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!’
‘Yes’ to everything.
acknowledgements
I would really need to write another book to thank adequately the many people who helped me with various aspects of this novel; foremost Meryl Jones, Assistant Head of Wandsworth Library and Heritage Service, whose patience, kindness and expertise on library matters provided unfailing support. Thanks are also due to her fellow librarians, Graham Hedges, Selma El Rayah and Marijana Rogers; to the staff at Pimlico Library - Hugh Thomas, Paula Campbell, Steven Parkinson, Layla Palmer and Sally Murphy - and to a host of other people connected with books and libraries: Jan Bild, Neil Simmons, Richard Roberts, Liz Brewster, Penny Markell, Jen Tomkins, Richard Hart, Elaine Andrews, Polly Maclean, and, most especially, to Chris Bennett, Chief Archivist at Croydon Library. I am also most grateful to Joan Thompson, Elspeth Hyams and all other staff at CILIP.
A profound debt of gratitude goes to the library staff at HMP Wandsworth - Oliver Ababio, Javier Delgado and Niamh Fahey - and to members of its Heathfield book club, with a special accolade for Sarah Turvey, of Roehampton University, who runs the club and has been working with prison reading groups since 2001.
Dr Debra Baldwin, advised me on prison matters (displaying truly heroic patience with my queries), and also lent me her PhD thesis on children in care, and thus merits a double citation. And I deeply appreciate Paul Atherton’s honesty in sharing with me the story of his own chequered childhood in care – a story with a happy ending, since he is now a film and TV producer. Sue Leifer, Children’s Guardian, and Liz Castledine, social worker, also helped me on these aspects of the novel.
On more general matters, thanks are due to John Hughes, Data Protection Manager at Mayday Hospital; to James Stewart, family lawyer at Manches LLP, and his PA, Chrissie Louca; to Andy Curtis, airline pilot, and David Tomlin, cabin steward; to David Wilmot, Customer Services Manager at the London Passport office; to Catriona Young, for additional help on passports; to Keith Walsh, manager of Vauxhall City Farm; to Sam van Rood, author of Teach Yourself Flirting; to Don Macallister, photographer; to Jennie Peters, clinical nurse specialist, and to Libby and Stephen Ferguson.
The following also deserve a tribute: Anne and Gemma Pilkington, long-time residents of Croydon; Mary Ann Winterman, author of Croydon Parks; Aswin Patel, of Croydon Sports, Parks & Recreation & Community Service, and Peter Holman, horticultural consultant, all of whom provided invaluable information. As did Bill Gingles, with his encyclopaedic mind, and Susie Boyt, whose culinary expertise leaves most average cake-makers at the starting-gate.
For help with the American section of the book, I am indebted to He
rb and Ned Hunt; to Marilyn Collins, Beth Baska, Donald and Jean Zatochill, Maxine Howe and Mary Langford.
Jane Tanner and Rachel Besser not only read several of my chapters, but provided information on everything from teen-speak to Internet dating, aided by Jane’s husband and children, Steve, Joe and Sophia. Heartfelt thanks to them all.
And last, but very much not least, I’d like to thank the crime-writer, Simon Brett, a truly generous friend, and Dr Robert Brech, frequent flier, mine of information and much-loved brother.
By the Same Author
Absinthe for Elevenses
Cuckoo
After Purple
Born of Woman
The Stillness The Dancing
Sin City
Devils, for a Change
Fifty-Minute Hour
Bird Inside
Michael, Michael
Breaking and Entering
Coupling
Second Skin
Lying
Dreams, Demons and Desire
Tread Softly
Virgin in the Gym and Other Stories
Laughter Class and Other Stories
The Biggest Female in the World and Other Stories
Little Marvel and Other Stories
The Queen’s Margarine
Copyright
© Wendy Perriam 2010
First published in Great Britain 2010
This ebook edition 2011
ISBN 978 0 7090 9375 6
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Wendy Perriam to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Broken Places Page 38
