The Beauty of Broken Things

by Victoria Connelly

  Arriving home, he opened the neat front door to the little red-brick cottage, kicked his boots off in the hallway and grabbed a towel to give Bosun a quick rub. The little dog was clean and dry, but it was a habit of Bill’s just to make sure before Margy yelled at him about the mess the little dog had trailed in.

  ‘Margy?’ he called as he walked through to the kitchen to give the dog his breakfast. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What is it?’ Margy asked as she came into the room, holding her knitting. Margy never went anywhere without her knitting. It seemed to be a natural extension of her hands.

  ‘I met her.’

  ‘Met who?’

  ‘Miss Kendrick.’

  Margy’s mouth dropped open and she stopped knitting. This was serious. ‘What was she like?’

  Bill popped Bosun’s food into his bowl and waited for the dog to sit before putting it down.

  ‘Well, we didn’t have a conversation or anything. We were kind of preoccupied.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Getting that fella off the beach.’

  ‘What fella?’

  The two of them went through to the sitting room, although Bill felt too restless to sit down. But sit down he did.

  ‘There was this fella and he just collapsed on the beach. We took him back to the castle.’

  ‘He was with Miss Kendrick?’

  ‘Not really. She knew his name, but I don’t really understand any more than that.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He was pale. Didn’t look too good, but he was resting when I left him.’

  Margy seemed to take this information in, her knitting needles working overtime as they always did when she was agitated. ‘And Miss Kendrick – tell me about her.’

  Bill shifted uneasily on the sofa. He didn’t rightly know if he had the words to describe her.

  ‘She’s – well – she’s got . . .’ His voice petered out as his hand did an odd sort of movement in front of his face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s – her face is kind of . . .’

  ‘Kind of what?’ Margy’s knitting needles were fairly flying now.

  ‘I’m not sure. Burnt, perhaps. Scarred. It was hard to tell. Her hair covered half her face, and there was so much going on with that lad that I didn’t think about what might have happened to Miss Kendrick. But it shook me when I saw it.’

  Margy paused in her knitting. ‘Poor woman. And is that why she hides away in the castle? Is that why nobody’s seen her?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘But she seemed nice, did she?’

  ‘Oh, nice enough, yes. Saw that big dog of hers.’

  ‘I’ve heard about her dog. Size of a horse, they say.’

  ‘He’s big all right. Friendly, though.’

  ‘I think I’d want a big dog guarding me if I lived in that draughty old castle by myself,’ Margy said just as Bosun walked in. ‘No offence, Bosun, but I’m not sure you’d be up for the job.’

  Bill tutted. ‘Nonsense!’ He bent to scoop up the Jack Russell and plopped him on his lap. ‘This little chap is as fierce as they come. He could take on a whole army to keep you safe.’ Bill kissed the dog’s head and pulled a biscuit from out of his waistcoat pocket to feed him.

  ‘He’s just had his breakfast. You spoil that dog, you do.’

  ‘He deserves it. Don’t forget the state he was in when we first saw him.’

  Instant tears sprang in Margy’s eyes. ‘How could anyone do that to an animal?’

  Bill shook his head. It had been a year since they’d rehomed the terrier and Bill still felt the same raw rage he’d felt when he’d seen the little bag of bones and been told the story of the abusive owner. The dog hadn’t even been given a name. Bill had quickly come up with Bosun because the new arrival was soon running their home as if he were captaining a ship, and Bill and Margy were only too happy to be his obliging crew.

  ‘He’ll never know anything but love from now on,’ Bill promised.

  As if he knew he was being talked about, Bosun rolled onto his back on Bill’s lap, his furry belly fully presented to his master.

  ‘Your trousers, Bill! Really – you shouldn’t let him roll all over you like that.’

  Bill laughed. ‘What’s a bit of fur between friends?’

  Margy picked up her knitting again. ‘So, tell me what it’s like, then.’

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘The castle, silly!’

  Bill puffed out his cheeks. ‘I barely noticed.’

  ‘Oh, you’re such a man!’

  ‘What? I was trying to help that fella, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but a woman would have done that and been able to tell you what all the rooms looked like.’

  ‘No doubt,’ he said, giving Bosun’s tummy one final rub before popping him down on the floor and standing up.

  ‘You going out again?’

  ‘Just to the allotment.’

  ‘Take your mobile. I don’t want you late back for lunch like you always are when you go up there.’

  Bill suddenly recalled something. ‘I gave Miss Kendrick our phone numbers. My mobile and the house.’

  For the second time that morning, Margy’s knitting fell into her lap. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Seemed the right thing to do. You know – if there’s trouble with that fella.’ Bill shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t think she’s the sort to actually call. But I felt better offering her help in case she needed it.’

  ‘You’re a good man.’

  Bill winked at her. ‘Fancy a couple of fat cabbages?’

  Margy smiled. ‘You sure know how to spoil a girl.’

  It was three in the afternoon when Luke finally surfaced. Orla put down her paperback and looked up as he entered the great hall.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Good,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t realise how tired I was. I guess I slept pretty badly in the van last night.’

  ‘You feel stronger now?’ she asked him.

  ‘I do, thanks.’

  ‘I thought you might want something to eat.’

  ‘Oh, well – I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. It’s as easy to make two bowls of soup as it is one.’

  She led him through to the kitchen and motioned to the square table in the middle and he pulled out a chair. Orla got to work, warming the soup up and fetching two bowls from a cupboard. She laid the table and toasted some bread. Then, when everything was ready, she served the soup and sat down next to Luke.

  ‘This is really good,’ Luke said a moment later.

  ‘Thank you. It’s mostly produce from the garden.’

  ‘You made it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could go into business.’

  She smiled at the compliment.

  ‘Do you mind me asking what you do – I mean, for a living?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Luke frowned. ‘You do mind?’

  Orla was gazing down into her soup. ‘I’m retired.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Luke said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just curious. I’m a builder. I repair old buildings.’

  ‘Like castles?’

  ‘Nothing so impressive, I’m afraid. Mostly regular homes. Quite a few historic ones. Some date back to the fourteenth or fifteenth centuries.’

  ‘And that’s in Kent?’

  ‘That’s right, but I work right across Sussex and Surrey too.’

  ‘I used to love Helen’s photos of the Kent countryside,’ Orla said, and then bit her lip, unsure if she should have mentioned his wife. ‘Luke? I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before. I feel awful for not opening the door now. But – well – I don’t have any visitors.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘And the beach – I’m sorry I ran away like that.’

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t need to apologise.’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk about Helen
later.’

  ‘Yes. I’d like that,’ he said, as something strange started to happen. Luke’s spoon was knocking the side of his bowl as if it had a life of its own.

  ‘Luke?’

  On it went, as if he were a manic drummer.

  Orla reached out and put her hand on his.

  ‘Do you want to rest some more?’ she asked him gently.

  He didn’t answer at first but, when he glanced up at her, he shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’ Orla removed her hand and Luke continued to eat his soup. His hand was no longer shaking.

  They finished their meal in silence and then Luke got up and took the empty bowls from the table.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ Orla told him.

  ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  Orla watched as he tidied up. His body looked tense, but his face was passive and unreadable. She wanted to help. It wasn’t natural for her to have somebody help her around the house; it made her feel uncomfortable. But he obviously felt uncomfortable not helping and so she left him to it.

  She wasn’t used to having somebody sharing her home, but this situation had been forced upon both of them against their will and had come about so strangely that she had to overcome her fears and get on with things.

  ‘There,’ he said a little while later. ‘All done.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I get you a tea or coffee or something?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘I’m off caffeine. It’s been wrecking my sleep.’

  Orla wasn’t convinced that caffeine was to blame for Luke’s disturbed sleep, but she didn’t say anything.

  He looked around the kitchen, then walked over to one of the windows and looked out into the garden, his gaze moving beyond the wall towards the allotments, the fields and the windswept coast beyond. Orla watched without speaking, becoming increasingly anxious about him. First, there was the fainting, then the sleeping, then the shaking. Orla didn’t know much about losing a loved one. Her father had died when she was two and she really didn’t remember him at all, but this man’s wife had died – when? He hadn’t told her exactly when, but it must only have been a matter of a few short weeks ago. And wasn’t that what he was here to talk to her about?

  ‘Luke?’ she said softly.

  He turned around from the window, his expression a little vague, as if he wasn’t fully there in the room with her.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk to me – about Helen.’

  A dark shadow seemed to pass across his face and that gentle, vague expression was gone.

  ‘We don’t have to – if you don’t want to,’ Orla added quickly.

  ‘No – no – it’s okay. It’s what I came here for, isn’t it? And I have something for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Something from Helen. It’s in the van.’ He motioned to outside. ‘Mind if I get it?’

  Orla walked to the door with him and unlocked it. One Ear accompanied her and stood on the threshold with his mistress as Luke walked down the steps and across the driveway towards his van. She watched as he opened the passenger door and lifted a box from the footwell. Carrying it carefully, he closed the van door, locked it and returned to the castle. Orla led the way back to the great hall, where Luke placed the box on a table.

  ‘Helen was going to send it to you, but . . .’ He swallowed hard, pausing. ‘Anyway, it’s yours.’

  ‘What is it?’ Orla stepped forward, her fingers touching the sky-blue ribbon.

  ‘Open it.’

  Orla untied the ribbon and took the lid off the box, gently removing the layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper to reveal the blue and white vase.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘It’s lovely!’ She handled it carefully, mindful of how fragile it was and how much care had gone into choosing it and wrapping it. She was deeply touched that a stranger should go to so much trouble for her.

  ‘It’s chipped, I’m afraid, but she said you wouldn’t mind that. That’s what you liked about old things.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Helen liked that about you – that you saw the beauty in broken things.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘She said it’s easy to love something that’s shiny and new, but it takes someone special to love the old, neglected things.’

  Orla felt her eyes sting with tears. ‘She said that?’

  ‘You were a great inspiration to her. She started her own small collection because of you. I say small because our house is small. But she took so much pleasure in every single piece she found.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  Luke nodded, and Orla could see that he was becoming emotional too and she couldn’t help wondering if he was remembering some special moment with Helen. Maybe he’d been there when she’d bought the vase or maybe he remembered her bringing it home.

  ‘There’s a card with it,’ he said, pointing to the box.

  Orla placed the vase on the table and moved the last of the tissue paper from the box and reached in for the card. She could feel Luke watching her as she opened it and read the words, her eyes filling with tears again.

  ‘I can’t believe she did this for me,’ she whispered, returning the card to its envelope with shaking hands.

  ‘You meant a lot to her. Your friendship. Your advice.’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Little bits,’ Luke confessed. ‘She used to talk about you and . . .’ Luke stopped. ‘I found her journal and – well – she said that you encouraged her. You helped her.’

  Orla bit her lip but didn’t say anything and then she looked at the vase, picking it up and holding it tightly.

  ‘I’ll treasure this always. It means the world to me. It really does.’ She noticed that Luke was still standing. ‘How rude of me – please sit down.’

  Luke nodded and, as soon as he was sitting, One Ear looked up from his basket and then got up, stretching his long body before trotting over to say hello. Luke smiled and patted the dog’s head and, after placing the vase on one of the deep windowsills, Orla sat in a chair opposite him.

  Luke was perching forward on the sofa as if he were about to be interviewed for a job he didn’t want. One Ear nuzzled up against him and Luke continued to make a fuss of the dog, delaying whatever he wanted to say a little while longer.

  ‘Luke?’ Orla prompted him. ‘You were going to tell me what happened, weren’t you?’

  He nodded, and Orla realised how very difficult it must be for him.

  ‘It was last month,’ he began slowly. ‘Helen had a job in London and she’d catch the train in and out every day. She usually got back home around quarter past seven. But she didn’t come back. I waited, thinking she’d gone shopping or that there were delays on the trains. It’s usually a good line, but you can never tell in this country, can you? A spot of rain or a windy day and the whole system can collapse.’ He gave a hollow sort of laugh. ‘I wish it had just been rain or leaves on the track that day, but it wasn’t. There was some sort of signal failure.’ He paused, as if trying to find the right words, and then they gushed out of him all at once as if he wanted to be rid of them. ‘There was a train crash. Two trains. Eleven people died and Helen was one of them.’

  ‘Oh, Luke! I’m so sorry.’

  He dropped his gaze to One Ear and ruffled his head again.

  ‘Perhaps you saw it on the news? It was everywhere for a while. You couldn’t escape it.’

  ‘I don’t watch the news,’ Orla told him. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘The police called at my house.’

  She sighed. ‘I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for you.’

  ‘I can’t remember much about it, to be honest. It’s all a bit of a blur. The whole month has been. Cards, phone calls, emails. I’ve never had to talk to so many people before.’

  ‘And I’m so grateful that you thought to contact me.’

  ‘Helen cared about you. Even though you’d never met.�
��

  ‘And I cared about her.’

  ‘I felt that. I felt that connection between you. It was as real as any regular kind of relationship.’ Luke smiled sadly. ‘She used to look forward to your posts so much and she’d miss them if you didn’t post. She’d look at them each morning at breakfast before she went to work. I think you put her in a good mood for the day. “Something bright in a sometimes dark world”, she’d say of your posts.’

  ‘Really?’

  Luke nodded. ‘She used to share them with me, reading them out and showing me the pictures.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘You have a lot of teacups!’

  Orla laughed, tears in her eyes. ‘Yes. I do.’

  There was an awkward silence as some of the darkness seemed to seep back into Luke.

  ‘She sent me a message,’ he began again at last, ‘just before the train crash. She said she had a proposal for me, but I can’t think what it could have been and it’s been driving me crazy.’ He paused and then took a couple of deep breaths before speaking again. ‘I don’t suppose she talked to you about it?’

  ‘You mean the night of the crash?’

  ‘Yes. Did she message you, perhaps?’

  ‘What date was the accident?’

  ‘The twelfth of April.’

  ‘Let me check.’ Orla got up and went to get her phone.

  ‘Have you got anything? Did she message you?’ Luke asked desperately.

  ‘Wait a minute.’

  Luke crossed the room and peered over her shoulder as she searched her phone.

  ‘Here,’ she said at last. ‘The twelfth. She asked me a question.’

  ‘What was the question?’

  ‘“Do you think I can make a living from my photography?”’ Orla looked up at him.

  ‘She asked you that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned the phone round for him to see and he grabbed it in shaking hands before reading the message, taking a moment to digest it. Orla gave him a bit of space as he absorbed each and every word Helen had written. Finally, he looked up from the screen and suddenly seemed to realise that he’d taken the phone without asking.