Carl called after him, ‘I have another letter here, too, Mr Fisher. This one’s for me. I wonder if you could just—?’
However, Mitchell had already opened and closed the door behind him. He looked up the stairs spiralling above them.
Poppy glanced back towards the lobby. ‘I think Carl wanted you to look at his letter, Dad.’
‘Why would he want me to do that?’
She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Well, I’m sure he’ll find someone else to do it,’ Mitchell said as he mounted the first step.
After reaching the apartment, Mitchell panted as he unlocked the door. Even though the sun was almost down, the apartment was still baking hot. The small rooms were sparsely furnished, with stripped wooden floors. He’d bought the bare minimum of sleek Scandinavian-style furniture to kit the place out. In his sitting room, there was a three-seater sofa with a textile print featuring block-printed stags, and a coffee table that looked like a tree stump with rings in the wood. In Poppy’s bedroom, there was a shiny white bed, desk and wardrobe that he’d hastily bought and assembled from Ikea.
When Poppy dropped her schoolbag on the floor of the hallway, pieces of paper pinned to corkboards on the walls fluttered like butterfly wings – recipes, an exercise itinerary, Poppy’s school timetable and the diary of their activities he’d planned for the school holidays. Whenever Mitchell thought of new plans of action, he wrote them out neatly and pinned them here. After Anita died, he’d become obsessed with planning his and Poppy’s lives. There was a beauty to structure, like mortar between bricks, holding things together.
‘That’s not the right home for your bag, is it?’ he said.
Poppy picked it back up, huffing as if it was really heavy. She pushed it onto its allocated labelled shelf in the storage cupboard. ‘Okay?’ she asked blearily.
‘Good. A tidy house is a tidy mind, even though it’s technically an apartment.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
The handwriting on the pink envelope was indigo, with large looping letters. Mitchell opened it up and winced when he saw the hearts on the card that Carl mentioned.
Dear Mitchell,
My name is Vanessa and I live on the third floor. I hope you don’t mind me writing to you, but I saw you online, on the local news, and recognized you from our apartment block. What you did is totally admirable. Bravo, you!
If you’d like to pop over for a bottle of vino or coffee sometime, feel free to knock on number 25.
Love,
Vanessa xx
Poppy peered at it excitedly over his shoulder. ‘That’s nice of her.’
‘It’s kind of weird,’ he said. ‘How does she even know my name?’
‘Maybe from Carl?’
Mitchell felt prickly at Vanessa’s attention. She’d put two kisses and used the word love.
He often thought he’d been born in the wrong era and belonged to a more old-fashioned time instead. He couldn’t understand why hooking up with someone you’d only just met was called getting lucky. What was lucky about having a stranger in your home and being intimate before you even knew their surname?
He’d been on only a few dates since Anita died and throughout them he felt as if he sweated guilt through his every pore.
He knew Isobel through work, and she was obsessed with Spain. They’d met for tapas and, although the dishes of food were tiny, Mitchell couldn’t eat a thing. Isobel didn’t notice and devoured his portions anyway.
Beatrice was an intellectual. She wore black-framed glasses that made her look like a 1950s scientist. Her favourite word was existentially and she had learned her periodic tables at the age of seven. She said Anita’s death was lamentable and, at the end of the night, invited him back to her place.
Mitchell still felt ashamed that he’d succumbed to her offer.
After eighteen months without Anita, his body had ached to be close to someone else. He wanted the comfort of listening to another person’s breathing as they slept beside him, even if it was for only a few hours.
Afterwards, in bed, he and Beatrice talked sleepily about their favourite seasons and things they liked to do on Sun days. But a voice in his head told him he shouldn’t be here, that it was far too soon.
After napping for a while, Mitchell had sat up in bed and pulled on his shirt. ‘Sorry,’ he said into the darkness of the early morning. ‘I have to dash. I had a lovely time.’
‘Me, too,’ Beatrice murmured with a smile in her voice.
Mitchell paused, wondering what the etiquette was here, if he should ask to see her again. But Beatrice spoke first. ‘Please make sure the front door is closed properly when you leave.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It sticks sometimes.’
‘Sorry,’ Mitchell whispered, stubbing his toe against her bed as he slipped out of her room. And when he hurried away from Beatrice’s apartment, he said, ‘Sorry,’ once more, this time to Anita.
Now he gripped Vanessa’s card in his hand. ‘I won’t go around for coffee. She might be a serial killer,’ he joked at Poppy, trying to get her to agree. But she shook her head at him very slowly.
‘She might just be lonely, Dad,’ she said. ‘Like you.’
Mitchell stared at her for the longest time. ‘How can I be lonely when I have you?’ he said and kissed the top of her head.
Later that night, Mitchell moved stiffly around Poppy’s bedroom, putting her books away, reminding her to put her worn clothes in the laundry basket and to choose her clothes for the next day. As she changed into her pyjamas in the bathroom, he picked up his favourite family photo of him, Anita and Poppy at the top of Conwy Castle. Poppy had insisted they climb each of its towers, and afterwards they’d rewarded themselves with huge ice creams.
After Poppy finished cleaning her teeth in the bathroom, she jumped up onto her bed. ‘Hop on, Dad,’ she said, and Mitchell placed the photo back down.
Poppy’s bedroom had ceilings that met in a point, so it resembled the shape of a tent. A large window built into the slope of the roof opened outwards, so she could stand on her bed and poke her head and shoulders through it.
They stood on the bed next to each other and looked out of the window at the night sky and the twinkling lights of the city. Laughter rang from the late-night cafés below, and at the edge of the silvery rooftops a pigeon lay huddled in the nearby gutter.
After they’d breathed in the night air for a while, Mitchell said, ‘Come on, Pops, it’s bedtime.’
She walked her fingers along the warm roof slates. ‘I miss our garden.’
‘This is kind of outside space,’ Mitchell said, his eyelids growing heavier.
‘I could make daisy chains, and friends came over to play.’
‘I loved it, too, but we go to the park. You see your friends at school.’
‘It’s not the same.’ She dropped down to her knees on her bed and sat with her head bowed. She picked up her floppy black cat, the last toy her mum had bought for her. ‘Can we go home one day, Dad?’
Mitchell shut his eyes and felt the same way. He missed their house and how Anita’s bras tangled up with his socks in the laundry basket. She sang when she smoothed new sheets onto the bed. He wished he could lounge outside on warm evenings and drink cider with her again.
He shut Poppy’s window, leaving a small gap, and sat down on the bed beside her. He took her hand in his, knowing the city apartment wasn’t ideal for a young girl. ‘I couldn’t afford to pay the rent on the house with only my wage coming in, especially after I switched jobs. Plus, living here I get to spend more time with you.’
She cocked her head and played with the bow around the cat’s neck. ‘One day, I’ll get a job. Then I’ll buy our old house,’ she said with a wobble in her voice.
It was his impossible dream to buy one, too, and he turned off her main bedroom light. ‘Come on, Pops, it’s been a long day. You get some beauty sleep.’
‘I’m beautiful enough. Mu
m says so.’
‘And I agree, but you still need to sleep.’
Poppy turned and lay on her side. When she pulled her sheet up over her nose, her eyes shone with tears.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ He dipped his head closer to her.
She gave a small sniff. ‘Will the woman you helped be okay?’
‘Yes, she’ll be as right as rain,’ Mitchell said, trying to convince himself as well as Poppy. He picked up her plait and gently brushed the end of her nose with it. ‘I left her with a doctor.’
She peered up at him. ‘What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know. I wished I’d asked her. But look, get some sleep and we’ll chat in the morning.’
She was quiet for just a second. ‘Was she pretty?’
Mitchell cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t notice.’ But in his head, the woman smiled at him on the bridge and he saw the sunlight kissing the tip of her nose. He thought of Barry’s words, not to invite drama into his life, and knew it was good advice. He tugged Poppy’s sheet down to expose her face and her words tumbled out.
‘I thought you weren’t coming to get me from school. You said you’d never be late, but you were, and Mum did the same thing…’
Her words made him sway. ‘The woman was in danger, and I was there.’
‘I know, but…’ She swallowed a sob.
Mitchell gathered her into his arms and they sat together in the dark. He held her until she grew drowsier and heavier in his arms. When her breathing slowed, he kissed her forehead and helped her settle under the covers before he stood back up.
As he moved away Poppy said quietly, ‘No one saved Mum.’
Her words felt like a thump to his gut, and he gripped the door-frame. ‘People tried to…’
He waited for her reply, but it didn’t come as she drifted off to sleep. His footsteps were leaden as he walked back to his own bedroom and fell onto his bed, fully clothed. He took Anita’s sealed lilac envelope out of his bedside drawer and held it to his chest, still unable to open it.
After pulling out his notepad from under the bed, he clumsily took the top off his pen. He propped his head up with his hand and began to write.
Dearest Anita,
Something happened today and I wish you were here, so I could talk to you about it. I helped a lady who fell, but I wasn’t there for you…
His words stopped as a fog descended on his brain. Mitchell pushed himself to write more, but could only manage two additional words.
Love always
Then the pen slipped from his fingers, and his eyes fell shut as he slipped into a deep slumber.
6
Earring
The next morning, Mitchell woke with alarm. His bedroom was brighter than usual, and his eyes shot open when he saw the time on his watch. He was already two hours late for work. He was still wearing his clothes and, when he kicked off the bedsheets, his writing pad skidded to the floor.
Across the corridor, Poppy snored lightly as he hobbled into her room.
‘Pops,’ he hissed. ‘Poppy.’
When she didn’t stir, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He calculated he could make her a late breakfast, rush her to school and make it there before lunchtime. Then he could go into work.
But tomorrow was the last day of the school year and the lessons would be winding down. He knew deep down that, last night, Poppy wasn’t okay.
And he wasn’t okay, either.
He had leaped from a bridge, saved someone, been knocked unconscious and woken in hospital. He tried to survey it all technically and without emotion, but he couldn’t deny his body felt like it was filled with wet sand.
Even though his brain urged him to wake her, Mitchell brushed a lock of hair off Poppy’s cheek and he decided to leave her in bed. He made himself a bowl of muesli and sat alone at the dining table to eat it. He noticed the light bulb that hung down above his head was dusty and didn’t have a shade.
Whenever Anita used to visit, she would say the place looked like a bachelor pad. At the time he thought it was amusing, but now it felt rather tragic.
Instead of browsing the national news on his iPad as usual, Mitchell opened the Upchester News website. If Barry had seen a photo of him online, there might be an image of the woman in the yellow dress, too. He felt a desperate need to find out if she was okay.
On the main page, there was a photo of the bridge and he read the large sub headline: Man Saves Woman from Raging River.
He shook his head at it in dismay. I didn’t save the woman, I helped her. The water wasn’t raging.
The piece was written by someone called Susan Smythe and was full of theatrical words such as selfless and courageous and dashing – words he didn’t associate with himself. Thankfully the article didn’t mention his name, but it didn’t give the name of the woman in the yellow dress, either.
He read through it twice and his concern increased. Perhaps she’d ended up in hospital, too. He felt annoyed with himself for not making enquiries while he was in there.
When he scanned the last sentence of the article, he sucked in a breath.
Have you attached your own padlock and why? What would you say to the Hero on the Bridge? Write in and you could win £200.
There was another square image below this, featuring a large red triangle. When Mitchell clicked it, a video played. The air around him chilled as he watched himself sitting by the river edge. His polo shirt clung wet to his body and he hadn’t realized how slim he’d become.
The woman in yellow sat in front of him and bent her head, so he couldn’t see her face. The film ended with a zoomed-in frozen image of her eye and ear on the screen. Her earring was the shape of a large gold cactus that he hadn’t noticed when he’d helped her.
Somehow, she seemed to look straight at him and Mitchell rubbed his fingers together, wanting to reach into the screen. ‘I hope you’re okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Who and where are you?’
His thoughts were broken by footsteps thudding along the hallway. ‘Aargh, Dad,’ Poppy yelped, her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. ‘I’m late for school.’
He waved a hand to calm her down. ‘It’s okay.’
‘But I’ve missed my bus.’
‘It’s not the end of the world.’
‘Tell Miss Heathcliff that.’
He gently took hold of her shoulders. ‘I don’t feel well enough to go into work today,’ he said, the words sounding alien to him. ‘I’m taking the day off, and so are you.’
Poppy gaped at him. ‘What?’
‘I was going to wake you, but you needed to rest after last night.’
She chewed the side of her cheek. ‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘You don’t need to apologize. How do you feel today?’
‘Starving.’
‘Well, why don’t you have some cereal while I call the school? I’ll tell Miss Heathcliff you’ll be back in tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll understand.’
‘Will she?’
‘Leave it to me. You could take a nice bath after breakfast.’
Her words were cautious. ‘But don’t we have a plan?’
Mitchell glanced across at his schedules in the hallway. ‘Not even one action point,’ he said, ignoring his uneasiness.
‘Great.’ Poppy grinned as she picked up the muesli box.
Mitchell’s mobile phone screen was still blank, so he used his landline to call his boss. He explained he’d been in an accident and needed to rest up.
Russ already knew about Mitchell’s hospitalization from Barry and agreed with his time off. He was committed to the city council’s mantra of providing a supportive working environment for all, and he loved to win trophies and awards to prove it.
‘Has the woman I helped come forward?’ Mitchell asked.
‘No, and let’s hope she doesn’t,’ Russ said. ‘We don’t want any negative stories kicking around before the centenary celebrations. Someone falling from a bridge is not good for the city’s image, migh
t raise health and safety concerns. So do not, I repeat, do not say anything to the press, or put stuff on Twitter or Facebook. We need it to settle down, nice and quiet. You got that?’
Mitchell decided not to mention the online news article. ‘Loud and clear,’ he grumbled, shifting on the sofa. ‘I never use social media anyway.’
After her bath, he let Poppy eat a bowl of Coco Pops for her lunch, just this once. He insisted she drink a glass of milk.
He sat next to her at the table and jiggled his leg, unused to convalescing.
Poppy pushed her empty bowl away. ‘I got some homework yesterday and it’s deadly boring.’ She began to recite the assignment in a singsong manner. ‘Produce a piece of work during the school holidays to celebrate Upchester’s centenary of city status. It has to include photos and more than one quote.’
Mitchell liked projects, especially the planning stages. He secretly relished helping Poppy with her schoolwork, and his juddering leg stilled. ‘You could write a story about the architecture of the city bridges,’ he said. ‘Did you know the concrete one is called a beam bridge? It’s the simplest kind, like a tree chopped down and placed across a river.’
‘You’ve told me before.’ She rolled her eyes teasingly. ‘It’s my homework. Did you look for the lady on the internet?’
He nodded. ‘I found a short video.’ Mitchell played the clip and showed Poppy the text about the competition.
‘That’s rubbish,’ she said. ‘You can’t see her properly.’
‘I know.’
‘And no one will write in.’
The landline phone rang, and Poppy stared at it suspiciously. Mitchell once overheard her talking about it to her school friend Rachel, as if it was invented in the Dark Ages.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Fisher?’ The lady’s voice was breathless and he wondered if Vanessa had got hold of his phone number.
‘Um, yes?’
‘It’s Miss Bradfield.’
‘Oh, hi,’ he replied. ‘If you’re calling to see how I am, I’m absolutely fine.’
The Secrets of Sunshine Page 4
