Poppy insisted she wouldn’t get sick if she sat in the back with Sasha and, within half an hour, she had fallen asleep and her snores punctuated the quietness. After reading Jasmine’s letter yesterday, Mitchell wasn’t in the mood for looking at the other letters Susan had given him.
Liza focused on the road, occasionally taking one hand off the steering wheel to rub the corners of her eyes. She pressed the button on her CD player and Madonna’s Immaculate Collection started up.
‘Madonna?’ he said, surprised.
‘Um, yeah?’
‘I thought you liked serious music.’
‘I like most of it, except head-banging stuff. Did you know music stimulates oxytocin, a brain hormone known as the trust molecule? It helps people bond with others.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Mitchell said.
After ‘Express Yourself’ played, the gauze on the side of his head fell off onto his lap. He surreptitiously rolled it into a ball.
‘What was that?’ Liza asked. ‘Something dropped down.’
‘My plaster,’ he said, grimacing at it. ‘My stitches are due out tomorrow.’
‘Gross.’ She mused upon this. ‘You’re going to the hospital?’
‘Yes. They gave me an appointment for six days after the accident.’
‘Hmm.’ She indicated to turn onto the motorway. ‘Do you think you might see the doctor who helped Yvette?’
Mitchell frowned. ‘The hospital is a huge place, and he might not even work there. He could be a GP, or have been passing by from somewhere else.’
‘Yeah, but you can ask, right?’
‘Sure, except I’ll have Poppy with me. I can’t do much hunting around.’
Liza didn’t speak for a while. She leaned forward in her seat with her face closer to the windscreen. ‘I’m going clothes shopping tomorrow. I need some emerald-green shoes. I have all the other colours. Do you think Poppy would want to come with me instead?’
Mitchell had noticed some of Poppy’s skirts were looking shorter, and one of her T-shirts was a bit tight. He usually took her to the supermarket, where she pointed at things in the sale and he put them in his trolley. ‘She’d love that,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Great. It will be fun. She can help me choose.’
He thought about it for a while. ‘Let’s not tell her in advance, though, or she might explode with excitement.’
‘It can be my way of apologizing for last night.’
Mitchell paused, not sure if Liza meant waking him up from his sleep, or falling asleep beside him. ‘Absolutely none needed,’ he said anyway.
When Liza pulled up outside Angel House, Poppy woke up. ‘Oh, are we home?’ she asked with a yawn.
‘You slept all the way.’
‘It’s kind of like time travel,’ she said.
Liza and Mitchell shared a secret smile.
Even though he longed to jump straight into a shower, he felt obliged to invite Liza inside. ‘Do you want to come up for a tea or coffee?’ he asked lightly.
‘Oh, thanks, but I should get home and—’
Poppy perked up. ‘You can read Dad’s letters. People have written to him.’
‘They’re from strangers,’ Mitchell added. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Well,’ Liza smiled sympathetically at Poppy. ‘I’m sure your dad will be really tired after the long car journey.’
Mitchell bristled, how she made him sound like an old man. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us,’ he reasserted.
‘Well… okay. In that case, I’d love a brew.’
After Liza found a car parking spot, she, Mitchell and Poppy walked into the lobby.
Carl looked up from his desk, his eyes alert to the sight of Mitchell with Liza. His wastepaper basket overflowed with snowballs of scrunched-up paper and his fingers worked as if he was crumbling bread. When he moved his hands back, he had created a small paper boat. ‘I’m better at making things than writing letters.’ He tutted. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
Poppy grinned. ‘We slept in a forest and toasted marshmallows on a fire.’
‘That sounds awesome.’
‘It was.’
‘You had a visitor this morning, Mr Fisher. She left something for you.’ Carl reached down and placed an overstuffed plastic shopping bag in front of him on the desk.
Through the translucent white plastic, Mitchell could see brown envelopes and yellow padded bags, postcards and even something with polka dots. He estimated there must be at least fifty pieces of mail in there.
Carl eyed it. ‘Are you sure it isn’t your birthday?’
‘Are all those for you?’ Liza laughed. ‘You’re very popular.’
‘They’re a mistake,’ Mitchell said tetchily. ‘A journalist published a competition asking people in Upchester to write in. She asked me to read some letters, but not this many.’
Carl pushed the bag towards Mitchell. ‘She said her name was Susan Smite, or something like that. She had light blonde hair and a big yellow bag. I told her you’d be back this afternoon, and I’d look after these for you.’
‘How on earth did she trace me here?’ Mitchell wondered aloud.
‘She’s a journalist, a clever person. I bet she can find out things like that,’ Carl said. ‘I told her I was trying to write a letter, too. She said there were some open ones in the bag that I could read for inspiration.’ He fiddled with his tie. ‘I thought you’d want to read them first, right?’
When he looked at them, Mitchell clenched his jaw. ‘I said I’d help her, but this number of letters is ridiculous. I need to call her.’ He tugged Barry’s mobile out of his pocket.
‘Um.’ Carl bit his lip. ‘I said you’d meet her in the Dala café at four.’
Mitchell stared at him in disbelief. ‘Me?’
Carl nodded meekly. ‘She was quite adamant.’
‘Well, I’m not going to—’ Mitchell raised his voice.
‘Dad.’ Poppy’s eyes urged him not to kick up a fuss in front of Liza.
‘I need to end this.’
An awkward silence fell between the four of them until Liza broke the tension. ‘Gosh, I could do with that cup of tea,’ she said.
‘I’ll make you one.’ Carl jumped up. ‘Can’t write letters but I make a great cuppa.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t hinting…’ Liza began, but Carl hurried off and disappeared through the door to the basement.
Mitchell calmed down and lowered the phone. ‘I suppose I could meet Susan,’ he relented. ‘Very briefly.’
They stood together uneasily until Carl reappeared holding a silver tray with a flowery teapot, jug of milk and four dinky cups and saucers. He carried over a few chairs and they all sat down around his desk. After pouring the tea for each of them, he fumbled for a piece of paper in his drawer. ‘I found someone to read my friend’s letter for me,’ he said. ‘I want to write back to her, but don’t know what to say. I’m not very good with words. Can you help me, Mr Fisher?’
‘I’m not the best person to ask…’
‘You have a big bag full of letters,’ Carl noted.
‘They’re not mine.’
Liza sipped her tea. ‘I can help you, if you like? I’m not bad with words.’
Carl nodded gratefully. ‘I don’t know where to start, or what to say.’
‘Just be yourself. Write to the person as you’d usually talk to them. You don’t have to start it with Dear or Dearest. Hi, is fine, or Hello.’
Carl wrote, Hi Donna, at the top of his page, and Liza smiled with encouragement.
‘Writing a letter is a bit like building a bridge,’ Mitchell joined in. ‘Now you need to think about your foundations, the groundwork, the things you really want to lay down. Maybe use a pencil first. Then you can add your building blocks, the words you want to purvey and the sentences and paragraphs to give your letter structure.’
Poppy shook her head slowly at him.
‘That sounds complicated,’ Carl said.
&n
bsp; Liza leaned in closer, ignoring Mitchell. ‘What do you want to say to your friend?’
Carl thought for a while. ‘Just that she’s a beautiful person. I’d tell her I won’t be a concierge forever and that my uncle is helping me out with this job, because I get really nervous when I apply for other ones. And I know there are lots of people with more qualifications and experience than me, but I try hard. I want to ask her if she wants to go on a date with me, and if she’d prefer the cinema or a picnic in the park.’
‘Well, that sounds ideal. Just write that.’
Carl dubiously picked up his pen. ‘I’m not confident with these things.’
Mitchell thought about Annie’s letter about Douglas, and Yvette’s letter to Liza. He pictured the drawer in his bedside cabinet, stuffed with his own letters to Anita, and her sealed lilac envelope to him.
‘It doesn’t have to be perfect,’ he said. ‘You taking the time to write something is sometimes as important as the words you use.’
‘That makes more sense,’ Carl said. ‘I’ll take my time and, when I finish it, will one of you read it for me? I want to get it right.’
‘Sure,’ Liza said. ‘Anytime.’
‘Give me a shout when you’re ready,’ Mitchell added.
After they’d drunk their tea together, Liza picked up her bag. ‘I should go. I’m a busy person, you know.’
‘You haven’t read any of Dad’s letters,’ Poppy said.
‘He has lots more now. Maybe I can look at his favourite ones after he’s looked at them. And I have to get ready for my night out.’
Mitchell felt a strange prickle on the back of his neck that he couldn’t identify. ‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asked.
‘I think Henry has got us tickets for the Comedy Store. I’m a bit tired and groggy, but a shower should wake me up.’
Mitchell stood still. Henry, he thought to himself. Who’s he? But he didn’t like to ask. He didn’t know Liza that well and it was none of his business. ‘Great. Well, have a good time,’ he said as casually as he could.
‘Thanks. We always do.’
The Dala café was supposed to resemble a Swedish log cabin. The menu had a wooden cover and its contents consisted of mainly pickled things or fish.
When Mitchell and Poppy met Susan at four o’clock, they found her at a table sipping from a tiny coffee cup and nibbling on a piece of rye bread.
After sitting down opposite her, Mitchell made a show of giving the plastic bag full of letters a chair of its own.
Susan eyed it nervously. ‘I know there’s a lot of them, so I wanted to explain face to face,’ she said. ‘I spoke to another journo from the channel and he told me that some stories attract just a few responses, but others really capture people’s imaginations. This is quite unusual.’
‘They’re probably just interested in the prize money,’ Mitchell said with a snort.
‘Why not read them and see?’ she said hopefully.
‘Because that will take forever.’
‘Can’t you just read them a few at a time?’
Mitchell stared at the letters. ‘Surely other stuff must be going on in the city? The story of me and the woman on the bridge must have died down by now.’
She glanced at him over the top of her coffee cup. ‘Unless you want it to keep going…?’
‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’
‘That’s why I wanted to meet you in person, to ask you the question.’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
Susan placed her satchel on her knee, as if using it as a shield against him. ‘People love stories about other people, especially if they’ve done something heroic, or different, or lovely. The bridges are a hot topic, too, because of Word Up, and the new bridge opening soon. Add the prize money into the mix and it’s sparked some kind of synergy.’ She clicked her fingers together. ‘I’d like to write a piece about how your act of bravery influenced people in the city to write letters. In the computerized age, it’s a dying art.’
‘But they’ve only written them because of a mistake, because you didn’t publish an email address,’ he protested.
‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
Poppy had remained quiet throughout their conversation. ‘I’m doing a school project about the padlocks on the bridges,’ she said.
Mitchell stared at her. ‘You were going to change it.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Susan nodded at the bag on the chair. ‘A few envelopes were open, and I read the letters. They were from people who hung padlocks, saying why they did it.’
Poppy’s eyes shone. ‘Dad, can I read them?’
‘I want to give them back,’ Mitchell said firmly. ‘I didn’t ask to be part of this. People don’t even know my name.’
Susan pursed her lips. ‘Um, I might have updated my article to, um, include it.’
‘What?’ Mitchell’s pulse shot up. ‘Don’t you need my permission to do that? Don’t I have to sign something?’
She gave him a small smile and shook her head. ‘Nope.’
A frosty silence descended between them, and Mitchell briefly snatched a postcard from the top of the bag.
I hope this card brings you an eternity of joy and that your life is sweetened with the richness you give others. Rejoice in the beauty of today and forever.
He showed it to Susan. ‘What does this even mean?’
‘There are better ones,’ she admitted.
Their conversation was broken when a set of cowbells jingled over the door as it opened. Carl dug his hands into his overall pockets and walked up to the counter. He studied the blackboard menu for a long time before requesting, ‘Just a white coffee, please.’ His gaze fell upon Mitchell, Poppy and Susan and, after getting his drink, he walked over to join them.
‘Hello. We meet again.’ He shook Susan’s hand. ‘Are you talking about all the letters? It’s usually all bills and fast-food menus in the mailbox of Angel House. Isn’t it wonderful to see so many people writing like that?’
Susan smiled triumphantly at Mitchell. ‘Join us,’ she said. She picked up the bag of letters off the chair and held it out towards Mitchell.
He reluctantly took them and placed them on his lap.
‘Any luck with your letter, Carl?’ Susan asked.
‘Mr Fisher’s friend, Liza, was helpful. And Mr Fisher is going to read it when I’ve finished, but I’m probably going to make a gigantic fool of myself.’ He shrugged.
‘Don’t say that. I can help you more now, if you like? I’m between stories.’
Carl touched his tie. ‘Are you sure? I’m allowing myself a small break.’
Susan put her notepad back in her bag. ‘Quite.’
‘Um, there’s something I should tell you…’
Mitchell felt a small strange lurch that he could only identify as envy. ‘I said that I’d help you with your letter, Carl,’ he interrupted.
‘Yes, but I know you’re always busy, Mr Fisher. And you have all those other ones to read, don’t you? Also, Susan is a proper writer.’
Susan beamed at this. ‘Mr Fisher and I are just finishing our conversation anyway.’
Mitchell stood up and circled his arms around the bag of letters in a hug. ‘Well, I—’
Susan ignored him and looked at Poppy. ‘If I can help with your school project in any way, please let me know,’ she said. ‘I’m good with ideas, so don’t be shy. It can be my way of saying thanks to your dad, for helping me out.’
‘Wow, thanks,’ Poppy said.
Mitchell squeezed the letters tighter to his chest. ‘It’s my job to help her,’ he said more territorially than he meant to. ‘We’re working on her project together.’
14
Stitches
Mitchell steeled himself before he walked into the hospital building. Only six days had passed since he helped Yvette, met Liza, slept in a forest and attracted a hoard of strangers to write to him. Although he’d learned more about the Bradfi
eld family, spoken to Jean and found Yvette’s lock, he didn’t feel much closer to finding her.
He wondered where she was and if she might be thinking about him, too.
He made his way along several grey corridors to reach and report to the clinic. The male nurse who checked his stitches had a retro-flick hairstyle and a chirpy attitude. ‘This is healing nicely,’ he said with a satisfied nod.
Mitchell thought of Liza’s plea to try to find the doctor who helped Yvette. Before he left the room, he asked, ‘Is there a doctor who works here, who’s bald, has a thin moustache and wears round horn-rimmed glasses?’
‘Is this a riddle?’ The nurse laughed. ‘What’s his name? Department?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There are almost two hundred doctors working here, you know? Fifty per cent probably look like the one you describe, except for the ladies.’ He grinned at his own joke. ‘Good luck with your detective work, Sherlock.’
As Mitchell traipsed along many corridors and several linked buildings, he became more despondent that he was going to fail his task. His stomach rumbled with hunger and he stopped at the hospital shop.
A white-bearded man stood in the middle of the confectionary aisle. He wore a crumpled cream linen suit with a blue velvet bow tie, and his left cheek was creased, so the skin looked like a drawn-back curtain. He painstakingly peered at each chocolate bar on a shelf before stooping lower to assess the next ones down.
When Mitchell approached, the man straightened his back. ‘Sleeping in this place does nothing for one’s style,’ he said.
Mitchell smiled quickly and picked up a Mars Bar. He imagined the man curled up in the corner of the shop, under a duvet.
‘I’m buying chocolate for my partner, Harold. He likes Maltesers. I’m trying to persuade him to try something new, but…’ The man stopped and narrowed his eyes. He pointed a finger at Mitchell’s nose. ‘You have a very strong profile. Noble, like Julius Caesar.’
‘Um, thank you.’
‘I was a photographer for forty years and I notice these things. Now, I just live here.’
Mitchell frowned. ‘What, actually in the hospital?’
The Secrets of Sunshine Page 11
