Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  Yet, despite his brighter prospects, he did actually feel lonely – not that he would admit it to a soul. Loneliness was a sort of mental halitosis that gave off fumes of failure and only made the problem worse, in that it kept people away. As a child, he’d felt encased in a dark, rigid shell, like a walnut or brazil, where no one could get in to join him, nor let him out to light and air. Marriage had been the nutcracker that split apart the shell and released his juicy kernel – which made its ending all the worse, of course. He had lost not just his precious family but the two Ds that came along with it: ‘Dad’ and ‘Darling’; both, once, a source of triumph. Now his Ds were rather different: divorce, depression, disillusion.

  ‘Cut it out, for Christ’s sake!’ he muttered to himself, as he crouched listening to the fanfare of the rain. It was thundering on the pavement, hissing along the gutters, drowning out the faint but insistent rumbles of his stomach. Having forgotten to bring his cheese roll, he had eaten nothing since the cornflakes, and it was now getting on for half-past one. The poor sod on the matting seemed equally provisionless – well, apart from his liquid lunch, of course: a bottle of cider lined up beside the Scotch.

  Peering out at the waterlogged street, his mind moved from tramps to Pepys once more. This morning he’d been concentrating on the great man’s great achievements, but his small vanities were equally intriguing – the way he’d paid the equivalent of £1500 for a fashionable new wig, then had the gall to deny his wife her equally fashionable face-patches. And, although he’d finally relented, that was probably only due to guilt, having betrayed poor Mrs Pepys with a whole succession of willing widows, wives and serving-wenches and even with her own maid.

  No, he must keep away from the subject of betrayal and, in fact, he’d had enough of Pepys for one day, so, as soon as the rain slackened even slightly, he decided to push off home. He could eat his cheese roll there, in the dry, rather than risk a mauling by the still hostile and probably hungry dog, who might fancy a chunk of his flesh for Christmas dinner. Well, at least dogs didn’t figure on his long, shaming list of fears, and nor did spiders, crowds, thunder or the dark. It gave him a weird satisfaction to know he wasn’t prey to every fear imaginable. Although secretly he suspected that anyone of reasonable intelligence should be pretty scared. Forget flying, swimming, driving – just being alive in an unjust and random world was a terrifying prospect. And, apart from the huge global fears – climate change, terrorist attacks, biological warfare, nuclear apocalypse – the sense of being trapped in one’s own skin and by one’s own peculiar temperament, enduring things that no one else could share or comprehend, could bring on panic in itself. He had often longed for a Siamese twin: someone part of him and fused with him, to ward off his alarm at being separate, adrift and insufficient in himself.

  He’d learned long ago, however, to put on a façade; to play the role of a brave and self-reliant chap, at least in any company beyond that of his wife – ex-wife. It also helped to keep extremely busy. In fact, even now, as he emerged into the less punitive rain, he changed his mind about cycling straight back home and opted for a final stop at All Hallows By The Tower – the vantage-point from where Pepys had watched the Great Fire. Having chained his bike to the railings, he pushed open the glass doors, stopping in his tracks as he saw, not an empty church, but a lively Christmas party in full swing. A long line of tables had been set up in the south aisle and a good forty or fifty people were sitting eating dinner; a buzz of conversation filling the normally hushed space.

  As he made to back away, a matron in a pink silky dress came dashing in pursuit. Oh, Lord, he thought, the vicar’s wife, or some pillar of the parish, about to reprimand him for trespassing on a private function.

  ‘Do stay for lunch,’ the woman beamed, clasping his arm, so as to steer him back inside.

  ‘I … I’m afraid I haven’t been invited. I just happened to be passing and—’

  ‘Everyone’s invited. We lay on Christmas lunch here not just for any parishioners who have nowhere else to go, but for visitors and tourists and all members of God’s family.’

  Eric swallowed, being neither visitor nor tourist, and certainly not a member of God’s family. His early experiences in life had led him, long ago, to discount, any idea of a merciful God. ‘I actually live in London and I’m afraid I’ve never been a church-goer.’ Not true. Church had been compulsory in childhood – and had put him off for life.

  ‘You’re welcome just the same. Do come in and sit down.’

  ‘But I’m not dressed for Christmas lunch.’ His shabby jeans and battered, soggy trainers seemed all the more unkempt in contrast to the woman’s bandbox appearance; her nails varnished pink to match her dress; her hair set in stiff, meringue-like curls and a row of expensive pearls around her neck.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said breezily. ‘It’s the soul underneath that counts.’

  He doubted if his soul was any less remiss than his attire, considering that he was guilty of anger, envy and homicide; the latter committed on a daily basis. ‘But I don’t even have much money on me and—’

  ‘Lunch is free,’ she declared. ‘If you want to make a small donation, that would be very welcome, but there’s no obligation whatsoever.’

  Before he could raise any further objections, Lady Bountiful swept him towards the tables and seated him between an old woman in a wheelchair and a small, sallow girl with spots and spectacles. ‘Now, what’s your name, dear?’ she enquired, still hovering behind his chair.

  ‘Eric,’ he said, uneasily aware that several dozen pairs of eyes had turned in his direction, examining this new arrival who had interrupted their lunch.

  ‘Eric,’ she repeated. ‘My dear departed father’s name. Now, let me do the introductions. This is Vera, on your right, one of our very loyal parishioners. That’s Lily, on your left, Malcolm opposite, and Svetlana next to Malcolm. Svetlana comes from the Ukraine.’

  He tried to remember all the names, whilst also thanking various people who came bustling up to pour him wine, bring his starter, offer him a roll and butter, or wreathe him in friendly smiles. There seemed almost as many servers as guests – all parish worthies, no doubt, although who was he to cavil when he was being offered a free lunch? OK, the decorations were over the top: four huge, separate Christmas trees – two by the altar and two further down the nave – and the table set with a Christmassy cloth and lavishly adorned with candles, fir-sprigs, glittery coloured baubles, expensive-looking gold-foil crackers and a cheerful-looking reindeer as festive centrepiece. The lunch itself, however, looked too good to refuse. The other guests were already on their main course, tucking in to turkey, stuffing, chipolatas and the rest of the traditional fare. And he certainly couldn’t complain about his starter: a healthy assortment of fresh orange segments, melon balls, and maraschino cherries.

  ‘So where are you from?’ Vera asked, smiling from her wheelchair.

  ‘I live in Vauxhall just at present.’

  ‘What, in one of those ritzy new flats they’ve just built along the river?’

  ‘Er, no,’ he mumbled, surprised anyone should think that a bloke with a hole in his sweater would live in a ‘ritzy’ residence.

  ‘I live in bloody Tower Hamlets,’ groused the bespectacled girl, Lily. ‘And it’s a complete and utter nightmare.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Eric said, with genuine sympathy – a mistake, he realized pretty soon, since it opened up the floodgates.

  ‘Yeah, a year ago, I had a decent place, but the landlord evicted me – the bastard! Not that I was surprised. Life keeps beating me up – always has, always will. I went to see this fortune-teller – just last week it was – and she said, “Lily, I’m very rarely downbeat with my clients, but I’m afraid Fate’s got it in for you.” Well, I knew that, didn’t I? Might as well have saved my fucking cash. I mean, it all goes back to childhood, so I didn’t stand a chance. My dad pissed off with some fancy bitch, and my mother went to pieces and started do
ing drugs and—’

  At least you had a mum and dad, Eric didn’t say – couldn’t say, in fact, since Lily was still ranting on.

  ‘And I never got no education. How could I, with no Mum to take me to school? And, even when I did go, the teachers were so fucking useless I never learnt a thing. So now I’m struggling to do my GCSEs at the age of thirty-five and with everything against me – saddled with huge debts and living in a tip. The other students don’t know they’re born, with rich mummies and daddies, and not having to earn a living, or keep the fucking bailiffs from the door.’

  Eric noticed Vera twitch at every ‘fucking’. His usual role was to crack down on bad language if it arose in any readers’ group or school visit to the library, but he could hardly take a stand in this particular setting. It also seemed a little callous to guzzle his fruit cocktail while a tale of woe was in progress, so he politely put his spoon down, while Lily moved on to the iniquities of the government (both central and local), the Council Tax, the water rates and the state of London Transport. Only when she paused for breath did he take his first small bite of melon, but then Vera began cross-questioning him again.

  ‘Are you in work?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said warily. Perhaps this lunch was restricted to the unemployed, the disabled and the dispossessed. As well as Vera in her wheelchair and Lily with her bailiffs, he spotted an old guy in dark glasses, with a white stick by his chair, and a woman with her arm in a plaster cast, sitting further down. He wished he’d thought to don a bandage or an eye-patch before joining these good folk. ‘I’m a librarian,’ he admitted.

  ‘Books are dead,’ Malcolm declared, making a cut-throat gesture. ‘Gone the way of the horse-drawn carriage, the gas-lamp and the typewriter.’

  ‘Isn’t that a slight exaggeration?’ Eric said – or tried to, before Lily started up again.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about books!’ Lily cut in again. ‘They said we’d get our textbooks free, then they had the bloody cheek to charge us an arm and a leg for stuff we don’t even need. I blame the—’

  ‘Look, can’t you stop belly-aching?’ another man reproved her: a rough-looking customer, with a stubbly chin and tattoos on his arms. ‘People make their own luck, mate. I was given all this bullshit when I was a kid: “Keep your nose to the grindstone, boy”, but that’s a load of crap. I worked things out for myself, took a load of chances, even survived attempts on my life. But then I had what it took – very quick reactions and a left fist like a sledgehammer.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting I bash the fuckers up?’

  All this talk of violence seemed extremely disrespectful in a church – and such a grand, impressive church, with its soaring roof, its pillars, its monuments and tombs. Eric imagined the marble statues recoiling in revulsion; the figures in the memorial brasses flinching at the language.

  ‘A show of force is useful sometimes, Lily, so as to let them know who’s boss.’

  Eric left them to it and turned to the Ukrainian sitting next to Malcolm. ‘And are you studying, or over here to work?’

  The woman’s answer was completely indecipherable. He should have learned Ukrainian, he thought, along with all the other tongues he had vowed to master, sometime.

  ‘She doesn’t speak a word of English,’ Malcolm said, with a shrug. ‘I’ve tried hard myself, and got nowhere. Mind you, we poor natives are outnumbered by the immigrants.’

  Eric tensed, expecting a tide of prejudice to follow, but Malcolm simply took refuge in his wine, downing the whole glass in one protracted gulp. Eric sipped more slowly, knowing if he overdid the drinking, he might fall off his bike and land up in the gutter.

  ‘More turkey, Vera?’ a server asked, proffering a large silver platter.

  ‘Eric hasn’t had his first lot yet,’ Malcolm pointed out.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the woman twittered. ‘That won’t do, now, will it? Have you any special dietary requirements, Eric? We have fruit and nuts for vegans, rice and beans for vegetarians, and strawberry mousse instead of Christmas pudding for anyone who can’t eat gluten.’

  ‘I eat anything,’ he said hastily, before they brought him sunflower seeds or suchlike. He had enough of rice and beans at home, and how could anaemic strawberry mousse compare with full-blooded Christmas pudding? Although, in truth, his appetite was waning, surrounded as he was by bigots, bruisers and moaners – not to mention the beheaded bodies of John Fisher, Thomas More et al, whom he knew were buried here. And the tattooed bloke was giving off an unmistakable whiff of sweat – again hardly conducive to eating. Presumably washing was as foreign to him as turning the other cheek. He was also missing two front teeth – the result, no doubt, of his pugilism. In fact, Eric’s own confidence was steadily increasing, since several other people were lacking full dentition, and quite a number far worse dressed than he was.

  Giving silent thanks for his dentist, he speared a melon chunk on his fork, but, before he could consume it, an extremely ancient bloke shouted in a booming voice from further down the table, ‘I know you, Eric, don’t I?’

  Eric regarded the fellow blankly. Never in his life had he set eyes on this chap, with his swarthy face and sparse wisps of silver hair.

  ‘Yes, we were together at Dunkirk. I was injured pretty badly and you helped me into the boat. We were both up to our necks in water, I remember, but you were a true hero.’

  Dunkirk was twenty-odd years before his birth, but apart from that mere detail, it seemed unlikely in the extreme that he would be playing such a starring role – rather yelling, choking and spluttering as he tried to save himself from drowning. Fortunately, he was spared from having to answer by a tall, suave man in a smart grey suit, with a blue shirt and matching tie.

  ‘Good to meet you, Eric. My name’s Alistair and I, for one, am an enthusiast for books. Although music is my first love. I’m an opera singer – or was.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Eric, goggling. He had been to the opera only once, with Christine, and had felt completely overwhelmed by the sheer passion of the thing. The arias had left him rapt and reeling, as the tenor poured out the depths of his soul for a love that knew no bounds; a love that would go through torture; confront death, disaster, exile, for the sake of the beloved. Yet, in the interval, Christine had said dismissively, ‘It’s lust, that’s all. He just wants to get her knickers off!’

  ‘Yes,’ Alistair continued, ‘I could sight-read at the age of five, although I’d never had a music lesson – not one in all my childhood. Yet, at eight, I had a greater grasp of technique than some singers have at thirty-eight. I’ve sung in all the major opera houses – Covent Garden, the Met, La Scala … By the way, La Scala pay much more than Covent Garden. My fee over there’s a minimum of eighty grand a night. Although, actually, I retired in my forties, because now I prefer to conduct.’

  But why on earth, thought Eric, would someone so rich and famous be sitting down to dinner here, rather than gulping champagne and caviar with fawning impresarios?

  ‘Mind you, most contemporary opera singers are useless. Some can’t even sing in tune. In fact, I’ve been known to read the riot act and refuse to conduct a second performance unless the understudy takes over the role.’

  Was the guy deluded, Eric wondered, like the old Dunkirk survivor? Perhaps this lunch was for the disabled and deluded, in which case he wasn’t keen to stay too long. In fact, he gladly handed over his more or less untouched starter in return for a plate of lukewarm turkey. The sooner he finished his food, the sooner he could find some excuse to leave.

  *

  Two hours later, he was still trapped, captive, in his seat.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch,’ the deacon had announced, once coffee had been served, along with chocolates and pannetone. ‘So now all you good folks have to sing for your supper!’

  Eric’s first instinct had been to bolt, but the vicar and various other clergy were standing by the piano, and the whole bevy of helpers had come trooping from the kitche
n, virtually blocking any chance of escape. And the singing had been interminable, since the deacon’s little plan was to work through every nationality in turn, asking, first, any Spaniards present to stand up, then any French, Italians, Portuguese, Greeks, Americans, Japanese – and so on, ad infinitum. In each case, only two or three had risen to their feet – sometimes none at all – yet each national song was still faithfully thumped out: O, Tannenbaum, Frère Jacques, Bog Sie Rodzi, Kimi ga Yo, and many more he could neither pronounce nor spell. A pair of young girls from Hong Kong had protracted things still further by making a succession of false starts on a dozen different Cantonese songs, breaking down in giggles between each aborted attempt.

  After that, it was the turn of the English and the whole bunch of them, him included, had valiantly worked their way through ‘Away in a Manger’, ‘We Three Kings’, ‘O, Come all ye Faithful’, ‘When Shepherds Watched’ and ‘Joy to the World’. This last had seemed singularly inappropriate, since the longer the proceedings lasted, the less joy there seemed to be, although he was in the minority when it came to sheer hilarity. Many of the other guests were in various stages of inebriation, and were clapping, cheering, heckling, or trying out weird descants of their own. The opera singer, he noticed, maintained a strict silence throughout, claiming he had to save his voice for a performance of Tristan at Bayreuth.

  Next had come a seemingly endless vote of thanks, not just to the cooks and bottle-washers, but to the butcher who’d donated the turkey, the baker who’d supplied the bread, some foreign lady from Wapping who had made the special stuffing, a guy with an allotment who’d grown the (organic) potatoes, and countless other kindly souls. Each benefactor had been applauded separately and uproariously, thus spinning out the proceedings even more. Privately, Eric had begun to wish that some local worthy had donated a bottle of Airwick, to counter the increasingly unpleasant smell arising from the tattooed bloke. He ought to be more compassionate – presumably the chap was homeless and thus without a bathroom – but his usual forbearance was sorely strained at present. Nor did his stupid headgear help. Vera had insisted, once the crackers had been pulled, that they all don their paper hats, and he’d been landed with a puce-pink number that clashed deplorably with his hair.