Taking a diagonal route across the sports field, he noticed a dead fledgling, fallen from its nest; the naked, embryonic form reminding him of the baby again. He kept wondering whether Mandy would have left him if, like Christine, she had suffered a miscarriage. Did she only value him as useful dad-material: someone – as she had pointed out herself – who would be unfazed by messy kids and, in that one respect, preferable to Brad? A snazzily dressed photographer wouldn’t welcome sticky fingers besmirching his designer clothes, nor would he be running baths or reading bedtime stories if he spent half his life abroad. The question was uncomfortable; prompting another in its turn: had Mandy ever loved him for himself?
Averting his eyes from the pathetic little corpse, he headed for the Albert Gate and for Stella’s garden flat, which was in this northern stretch of Albert Bridge Road, right opposite Battersea Park.
‘Hi!’ he said, giving her an affectionate hug. He had neglected her of late; too obsessed with Mandy to socialize with his loyal, long-standing friend.
‘Great to see you! Have you left your bike somewhere safe?’
‘I’m not on the bike. I … decided to walk.’
‘It’s quite a trek from Vauxhall.’
‘Not really. And it’s such perfect weather …’ The sentence petered out. He refused to confess that, having cycled all his life, he had lost his nerve two days ago. All his fears had mushroomed in those last racking forty-eight hours. Mandy thought him courageous for riding a bike at all, since she regarded it as more hazardous than driving. And, indeed, the very prospect of getting on a bike now filled him with alarm. Even day-to-day living had become fraught with new and indefinable dangers, no matter where he went or what he did. And neither the scented, spring-like air in the park, nor the general mood of Sunday relaxation had done anything to assuage his sense of menace and precariousness.
‘Well, come in and have a drink. How are you, anyway?’
‘OK.’ Why burden her with all the details? The sleeplessness and headaches, the sick, churning feelings in his gut were all clearly stress-induced and thus of little consequence.
She ushered him in, took his coat, poured him a glass of wine. Settling into a chair, he glanced around at the familiar, high-ceilinged room. Prior to meeting Mandy, he had always envied Stella this light and spacious flat, yet now it seemed dull and drab, in comparison with Mandy’s place. It was as if he’d become addicted to Mandy’s brilliant colours; her riot of cushions, pictures, paper flowers; her exotic fabrics and unusual ornaments.
‘Aren’t you drinking?’ he asked, as he took a sip of wine.
‘No. I’ve given up booze for Lent.’
‘What, you’ve suddenly seen the light and become a Born-Again?’
She laughed. ‘No fear! It’s more a slimming thing – saving on calories and detoxifying and all that sort of stuff.’
‘Hell! That doesn’t bode too well for lunch. What are we having – celery sticks and lemon juice?’
‘Don’t worry – it’ll be proper food. Though, when it comes to cooking, I can’t compete with Mandy, as you’re very well aware. And, talking of Mandy, I have to say, I think the way she’s treated you is absolutely disgusting!’
He said nothing; unwilling, even now, to hear her attacked – the woman he had once adored.
‘I mean, deceiving you, of all people, when she must have known how much a baby’s parentage would matter, after your own experience.’
He took refuge in his glass, secretly acknowledging Stella was right, but unable to admit it.
‘What’s the matter, Eric? I thought you wanted to discuss all this?’
‘Mm, I do. But … but I can’t help thinking of the dreadful state she must have been in. I suppose she didn’t dare to tell me the truth, in case I just pushed off. The irony is, if only she’d been honest, I would have probably stayed around – you know, accepted the fact that it was someone else’s kid, but still helped her bring it up. In fact, I keep wondering if I should do that – put the baby’s interests before my own wounded pride. The child needs a father, as I know better than anyone.’
Stella sprang to her feet in indignation. ‘Are you out of your mind? If she’d deceived you over something so important, how could you ever trust her again?’
‘Yes, but look at it from her point of view. She comes from a very traditional family that has no truck with single parents, let alone with women who sleep around. If they were ever to twig that two different men could be the father of her child, and she hasn’t a clue which one, they’d be truly scandalized. Her sisters are all conventional types, happily married, with children of their own, and they’re always urging her to settle down to motherhood and marriage.’
‘I don’t know how you can defend her, Eric. None of that is any excuse whatever.’
‘OK, maybe I can’t defend her, but what about the kid?’
‘It’s the kid I’m thinking about – I mean, the callous way she didn’t seem to care that it might find out you weren’t its actual father and be absolutely devastated. Remember the case in the paper, just a week or two ago – that fourteen-year-old whose whole life fell apart when she discovered that the man she’d always called her dad was nothing of the sort?’
Yes, he did remember, In fact, he’d actually discussed the case with Mandy, who’d pretended to share his horror at the sham. ‘There doesn’t have to be deception,’ he said, desperate not to dwell on her wounding, brazen hypocrisy. ‘Once a child’s old enough to grasp the facts, you can make it clear that you’re not its biological parent, but that you love it just the same. What worries me especially is that neither of the baby’s two possible fathers is willing to take responsibility, so it’ll grow up fatherless. And, according to the statistics, that’ll affect its life quite badly, which is why I feel I ought to step in myself. I mean, I could be its dad, in the sense of caring for it day-to-day, and paying for its keep.’
‘Eric, no, I’ve told you! Why should you scrimp and save for someone else’s child, while Mandy arses around, bringing in no proper sort of income, and probably laughing behind your back?’
He noted Stella’s vehemence. Perhaps she simply wanted him single, so they could see much more of each other, as they had done, prior to Mandy. Were anyone’s motives ever really pure?
She returned to her chair, slumping down in an aggressive sort of fashion. ‘All she’s done is use you and abuse you, and you’re far better out of it. To me, she’s just a scheming little bitch!’
‘That’s exactly what Brad called her.’
‘No wonder! She deceived him, too, remember. Even coming off the Pill, without asking what he felt about it, to me is unforgivable.’
‘Yes, but she was longing for a baby. And she’s nearly thirty-six, which is old when it comes to—’
‘I’d like a baby, too, and I’m three years older than her, but that doesn’t give me the right to treat a man as a sperm-donor, then bamboozle him about it.’
He forced a laugh, feeling both uneasy and disloyal, but attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Well, she certainly had to lower her standards when she settled for me as father, instead of Brad. He’s fifteen years younger, to start with, ten-foot tall and drop-dead gorgeous. And, instead of being a dreary librarian, he’s a famous—’
‘Librarians aren’t dreary,’ Stella cut in, incensed. ‘I won’t have you running them down. Any halfway decent librarian does far more for the community than some jumped-up paparazzo chasing after second-rate celebs.’
‘He’s not that kind of photographer. According to Mandy, he’s an idealist and a visionary who travels to Third-World countries and records war and famine and poverty and stuff.’ If it weren’t so tragic, Eric reflected, it would be jolly nearly comic: a fearless he-man on the one hand, spending three months in Haiti, surrounded by gun-runners and rioters and risking kidnapping and death-threats. And, on the other hand, a snivelling wimp, too scared to board a plane, and paralysed with terror even in a lift.
Only now
did he realize that, if Brad hadn’t cut his trip short, he would have been expected back in England at the very end of March. Had Mandy only agreed to accompany him to Seattle because she was frightened that her ex-lover might confront her, and was thus glad of an excuse to disappear? All the things that had seemed so kind and caring on her part were now open to a different interpretation. The way she’d helped him research his origins could be seen as a selfish desire to know more about her baby’s ancestry. Even her sexual wiles and avidity might just have been a ruse to bind him closer, so he’d never leave her in the lurch.
He thought back to New Year’s Eve again, and the dramatic fireworks display. All that magic and radiance had been so much empty dazzle; rockets burning out in seconds to spent and blackened trash. And the noise had sounded very close to gunfire – perhaps a warning of the hostilities to come. ‘Happy New Year!’ the crowd had yelled in triumph – mass delusion, he realized now. Why should this year be any happier than last?
‘Let’s eat,’ said Stella. ‘I’m starving. All I had for breakfast was half a measly grapefruit.’
‘You’d better watch it, or you’ll fade away to nothing.’
‘No such luck. I put on weight just by breathing.’
He followed her to the table, which she’d laid with an embroidered cloth and a vase of daffodils. He was grateful for her trouble, yet when he cut into the stodgy lasagne, burnt black around the edges, he felt a sense of aching loss for Mandy. He missed her creativity, along with everything else; the way she could turn food into an art-form, or a flat into a treasure-house. His Precious Box, made with all her usual skill and style, was just such a work of art, but suppose she decided not to return it, out of misery, or spite?
The thought of losing all its contents – those vital and irreplaceable links with his past – was so upsetting, he all but groaned aloud. But he just had to shift his mind from Mandy, if only in fairness to Stella. He’d already been over and over that fatal Friday night in exhaustive, painful detail, yet it still seemed quite impossible to think of anything else.
Fortunately, Stella herself switched to a new topic – although hardly a very cheerful one. ‘By the way,’ she asked, ‘how d’you reckon you’ll do in this year’s appraisal?’
‘Badly – that’s for certain! What about you?’
Well, I always find it a bit awkward talking about my own performance, but actually I’m not so bothered this year. I feel I’ve met all my targets, so—’
‘Gosh, I wish I had your confidence. I’m pretty sure mine’ll be a disaster. These last few weeks, my mind’s been all over the place and Trevor’s well aware of the fact. He’s bound to give me a lower grade than last year.’
‘’Course he won’t! He knows damned well how good you are with customers. And incredibly punctual and always willing to try new things and go the extra mile. And your group’s been a great success – brought in new people and upped the issues. It’s only because you’re depressed that you’re seeing things in a negative light. I bet you anything you like you get at least a “B”, if not an “A”.’
‘Well, I’m preparing myself for a “D”, which would make even a “C” seem good.’
‘Eric, if you get a “D”, I’ll eat my hat. I’ll even eat Harriet’s revolting old brown beret. Anyway, let’s change the subject, if you find it such a drag. Have you had any more ideas about the Remembrance Project?’
‘Mm, a few.’
‘Me, too. In fact, I think we ought to discuss it before you leave for Seattle.’
‘Right. Fire ahead.’
‘Not now. I draw the line at working on my one day off.’
‘OK, but remember I’m only around for four more days, and I’ll have to get off sharpish on the Thursday, to do my packing and stuff.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Packing, huh! I don’t even have a case.’
‘I’ll lend you one – no problem. Take it with you when you leave.’
‘Thanks.’ He recalled, with pain, that it was Mandy’s case he’d planned to borrow – although any case sitting in his flat would only be a panic-inducing reminder that, this coming Friday, he would actually be on the plane. The mere thought made him break out in a sweat.
‘Right, when are we going to meet, then? Is tomorrow any good?’
‘Probably. We’ll need more than just ten minutes, though. I want to go over the poems for my group.’
‘Shit! Don’t remind me, Eric. Poetry’s simply not my thing and I’m bound to make some awful gaffe.’
‘You’ll be great – don’t worry. Anyway, who else can I ask to run the group? Kath’s too inexperienced; Trevor far too busy; Harriet opposes it on principle and Helen’s on leave that week.’
‘I’ll manage, I suppose. Though I’ll be jolly glad to see you back.’
‘Not as glad as I’ll be – just to be back.’
‘But aren’t you looking forward to seeing Erica?’
‘Yes, course. It’s just …’ He hesitated; had no wish to burden Stella with the whole raft of his fears, on top of all the other stuff. ‘I’m a bit nervous, I suppose, about how she and I will relate to each other, after all this time. Christine said she was playing up, even being bolshie and—’
‘Sound like typical teenage behaviour to me. I wouldn’t be too fussed.’
‘And I’m not sure how I’ll feel staying in the same house as Dwight – you know, seeing him and Christine in a clinch.’
‘Oh, come on, Eric, they won’t snog in front of you!’
‘Let’s hope not. And I’m not the world’s best traveller,’ he added, with a casual laugh, ‘so I’m a bit uptight about the journey. The whole thing didn’t seem so bad when I thought Mandy would be with me, but now …’
‘Oh, Eric, you poor love! I can’t come with you to Seattle, but I will come to Heathrow. In fact, I’ll lay on a snazzy limo to take us there in style – my treat. I insist. Which Terminal are you going from?’
‘Four.’
‘Shame! Five is so much nicer.’
He shrugged. Could any Terminal be ‘nice’?
‘And, from what I hear, they’re renovating Four, so it’s all a bit of a mess. Never mind, I’ll stay with you till you have to go through security. We’ll have lunch together, if you like, and—’
‘No, the flight leaves in the morning. I have to be at the airport soon after seven-thirty.’
‘Well, breakfast, then.’
‘Honestly, it’s sweet of you, but …’ Impossible to explain that no way would he be able to eat – or chat, or joke, or lounge about, or behave in any normal sort of manner. Even the mention of Heathrow had sent immediate spasms sputtering through his gut, so that he could barely swallow another mouthful of lunch. He was absolutely adamant that nobody – not even a firm friend like Stella – should witness his sheer panic at the airport. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, gritting his teeth in the semblance of a smile. ‘In fact, I’ll imagine I’m another Brad, jetting off without a qualm to some Third-World trouble-spot. Yes,’ he said, warming to the theme, ‘Why settle for somewhere as tame as Seattle? Don’t expect me back before Christmas, at the soonest, Stella. I’ve changed my plans – this minute – and I now intend to plane-hop from Zimbabwe to Islamabad, then on to the Sudan, with a lightning tour of Afghanistan and Iraq, an unscheduled stop in Palestine and … and …
The next destinations petered out in a cul-de-sac of stuttering, then, all at once, his voice skidded to a total halt, as he was racked by choking sobs.
chapter twenty
Eric stopped to check the wheels of Stella’s case. They had been jamming since he set out from home, slowing him down as he manoeuvred the case along the puddled streets. Not that he was in danger of being late, since, at 4.55 a.m., the tube wasn’t even open yet. The journey to Heathrow took roughly fifty minutes; he had allowed two hours, for fear of hold-ups or emergencies – and because he couldn’t bear another second pacing sick and shaky around his flat.
The rain drummed against his back as
he bent to investigate the wheels. He was so wet already, he hardly cared about a further drenching, but what did concern him was whether the downpour would affect the flight. Did planes have windscreen-wipers and, if so, could they cope with such relentless rain? And wasn’t there a danger of the aircraft skidding on the runway?
The case appeared unmendable – probably shared his own reluctance to make the journey at all. Having gone down with a filthy cold, his natural instinct was to creep back into bed and hibernate for the next few weeks. He pitied the poor people sitting beside him on the plane; feared they might erupt in air-rage if he coughed and sneezed all over them. He had dosed himself with aspirin, Lemsip and Benylin – together with Imodium for his over-active bowels – but there was no remedy for his mounting terror at having to board a plane.
He continued along Kennington Road in the grudging pre-dawn light. The shops were closed and shuttered, and an air of gloom seemed to hang across the area, as if spring had lost its confidence and retreated back to winter. Crossing the road, he could barely see his whereabouts in the driving, sheeting rain, and was relieved to reach the shelter of the tunnel that led to Vauxhall Station.
‘Spare some change, please?’
He fumbled for his wallet and placed a two-pound coin on the calloused, outstretched palm. Despite the pitiable state of the beggar’s clothes and person (matted dreadlocks; rags tied round his feet), he would gladly have swapped lives with him. Better to be destitute and homeless than faced with a thirteen-hour flight.
Broken Places Page 24