The Secrets of Sunshine

by Phaedra Patrick

  28

  Pigeons

  Before he even reached the Victorian bridge, Mitchell knew he didn’t want to be at work today. The sky was as heavy and grey as the gurgling river rushing beneath the bridge. Through the wire fences, he could see droplets of rain hanging from all the padlocks like tears.

  Ha, people won’t try attaching them today in the drizzle, he thought, noticing that some of his grumpier old emotions towards the locks were resurfacing.

  As he trudged across the city, he ran through yesterday’s conversation with Liza in his head. She had been a good friend to Poppy, and to him, too. She had welcomed him into her family and, although the Bradfields were a dysfunctional bunch, he had liked the feeling he was helping them. And now he had upset her greatly.

  He recognized there was a switch in the air when he was close to Liza, but he hadn’t identified it as chemistry. That was something he’d shared with Anita when they sipped cider together for the first time and throughout their life with each other.

  There hadn’t been anything instant with Liza. His feelings for her had crept up on him gradually after spending time with her. At first, he thought it was friendship and now it felt like much more. But whatever there was between them, he had spoiled it.

  He told himself that Liza had found Yvette, and the Bradfield family was reunited. Mission accomplished. Perhaps he should also try to move on and let them be. He had schedules and plans to make for Poppy’s next school year – tennis shoes to buy, the new school bus timetable to learn, and they hadn’t been to the city museum for a good few weeks.

  All would be fine when things returned to normal.

  He just had to stop thinking about Liza Bradfield.

  Mitchell found Barry at the end of the Yacht bridge. His friend held on to a huge roll of blue tissue paper.

  ‘I’ve got new duties,’ Barry groaned as he tore off a wad. ‘Russ wants the bridge to be spotless when it opens. I’m cleaning it, checking it over, helping the contractors with whatever needs doing. I’m here to serve.’

  ‘Russ hasn’t told me any of this,’ Mitchell said, feeling prickly at being overlooked.

  Barry shrugged. ‘You’ve not been in work.’ He nodded over to the stage at the end of the bridge. There was a hive of activity, with people buzzing around and equipment being unloaded from the white vans.

  ‘I can’t get to the padlocks to cut them off.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Barry said. ‘Russ is over there if you want to speak to him.’

  Mitchell turned to move away, then he remembered to ask. ‘How are you and Trisha doing?’

  Barry’s face flushed. ‘We’re doing great. She’s not weird at all. Progress, huh? Now we just need to get you fixed up. Liza is very—’

  Mitchell held up a palm. ‘I know,’ he said more snappily than he meant to. ‘But it’s complicated.’ He began to walk over towards Russ.

  ‘That’s life,’ Barry called after him.

  Russ gripped a clipboard and his hair was sticking up from stressfully running his hand through it. ‘Mitchell?’ he frowned. ‘You’re back?’

  ‘I’m reporting for duty.’

  ‘Right. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Any reason?’ Mitchell asked sharply, not liking the feeling that everyone and everything could function without him. ‘My holidays have ended.’

  ‘Well…’ Russ hesitated. ‘I just heard you harassed one of the contractors, desperate to get to a padlock. Then, very strangely, a whole panel of them went missing overnight. I wondered if you’re okay… you know, emotionally?’

  Mitchell worked his jaw. He could feel his neck flooding with colour.

  ‘Did you have anything to do with that?’

  ‘Um…’ Mitchell said.

  Russ raised an eyebrow. ‘I can watch the CCTV footage.’

  Mitchell felt like he was sinking into quicksand. He furiously grasped for things he could say, that might get him out of trouble. But he was enough of a disappointment to himself already without resorting to lying, too. Instead, he found a sheepish shrug.

  ‘I see. Well, I think you should go home, Fisher.’ Russ glanced at his clipboard. ‘Take some time out.’

  Mitchell scowled. ‘I’m absolutely fine. I’ll carry on.’

  ‘You’re not hearing me. I know you’ve been through some tough times in your personal life. You saved someone and ended up in hospital. You’ve been acting rather strangely. Your well-being is important.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Russ held up a hand. ‘You know the council mantra – a supportive working environment for all. There are important celebrations coming up and our team is in line for a few awards. I need things to run smoothly, so I’ll see you back at work in seven days. Take more time off, if you need it.’

  ‘No,’ Mitchell protested. His fingers gripped the handle of his toolbox. His job gave structure to his life, holding it up like scaffolding around an unstable building. Without it, the structure might collapse. If he could work and fill his time, he’d feel okay again. He’d lost the Bradfields and he couldn’t lose his job, too. ‘I want to work. I have to be here.’

  ‘Go home.’

  ‘No.’ He heard his own desperation in that one word.

  Russ fixed Mitchell with a concerned stare. He tucked his clipboard under his arm. ‘Then you leave me with no choice. Mitchell Fisher, you’re officially suspended for a week.’

  Mitchell mouth slackened. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, I can. We’ll pay you while you’re off. Now, take your toolbox, go home and sort your head out. It’s for your own good.’

  Mitchell opened his mouth to protest, but Russ waved to a man in a yellow hard hat and strode away.

  Mitchell sloped back across the bridge and found Barry had gone. There were no cars or couples, only him, alone.

  When he reached the street, he trudged alongside the river past a florist booth where the heads of the blooms hung heavy with rain on their petals. A hole in the canopy of a fruit and vegetable stand allowed water to cascade down onto the melons. An earthy smell rose up from the river, and the grass verge was marred with mulchy black mud. He didn’t know where he was heading and felt like he was wading through a swamp.

  He longed to go home, not to his apartment, but to the house he shared with his family, to make daisy chains with Poppy and watch TV cuddled up with Anita. For a while, he shut his eyes as he walked, imagining reaching out with a key in his hand. He always felt she was still at home with glittery, crafty things on her lap. His fingers twitched in his pockets, wanting to run his hand through her curls one more time.

  When a siren pierced the air, breaking his thoughts, Mitchell stumbled over a pile of soggy boxes. His eyes snapped back open.

  A police car and an ambulance were parked on the pavement, their blue lights spinning. A car had smashed into a wall and crumpled like a cereal box. Steam rose from its bonnet.

  Mitchell came to an abrupt halt, as if he’d smacked into the wall himself. As he surveyed the scene, his eyes filled with tears so everything blurred.

  A picture of Anita’s accident flashed into his head. He’d seen her crushed car in the pages of a newspaper.

  And now, he swore he could hear her car tyres squeal against wet pavement and the thud and hiss of metal hitting metal. He pictured her pretty face, pressed into an airbag. Granules of windscreen glass speckled on the road like salt crystals.

  It felt so real to him that he shuddered, suddenly chilled to the bone.

  His face puckered as he furiously blinked away the tears that spilled down his face. He wiped them with his wrist and straightened his back, trying to defy his emotions.

  A policewoman eyed and then approached him. ‘Are you feeling okay, sir?’ she asked. She was petite with dark skin and ebony eyes.

  Mitchell stared ahead, not wanting to look at her. ‘Yes. Um, just something in my eye.’ He moved away and could still feel her watching him.

  ‘Sir?’ she
called out.

  ‘I’m fine.’ He waved a dismissive hand.

  I’m just tired of letting everyone down, he thought. Including myself.

  Mitchell had never felt so glad to see the white bricks of Angel House. The rain had soaked his clothes and small puddles shimmered on the top of his toolbox. His socks were soggy and squelched at the end of his shoes. He walked past the Dala café and caught sight of his reflection in the window. His clothes hung off him, wet and too large, and his hair was plastered against his forehead.

  Just look at the state of you. What would Anita think if she saw you now?

  Only three years ago, he was a family man, with everything he could ever want in life. He had a loving, supportive partner, a career, an amazing daughter and a family home. He had done a great job of ruining it all.

  And now he’d stamped on a burgeoning friendship with someone who was simply wonderful.

  Liza.

  His chest felt like it was filled with sharp tacks.

  Mitchell saw Carl ahead of him with a broom in hand, brushing vigorously at white stuff smeared on the pavement. It looked like a dozen ice creams had been dropped at the same time.

  ‘Pigeon poo,’ Carl said as he noticed Mitchell approaching. He gestured to the top of the building where the gutters were streaked with white vertical stripes, like stalactites. ‘I don’t know where all those birds have come from, or why they’re using our roof as a toilet. Any idea, Mr Fisher?’

  Mitchell pictured the piles of oats that he and Poppy sprinkled onto the slates. ‘Maybe they like the view,’ he murmured. Not in the mood for any further conversation, he tried to edge away.

  ‘Do you know your eyes are all pink, Mr Fisher?’ Carl asked.

  ‘Hmph.’

  As Mitchell neared the entrance doors to the building, his foot slipped on the white mess. His legs shot out from under him and he banged down on the pavement, landing on his tailbone. Pain shot through his body and his toolbox crashed down on his knees.

  Carl dropped his broom and ran to his aid. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Fisher. I should have cleaned this mess up sooner. Are you okay?’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Mitchell said through clenched teeth. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘How can it possibly be yours?’

  Mitchell managed to get to his feet. He picked up his toolbox and limped towards the front steps, not wanting Carl’s sympathy.

  ‘The lift has stopped working again,’ the concierge called after him. ‘It was fine earlier on, then, kaput.’

  Mitchell gritted his teeth.

  ‘Oh, and something arrived for you this morning. I left it outside your door on the landing. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

  Mitchell blinked against the rain. ‘It’s all absolutely fine,’ he grimaced. He opened the door to Angel House and manoeuvered his toolbox inside.

  By the time he’d climbed all the stairs to the fifth floor, the weight of his tools had almost pulled his shoulder out of its socket. Mitchell dropped it to the ground with a thud and rotated his arm like a windmill to loosen it up. He kneaded his fingers into the muscles of his shoulder blade.

  The delivery waiting for him was a voluminous black bin bag. It didn’t have an address label and he wondered who’d sent it.

  As he wearily dragged it into his apartment, he felt like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, exhausted after delivering all the presents only to find he’d left a bag behind at the North Pole.

  The bag was tied too tightly, and instead of attempting to unfasten it, Mitchell ripped it wide-open.

  An avalanche of letters spilled out, covering his feet.

  Mitchell stared at them in disbelief, kicking them off. There must have been hundreds of them, maybe even a thousand.

  After sitting down heavily on his sofa, he surveyed the giant pool of correspondence lying on his sitting room floor. He saw his name, repeated over and over, in a multitude of different writing styles – Mitchell Fisher, Mr Fisher, the Hero on the Bridge.

  Just looking at the envelopes made him feel like he was drowning in a sea of people’s expectations. He wasn’t a hero, or a celebrity, or a confidant. He was just a man, nothing more and often less.

  Anger surged inside him, and he took off his wet shoes and threw them at the letters, one after the other. He stood and took a running kick at them in his socked feet, so they skittered across his floor. But all he did was make the place look untidy, a total mess.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering what Poppy would make of the scene when she returned home. Breathing deeply, he tried to let his distress subside, for her sake.

  He began to push the letters together again, using the side of his foot. Then he bent down to use his hands. He gathered them roughly and stacked them into a series of piles so they surrounded him like molehills.

  His eyes gravitated towards an envelope on top of one of the piles. It was lilac, the same colour as Anita’s last letter to him.

  For the briefest moment, he wondered if her letter had somehow found its way out of his nightstand drawer, into his sitting room. Or if she’d written to him from beyond the grave.

  A shiver ran down his spine.

  Even though he knew this was impossible, he reached down and picked up the lilac envelope anyway.

  The writing sloped in a different direction to Anita’s, definitely not hers. But he slid a finger under its flap and tore it open.

  Dear Sir,

  I’ll turn eighty soon and have lived in the city all my life. So much has changed and I’m dismayed that many of my friends, those remaining, insist on living in the past. They shut themselves away, making their sitting rooms their comfortable prisons. ‘You only live once,’ I tell them, but it falls on deaf ears.

  Throughout my many years, I’ve watched red phone boxes evolve into tiny devices that fit in a pocket. I’ve seen padlocks appearing on the bridges, and watched the new white bridge taking shape. High-rise buildings have sprouted up on land I played on as a child, and I walk past the school where I once wore short trousers. I sometimes wish the city could stay the same, the comfort of familiarity. I suppose these are the selfish longings of an old man.

  Regardless, I shall be present on the bridge to celebrate its opening and will wave my flag with enthusiasm and pride. My friends will probably drink cocoa and watch it all taking place on TV, but that’s their loss. My wife, Elsie, passed away twenty years ago now, but she always said, ‘One should always keep on moving, or else you might take root.’ I try to follow her advice.

  Edmond Wright

  Mitchell held the letter for a while, rereading it and thinking how Poppy might like its combination of history and emotion. He thought that Edmond’s advice to keep moving made perfect sense, even if he himself had been stationary for three years. He felt comforted after reading it, as if he’d sipped a warm cup of tea.

  He picked up a chunk of letters and they felt solid in his hands. They were various shapes and sizes, some fat and some slim, their textures pleasing to touch. Some envelopes were handwritten and others were neatly typed.

  He told himself that people must be attracted by the prize money, but many who wrote to him wanted to share a secret or a story. Could his act of leaping into the river to save a stranger have really triggered all these?

  He opened another.

  Dear Mr Fisher,

  We don’t know you personally and I doubt you know us. However, we read about your courageous act and wanted to pass on our kind regards and admiration. Our son, Simon, lost his life in the same river last summer. Although people tried to save him, it was too late.

  He was our golden boy, our only child. The chasm he left behind is beyond measure. Each day without him feels like forever. Our only consolation is we know he loved us and everyone loved him. He’d want us to continue our lives without him.

  We are setting up a campaign to warn people about the dangers of open water, and would be most grateful to hear if you’d be interested in becoming involved.

&
nbsp; With warm regards,

  Ben and Melissa McDonald

  He clung on to the letter. Yes, he wanted to call out to them. Yes, of course I’ll help you.

  A sense of urgency to read another one washed over him and Mitchell’s eyes fell upon a postcard sticking out. It had an image of two black-and-white kittens on the front, peering out from under a blanket. He read the words on the back.

  Pussycat

  You make me feel like a puddle

  You make my body giddy with glee

  And my brain feels like an explosion

  Will you marry me?

  Third time lucky x

  The corners of Mitchell’s mouth twitched upwards at this one. He wondered if the writer wanted to get married for a third time, or if they’d asked Pussycat three times? Was an exploding brain a good thing, or not?

  As he pondered, a small polka-dot envelope caught his eye, and he opened it and read the note inside it. The paper was small and lined, torn from a spiral-bound pad.

  Mr Mitchell Fisher,

  I’m in love with Jessica and have tried to show her this – letters, flowers, a padlock on the bridge, without success.

  She told me what you did, saving a woman, and says you’re a hero. Will you write back to me so I can try to win her over, one last time? I’d appreciate that.

  Cheers,

  Damon

  Mitchell noticed the writer had left a return address, and for a moment he considered picking up a pen to reply. Perhaps it might help Damon to win Jessica back. But he placed the letter to one side, thinking he might respond, sometime or other. And he should write to Ben and Melissa McDonald, too.

  He decided to read some more.

  He buttered toast while he read a postcard propped up against his kettle, and a poem on his bathroom sink while he cleaned his teeth. If letters were distasteful or didn’t make sense they went on his recycling pile.

  He put a sizable stack of letters aside for Poppy’s school project. And, as the stack grew taller, he imagined Poppy and Liza sitting side by side, reading them together.

  The thought of that not happening again made his heart heavy with regret.