All at once, he gave a monster sneeze, followed by another and another. Oh my God, he thought, some allergen must have set him off: a woman’s scent, a cleaning product, dust-mites in the air. It happened very rarely, but, once he was in the throes of an attack, the sneezing rollicked on inexorably, as he knew from bitter experience.
‘Are you OK?’ Penelope whispered, although her expression suggested more alarm than sympathy – doubtless due to the fact he was clenching his teeth and screwing up his face in a supreme effort to control himself. And the woman on his other side – an older one he’d barely noticed up till now – was actually recoiling.
‘People with bad colds,’ she hissed, ‘should stay indoors and keep their germs to themselves.’
‘It’s not a—’ he tried to say; the words drowned by an explosive sneeze, which developed into a whole deafening series.
Yvette paused in mid-sentence – indeed, the whole shocked room seemed to be drawing in its breath as his sneezes hit the ceiling. Blundering to his feet, he grabbed his coat and bag, and had to suffer the humiliation of walking the length of the room – ten miles, or so it felt. He was desperate to apologize, but the sneezing made it impossible to say a word. At last, he reached the door and, closing it behind him, he scorched along the corridor, past banqueting suites and displays of exotic plants, towards the hotel entrance.
Only out in the cold December air did the sneezing finally shudder to a stop. He stood stock-still a moment, experiencing a wave of mingled relief and regret. No way could he go back. People would only stare; maybe mock him openly. Shaken, he put on his coat, glancing up at the imposing façade, with its colonnades and sculpted frieze; the pampered window-boxes full of hothouse flowers. He had been deluding himself all evening; building castles in the air – as usual. Penelope belonged in this swanky world; he ostensibly didn’t. She might be an orange-blossom parfait or amaretto croquant – hand-made, gift-wrapped, exquisitely adorned – but he was just plain Eric and couldn’t afford to date that sort of woman. His fuel and phone bills had increased substantially of late, and fifteen per cent of his income went on child support each week. Besides, the sooner he accepted that it was totally unreasonable to expect to find a mate by Christmas – let alone one so voguish and urbane – the better for his sanity.
Indeed, why accept the Christmas hype at all? It wasn’t the most important date in the calendar, but just a day like any other. And, if he stopped dwelling on himself and spared a thought instead for those who’d spend the day in cancer wards or war-zones, in debt, despair or gaol – he might realize his own good fortune. Anyway, there were always little comforts to assuage his petty pains. In fact, the newsagent, still open, on the corner could provide the very thing he craved.
Having walked into the shop, he slapped 50p on the counter and picked out a Milky Bar: superior by far to any jasmine-scented, Cointreau-soaked, excessively dark – and frankly bitter – chocolate.
chapter six
Eric woke with a start. The phone was shrilling only inches from his ear. Testily, he reached to pick it up. Roseanne, again, no doubt. The wretched woman apparently existed without sleep, having rung him in the early hours on seven separate occasions. Each time, he’d been abrasive, yet here she was, still in hot pursuit. Just his luck to find an avid female, at last, but one who happened to be barking mad.
‘Hello,’ he growled. He had planned a lie-in this morning, to make the most of the peace, since both his sets of noisy neighbours were away for a merciful week. Some lie-in! It was still pitch-dark outside.
‘Dad, it’s me!’
‘Erica!’ He leapt out of bed. Who cared about lost sleep, when his daughter was on the phone?
‘Sorry to ring you at the crack of dawn, but I wanted to say happy Christmas.’
‘Oh Lord, yes! It’s Christmas Day.’
‘Had you forgotten?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Dad, how could you? No one forgets Christmas.’
‘Well, now you’ve phoned, it feels like Christmas.’
‘It’s still Christmas Eve over here. We’ve all been to a party, that’s why I’m up so late.’
The ‘all’ induced a surge of jealousy. ‘All’ included Dwight. Even the fellow’s name was an irritant: comic and pretentious both at once.
‘I love your present, Dad. It’s great!’
‘What, you’ve opened it already?’
‘Yeah, we had presents round the tree, just before we went out.’
So what had Dwight given her? A diamond-studded mobile? A child-sized Cadillac? Something far superior to his gift – that was beyond all doubt. He wrung the fellow’s neck, picked up the dead body and dumped it in the Puget Sound.
‘Has mine arrived yet?’ she asked.
‘No. I reckon it must have got lost in the system.’ This was the first Christmas he had received no gift from either his wife or his daughter.
‘It’s bound to turn up sooner or later. And listen, Dad – good news! I think I’ll be able to come and visit during the Easter holidays, if that’s OK with you. Actually, they don’t call it Easter hols over here. It’s known as the Spring Break – so as not to upset non-Christians – and it’s only five mingy days and doesn’t include Easter anyway, not this year, at least. But Mum says I can stay with you for longer – you know, to make up for not coming in the summer. And the school doesn’t seem to mind, so long as I take the work I’ll miss and get on with it in England. So they’re probably going to allow me a whole three weeks, which means I’ll be with you for Easter. And my birthday falls the Thursday of that week, so we can spend the day together, if you like.’
Like? Bells were ringing from every London church; red carpets unrolling across the length and breadth of England. ‘I’d love it, darling. What a treat! We’ll celebrate in style. Thirteen’s a real landmark.’
‘It’s scary, too, though, being in your teens.’
He nodded. ‘I remember.’ Worse for a girl, though. Periods and breasts. Erica had neither yet, according to Christine, and that fact had made him stupidly relieved. Womanhood brought dangers, and he wasn’t there to protect her. ‘You’ve really made my day! I thought I wasn’t going to see you till July, so I’m thrilled you’ve brought it forward by three months. But what would you like to do when you’re here? I’ll start organizing it right away.’
‘It’s a bit early, don’t you think, Dad? But what I will need is some help with schoolwork and stuff. I’m still not used to the different syllabus. I mean, we never did Spanish at my old school, or things like Social Studies.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll crack it between us!’ He’d do a crash-course, if necessary, in both Spanish and Social Studies – whatever the latter might be. Anything to help her.
‘But I don’t want to talk about school. Tell me what you’re doing for Christmas.’
He hesitated, detesting the thought of her pity. In fact, he had deliberately chosen to spend the day alone, turning down several invitations. He just didn’t have the strength to face other people’s intact and happy families, when the loss of his own was still so new, so raw. And, although he had offered his services to a couple of different charities, both had told him he’d left it too late to volunteer. ‘I’ve … planned a bike ride to the City.’
‘What, on your own?’
‘Er, no.’ It wasn’t quite a lie – he was going with Samuel Pepys. He had dreamed up the idea as the basis for a library project, later in the year, which he’d base on the Diaries and one or two biographies. Today, he planned to get the flavour of the man by visiting the places connected with his life and work, including his favourite pub, St Olave’s Church, the Navy Office, Trinity House and—
‘But what about Christmas dinner?’
‘Oh … that’s all organized.’ A cheese roll and a can of beer would do him very nicely – although he was touched by her concern about his welfare.
‘Isn’t it a bit cold for cycling?’
He peered up through
the bars of the windows. Dawn was breaking; pale, milky light now banishing the gloom. ‘No. The forecast’s pretty good. A risk of showers later on, but mostly bright and sunny.’
‘It’s been snowing here.’
‘I know.’ He always checked the Seattle forecast, although if the conditions were too different from those in the UK, it only underlined the aching distance between them.
‘Dwight helped me make a snowman.’
Eric committed a second murder. Infuriating, the cocky way the bloke kept resurrecting, despite the fact he’d been done to death so often. ‘Darling,’ he asked, as he disposed of the corpse, ‘I wondered if you’ve changed your mind about Skype? I know you’re not keen, but it’s just that I’d like to see you. I mean, phone-calls are great, but a bit disembodied, don’t you think?’
‘Thank goodness! I’ve got these hideous zits, so—’
‘Zits?’
‘Spots.’
‘You’ve never had spots.’
‘Well, I have now.’
Puberty, most likely. Or was her diet to blame? Perhaps Christine was so besotted with Dwight she had stopped bothering to cook and they all existed now on burgers, fries and Coke. He had actually set up Skype on the suggestion of the lawyers, as another means of contact, but, after the first few months, Erica objected that it made her feel embarrassed. Embarrassed by her own dad, for heaven’s sake!
‘Did you have spots, Dad, when you were my age?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Lucky thing!’
Not so lucky, actually, but no need to mention that. ‘So how’s your new friend?’
‘Kelly, you mean? She’s great! And she has her own horse, you know.’
‘Yes, you said.’ He had contemplated robbing a bank, so he could buy a horse for Erica – before Dwight did, of course. But he was bound to get it wrong; go for some hulking cob, instead of a pure-bred Arab.
‘Sorry, Dad, I’ve got to go. Mum says it’s past my bedtime. D’you want to speak to her?’
‘Er, later, maybe.’
Silence. Had he sounded hostile? It was imperative, for Erica’s sake, to appear on good terms with his ex. ‘I’ll give you another ring when I’m back,’ he added, ‘and talk to her then, OK?’
‘OK. Goodnight, then – I mean, good morning. And happy Christmas, Dad – again!’
It was happy now, with this unexpected gift. The divorce settlement had stipulated one long summer visit only, mainly in her interests – not that she shared his fear of flying, just disliked the idea of jetting back and forth during every school vacation. Yet here was a bonus out of the blue: an unscheduled springtime visit.
As he went into the bathroom to shave, he began planning it already: a day-trip to Brighton, tickets for Billy Elliot, London Zoo, Madame Tussauds, – everywhere and anywhere. To hell with the cost. He would find the money somehow. He’d also paint the whole flat in her honour; choose her favourite colours, however wild and wacky; make it worthy of a soon-to-be thirteen-year-old.
Once washed and dressed, he stood at the kitchen worktop, eating a bowlful of cornflakes and savouring the thought that, in just three months, he would be laying breakfast properly – for two – he and Erica sitting chatting over scrambled eggs and bacon. Maybe he’d invite her former friends for tea; even arrange a birthday party; change his solitary existence – if only for a short spell – to one of chatter, clutter, company: all the things he missed. He had always relished his role at her parties: organizing games, lighting the candles on the cake, taking endless photos, to ensure that proper records were kept (non-existent in his own childhood).
Perhaps he thought, his mind still racing, he ought to buy a kitten, to soften the blow of losing Charlie, who still had not returned, despite his continued searches and enquiries. It would be her kitten, of course, waiting to greet her every time she visited. As yet, he hadn’t found the courage to break the news of Charlie’s loss; indeed, could barely believe that the cat had gone for ever and might actually be dead. Charlie was his family – the one and only part of it he’d kept – and also tied in with the whole history of his marriage.
He found himself making for the living-room – and the wedding photo he still kept on his desk. All other photos of Christine had been unceremoniously dumped, but this one was too precious to destroy. His marriage had seemed momentous at the time: to have someone of his own, at last; someone there for him, committed to him, faithful unto death. And to be part of a real family, with intriguing new in-laws, when, up till then, he was unable to lay claim to a single relative. His younger self stared back at him from the elaborate silver frame: his carroty curls ablaze with sheer excitement; a triumphant grin stretching from ear to ear; one protective arm around his new, miraculous wife.
As his eyes moved to her face, he felt his usual sense of outrage at how that plump and homely girl had become the fashionably thin virago who had dragged him through the divorce courts. It was all down to Kroszner-Merriott, of course. Only an American-owned company would have dictated such long work-hours; insisted on assertiveness training for all higher-grade employees, and demanded exacting standards in personal grooming – tooth-whitening, manicures, slimming regimes, ultra-modish clothes. Gradually Christine had metamorphosed into a tough, go-getting materialist, instead of the simple girl he had met on a peace march, twenty years before. And then had come the blow.
‘I’ve outgrown you, Eric. I’m sorry to be brutal, but that’s the simple truth. And I can no longer live with a man who won’t drive a car, get on a plane, or even go for a swim. That’s grounds for a divorce, you know, so my lawyer says. He reckons your refusal to travel, along with all your other fears, have caused serious rifts in the marriage and left me isolated.’
Isolated! Whilst all the time, unknown to him, she was bedding odious Dwight; the pair of them plotting to destroy the marriage by classing his humiliating terrors as ‘unreasonable behaviour’, in order to deflect attention from their own repellent carryings-on. He could have cited adultery, had he decided to fight back, as equally valid grounds for a divorce. But he loathed the thought of a split-up; hated fighting, on principle and, anyway, had no weapons in his armoury. How could a mere librarian, who had never been abroad and was even scared of water, for Christ’s sake, compare with a Harvard-educated CEO, who owned two houses and a boat, and used aeroplanes like buses? Besides, he was shamefully aware that most people would take Christine’s part and regard his fears as totally unreasonable, since his terror of driving or of any sort of travel, had seriously restricted their married life.
And now that she and Dwight had triumphed, things were even worse. Whatever he, the loser, might lay on for Erica would only lead to invidious comparisons. A brief pony-ride at Vauxhall City Farm didn’t have quite the cachet as private lessons in horsemanship at some swish equestrian centre in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. And could a paddle-boat on the pond in Battersea Park really bear comparison with sailing on a fifty-foot ketch around the San Juan Islands?
Determinedly, he switched on the TV, to distract himself from Dwight. It was too early to leave for his bike trip – still bitter-cold outside, although the sun was doing its brave best to thaw the heavy frost. Flicking from channel to channel, he found only jolly kids’ stuff, with Christmas, of course, the smug and cosy centrepiece of almost every programme. Did they have to underline it: the happy family gatherings, the compulsory good cheer? The word ‘merry’ particularly galled him, with its connotations of fun-filled frolics. ‘Merry Christmas be buggered!’ he retorted, out loud, to one of the bubbly young presenters, preposterously dolled up in a gold-and-ruby crown.
Look, you were merry yourself a moment ago, he reminded himself, but his thoughts refused to budge from Christmas in Seattle: the new family, new ‘father’, the pile of presents, gorgeous house.
Suddenly, on impulse, he grabbed his coat and cycling helmet, his wallet and his keys, and banged his way up the chipped stone steps that led out of the flat.
Chilly toes and chilblained fingers would be far less detrimental than another disgusting wallow in self-pity.
Nice, he mused, as he cycled along Pepys Street, to have a street named in one’s honour. Parkhill Street – he tried it out, although in point of fact he had never liked his surname, mainly because it had been chosen in so arbitrary a fashion. Well, Eric Street, maybe – except the same objection held good. Both his names were totally ad hoc; neither selected with any care or deliberation.
As he turned left into Seething Lane, he all but skidded across the road, as a sudden cloudburst erupted, lashing him with hailstones as fierce and furious as gunshot. Although he tried to cycle on, soon his eyes were blinded, his anorak was soaked and his face stinging from the assault. Showers, they’d forecast, not a Noah’s Flood. Dismounting from his bike, he dashed towards a doorway, only to find his refuge already occupied.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked the bloke stretched out on a piece of matting, a fierce-looking dog beside him and a half-empty bottle of Scotch.
The only answer was a warning growl from the dog. In a toss-up between death by rabies and death by drowning, Eric opted for the former, purely on the grounds that having been on his bike – or feet – since seven in the morning, he was in sore need of a rest.
‘Good boy!’ he said encouragingly, reaching out a friendly hand, only to withdraw it pretty rapidly as the creature made to snap his fingers off. He edged warily away, cramping his wet limbs into the small space at his disposal. The dog was now barking hysterically, although its owner took no notice; apparently dead to the world. Well, thought Eric, one way of enduring Christmas was to get well and truly smashed. He had seen several homeless folk already, during his morning in the City, who had stirred in him both pity at their plight and an awareness of his own good fortune. He had solid walls; they only sheets of cardboard; he worked in a job with purpose, structure, colleagues and a salary, while they had only empty days and the uncertain hope of handouts. He had engaged in conversation with one, earlier, who hadn’t even realized it was Christmas and appeared to have forgotten his own name.
Broken Places Page 6
