Left and Leaving
Page 36
So when, a few days later, he received a letter from Germany, he was more than a little shaken. The envelope contained a cheque for five thousand pounds – Carey’s legacy he assumed – and a note.
Use what you need for your plane ticket. The balance is to go to your daughter. It might tip the scales.V x
If you don’t accept, it’ll go to the cats’ home.
During his final days at the hospital, dozens of people stopped him in the corridor or dropped into the studio to wish him well. Kevin saw to it that there was a card – slightly obscene, of course – signed by all those who’d contributed to the whip-round of four hundred pounds. With everything else going on, he hadn’t thought much about leaving this place and these people. When he went out through the revolving door for the last time, he felt unexpectedly sad.
The four hundred pounds had come out of the blue and it wasn’t too difficult to persuade himself it would be okay to spend some of it. He took Feray and the kids out for a farewell lunch at the local pasta place. Feray happened to have a two-for-one voucher so the bill was less than it might have been. The kids said they’d like to go to Australia one day and prattled on about crocodiles and poisonous spiders and surfing. As the meal progressed, they grew more talkative whilst Feray ate next to nothing and barely said a word. She and the children were en route to her parents and, when they could sit in front of empty coffee cups no longer, he walked them to the Tube where they said their goodbyes. Another tough one.
From there, he carried on down to Camden Town. The route took him past half a dozen of his favourite charity shops but he resisted setting foot inside any of them – excellent training in self-denial. Camden Town was throbbing with crowds heading for the Lock and he was glad to be going in the opposite direction.
By contrast, the British Museum was blessedly calm. He strolled around for half an hour, stopping when something caught his fancy. His meanderings led him, as he knew they would, to the shop. The earrings were still in the display case – green and stylish – and still seventy-five pounds. He made a quick calculation. Thirty-odd cups of coffee. Hell, if he drank water he’d recoup that sum in less than six weeks, and his abstinence might absolve him of this brief but premeditated lapse in his vow not to think of Vivian.
On his way back to Tottenham Court Road, he passed a gift shop. Normally he wouldn’t give a place like that a second glance but something made him stop. In a couple of days he would jet out of this city, just like the gaggle of tourists poring over the tacky goods on display. One window was devoted to teddy bears in various sizes and predictable guises. Pearly kings and queens. Policemen. Beefeaters. Bowler-hatted businessmen. Even the Queen. In amongst them, he spotted one small bear wearing a bow tie and a knowing smile. He was maybe six or eight inches high – perfect for a tiny hand.
The bus took him past Warren Street station and the traffic island. The damaged railings had been replaced and there was nothing except the pads of fresh concrete at the foot of the pillars to indicate that anything unusual had happened there.
43
Vivian bought a newspaper, picked up a coffee and made her way back to the office. The International Sweets and Biscuits Fair was in full swing at the Koelnmesse. In the Alter Markt, as part of the razzamatazz, confectioners were handing out goody bags, and the air smelled of caramel.
She had been concerned that, in dividing her time between the two cities, she might feel she belonged in neither. Quite the opposite. Cologne was beginning to feel like home and spending time away from London had increased her appetite for what it had to offer. (When she was there last week, she and Ralph had gone to the Cottesloe.) An unexpected spin-off of the new routine was that she, Bella Sachs and Malcolm had struck up quite a friendship.
Things were progressing well on site. The weather had improved and, after a bad start, the contractor was back on schedule. Friel Dravid’s little outpost on Lintgrasse was already making its mark. A couple of jobs had come in and the firm had been invited to submit a scheme for a library at Bremen University. Howard was coming over later in the week for a progress meeting. Ottilie had booked him a room at the Mercure but Cara had decided to come too and persuaded her to switch it to the Excelsior.
Gil had once tried to convince her that, had her mother survived Philip Carey, she would have revealed everything. Maybe. Maybe not. If she wanted answers, the place to start would be Munich, with Tante Steffi. But it would be dangerous to invite the past to consume her when the future was so interesting.
Vivian was sorry that she wouldn’t see Gil again. He was a wise, kind man. She wouldn’t have got through that hard winter without him and she would never forget him – although she could no longer quite picture his face. There was no question of their keeping in touch. There would be too much sadness in it. If she had learned anything in the past few months it was the importance of knowing when to let something go.
The earrings were beautiful. She wore them most days. Her new hairstyle – boyish and asymmetrical – showed them off to advantage and she’d had a number of flattering comments. It had taken her a while to get used to her new look but today, glimpsing her reflection in a shop window, she liked what she saw.
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First published by Honno
‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys, Wales, CF64 4AH
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
© Jo Verity, 2014
The right of Jo Verity to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without clearance from the Publishers.
print ISBN 978-1-906784-98-0
ebook ISBN: 978-1-909983-04-5
Published with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.
Cover image: © Getty Images/Andrew MacDonald, 2007
Cover design: Graham Preston
Text design: Elaine Sharples