Broken Places (18 page)

Fortunately, before he had time to reply, Violet came back in; refilled their cups, cut more cake, then went across to the bureau, looking slightly shame-faced. ‘I’m afraid I have a confession to make. I stole something that belonged to you, Eric, and it’s high time I gave it back.’

Eric stared in bewilderment. What on earth could she have nicked? The
rocking-horse? A teddy-bear? No, she was holding out an envelope too small to contain a toy.

‘I should have given this to your first foster-mother, to be passed on to your adoptive parents, so I’ve felt really guilty all these years, keeping it myself. I suppose I wanted to cling on to some part of you, once you’d vanished from—’

‘Eric, look!’ Mandy interrupted, as he withdrew a small blue plastic band from the envelope. ‘That’s your hospital wrist-tag – and just perfect for your Precious Box!’

Eric peered at the tiny writing on the label: ‘Eric Victor Parkhill’, he spelled out – a relic from the first chapter of his life. And that chapter was infinitely better than he had ever dared to hope. So wasn’t it time to live in the present now – with Mandy – and leave the past behind?

‘I hope you’ll forgive me, Eric, dear?’ Violet murmured anxiously. ‘All I can say in my defence is that you’ve always had a place in my heart – and always will, even more so now.’

He jumped to his feet and gave her an impulsive hug, pressing her bony body into his, and, suddenly, tears were sliding down her face and
he
was crying, too – although whether from joy or sorrow he really couldn’t say.

Eric bounded into the children’s library and gave a quick glance round. Not too busy, good! – and no one actually waiting at the desk. ‘Got a minute, Stella?’

‘Not really.’

‘Half a minute, then. I’ve just come up with this brilliant notion – a project based around Remembrance – and I want to share a few ideas with you.’

‘Fire ahead.’

‘I’d like it to be a joint project, involving children and their parents and people in the community. We could get the kids to interview the old folk, ask them for their memories of the Second World War, and what their dads and granddads might have done in the Great War. Then we could see if we could take them to the Cenotaph and the Imperial War Museum, and also visit a few local war memorials. I thought it might encourage them to think about why we have memorials at all, and how they personally would like to be remembered if they’d died in battle somewhere.’

Stella looked up from her computer, at last. ‘Oh, Eric, darling, you’re always coming up with some new brainwave! I mean, what about your music therapy scheme? Trevor shot that down and—’

‘He didn’t. He says he’s still considering it. In fact, he mentioned it the other day.’

‘Well, the Family History thing, then. We poured our hearts and souls into that, yet it never got off the ground.’

‘Only because no one was prepared to give us the budget and, anyway, the—’

‘Whatever the reason, it was still a lot of wasted work. And
this
idea sounds equally time-consuming, especially trying to organize school visits.’

‘Look, forget the slog – it’s valuable education. A lot of them know zilch about the two World Wars – and I don’t mean only the children. Just yesterday, a woman asked me if the Battle of the Somme was part of the Crusades!’

Stella gave a non-committal grunt, her attention on the screen once more.

‘We can try to get the parents to help their kids with the research – bring in the Local History library, too.’

‘Eric, can we discuss it later?’ Stella eyed a group of lads now waiting to get their books stamped and doing their boisterous best to jostle him out of the queue. ‘Listen, how are you fixed after work? If you’re free, why don’t we meet in the pub?’

He hesitated, unwilling to mention Mandy – again.

‘OK.’ Half an hour wouldn’t hurt. Mandy wasn’t expecting him till later. ‘See you there at six.’

He returned to the Information Desk and took over from Harriet, although in between answering queries, his mind kept sneaking back to Armistice Day, working out the logistics of the project. If they based it on one school, they’d need to contact the head teacher before the Easter break, so that work could start in the summer term and be finalized the following autumn. Then any displays or performances could be put up, or put on, the first two weeks of November.

By the time he joined Stella in the Dog and Duck, his brain was fizzing over with new plans. She, however, seemed more cautious altogether.

‘We’d need to see if there’s any funding available, but we can’t count on them approving the idea.’

‘Why not? It ticks all the right boxes. And, if we get the ESOL kids to research their own countries’ activities during both World Wars, it also covers diversity.’

‘OK, OK, just give me time to think about it. I’ve a lot else on my mind.’

‘We could make it very hands-on, if you want. The older kids could take photos of the memorials and do sketches in the museum, and the younger ones make poppies and—’

‘Do we have to discuss it
now
, Eric? Why can’t it wait till next week? I’ve had a shitty day and frankly I’m exhausted. I’d rather just relax, OK, and chat. I never seem to see you these days.’

‘You see me every day.’

‘In passing.’

‘We had tea at the same time yesterday.’

‘Big deal! When did we last go out together – have a meal or see a movie, the way we used to do? Frankly, you’re so obsessed with Mandy, I never get a look in.’

He flushed. All too easy to neglect a former friend, now that dazzling sex and dizzy love were transfiguring his life. ‘I’m sorry, Stella – honestly. Let’s make a date for next week. Is Tuesday any good?’ (Mandy was out on Tuesday, visiting one of her sisters.)

Stella giggled suddenly. ‘God, don’t remind me of Tuesday! I’m meeting this weird chap from a new dating site I’ve joined.’

‘So why meet him if he’s weird?’

‘Well, he can’t be as bad as the last one.’ She raised her voice against some rowdy fellow shouting orders at the bar. ‘I haven’t told you about Peter, have I? Well, he was
Brother
Peter for the last twenty years – a Cistercian monk, of all things, looking after pigs on some godforsaken island.’

‘Heck! Did he turn up with straw in his hair?’

‘No, he just looked shabby and sort of lost. Apparently, if you leave a religious order, you receive precious little support. You’re just cast adrift, with no proper skills or training and barely a penny to your name.’

‘Couldn’t he farm pigs somewhere else?’

‘Well, he happens to live in Hackney, which isn’t exactly swarming with the creatures. And I’m not sure he liked farming in the first place. But the worst thing was, he hardly said a word. Cistercians take a vow of silence, so I suppose he was completely out of practice. I kept starting conversations and he’d answer “yes” or “no”, and that was that. And he kept fidgeting and clearing his throat, and was so tense I thought he’d explode. I imagine he hadn’t been out with a woman since before he joined the order at eighteen – maybe not even then. And, of course, he’d have taken a vow of chastity, as well, so even if I’d lured him into bed, it would have ended in disaster.’

‘Honestly, Stella, you do have rotten luck. Remember that bloke who turned up to meet you in Country and Western gear?’

She shuddered. ‘Melvyn, you mean? How could I forget? He must have been twenty stone, yet he was wearing the full works – cowboy hat and boots, leather chaps, bandanna round his neck. We were in this rather conventional bar and everyone was staring. I could have died with
embarrassment
.’ She paused to sip her drink; frowning at the memory. ‘At least Peter didn’t show up in his habit – or with a tonsure, come to that. Actually,
I’m seriously thinking of giving up this whole dating lark. I mean, look at you – you found Mandy just by chance and I’m sure that’s the best way.’

‘I’d love you to meet her, Stella. I know you two would get on.’ Although it would put him in a quandary: Stella still knew nothing about his
background
as a foundling and, if the two women got together, Mandy was bound to bring it up. Which meant he must confide in Stella – soon –
otherwise
she might feel left out, or, even worse, betrayed. ‘Why don’t you come over to dinner, one evening, to her flat in St George’s Square? She’s a fantastic cook, apart from anything else.’

‘OK. I suppose I don’t mind playing gooseberry.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll ask her to set you up with some gorgeous hunk – maybe one of her wealthy clients. In fact, she’s making a cake this evening for a forty-something City banker and I happen to know he’s single.’

‘In that case, he’s bound to be gay. Anyway, I thought all City bankers had gone bust.’

‘Not this one. He owns a racehorse, apparently.’

‘Well, if he’s that high-powered, he wouldn’t even look at me.’

‘I’ll tell him you spend half your time hobnobbing with famous jockeys at Sandown Park.’

‘Yeah, when I’m not removing bits of soggy chewing-gum from the latest
Harry Potter
.’

There was silence for a moment – apart from the chink of glasses and a cheerful buzz of conversation from other customers. If he had any sense of decency, he would stay with Stella longer, since she was clearly feeling low. In fact, wasn’t this the perfect time to come clean about his origins; get it off his chest, at last? Yet, if he embarked on such an emotive subject, he might never get away and his whole mind and body burned to be with Mandy. In the end, he compromised; bought Stella another drink and a
so-called
‘healthy’ salad, but kept the conversation safe and superficial, before finally admitting that he ought to make a move.

‘OK. Sorry if I was grouchy. I’m probably just plain jealous. I mean, there you are, over the moon with your soulmate, while I’m still on my tod.’

He gave her an affectionate kiss, knowing he would feel the same. The whole world should be jealous of his sheer amazing luck.

‘Sorry, darling,’ Mandy said, coming to the door in a frilly gingham pinny. ‘I’m running late, as usual. But you’re very late yourself. In fact, I was
beginning
to get worried. Normally, you turn up on the dot.’

No point trying to explain that his obsessive punctuality was part of a general insecurity that regarded disruption to most travel plans as more or less inevitable. A terrorist attack might halt all means of transport; an
inconvenient
heart attack delay him in A & E, or apocalypse strike at any second.

She took his coat and ushered him into the sitting-room. ‘Just as well you
weren’t
on time, because I’m seriously behindhand with the cake. Why don’t you sit and watch the box while I finish in the kitchen?’

‘I’d rather sit and watch
you
.’

‘OK, but I’m doing really fiddly icing, which means I have to
concentrate
. So strictly no kisses, Eric.’

‘Would I dream of kissing you?’

‘Actually, I have to say you’re rather a fabulous kisser. So many men get it wrong. They’re either too violent, or too slobbery, or their breath smells of garlic – or worse.’

He loathed it when she mentioned other men. He was already harbouring strong suspicions about Oliver Birch, the data-protection manager at Mayday. She had let slip last week that the creepy bloke had taken her out to lunch, which seemed odd in the extreme. Why the hell should she need to see him again, when he’d already given her the contacts she required? And it wasn’t as if he lived next door; Croydon was quite a trek. Besides, meeting for lunch suggested a certain intimacy that made him want to murder the presumptuous little geek. All week, he had tried to picture him as an ancient, balding windbag, who could bore for England about all seventy-five sections and sixteen schedules of the Data Protection Act, but, for all he knew, the guy might be sex-on-legs.

He followed her into the kitchen, awestruck by the sight of the cake – although ‘cake’ was an inadequate word to describe such a work of art. It was made in the shape of a racecourse and covered with lush green icing, to represent the turf. The track itself was edged with a trim white fence, and dotted with miniature horses and authentic-looking jumps. There were even spectator-stands and boxes and a tiny winning-post.

‘Mandy, it’s out of this world!’

‘Not bad. The client’s a racing fanatic, so it should go down all right. I’m just annoyed with myself that I had to buy the horses. If I’d had the time, I’d have made them out of marzipan, but you know me, Eric – always rush, rush, rush!’

‘How on earth did you make the jumps?’ he asked, peering at a
creditable
Beecher’s Brook.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Those chocolate sticks called Matchmakers come in very handy, and I managed to get some
white
chocolate ones, for the fence. As for the brook itself, that’s just a Fox’s Glacier Mint, melted in a
double-boiler
and poured on to a marble slab. Once it’s set, it looks very much like a little strip of water. Since I started on this lark, I’ve learned a few tricks of the trade. For instance, ice-cream cones, placed upside-down, make rather effective turrets for a castle. Hey,’ she said, wheeling round to face him, ‘it’s
your
birthday in a fortnight. Do you fancy a castle-cake? Or how about a library? That would be a challenge – all those fiddly books!’

Could she be serious? To have all that time and trouble lavished on his birthday belonged in the realm of fantasy. His childhood birthdays had been either non-events, or had ended in disaster. None of his various
foster-parents
seemed capable of remembering the date, with so many other foster-kids jostling for attention. Admittedly, he’d always had a birthday cake at Grove End and the Haven, but it took only a fight or some random act of violence to halt the celebrations, and the whole bunch of them, guilty and innocent alike, would find themselves banished to their rooms.

He watched Mandy pipe green rosettes around the base of the cake, impressed by her dexterity. Perhaps he should set her up a website, so she could put her business on a more professional footing and display her wares to the world. He longed to be of use to her; repay her for the fact she had transformed his life so radically. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as she continued with her task; enchanted by her frown of concentration and by the tip of her pink tongue just showing between her teeth. Deliberately, he fixed his mind on the Remembrance Sunday project, trying to dredge up new ideas, in the hope that war and carnage might keep his mind off sex.

It was she who broke the silence, looking up for a minute, as she licked a drool of icing from her fingers. ‘Actually, I’d like to arrange a proper party for you. I was mulling it over yesterday and I think we ought to hold it on the fifteenth, not the thirteenth. I know it’s stupid to be superstitious, but the thirteenth is a Friday, which makes it doubly unlucky. And, anyway, you were found on the fifteenth, so that’s the day to celebrate, rather than your birthday. Besides, the Sunday would be easier for my family. I want you to meet them, Eric, and this would be the perfect chance. The only problem is, it’s a terrible squash if everyone comes here, so it might be an idea for me to host it at my parents’ house in Sussex. There’d be room for the whole tribe, then, and—’

‘Hell!’ she muttered, breaking off, as a spurt of icing cascaded from the
nozzle and zigzagged down one side of the cake. ‘Look, I mustn’t talk or I’ll only get distracted and muck the whole thing up. Can you read the paper or something and we’ll discuss it later on?’