fact, been through the care system.

Trying to switch his attention from penal reform to finding some
replacement
gifts for Erica, he wandered round the large, confusing store. It seemed full of expensive tat, however: musical snow-globes, light-up pens,
bottle-stoppers
, nail-clippers – every product either made in the shape of the Space Needle, or branded with its logo, which meant every product was a reminder of his cowardice. He stopped to look at a cat-shaped cushion, which brought unhappy thoughts of Charlie, as well as new anxiety, because he hadn’t told his daughter yet that their beloved pet was lost. She had actually mentioned Charlie – twice – but still he hadn’t found the guts to give her such unwelcome news when she was already feeling low. Maybe after next weekend, when Brooke and co returned to school, but she had extra leave, they would have the chance of an in-depth conversation and could discuss not only Charlie but Christine’s pregnancy.

In the end, he left the shop with nothing except some postcards of the stunning view from the top: the closest he would ever get to seeing it. In any case, it was now getting on for seven, so time to return to the house – not that Erica was expected back till half-past ten. She was with Brooke again today, but at another friend’s house – a girl called Barbie, of all things – for some sort of get-together, to be followed by a pop concert, out at the Tacoma Dome. The Dome was famous, apparently – one of the largest wood-domed structures in the world – although it seemed unlikely he would lay eyes on it himself.

‘You’d hate the concert, Dad,’ she’d told him. ‘The music’s so loud it’d make you deaf.’

He would gladly take the risk of deafness – indeed of blindness or
paralysis
– just for the chance of being with her, but it appeared he had no choice.

Once he had boarded the monorail, he sat wondering why the people here were so contemptuous of public transport. The high-speed train took only a couple of minutes to whisk him from the Space Needle to the Westlake Center Mall. And he had even found a fast, convenient bus, departing from Second Avenue and going all the way to Mercer Island Park-and-Ride, from where he could catch another bus to the square at the South End, just a short walk from the house. The entire journey from Downtown Seattle took only three-quarters of an hour. Of course, you could do it in a car in twenty
minutes, and here everybody drove – as Erica herself would do, the minute she turned sixteen – and would probably despise him even more, then.

He walked from the Westlake Center down Stewart Street towards the bus-stop, now surrounded by skyscrapers; their majestic glass and steel blazing gold and scarlet in the sunset. If only Mandy were with him, he would feel less rootless in this self-confident but dwarfing city. Yet, the more he reflected on Mandy – which he did constantly and painfully – the more he was forced to admit that they weren’t actually well suited. Right from the start, the idea that she was his fantasy mother – reincarnated in a younger form and miraculously available – had blinded him to other aspects of the relationship. She shared none of his passion for books, tended to laugh at his ideals, and her continual, chronic lateness would have become a source of irritation. He, too, was at fault, of course. For one thing, he should have been more open about his crippling fears, but was that really as heinous as her own decision to deceive him for the remainder of his life?

Somehow, he must leave Mandy in the past and make a real effort to move on, and also stop imagining that he would ever meet his mother, either in the flesh or in some modified version. Not that it was easy, with so many reminders of mothers: children in the street calling out ‘Mom’ on every hand; women pushing prams; racks of cards already in the shops for the American Mothers’ Day. There was also the urgent question of his Precious Box. It would be tricky to retrieve it without re-entangling himself with Mandy, yet he knew that any contact might weaken his resolve.

Soon, the bus came lumbering into view and, having clambered on, he found an empty seat next to a comfy-looking female.

‘Wonderful sunset,’ he remarked, but the sole response was a stony stare. Well, what had he imagined – a loquacious heart-to-heart? OK, he was lonely, but there would be plenty of time in the future for engaging total strangers in conversations they didn’t want. He wasn’t in his dotage yet – forty-five, not ninety.

Better to sit and read, then he could lose himself – as he’d done so often in his life – in another, happier world, where daughters loved their fathers, mothers were real people and girlfriends never lied.

He hovered outside Erica’s bedroom door, tempted to go in. In fact, nothing would induce him to invade her privacy, yet her determination to bar him access couldn’t help but rouse his suspicions. Was she frightened he would find fags – or drugs – or supplies of the contraceptive Pill, or a secret diary
revealing wild transgressions? She had become a stranger – no way the child he knew. When she wasn’t out with her friends, she spent worrying amounts of time up here, either texting them or phoning them, or on
social-networking
sites. But suppose she had somehow found a way to circumvent ‘parental control’ and was accessing more unwholesome sites? For all he knew, some evil stranger might be grooming her for sex.

His stomach rumbled suddenly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he went downstairs to raid the Aladdin’s cave of the pantry. His fantasies about cosy little suppers with his daughter, or outings to the pizza parlour, had been rapidly dispelled. And, since there was no point cooking for one, his usual fare was a handful of crisps or biscuits, and a bowl of
cornflakes
or peanut-butter sandwich, eaten standing up. Even tomorrow’s sit-down dinner with Kimberley and her husband, Ted, had been cancelled just this morning, because Kimberley had sprained her wrist and could neither cook nor drive. In fact, she had laid on a taxi to bring Erica back tonight, since the other mother, Virginia, had to collect her husband from the airport soon after the end of the concert, and thus would only have time to drop both girls off at Kimberley’s. Apparently, Kimberley’s house, being at May Creek, within minutes of the freeway, was much handier for the airport than trekking out to Mercer Island and back again.

He checked his watch – 10.10 – which meant the taxi should arrive in twenty minutes. No doubt Erica would go straight up to her room, rather than stick around and chat about the concert. However, despite the lateness of the hour, he was determined to waylay her and insist they start
communicating
. Just last night he’d read an article about changes in the teenage brain, which were said to account for most negative teen behaviour: lack of empathy, consideration or even risk-awareness. OK, he was willing to make allowances for her synapses being slightly off-kilter, but there were limits to his patience. However much she had shaken his confidence as a father, he refused to tolerate this stand-off the whole three weeks he was here.

Just as he was stuffing in a handful of pretzels, the phone rang and, assuming it was Erica or Kimberley, he rushed to answer it.

‘Oh … Christine,’ he faltered. ‘How are you?’ Idyllic, by the sounds of it – a Christine on cloud nine, unable to disguise the honeymoon glow.

‘Sorry to ring so late, Eric, but I wondered how things are going.’

‘Fine.’

‘How’s your cold?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

‘And is Erica OK?’

‘Mm.’ It sounded lame even to his ears, so he added some supporting detail – about the party and the pop concert and Kimberley’s sprained wrist.

‘Lord! How did she do that?’

‘In the gym, apparently. She was lifting weights and—’

‘Typical!’ Christine said dismissively. ‘It’s all “me-time” for that bloody woman. The only thing she cares about is making herself slimmer and more glamorous. She employs a whole gang of beauticians, hairdressers, personal fitness trainers and even …’

And who are
you
to talk, he bit back.

‘She’s made Brooke the way she is, of course, and that, in turn, has
influenced
poor Erica, and I have to say it worries me. On the other hand, the two girls seem devoted to each other, so it would be wrong to try to
separate
them, even if one could. But now you’re there, maybe you could exert some sort of influence.’

Not a chance in hell, he thought, wishing desperately she’d end the call. No way must she discover that he had seen so little of Erica, or he would truly be in trouble. Besides, just the sound of his ex’s voice was enough to conjure up loathsome pictures of her in bed with Dwight. He and
Mandy
should be on honeymoon, not Christine and her supercilious bloke.

‘What time is it in Hong Kong?’ he asked, having done his hesitant best to answer her shoal of questions about Erica.

‘Quarter past two in the afternoon. We’ve just had this delicious lunch at—’

He blocked his ears; had no desire to hear any romantic, gastronomic, or – God forbid – erotic details. ‘And it’s Wednesday there, not Tuesday.’

‘That’s right.’