The Secrets of Sunshine

by Phaedra Patrick

  Half an hour later, Barry arrived. He wore faded double denim and his chest hair spewed out from the open neck of his shirt. ‘I’ve seen you looking better, mate. You feeling all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Mitchell strained forward. ‘But how’s Poppy? Is she okay? Was she upset?’

  Barry moved the bag off the chair and sat down. ‘No need to worry. The school called me when you didn’t show up and they couldn’t reach you. The hospital found some council ID in your pocket and rang me, too, to say you’d been brought in. I collected Poppy from school and told her you’d been in an accident but were fine. She was a bit shaken, though still wanted to go to her music lesson rather than for a burger with me. She had an appointment card with the teacher’s address on it.’ He reached in his pocket and handed it to Mitchell before looking around him. ‘God, I hate these places.’

  Mitchell did, too. He refused to think about the last time he was here in the hospital with Anita. The memories were beginning to seep back and he tried to banish them by talking quickly. ‘Thanks. I’ve not met Miss Bradfield properly yet, just spoken to her on the phone.’

  ‘She’s really nice and said it’s no problem if you’re late to pick Poppy up. She’ll feed her, too.’ Barry leaned down and deposited a pair of shoes on top of Mitchell’s bedsheets. ‘I’ve brought you some dry ones.’

  Mitchell turned one over. ‘Thanks. Um, they’re two sizes too small.’

  ‘They’re good shoes, though, got nice laces. I’ll leave them anyway. Do you know you’ve been on the local news?’

  Mitchell gaped at him. ‘On TV?’

  ‘Online.’ Barry located a photo on his phone of Mitchell sitting on the riverbank dripping wet, his head bowed. ‘The reporter called you the Hero on the Bridge.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, anyone would have done the same.’ Mitchell pictured the woman in the yellow dress standing on the bridge, wearing her enigmatic smile. He wondered again why she thought she knew him. ‘What did they say about the woman? Is she okay? What’s her name?’

  ‘It only really mentions you. This stuff gets updated all the time, though.’ He put his phone away. ‘You really don’t need this drama in your life, do you?’

  ‘I’ve spoiled your evening and lost my toolbox,’ Mitchell said glumly. ‘You had a date lined up.’

  ‘Nah, it’s fine. I had a quick beer with Mandy before I got the call about you. She was nice, but…’ He squirmed. ‘I’m seeing Megan later. I’ve met her before, but it was messy. We had a great time, until her husband rocked up and wanted to take the party back to his place. Totally awkward.’

  Mitchell stared at him in disbelief.

  Barry held a palm up. ‘I didn’t go,’ he said defensively. ‘Anyway, I’m meeting Tina tomorrow. She’s an artist.’

  The number of women’s names spilling from Barry’s lips made Mitchell’s temples throb. ‘Good luck, Casanova,’ he said.

  Barry stayed with Mitchell a while longer before excusing himself to meet Megan. ‘I’ll ask around about your toolbox,’ he said. ‘Make enquiries.’

  ‘Thanks, the tools cost me a packet.’

  After Barry left, Mitchell lay in bed, stewing and urging Samantha to reappear. When she eventually returned with a clip file and paperwork, she removed the tube from the back of his hand and stuck a plaster on it. ‘Yes, you do have to legally sign these papers to discharge yourself,’ she said and handed him a pen. ‘You have an appointment at the clinic here next week to have your stitches removed. I’ll give you a leaflet about concussions to read. Your back is bruised and might be sore for a while.’

  Mitchell closed the curtains around his bed and sat down heavily on the mattress. His polo shirt still had patches of dampness and felt strangely stiff. After pulling on his trousers, he stuffed his keys, wallet and phone into his back pockets.

  The realization of what he’d done was beginning to dawn on him.

  He wasn’t a hero at all. He was a stupid person for putting himself in danger, when the outcome could have been a lot worse.

  If he hadn’t felt a flicker of interest for the woman in the yellow dress, he would have walked on by and not seen her fall. He wouldn’t have spotted the padlock in her hands. Helping her had triggered a chain of events he wished hadn’t been set in motion.

  A sob suddenly reared inside him, threatening to break out like a lion’s roar, and he gulped it away. He dropped Barry’s shoes to the floor and tried to stuff his foot inside one of them, even though he knew it wouldn’t fit. When he bent down to pick them back up, tears blurred his eyes and he clutched the shoes to his chest like a child with a teddy bear.

  It was his job to put Poppy first and he’d let her down.

  As he pulled back the curtain from around the bed and stepped beyond it, he took a pained breath.

  When he shuffled off the ward, guilt clenched his gut that he’d been able to help a stranger, but not Anita.

  4

  Pink Fridge

  Mitchell eased himself into a taxi outside the hospital and asked the driver to take him across the city to Miss Bradfield’s house. Anita had always spoken of arranging for Poppy to take extra music lessons and the teacher came highly recommended by another parent. She gave independent lessons in the evening, as well as her daytime job teaching in several local schools, including Poppy’s school, Hinchward primary.

  As his damp trousers squeaked against the leather car seat, Mitchell watched the red illuminated digits of the taxi fare rolling higher and higher. The cost distressed him almost as much as his aching body.

  Budgeting for him and Poppy was always tight. Things like family days at theme parks, lunch without thinking about the bill and popcorn buckets at the cinema were resigned to the past. Now he scoured the internet for cheap things for them to do together. He had discovered that strolls in the countryside, making cheese sandwiches and attending free events in libraries were just as much fun, and provided the opportunity to chat with Poppy more. Or it meant he could try.

  Sometimes Poppy still swung his hand in hers, chitchatting away about school and new songs her friends had downloaded. Other times she wore a cloak of sadness that he couldn’t break through.

  ‘I want people to like me,’ she said when she moved to Hinchward after Anita died. ‘Not just be nice to me because Mum’s gone.’

  And her words had seared into him, making his guilt bloom like dye in water.

  When Mitchell slid out of the taxi, he clamped Barry’s shoes under one arm and looked up and down the road. There was a curve of pretty small white houses, many with hanging baskets bursting with colourful flowers. He felt a pang of envy that they had small front gardens, when his own apartment didn’t have any outside space.

  When Mitchell rang Miss Bradfield’s doorbell, he placed one foot on top of the other in an attempt to disguise the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes.

  The woman who answered the door wore large red-and-white spotty earrings that reminded him of toadstools, and had rows of black dogs on her white shirt. Her brown hair had streaks that shone purple like a beetle shell when she moved her head.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Poppy’s dad? I’m Liza Bradfield.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Mitchell Fisher. I’m so sorry I’m late.’

  ‘It happens, though maybe not this late.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Come inside.’

  He followed her into a glossy powder-pink kitchen that looked like something a child would design. Poppy sat at the dining table.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He rushed towards her.

  ‘You’re really late, Dad,’ she said, her bottom lip trembling. Her straw-blonde hair snaked into a waist-length plait, with wispy curls along her hairline. She was going through a blue clothes phase, not wanting to wear her more girlish pink things any longer. When she stood up, she launched into a ferocious hug, her fingers clutching his back. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’

  They held each other until she dipped her head and pulled away.

  Miss Bradfield s
miled at them, as if watching a play.

  There were chunky fish fingers piled on Poppy’s plate like Jenga blocks with no vegetables to be seen, and her drink was a shade of chemically enhanced orange. A ginger wiry-haired terrier sat on the floor, wagging its tail at him.

  Mitchell was too tired to make small talk and wanted to go home. If he hadn’t had an accident, Poppy wouldn’t be eating and drinking this stuff.

  Poppy guzzled the orange liquid. ‘Hmm,’ she sighed, as if it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

  Miss Bradfield picked up her dog and held it, legs dangling, under one arm. ‘You finished it all, yay.’

  ‘It was so good. Thanks.’

  Miss Bradfield turned to Mitchell. ‘Poppy’s done great. She was a bit upset at first, but I played her some classical music. A sonata can soothe the soul.’ Her voice had a lyrical quality, as if she sang some of her words.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘We learned how to hold the guitar and practised a few notes. She’s a natural, I can tell.’

  He wondered if she said this to all her pupils. ‘We should go and leave you in peace.’

  The dog leaned forward and licked the back of his hand, its wide pink tongue leaving a shiny trail on his skin.

  ‘Ah, Sasha likes you,’ Miss Bradfield said in surprise. ‘That’s rare, you know, her taking to a man like that. She’s choosy – used to bite one of my exes. Drew blood sometimes, ha. A better judge of character than me.’

  When she lowered the dog to the floor, Mitchell wiped his hand on his trousers.

  He glanced at her fridge, covered in a scrapbook of photos. He spotted Miss Bradfield posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower and a purple VW campervan. She was accompanied by two other women, one who looked startlingly similar to the woman he helped from the water. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows and wondered if a bump to the head could bring on hallucinations.

  ‘So, you had an accident?’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m in one piece.’

  ‘Didn’t you jump into the river to save someone?’

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said, wondering how much Barry had told her. ‘We mustn’t keep you any longer…’

  She picked up an apple and bit into it leisurely. ‘You’re an architect, right? Clever?’ she asked between crunches. ‘Poppy told me you designed the new white bridge, the one that looks like a yacht?’

  Poppy slid her eyes guiltily to the ceiling, and Mitchell felt his cheeks burn. He’d left his job in architecture when Anita died, and he hated to think about his involvement with the new bridge for many reasons.

  ‘I no longer practise,’ he said. ‘I changed jobs and work for the council now instead. No out-of-office meetings or travel.’

  Miss Bradfield’s eyes swept to the Maintenance Team logo on his chest. ‘Ah, okay,’ she said lightly.

  Poppy carried her plate and glass over to the sink.

  Miss Bradfield sped over to her. ‘Now, you leave those for me to wash. Have you got room for ice cream? I have vanilla, strawberry or both.’

  ‘I love strawberry!’

  ‘Great choice.’

  ‘We have bananas and apples at home,’ Mitchell said. He picked up Poppy’s blue Word Up schoolbag.

  ‘I have sugar sprinkles,’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘And caramel sauce.’

  Poppy shot him a pleading look.

  Mitchell shook his head and zipped up her bag. ‘It’s past nine o’clock. Let’s do that some other time.’

  ‘When?’ Poppy said immediately. ‘Next week?’

  ‘We’ll sort something out, okay?’ Miss Bradfield said. She placed her hand behind her head and fanned out her fingers to form a crown. ‘Remember what we learned, Poppy? Always be a pineapple.’

  ‘Stand tall, wear a crown, but be sweet on the inside,’ Poppy added to her quote with a smile. She moved away from the sink and took her bag from Mitchell. ‘Thanks for looking after me, Miss Bradfield.’

  ‘Oh, call me Liza outside school. And just look at Sasha’s sparkly eyes. She’s missing your dad already.’

  Mitchell headed for the front door, desperate to sink into his own sofa. ‘Thanks again,’ he said.

  ‘No problem, Mr Hero. Shall I call you a taxi?’

  ‘It’s fine, we’ll walk.’

  ‘Um, you’re not wearing shoes, Dad,’ Poppy said.

  Mitchell curled his toes. Their apartment was around two miles away, but he didn’t carry credit cards and there was only a five-pound note left in his wallet. ‘I fancy some fresh air,’ he said.

  Poppy wilted against the door frame. ‘Pleeease. I’m so tired, and I’ve got my bag to carry.’

  Miss Bradfield pursed her lips. ‘If you need a little money?’ she said quietly. ‘You can pay me back, along with the lesson money. It’s eighteen pounds for a half-hour lesson. Not as cheap as other teachers, but I’m good.’

  Damn, Mitchell had forgotten about that, and he would have to pay her more for looking after Poppy. If he’d been alone, he’d be stubborn and limp home in his socked feet.

  However, he reluctantly agreed to Miss Bradfield’s offer and she phoned and ordered a taxi, before covertly slipping him a ten-pound note. ‘Call me tomorrow, let me know you’re okay,’ she said.

  He reached for the latch on the door. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Just to check. Or for a chat. Poppy said you’re on your own…’

  His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m really okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in work tomorrow, as usual.’

  Mitchell saw Poppy’s and Miss Bradfield’s eyes meet, unconvinced.

  ‘I think the cab is here.’ He raised his chin and pulled the door open, glad when a breeze outside cooled his fiery face. ‘Thanks again, for everything.’

  5

  Angel House

  The shadows cast by the setting sun made the crumbling white bricks of Angel House look almost pretty. The 1920s building had originally been built as commercial offices for a detergents company and was named after its most popular cleaning fluid, Angel Liquid. It had been converted into apartments in the 1990s and retained its name.

  Mitchell and Poppy lived at the top of the building in the eaves, where the ceilings sloped at acute angles. The roof slates soaked up the heat in summer, turning the place into a sauna, and in winter it was as cold as an igloo. The landlord described it as a penthouse, but it was more like an attic.

  Mitchell started to rent the apartment four years ago as a weekday base away from home to be closer to his job at Foster and Hardman Architects. Work had been difficult to come by in the rural area he, Anita and Poppy lived in, and Anita wanted to remain close to her job teaching art at a local school, and her friends. They’d both lost their parents before Poppy was born, so these connections were important to her.

  Mitchell was initially reluctant to stay in the city, but Anita assured him it was a more sensible option than commuting four hours a day. His work contract was for only eighteen months, and he’d be home three nights out of seven.

  He initially liked that the apartment was uncluttered by family life. There were no piles of books and clothes on the stairs, or lipstick marks on towels or toys littering the floor. He could go to bed when he wanted, at 8 p.m. with a book or after a late-night movie. He discovered Minecraft on his iPad and sat up for hours crafting virtual bridges and buildings.

  He often had to work over the weekends, too. At these times, when he and Anita didn’t see each other for up to a fortnight, they wrote letters to each other.

  He wished he had shared her same eloquence for words. Her joie de vivre shone through in each letter she sent him, and his heart leaped when he found them waiting for him in the lobby or in his mailbox. Poppy sent him crayon drawings and small notes, and her handwriting flourished from the extra practice.

  In return, Mitchell’s letters were practical and concise to prevent the stresses of work showing through.
As his workload increased, the passion for his job faded, and so did his words home. But the money was good, and he was doing it for his family to have a better life. The foundations he laid now would strengthen their future.

  Mitchell prayed to himself that the Angel House lift was going to be working, or else there were five flights of stairs to climb to the apartment. He just wanted to clamber into bed and go to sleep so he could be productive at work the following day. He could ask around to try to find out what happened to the woman in the yellow dress and put his mind at rest.

  A fresh wave of exhaustion hit him when he saw Carl, the live-in concierge, mopping the chequered floor of the lobby. Carl was occupying the role to cover for his uncle, who was looking after a poorly relative overseas. In Mitchell’s opinion, Carl was overly keen on his new job. He greeted the residents too eagerly, with a big smile and many questions. In his mid-twenties, Carl’s hair was butter yellow and he wore a white shirt and tie underneath his khaki overalls. He could often be found folding origami shapes out of coloured paper.

  ‘Evening,’ Carl said, looking grateful to have someone to talk to. He rested his arm on top of his mop. ‘You two are out late. Do you have school in the morning, young lady?’

  Poppy gave him a tired smile. ‘Yep.’

  Carl reached into the breast pocket of his overalls and passed a tiny green paper crane to her. She cupped it gently in her hands. His eyes then swept down to Mitchell’s socked feet. ‘Why are you carrying your shoes, Mr Fisher?’

  Mitchell flexed his toes, too fatigued to reply properly. He groaned inwardly as he saw the Out of Order sign on the lift.

  ‘I have a letter for you.’ Carl darted eagerly across the lobby towards his tatty oak desk. He moved a few origami frogs to one side and picked up a pink envelope. ‘A lady on the third floor asked me to give you this. Is it your birthday?’

  ‘No.’ Mitchell reached out to take it, but Carl kept it pincered to his chest.

  ‘I can see hearts through the paper,’ he said. ‘Very romantic.’

  Mitchell whipped the envelope from Carl’s grip. He placed a hand on Poppy’s back and urged her towards the door to the stairway. ‘Thank you.’