‘We’re not talking about Trevor. I’ve told you – twice – forget about work and think about a headline. How about “Last of the Lost Romantics”?’
‘No fear! They’ll be expecting Byron.’
‘OK, “Nothing ventured”. Brief but enigmatic.’
He shook his head. The word ‘venture’ was risibly inappropriate for a coward on his scale.
‘God, you’re hard to please! I know – try a bit of humour. “Lowbrow Scrabble-Player Seeks”—’
‘“Lowbrow” will only pull in all the air-heads.’
‘Well, go the other way. “The Thinking Woman’s Crumpet”.’
‘I’m no one’s crumpet, Stella – more a stale old crust, fit only for the feathered kind of birds.’
‘Stop putting yourself down. It’s entirely self-defeating.’
‘OK, I’m a paragon. But I also happen to be forty-four – which you said yourself was ancient. In fact, half my life is over – maybe more. Do you realize, according to life-insurers, every eight years we’re twice as likely to die.’ Tom Jones, he mused, was sixty-eight. On the radio last night, the singer had been boasting that, when he performed, women still flung their knickers on to the stage, along with their hotel-door-keys. Closing his eyes a moment, he imagined himself taking the applause, picking up the knickers, inserting keys into rows and rows of doors.
‘Don’t be so morbid, Eric. And, by the way, I hope you’re updating your Facebook profile every couple of days. You have to try all avenues, you know.’
Facebook left him cold – all those people bragging about their thousands of friends, when the whole point about friends was that they didn’t come in thousands. Friendship wasn’t a matter of competitive acquisition, but required personal commitment, loyalty, unselfishness. ‘I reckon most of them are pseuds – or “clicksters”, as I like to call them.’
‘“Clicksters”?’
‘Yes, to rhyme with tricksters. One click and they bag a new friend – except it’s not a friend, nothing like.’
‘You need to be more adventurous in general,’ Stella continued, ignoring his interruption, ‘strike up conversations with women in the launderette or supermarket.’
‘What, and get arrested for sexual harassment?’ The woman in his local launderette was eighteen stone, with acne. He watched a group of girls troop in, all mouth-wateringly young and pretty. Having jostled their way to the bar, they stood giggling and chatting, waiting to be served. If he were a sheik and this was his harem, which one would he choose to pleasure him tonight? Easy – the redhead in the skin-tight jeans.
‘D’you think I’m too old for jeans?’ he asked Stella, with a worried glance at his own legs.
‘No one’s too old for jeans.’
Did Tom Jones still wear them, he wondered, although it was the other Tom Jones who had always been his hero – the eighteenth-century literary one. He kept the reason dark, of course, like so much else in his life.
Stella was looking at him critically. ‘But perhaps you could do with some help with your wardrobe.’
‘I don’t have a wardrobe any more. There isn’t room for one in my flat.’
She didn’t appear to be listening; her gaze travelling from his sweater to his shoes. Was the sweater too bright; were the shoes uncool?
‘Actually, you might really push the boat out and make an appointment with a dating coach.’
‘A what?’
‘Someone who helps you show yourself at your best.’
‘Stella, you’re my dating coach and, much as I appreciate your efforts, frankly one is more than enough. I mean, all that stuff you told me about body-posture. I practised it at home and got so hung up, I even embarrassed the cat! In fact, I used her for the eye-contact thing – gazed into her eyes, like you said to do with a woman – and she was out the window in one minute flat.’
‘Cats don’t count.’
‘They’re easier. At least, dear old Charlie loves me, whatever my body-posture.’
‘Well, if you want to spend Christmas alone with your cat …’
‘OK, you win! I’ll update my profile tomorrow and you won’t recognize me, Stella. I’ll be vivacious, sparky, tactile, vibrant, athletic, classy, scrumptious and free-spirited.’
‘Great! Only I’d play down the “athletic”. You might attract a female jogger who expects you to run ten miles with her before you both start work. And, listen, talking of Christmas, you’re more than welcome to join us in Ibiza. One of our party has just dropped out, so you’d be doing us a favour. I know you’re short of cash, but it really is dirt-cheap.’
Eric played for time, spinning out his last few inches of beer. How could he reveal to Stella that he had never, ever, been on a plane, and didn’t intend to start? Forget vibrant, sparky, free-spirited – a wimp and a coward would be closer to the truth. But dating sites avoided any mention of phobias or fears. OK to list your hobbies, your politics, your star-sign, but not the things that brought you out in a cold sweat. ‘Er, can I let you know?’
‘’Course. But don’t leave it too long.’ Stella fumbled in her holdall and withdrew a Waterstone’s bag. ‘Listen, Eric, don’t be offended, but I’ve bought you a little present.’
‘Why should I be offended?’ Opening the bag, he read the title aloud: ‘Teach Yourself Flirting. Oh, I see,’ he murmured, crestfallen.
‘It’s by this guy who calls himself a date-doctor and it’s full of quite fantastic tips. I thought it might be useful, because it deals with things like the shrinking-violet syndrome and what he calls desperitis.’
‘Oh,’ he said again, feeling seriously deflated. Shy he might be, but hardly a shrinking violet – and hardly desperate, either. Besides, could you teach yourself flirting? He had once tried to learn to tango from a book containing diagrams of feet, but had failed to get as far as Lesson Two. ‘Another drink?’ he offered – a bid to make amends to Stella for his obvious lack of enthusiasm about her choice of gift.
‘No, better not. Every one of these’ – she pointed to her glass – ‘is at least another hundred calories. Anyway, I must push off. There’s a load of stuff I need to prepare for tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ he said, disappointed. Despite the seasonal excesses – a maddeningly jaunty Good King Wenceslas was now trilling out, full-volume – he much preferred this cosy pub and Stella’s company to his lonely, chilly flat. On the other hand, he had homework, too: he had to teach himself to flirt in sixteen challenging chapters.
chapter four
‘Excuse me,’ Eric said. ‘I wondered if you’d seen a ginger cat? It’s gone missing, you see and …’
The small, black-haired woman standing in the doorway was gazing at him in total incomprehension. Indonesian, by the looks of her, or possibly Vietnamese. A pity he didn’t speak a host of other languages – Bengali, Hindi, Cantonese, Arabic, Malay … Almost everybody he’d asked so far had been not just foreign but non-English-speaking, too.
‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’ He backed away, sorry that he’d scared her. She’d looked seriously alarmed, as if he were a bailiff, come to cart off all the furniture.
Turning up his coat collar against the driving rain, he trudged on to the next doorway. He’d reached only the second storey of the huge council block opposite his flat, which meant five more floors to go. Although, on reflection, it was probably a complete waste of time. Most people were out, or perhaps had learned through bitter experience never to open their front doors in such a dodgy area, for fear of burglary or assault. The few who had appeared either failed to understand him or slammed the door in his face – apart from one pugnacious Asian who had launched into a tirade about filthy, germy cats that should never be allowed inside a human home, so the more that went missing, the better.
After four more fruitless calls, he decided to try his luck in the local shops, starting with the Indian corner-store.
‘I’ve lost my cat,’ he began.
‘You lost your cash? Sorry, we don’t
cash cheques here, but Costcutters may be able to help you out.’
‘No, not my cash – my cat.’
‘Can’t help,’ the man said brusquely, cutting off the conversation as a customer walked in – a woman with three kids and a pushchair.
Well, Eric shrugged, he was obviously unwelcome here, but at least they knew him at the café. Having ventured in, he found Hanif and Abdullah sitting at a table playing draughts.
‘No customers?’ he asked.
Hanif grimaced. ‘People stay at home in this weather.’
If only Charlie had, thought Eric, increasingly concerned about the cat. She had disappeared yesterday evening and, at twelve years old, was too decrepit to be out on such a stormy night. He had searched the entire area, in vain, returning only in the early hours. And, to make things worse, she was a cat from a rescue-centre and, before he and Christine had taken her on, they’d been questioned almost as closely as if about to adopt a child: did they have a garden, and prior experience of cats; how dangerous was their road; would they agree to fit a cat-flap? Eventually, they’d been given the all-clear, although, of course, the volunteer who came round to check the premises hadn’t known that he and Charlie shared a bond, in the form of their early history.
Hanif handed him the menu. ‘What can I get you? Coffee? Tea? A fry-up?’
‘Sorry. I can’t stay. I’ve lost my cat and wondered if you’d seen it?’
Both men shook their heads.
‘Is it male or female?’ Abdullah enquired.
‘Female.’
‘Pity,’ Hanif said. ‘Males come back. Females don’t.’
Too right, Eric mused, his mind switching to his wife and daughter: 5000 miles away, and with no intention of returning.
‘But we’ll keep a look-out. What’s its name?’
‘Charlie.’
‘Charlie’s a man’s name.’
‘I know. My daughter christened her.’
The two men returned to their game, and who could blame them? A lost wife, lost daughter and now lost cat might be the stuff of tragedy for him, but not for the world in general.
Sighing, he mooched on to the launderette. The vast, pock-marked woman was there, as usual, guarding a row of empty machines. Today, this Vauxhall backwater resembled a Sunday in the fifties – at least from what he’d heard – a day of rest, stagnation, with everybody closeted indoors.
‘I did see a black cat. It was hanging around outside all day yesterday.’
‘No, mine’s ginger.’ Eric flushed, expecting the usual jibes about one copper-knob finding comfort with another. But the woman only shifted her huge bulk and stooped down (with difficulty) to inspect a broken machine.
‘Why not ask at the farm?’ she said. ‘Your cat might have ended up there, for a bit of warmth and company.
‘Thanks. Great idea!’ He’d never actually set foot in the Vauxhall City Farm, despite the fact it was just along the road.
He passed the boarded-up George and Dragon, and then a row of shops with iron grilles across the windows. The contrast with his previous home was marked. Kingston, although a mere ten miles away in distance, was a different world entirely. Most people in this area were shabby, scruffy, poor, and just didn’t have the luxury of good schools, pretty gardens and relative peace and quiet. Sirens deafened the streets here, jolting one from sleep most nights. And the dreary, soulless council blocks did little to raise one’s spirits. In fact, it was a relief to reach the farm and discover a green oasis, and even rustic smells of hay and straw.
As he picked his way between the muddy puddles, a small boy came up to greet him, wearing a sweatshirt blazoned ‘VOLUNTEER’. ‘Hi!’ he said. ‘Want me to show you round?’
‘That’s kind,’ said Eric, ‘but I’m looking for my cat. She ran off last night and—’
‘Hold on a tick. I’ll ask Bella.’ The boy went dashing up to a black woman, busy sweeping the yard. A rather gorgeous female, Eric thought, looking surreptitiously at her big, bouncy breasts, prominently displayed in a skin-tight scarlet sweater.
‘No, sorry,’ the boy said, tearing back again. ‘She hasn’t seen any cats. But now you’re here, why not stop and see the rabbits?’
Before Eric could decline, the boy reached down over the fence of an enclosure, picked up a plump grey rabbit and transferred it into Eric’s arms. After the first ripple of surprise, Eric felt strangely comforted by the cuddly, flop-eared creature, which displayed no fear at all at being handled by a stranger, but settled contentedly against his chest.
‘She’s called Pebbles,’ the boy informed him, clearly glad of company.
‘And what are you called?’
‘Zack. Short for Zachariah.’
Eric fought a sudden longing to grab Zack by the hand and take him and Pebbles back home to his flat. He had always wanted a son – wanted lots more kids; a whole tribe of them, like these rabbits.
‘Rabbits have twenty-eight teeth, you know. That’s one for almost every day of the month. See that rabbit there?’ Zach pointed to the pen, where a huge brown and white creature was nibbling on a lettuce leaf. ‘She’s a rare breed – what’s called an English Giant. We have rare chickens, too. Come and have a look.’ Having grabbed the flop-eared rabbit, Zack replaced it in its enclosure and led Eric towards a life-size plastic cow, made of plastic or polystyrene, but looking surprisingly real. Beneath its black-and-white belly, a variety of unusual-looking hens were sheltering in a seething, clucking mass.
Eric was tempted to join them, if only to shelter from the rain, although in point of fact he was a lot less wet than Zack, who had neither coat nor anorak.
All at once, an exotic hen with a pompommed head was being thrust into his arms, the creature squawking in alarm and scrabbling with its scaly feet. But barely had he time to calm it, when Zack seized it back and moved him on, clearly determined to fulfil his role as guide.
‘See those brown hens by the fence? They’re Polish.’
‘Really? All the way from Poland?’
‘Not Poland – Italy. They come from near the River Po. And, by the way, you may not know that chickens are the closest living relative to Tyrannosaurus Rex.’
Zack would be useful in the library, Eric thought: a mine of information, to help with customers’ enquiries.
‘And those are our ponies,’ Zack continued, pointing to a row of heads peering over the stable doors. ‘You’re not allowed in there, unless you’ve paid for riding, but if you cross the yard, you can see the calves and pigs and goats and things. Enjoy your visit!’
Eric found himself doing as he was told. Although little more than eight or nine, Zack had a persuasive manner and was quite the seasoned professional. Enjoy your visit, indeed!
His spirits fell, however, as he saw another man, with a small girl in tow, preceding him along the path. Fathers with their children always induced in him a pang of loss and longing. Even if the fellow was divorced, like him, he still had his daughter with him – maybe living close; not separated by the vast Atlantic Ocean and a cruel, uncaring landmass. Not that the guy seemed grateful for the privilege; rather distracted and impatient as he yanked the girl roughly by the hand, and told her off for splashing through the puddles.
‘Dad, what are those?’ she asked, as the pair stopped at a large outdoor pen, shared by various animals and birds.
‘I told you – twice – they’re goats.’
‘What’s goats?’
‘Goats are goats, Jane. Don’t be daft. And can’t you hurry up? We should have stayed indoors in the dry, not come out on a shitty day like this.’
Go back indoors then, Eric all but said, and I’ll look after your kid – although I’ll change her name to Erica. It had always struck him as a miracle, not just to have a child, after a boyhood with no family at all, but a child named after him; bearing his own name, give or take an ‘a’.
As the girl and her father moved on, a small female goat came lolloping over, put its feet up on the fence and sh
oved its nose into his hand. As he fondled its white head, it went into instant transports of pleasure, arching its back and trying to nuzzle against his chest. A pity, Eric speculated, I wasn’t born a ram, then I’d have more success with females. The goat was even making eye-contact; its yellow eyes fixed adoringly on his.
Reluctantly parting from his new conquest, he inspected the next enclosure, where a large ruffled turkey suddenly stretched out its long neck and made a noise like water gurgling down a drain. Eric turned his back. There were enough reminders of Christmas without a turkey adding to the chorus. His last twelve Christmases had been built around Erica – food, presents, decorations, tree: all done in her honour. This Christmas was just eighteen days away. He’d better volunteer; help out at a shelter for the homeless, or a Salvation Army centre, if only to distract himself.
Lost in thought, he had completely failed to notice the large, spotted pig in front of him; a handsome beast, with bristly fur and a moist grey snout, munching enthusiastically; its mouth wide open and spraying bits of food all over the place. Olivia, he thought, leaning over the fence to watch the porcine glutton. Would he ever meet the right person (barring goats)? He’d read all 200 pages of Stella’s Flirting book, but had done little more, so far, than diagnose himself with various so-called dating illnesses: ‘Rejectaphobia’, ‘Stranger Danger’ and ‘Signal Failure’ – the last nothing to do with trains. But, even if he worked through all the given cures, it didn’t change the depressing fact that to find an intelligent, attractive woman, with compatible views on politics, religion and general philosophy of life, would be little short of a miracle.
Wandering on, he all but collided with the black girl, and racked his brains for something riveting to say beyond a flustered ‘Sorry!’ He must be more adventurous, strike up conversations, as Stella had advised, but there were other people in earshot – three teenaged girls, helping sweep the paths, and a young lad with a wheelbarrow. Did he really want the whole gang of them listening to his chat-up lines? They were all busy talking, anyway; exchanging jokes and banter; a little community in themselves, with a shared purpose and sense of belonging.
Broken Places Page 4