Broken Places (38 page)

Reluctantly, he made to pull away. However loath he might be to break the contact, he could hardly continue hugging her all night. Rather, he should return to his parental duties and chivvy her to bed.

Yet, doggedly, she pressed herself against him, as if frightened he might vanish, or they might never achieve this proximity again. Indeed, he
experienced
a depth of shame when he realized she could have become a virtual stranger, had he stayed in England, a prisoner of his fear.

Then, all at once, she drew away and stood shifting from foot to foot; an uneasy frown cutting between her brows. ‘Dad …’

‘Yes?’ he prompted, worried now that she might have some new concern, something they hadn’t yet discussed.

‘I … don’t think I’ll be Carmella any more. It seems, like, kind of … stupid. It was Brooke’s suggestion, actually, so I guess it’s more her sort of name than mine. So, from now on, I’ll be Erica again.’

‘Fine,’ he said, his non-committal tone belying his overwhelming relief. He had his daughter back, at last – in name as well as fact.

Eric emerged from the tube into a heavy, sleety downpour. Rain when he’d set out three weeks ago, and now rain on his return. Yet he was so relieved at having survived the ordeal and escaped totally unscathed – no missing limbs; no vacant future as a dribbling paraplegic – that he splashed blithely through the puddles on the short walk to his flat. At least he wasn’t hampered by a case. InterWest Airlines had surpassed themselves by losing his luggage on the return flight as well as on the outward one. Waiting in the long, slow queue to report the second loss had delayed him by an hour or more, but he didn’t care a jot. Anyway, it was Dwight and Christine’s honeymoon case, and he deplored the thought of such a thing cluttering up the flat. And, as for all the stuff inside, well, there was a certain crazy freedom in simply leaving it behind.

In fact, nothing could detract from his elation at having become a seasoned traveller. Oh, he still detested flying – the cramped seats, the
claustrophobia
, the lousy food and long delays, the interrogation procedures that made you feel you should have stayed at home – and, yes, his terror was still there. Indeed, he had battled through extremes of it today, yet it was still a great achievement to have conquered it at all. In fact, he longed to yell at everyone who passed him in the street, ‘I’ve flown! I’ve flown – for the first time in my life! And four separate flights in total. Isn’t that heroic?’

And, having stopped for milk at the corner-shop, he was tempted to strike up a conversation with a customer or two, so that he could try out the unlikely words just added to his vocabulary: shuttle-buses, duty-free: escape-chutes, air-miles, cabin crew. Unfortunately, there was no one in the shop – well, apart from the man who ran it: a surly Pakistani who didn’t look as if he’d be riveted by accounts of sterling courage. So, having bought his pint and a farmhouse loaf, he bounded on to the flat.

As he let himself in, he was immediately jolted by its shabbiness,
compared with the grandeur of his surroundings in the States. Where were the works of art, the cocktail bar, the games-room, the candlelit Infinity Bath? Not that he would miss them, nor the ridiculously pretentious bed that had seemed always to resent him as an unworthy occupant. This was home, however small and poky, and there was a definite sense of security in being back where he belonged. What he did regret was no longer having Erica as house-mate and companion. Already, he missed their long
discussions
about whether it was wiser to settle for being a Ford – functional and useful – rather than a high-powered Porsche, and whether fear was only natural when the world was so incomprehensible, not to mention
downright
arbitrary.

‘No!’ she’d told him, vehemently. ‘That’s just a crappy excuse. Even if you do feel fear, you have to overcome it, Dad, and say “I
can
!”, like President Obama.’

And, since her birthday outing, when, as his introduction to water-sports, she had more or less dragooned him into kayaking on Lake Washington, she now expected him to rise to every challenge. It wouldn’t stop at kayaking, or even snorkelling or scuba diving – that was pretty clear. It would be ocean-racing next, or white-water-rafting, or – God forbid – paragliding. He shook his head in disbelief. Even his daughter’s faith in him couldn’t transform him quite so radically.

Having dumped his flight-bag, made some tea and gathered up the post, he sat sorting through the pile – mainly bills and junk-mail, but also an
elaborate
card from Stella, saying ‘Welcome back!’ It touched him that she had kept in contact throughout his three weeks’ absence, as if she knew
instinctively
how lost he felt away from home. Yet, despite her calmer temperament, she was more alone than he was, in a sense, having never had a spouse or child. Would either of them, he wondered, ever meet their life-partner? The prospects didn’t look too bright and maybe it was simply time he relinquished his romantic dreams: the hope of meeting a soulmate; the fantasy of finding his mother. He couldn’t count on a conveniently happy ending, like the more fortunate Tom Jones, who, by Book XVIII, ‘Chapter The Last’, was declared by the exultant author ‘the happiest of all humankind’.

I’m away for a long weekend
, Stella had scribbled on the card.
See you Tuesday, OK
?

Unable to phone her, as he’d hoped, he decided instead to reply to her last emails, which had remained unanswered once Dwight and Christine arrived back from Hong Kong. It had seemed wrong to sit in Christine’s office, using
her computer, rather than listen to her travellers’ tales of glitzy nightlife, harbour cruises, dim-sum restaurants and all the maddening rest of it. He suppressed a yawn as he turned on his own machine; aware how stiff and achy he was, after eighteen hours of travelling, and tempted to crash out on his bed rather than pound away at the keyboard. But if he went to sleep so early, he was bound to wake in the middle of the night, when he ought to make an effort to adjust to English time. He was already somewhat confused, since his watch said eight (a.m.), while the sitting-room clock insisted it was four.

The computer seemed sluggish, as if it, too, were suffering jet-lag, but eventually it responded with a rash of Viagra ads. Whacked as he was, he knew he wouldn’t need Viagra if a voluptuous female happened to waltz in, begging to be shagged – or Mandy, for that matter. It annoyed him that he should still be lusting after her – indeed, even wondering sometimes if he should change his mind and return as her live-in lover. Yet, since he knew deep-down the relationship was wrong for him, it was progress of a sort to have broken with the pattern of his childhood, when he’d been forced passively to accept things that brought him pain and grief. Maybe, when he felt less raw, they could re-establish contact, if only for the baby’s sake. It still worried him that it had no acting father and, if he could make good that lack, even to some small extent, he wouldn’t hesitate. And his reward would be the Precious Box, which he was determined to retrieve. Whatever her motives for making it, he was still deeply touched that she had gone to so much trouble in giving him a life-history, however rudimentary. And, once he had it back, he would guard it as a valuable possession; refuse ever to be parted from it again.

Stella’s last two emails were still concerned with the new job. Apparently, no one had applied internally, not even the two most likely contenders: Eleanor at Putney and John at Battersea. And Stella said she doubted there would be many outside applicants, so she was continuing to insist that he simply had to take this chance.

No, I really don’t think
, he was just beginning to type, when he suddenly caught Erica’s eye, rebuking him from her photograph.

‘Don’t be such a loser, Dad! There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get the job. Stop putting yourself down, and at least have a try, OK?’

He rocked back in his chair. If he
were
successful, it would mean a rise in salary – extremely useful to help fund the San Diego trip, as well as regular flights to Seattle. Now that he’d established a bond with his daughter, it was crucial to preserve it, and long-haul air-fares weren’t
exactly cheap. And she had promised to visit
him
, next Easter, so he really ought to move flats well before that, and again some extra cash would come in very handy.

He rechecked the original memo giving details of the job. Stella was right – it was just his sort of thing and would allow him a much better chance to realize his ideals. He could set up a new literacy project, and perhaps a Book-at-Breakfast scheme, with bacon butties to tempt the punters in, or a Brain Gym for the over-sixties and those at risk of Alzheimer’s. In fact, a dozen different schemes and plans began jostling through his mind, including his long-cherished dream of establishing libraries in children’s homes, which might now actually materialize. And, from all he’d heard, the new library had a definite buzz, so it should be fun to work there, especially if he got in from the start.

Of course, Stella was exaggerating the lack of competition and she could have no idea, in any case, how many external applicants there were, so someone else might pip him to the post. On the other hand, foundlings had a certain advantage in that they were used to trying harder; had been forced to make their own way without families to help, and often faced with numerous challenges from the time they first drew breath.

So, yes, he would apply, and not only for his daughter’s sake, but because this new job was the obvious way to do more for the community – always his overriding interest. But best to leave his application till the morning, when he’d be fresher after a good night’s sleep. So, having dashed off an email to Stella, saying OK, he was up for it, he amused himself by researching the local swimming-pools, since he had vowed to book a lesson for his very next day off.

After scanning a score of websites – everything from the Queen Mother Sports Centre to the Horizons Health and Fitness Club – jet-lag suddenly caught up with him and he could do nothing more than flop into the armchair. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself swimming fifty lengths; diving from the topmost board; becoming an Olympic swimmer; even swimming the Channel in record-breaking time. And now President Sarkozy himself was looping a gold medal round his neck, as he emerged dripping yet triumphant at Boulogne….

He woke with a start to almost total darkness – just the gleam of a
lamp-post
shining through his basement window and a winking icon on the
computer-screen. What an idiot he was, falling fast asleep, fully clothed, in the armchair. He peered at the illuminated figures on his watch: 2 a.m., for heaven’s sake!

He got up with some difficulty. His back was stiff, he had cramp in one leg and he’d developed a crick in his neck. He was also starving hungry, his stomach growling in protest, and a foul taste in his mouth.

Limping into the bathroom to get a glass of water, he recoiled at his reflection in the mirror: porridge-pale and hollow-eyed. Not exactly the rising star of Wandsworth Town new library, let alone an Olympic swimmer.

He stiffened as he heard a sudden noise. Could it be some teenage hoodlum come to case the joint? After all, he was no longer living in safe, suburban Mercer Island, but inner-city London, with its gangs of petty criminals. He stood stock-still, ears strained. Yes, there it was again – and coming from outside the door that led up to the garden; the perfect
hiding-place
for yobs to lurk.

God, he was pathetic! Any normal bloke would have guts enough to confront a thug head-on, instead of cowering in a heap. He slumped against the bathroom wall; all his former confidence deflating like a punctured tyre. Gold medals? Sterling courage? Was he out of his mind? He’d been
seriously
deluding himself in imagining he could change his life or job. He was basically so flawed, he simply wasn’t equal to the challenges, whatever Erica or Stella might tell him to the contrary. A functional Ford – ha-ha! A clapped-out old nag, more like.

Somehow, though, he forced himself to creep towards the door; realizing only then that it was an animal noise and not a human one – a sort of scratching and scrabbling – perhaps an urban fox on the prowl. Relived, though apprehensive still, he unbolted the door and opened it a crack; let out a yell of joy as he identified the small, scruffy shape shivering on the step.

‘
Charlie
!’ he exclaimed.

With a mew of recognition, the cat rubbed against his legs in a paroxysm of equal joy. She even tried to spring into his arms, but was obviously too weak. This was a Charlie sadly changed – mangy, matted, skeletally thin and with one ear half-bitten off – yet a Charlie still triumphantly alive. How in heaven’s name had an aged cat survived four whole months in such a heartless city? Yet survived she had and that feat seemed more miraculous than his own survival as a tiny infant abandoned in the park.

He carried the wet, bedraggled creature into the kitchen, first drying off
her fur and doctoring her ear, before pouring her a saucerful of milk. Then he rummaged in the cupboard for the one remaining tin of cat-food he’d never had the heart to throw away; spooned some into his best blue bowl and set it on the floor. Thank God she could still eat – and with all her former gusto. He watched with satisfaction as she licked the dish completely clean; imagining Erica’s delight when she visited next April and found her old friend back in residence.

Then, scooping her up from the floor, he took her into the bedroom and settled her on the bed with him; two bravehearts side by side. She, like him, had cheated death in infancy; having been taken to a refuge when found motherless and starving. And she, like him, had survived a more recent odyssey, with perils on all sides. Surely it was significant that she had returned at the very moment he was losing faith in himself, as if to remind him that, however tough the going, no way must he give up. Of
course
he had to work for his ideals; set goals, aim high; reinstate his dreams; had to make his daughter proud of him, whatever it required.

OK, there were no certainties. He might not get the job; might never be a decent swimmer, or board a plane without extremes of panic. Fear was just a given in his life – probably built into his genes. There was still hope, none the less. Wasn’t Charlie proof of that?

‘Yes, we
can
!’ he told her and immediately she began to purr, as if expressing her agreement.

Then, all at once, and to the cat’s astonishment, he broke into the
jubilant
‘Amen’ he’d heard in Peggy’s church. He sang at the top of his voice, lustily and loudly, with the full force of a choir; not caring if it woke the neighbours; not bothered if he was out of tune, just determined that the sound should soar across the vast Atlantic and on across America, until it reached the ears of his approving, cheering daughter.

‘Amen,’ he roared, ‘Amen!’ – not a submissive, lackadaisical ‘so be it’, but a resounding and courageous ‘
Yes
!’