Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  Sam’s words were both a rebuke and a reminder: a rebuke because he was miles away – once more – and a salutary reminder that he was here for the sake of the prisoners; not to obsess about himself. Indeed, he was well aware how many of these inmates shouldn’t have been banged up in the first place: psychotics, schizophrenics, drug addicts, ex-servicemen – maybe even sex-offenders, in some cases. He knew as well as anyone that a quarter of the prison population had been in care as kids, and nearly half of the under-twenty-ones. Didn’t that speak volumes in itself? – one injustice added to another. And the systems had things in common: a lack of cash, overworked or uncaring staff, a whole raft of often irrational rules and a culture of abuse. Children’s homes and prisons were both closed and secret worlds, full of misery, frustration and thwarted, wasted lives. He burned to reform both systems, yet how the hell would one puny individual ever have the power?

  As they passed the last straggle of prisoners collecting trays of food, he was uncomfortably aware that he and Sam were the object of close scrutiny. Several of the men were casting them distrustful glances; a mixture of resentment and hostility. And was it any wonder? They must always feel a sense of envy, if not bitterness, towards those lucky sods who could control their own existences and come and go as they pleased. He’d felt much the same towards the kids at school who weren’t shut up in institutions where every aspect of their lives was strictly regulated, and escape was near-impossible.

  A couple of prison officers were standing by the servery and only now did he notice how prominent their keys were; a constant reminder to the inmates that, given one false move, they could be locked up even longer than usual. Again, he was struck by the absence of colour: the men mostly wearing drab or muted clothes; the staff in sober black and white; the walls a dingy cream; the floor a nondescript beige. He now regretted having worn his yellow sweater, which seemed crassly bright in so sombre an environment.

  ‘Of course, many of the men come to Wandsworth just to be categorized,’ Sam was explaining now, as they continued along the corridor. ‘Then they’re sent off to a different gaol. Very few stay longer than six months – which makes it hard to run the book club.’

  Before Eric could reply, he was startled by the sound of thrashing wings. A pigeon had been trapped in the confining space and was flying frantically from wall to wall in its effort to get out. However, it was simply banging into things and becoming still more disoriented. He had been the same, he thought, when he’d tried to run away again – this time from a second home, called, ironically, The Haven – only to be punished with even more restrictions.

  Sam ignored the bird completely, as if used to desperate creatures pitting themselves against implacable odds. Besides, they had now reached the library, at last – a true oasis, compared with what they’d seen so far: well lit and brightly painted, with the consoling presence of books on every side.

  ‘Where shall I put this?’ Eric asked, indicating the crate.

  ‘Oh, just here on this desk. And thanks a lot for bringing the books.’

  ‘Well, these are just some extras for the group. I’ve sorted out a selection of stock for the library, which will be coming by van, as usual – a good sixty or so, I’d guess. And I chose things that Abi suggested: crime novels, of course, but also poetry collections and books on chess, and arts and crafts, and travel books and …’ It had struck him as poignant that these caged and corralled men should travel in their minds to far-flung lands.

  ‘Sounds great! So many books go missing, new supplies are more than welcome. We must lose up to fifty every week. I suspect most of them are just lying around in the cells, but no one’s got the time to do a search. Besides, a good few of the officers regard books as an unnecessary privilege, so they’re hardly likely to waste precious manpower trying to track them down.’

  Eric had heard about the problem of bolshie prison officers, who might refuse to escort the men from their cells to attend the book club meetings, either from laziness or spite, or because they opposed the library on principle. His natural instinct was to crack down on such conduct; become more involved in general, so that he could sit in on prison-management meetings and argue the prisoners’ case, but he just didn’t have the authority, alas.

  ‘Coffee for you, Eric?’ Sam had moved to a small office at the back, and was bustling about filling the kettle and searching for clean mugs.

  ‘Thanks. Two sugars, please.’

  ‘Then I’m going to have to leave you for a while. I didn’t know I’d be helping out this evening, so I need to do a few things first, to get myself prepared. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  He was relieved, in fact, to be alone, so that he could rehearse his little spiel. He wanted to explain to the group his hopes of raising money to fund a writer-in-residence, as well as author-visits – a crime-writer, he felt, would go down rather well. Then, he’d outline his plan (already worked out with Stella) of supplying children’s books for those men who were fathers, to send to their kids back home.

  Yet, as he sipped his coffee, his mind refused to stay on books and authors, but kept straying back to Mandy. Although she had expressed her admiration for him, she might have been hiding her true feelings, out of pity or good manners. And, anyway, that initial admiration might well have changed already to disquiet or dismay. After all, even many liberal people regarded kids who grew up in care as feckless, unreliable and basically inferior. And foundlings were worse still; considered in past ages the lowest of the low – shameful bastards, resulting from their mother’s ‘sin’. And, even in these enlightened times, illegitimacy remained a stigma. Besides, what about her family? Might they not hate the thought of her consorting with a rootless man, who might be carrying ‘bad’ genes, the son of a criminal, a hooker, or a junkie?

  Of course, he hadn’t breathed a word about the sordid sexual stuff, for fear Mandy might well shrink from any further contact with someone ‘tainted’ and ‘polluted’. Yet that was another problem in itself. Concealing something so significant hardly squared with his deep longing to be totally upfront with her and become her genuine soulmate. Or was that just an empty dream now? Perhaps he’d ruined his own chances of any continuing relationship by revealing even a fraction of his past. And those awful things he’d said about being a common little brat, engaged in petty crime, seemed increasingly misguided if his aim was to impress her.

  He jumped as Sam came back in, jolting him back from his obsessive thoughts for the umpteenth time this evening. He’d vowed not to think of Mandy, yet here he was, failing once again in his duty towards the prison and the group.

  Sam, too, seemed less than happy. ‘Now Linda’s been delayed,’ he said, frowning in annoyance. ‘The men will be here in just five minutes, yet she’s stuck in traffic, would you believe? So, what I think we’d better do is introduce you first and have you chat to them about your plans, then move on to the book club proper, once she actually arrives. Any objections, Eric?’

  ‘None at all.’ He was actually glad to be put on the spot, since that might concentrate his mind, at last. He’d behaved woefully, so far; present in body only; not in mind or spirit; his normal strict professionalism scattered to the winds.

  ‘I’ll just prepare the coffee for the men. We’re expecting ten this evening. Some of them will know each other, but three are new to the group – Stewart, Craig and Terry – so perhaps you’d keep an eye out for them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Hardly had Sam returned to his back-office to fill the kettle and find more mugs, when an officer appeared, accompanying a skinny, dark-haired man, dressed soberly in jeans and a grey sweatshirt.

  With a curt nod in Eric’s direction, the warder turned on his heel and disappeared, leaving the man standing stiffly at the door.

  Eric went over and introduced himself. ‘Are you one of the newcomers?’ he asked, with a friendly smile.

  ‘No, I’ve been at least three times. Though I can’t say
I’ve seen you before.’

  The tone was wary, even hostile, but Eric was used to that. The reading groups he ran also had their share of members who needed time to thaw. Having asked the fellow’s name (Kevin), he tried to break the ice by broaching the subject of this evening’s book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

  ‘Sorry. Haven’t read a word of it. You try reading when you share a cell with a nutcase. There’s never a moment’s peace. Even at night, he keeps moaning and groaning or shouting out in his sleep.’

  ‘I do sympathize, believe me. It must be so hard to concentrate.’

  ‘I’d say!’ Kevin was now unbending slightly. ‘Though I suppose I should count myself lucky. One of the blokes on B-wing was murdered by his cell-mate.’

  Eric was wondering how to respond to such a statement, when Kevin suddenly opened up himself.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t come here just for the books. It’s the only place I can forget about being in prison and sit and chat with people, like I used to do outside. It’s a sort of escape, I suppose; makes me feel less cut off. Mind you, at first I thought it was really naff, getting together to talk about a book. I mean, I’ve never been a reader, or had books at home as a kid. But we often start discussing – you know, important things, like justice, or divorce, or whether it’s brave to top yourself or just a coward’s way out. Last month, we got so heated about suicide, we almost came to blows!’

  Eric nodded encouragingly. Wasn’t this the reason he was here: to give men like Kevin some tiny means of ‘escape’, and to widen their horizons, if only for a couple of hours and if only once a month?

  ‘And I did finish one book, way back in July. Man and Boy, it was – about this bloke who messes up his marriage, then makes a song and dance about bringing up his kid alone. He ought to be in here, then he’d know the difference. Life’s on hold for us. I’d do anything to be living with my son again, getting him his breakfast, taking him to school. But the bloke in the book sees all that sort of stuff as just a chore. It made me mad, to be honest. I wanted to keep telling him – listen, for someone who’s locked up, it’s a real blessing to share life with your kid.’

  ‘Yes, I must say I agree. So how old’s your son?’

  ‘Just six. Jack, he’s called and he’s already quite a—’

  Unfortunately, Eric had to interrupt him, since the rest of the group were now arriving, escorted by a surly-looking officer. But Kevin’s words echoed through his head. Erica would be with him in just over eleven weeks, and, yes, it would be ‘a real blessing’ to get her breakfast and share his life with her, if only for a shortish time. However flaky he might feel today, he did have his precious freedom; did have his precious daughter. And, all at once, the sheer magnitude of those two facts seemed to release him from the cellar of his past, as if a door had been unbolted and he was streaking out to light and air and able to breathe free. At last, he’d stopped his fruitless agonizing and did definitely feel better – almost normal, for God’s sake – and determined to play a useful part in making some small difference to this group.

  But, before he went to greet them, he made a mental note to ensure that Kevin got a good supply of children’s books – for Jack.

  chapter eleven

  Should he have aimed higher, Eric wondered anxiously, as he opened the oven door to check on the roast chicken? After all, he was cooking for a semi-pro, so perhaps he should have pulled out all the stops and served up something fancy such as venison or grouse. Except his elementary culinary skills wouldn’t stretch to preparing game – even if he’d had a clue where to buy it. And what about the starter? The melon slices, bought ready-cut from Sainsbury’s, were hardly likely to impress. Mandy was used to gourmet meals, so she would probably be expecting an elaborate home-made terrine or some high-falutin soufflé. Although, even if he had spent all week laying on a ten-course banquet, it wouldn’t divert attention from the basic squalor of the flat. Despite his heroic efforts yesterday, cleaning the place from top to toe, it really required a fairy godmother to effect a total metamorphosis.

  He started as the doorbell rang. Not Mandy, surely – she was always late, he’d discovered. Well, if it was a fairy godmother, his wish-list was at the ready: a penthouse in Park Lane; a king-size bed with built in massage-function; a dial-a-feast from Gordon Ramsay and …

  ‘Mandy!’

  ‘Well, don’t look so surprised. You invited me for dinner and here I am – though late again, as usual. I’m sorry, darling, honestly. I just can’t seem to get my act together when it comes to time.’

  ‘Actually you’re early.’

  ‘I thought you said seven.’

  ‘No, eight.’

  ‘Shit! I do apologize. Want me to go away again?’

  ‘Not likely!’ It was so fantastic that she still seemed keen; hadn’t subsequently decided that a foundling with a chequered past should have no place in her life, it was all he could do not to kidnap her and keep her here for ever. He pressed himself against her, trying, for once, not to get a hard-on, as he inhaled her musky scent; felt the luscious contours of her body beneath the cuddly coat. It was vital to stay in chef mode – at least until he’d served the coffee.

  Finally withdrawing from the embrace, she picked up her wicker basket and took out a large glass bowl. ‘I’ve made us a sherry trifle, as my little contribution to the meal.’

  Having carried it into the kitchen, he stood gazing in admiration at the rosettes of whipped cream, studded with whole blanched almonds, crystallized violets and chocolate curls. ‘Mandy, this puts me to shame! I just can’t compete in the cooking stakes. And I’m still feeling bad about you coming here, when—’

  ‘Eric, will you stop apologizing! You spent the whole of last week telling me how grotty your flat was and’ – she paused to remove her coat, then made a lightning tour from sitting-room to bedroom – ‘all it needs is a bit of jazzing up. I could make you a new bedspread, if you like, and a nice bright throw for the sofa, with a few contrasting cushions. And I’m a pretty dab hand at painting, so if you want me to slap some colour on these walls … What do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ he whispered, kissing her again, ‘that you’re the most amazing woman in the world.’

  ‘Well, actually, I have been rather amazing! You’ll never believe what I’ve managed to track down.’ Rooting in her bag, she withdrew a large white envelope.

  His mind was still on furnishings; relieved by the thought that when Erica came over, the flat would be transformed – not that he’d mention Erica just now. Although Mandy knew about his ex-wife and daughter, he didn’t want to labour the point so early in their relationship. She herself had never married or had children – came ‘without baggage’, as she’d put it, which to him was quite extraordinary. A woman of her charm should have had swarms of men queuing up to claim her, from the age of seventeen, so how could she have reached thirty-five without a permanent partner?

  Lord, he thought, he was neglecting his duties as host! He should be pouring her a drink, offering her some nibbles. So, having ensconced her on the sofa with a glass of wine and a saucerful of nuts, he dashed towards the kitchen, to turn the oven down. They must spin out their drinks a while, to allow time for a few long, impassioned kisses.

  ‘Don’t disappear!’ she called, extracting a sheet of paper from the envelope and waving it in front of him. ‘Come and sit beside me. In fact, you ought to sit down before you look at this. It may be a bit of a shock.’

  MIRACLE BABY SURVIVES! the headline shrieked, and beneath it a picture of a tiny infant cradled in the arms of a triumphantly smiling elderly man, clad in a smart uniform and cap.

  ‘That’s you, Eric, with the other Eric – the park-keeper who found you! Isn’t it incredible?’

  He didn’t trust himself to speak. His first instinct was to shut his eyes; close his ears; even bolt out of the flat. All the pain and uncertainty of his past seemed to be crashing in dangerous waves about his head.

  ‘Don’t you th
ink I’m clever? I just couldn’t get your story out of my mind and I knew I had to help you in some way. So I went down to Croydon Library and managed to see their archivist, who told me the local papers were now on microfilm, and gave me the roll for the Croydon Advertiser, January to March, 1964. You’d told me the month of your birth, but not the actual date, but it’s only a weekly paper, so it didn’t take long to scroll through all the February editions and – bingo! – there it was. Do read it, darling. It’s riveting.’

  He had to force himself to take hold of the sheet, but the type began blurring on the page, so that he couldn’t decipher so much as a word. He himself had worked in Croydon Library for close on twenty years; been friendly with their archivists, familiar with the records, and could have found this paper easily, years and years ago – in fact, had been on the point of doing so a hundred-thousand times. Yet, in the end, caution had always prevailed. He knew at some deep level that it was essential not to investigate, in case something he read should implicate his mother.

  What Mandy didn’t understand was that there were two types of abandonment: the caring kind, when the mother wanted desperately for her infant to be found, so she would leave it well-wrapped up in a public place such as a hospital or shop, where there were people around who would immediately take action. The opposite kind was akin to infanticide, when the baby was asphyxiated in a plastic bag, or plonked in a dustbin and left to die amidst the trash, or shoved into a toilet-bowl, to drown. Admittedly, none of the latter had happened to him, but none of the former, either. All he knew was that he’d been discovered in a recreation ground, which sounded decidedly dodgy. Such a place might well have been deserted on a bitter February morning, and it would also have litter-bins and toilets, where an infant could be summarily dumped. It was crucial to his peace of mind that his mother remained a kindly, caring person, not a callous criminal, so wiser to keep his fantasies intact than start searching out hard evidence.