Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  Another matter on his mind was if and when to give her the pendant. Anything heart-shaped seemed wildly inappropriate, when her own heart was cold and closed. And her other presents were still in Stella’s case, which had not yet been delivered, despite another phone-call.

  Wearily, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number once more, experiencing the usual delays as he was instructed by automated voices to press one, two, three, four, or five, then passed from pillar to post again, whichever one he chose. And, even when he was eventually connected to a real flesh-and-blood InterWest employee, she could shed no useful light on the whereabouts of his case.

  ‘It may never have left Heathrow, sir. Or, alternatively, it may have got as far as Minneapolis and then been sent back to London.’

  Great news. He’d better return to the thrift-shop tomorrow and buy more mismatched clothes. Although, if he was destined to spend the whole three weeks alone, his appearance hardly mattered – except, of course, his daughter would be judging him at breakfast-time and late evening, and comparing him unfavourably with cool and stylish Dwight.

  ‘Cut it out!’ he muttered, venturing downstairs again for another glimpse of Malinal, who was now on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. Her position afforded him a brilliant view of her arse, but unfortunately she caught him gawping and scowled with such displeasure he made a speedy getaway.

  He also decided to get the hell out and take himself to Seattle. Sightseeing was a more productive occupation than pestering a girl who hadn’t the slightest interest in him. Whatever Erica might say, there were buses to the city, and he could hardly return to England having failed to see a single famous landmark.

  He was just sorting out his keys and wallet, when there was a loud ring on the bell. The gardener? The butler? The latest colour consultant?

  He opened the front door to find a matronly woman standing on the step, clad in a smart dress and jacket; her wispy white hair puffed up round her head in a dandelion-clock coiffure.

  ‘Hello,’ she gushed. ‘I’m Peggy. And I bet you’re Eric, with that hair! Christine told me it was red, but I didn’t realize what a distinctive red.’

  He nodded, curtly, weary of comments about his hair, which had been going on since babyhood.

  ‘I live opposite,’ the woman continued. ‘And I thought I’d just stop by to see if you’d like to come to church. It’s a lovely service, Eric, and I know you’d really enjoy it.’

  That he doubted strongly. ‘Well, actually,’ he said, desperate for a get-out, ‘I was just about to leave for Seattle.’

  ‘But how are you going to get there? Christine said you didn’t drive.’

  ‘It’s OK, there’s a bus.’

  ‘A bus?’ In her mouth, the word sounded like a cross between a brothel and an abattoir. ‘Oh, you couldn’t get a bus, Eric. It will take for ever, especially on a Sunday. Anyway, it’s no fun for you being on your own, and I know Erica’s not here. I saw her leave about half an hour ago, with that little friend of hers, both of them in riding clothes, so they’ll obviously be gone some time.’

  His first instinct was to protest; indignant at the thought of this woman spying on him from just across the street. Would his every move be scrutinized; his nosy neighbour get to know that he was rarely with his daughter? He was so used to living in London, where you could be murdered in your flat without anybody noticing, let alone offering help, he found the idea of a close-knit community distinctly disconcerting. What else had Peggy seen – his lascivious expression as he ogled the maid’s bum?

  However, he remembered his manners and invited her in. If she were a friend of Dwight and Christine, he wouldn’t want it known that he’d left her standing on the step or – worse – shut the door in her face.

  Having ensconced herself in a chair, she continued her persuasion-campaign to inveigle him into church. ‘Our pastor is really awesome, Eric. I’d love for you to meet him.’

  ‘Awesome’ seemed unlikely. In fact, it was a source of irritation to him that Americans should use the term so frequently, and even for ordinary people and run-of-the-mill events, whereas he reserved it for phenomena such as Niagara Falls, tsunamis, or God Himself – were He to exist.

  ‘And, although he’s not a Pentecostal, he does believe in the Prosperity Gospel, which I support wholeheartedly.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.’ He slumped back on the sofa, steeling himself for a proselytizing session.

  ‘What it means,’ she said, leaning forward earnestly, ‘is that God wants for us to be rich.’

  Now he was genuinely puzzled. ‘But I thought the whole essence of Christianity was just the opposite – you know, all that stuff about camels and eyes of needles. And how about the passage in the Gospel where Jesus tells a rich man to sell everything he possesses and give the proceeds to the poor?’ Which Peggy had patently failed to do herself, judging by her house – as big and swanky as Dwight’s – and her decidedly upmarket clothes. But perhaps there weren’t any poor in this ultra-prosperous suburb.

  ‘No, Eric, you don’t understand. Jesus was merely telling the man to turn his solid assets into liquid ones. The more prosperous you are, the more it proves God loves you.’

  In which case, he concluded, God couldn’t love him much.

  ‘Although you mustn’t think it’s all one-way. I give a lot of money to the church, but God never fails to repay me – a hundredfold and more. And, if other Christians feel they’re not adequately rewarded, all it means is that their faith isn’t strong enough.’

  A pity, he thought, he wasn’t more opportunist, then he could augment his annual pay-packet simply by suppressing his religious doubts.

  ‘Actually, poverty is the work of Satan, so no way could Jesus approve of it. You only need to look at Barack Obama. His family were so dirt-poor, they had to rely on food-stamps to get by, but look at him now! God raised him from nothing to the highest position in the land – or in the world, for that matter.’

  Surely, he reflected, it was Obama’s own hard graft that had brought him to the White House, rather than divine intervention, but he refrained from further argument; glad that he and Peggy at least shared an admiration for the Democrats. ‘Yes, my English friends were thrilled he won. We had quite a celebration on election night.’

  ‘Thrilled? I was appalled! My faith determines my politics – always has and always will – and McCain stands for family values, so, of course, he got my vote. I don’t know whether you realize, Eric, but Obama supports infanticide.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, if you don’t mind me saying so. He may be pro-choice, but—’

  She wagged an admonitory finger; her face expressing deep disgust. ‘No way is it an exaggeration. On three separate occasions, he opposed the law that said if a child was born alive during a botched late-term abortion, the doctor must do all he could to save that baby’s life. Which means Obama was forcing tax-payers to subsidize cold-blooded murder.’

  Eric shifted in his chair. Sex, religion and politics were hardly ideal subjects for a first meeting with a neighbour. Clasping his hands together, he clamped his mouth firmly shut, in an effort to stay silent. Peggy, however, must have interpreted the former gesture as a sign that he was deep in prayer – perhaps for forgiveness or a change of heart – because, flashing him a triumphant smile, she rose to her feet and said she would be back in half an hour to drive him to the church.

  ‘That’ll give you time to change,’ she added, with an accusatory glance at his T-shirt. ‘I’ll come by for you at eleven sharp. If we get there nice and early, I’ll have time to introduce you to my friends and, of course, to Pastor Matthews. And, after the service, we all gather in the community-room for coffee and delicious home-made cakes.’

  He simply didn’t have the nerve to refuse – not when she had used a tone that brooked no opposition. Peggy’s mission, obviously, was to hook another soul for God, so she would hardly be dissuaded from such a noble cause.
Besides, in his present downbeat mood, he should be grateful for small mercies, such as delicious home-made cakes. And, after all, the Gospel of Prosperity might stand him in good stead if the assessors marked him down and he failed to get a bonus.

  ‘Right,’ he said, forcing his features into an expression of what he hoped she’d regard as piety, ‘I’ll be ready and waiting at eleven sharp.’

  chapter twenty-four

  ‘Welcome to our church, Eric!’

  ‘Wonderful to meet you, Eric!’

  ‘Honoured to have you with us, Eric.’

  The warmth of their welcome was both extraordinary and gratifying. Even at this moment, he was being pressed against fragrant necks and powdery cheeks, as sundry elderly ladies embraced him with the same relief and rapture as they would the Prodigal Son. And now his hand was being pumped with enthusiastic fervour by clean-cut, well-groomed men, while other, younger parishioners flashed him beaming smiles. All the blokes seemed taller than him, and infinitely better dressed, yet it was he who was being fêted like a hero – such a rare experience, he was tempted to convert at once and become a regular church-goer.

  And even Peggy seemed to bask in reflected glory as her redheaded, English protégé became the centre of attention; more and more people crowding round and begging to be introduced. From what he’d gathered, English congregations were distinctly on the small side, with just a smattering of mainly over-sixties, but, here, every age was represented, including teens like Erica. Perhaps he had made a grave mistake in not bringing her up with some religious structure to her life. At least a sense of Christian charity might have made her less judgemental.

  ‘This is Eric,’ Peggy beamed, to yet another pillar of the church – a formidable-looking lady with a massive shelf of a bosom and hips as wide as goalposts. ‘Eric, meet Rosanne.’

  Another name to add to the list he was already having trouble memorizing. Karl was the big, swarthy one; Mary-Ann the diminutive blonde; Garrett bald and freckled, but who was the sultry brunette, with her voluptuous curves and mass of raven hair, swept up on top? There were also all the titles to remember: Clark, the director of music; Debra, the church secretary; David the Youth Minister, and Arlene, the chair of the Bible Study Group.

  Actually, he couldn’t say a word to Rosanne, because she was clasping him so tightly against her impressive mammaries as to render speech impossible. Not that he objected. This universal approbation was all the more agreeable when contrasted with Christine’s diffidence, Dwight’s resentment and his daughter’s downright hostility. None the less, he experienced a twinge of apprehension as people started moving from the extensive antechamber into the church itself. It was years since he’d attended a religious service, and those he recalled had been so tediously long, they called for reserves of patience he feared he didn’t possess at present. However, the church itself was nothing like the oppressive pile he remembered from his childhood, with its air of doom and darkness enveloping him each Sunday in a thick, black, silent cloud. This, in contrast, was a light and airy building; its ceiling painted heavenly-blue, its large windows letting in the sun, and with cheery splashes of colour provided by the blue hydrangeas arranged along the windowsills and by the display of hothouse flowers resplendent on the altar.

  At 11.30 precisely, the choir filed in, dressed in purple robes, and accompanied by the organist in a long, black, swishy gown. Despite the impressive attire, the singing was bound to be amateurish; the sort of off-key cacophony he had endured as a young boy, kneeling restive but obedient in the stone-chill, shadowed gloom. But, no – as the conductor lifted his baton, the sound that burst forth seemed to soar right up to heaven; spectacular in its purity and force. These were true professionals and the music was so uplifting, he felt transported to another realm; realizing only now how dull and uninspiring his everyday life had become.

  As the last note died away, he sat, lost in admiration, wishing he, too, had a powerful voice; one that could move audiences to tears. He imagined greeting library customers with some impressive tenor aria, or dunning them for fines with the same outraged passion as Plácido Domingo in Otello. Thoughts of the library made him wonder how his colleagues were getting on without him, and how Stella would cope when she ran his group next week? She wasn’t as used as he was to depressives and obsessives, and always claimed to have a blind spot when it came to poetry. Perhaps he should have chosen an easier poet, but his objective was to challenge them; make them see that even words they didn’t understand could speak to them at some deeper level.

  Pastor Matthews – whom he hadn’t yet met – had moved to the front of the altar and was giving an address of welcome, half of which he had missed, of course, due to his grasshopper mind.

  ‘No one is here by accident,’ the tall, beak-nosed man continued. ‘God has summoned every single one of you for some specific purpose. Please ask yourselves why you are in church today, and what the Lord is asking of you.’

  Eric felt a ripple of unease. He’d assumed he’d been dragooned into the service by Peggy’s sheer insistence, but perhaps there was some daunting Higher Purpose, about to be revealed.

  Get a grip, he thought. All the adulation had clearly gone to his head and, if he didn’t watch it, he would be writhing about in transports, like Paul on the road to Damascus.

  Peggy nudged him to his feet for the hymn – one he’d never heard of, with a complicated tune. However, her own exuberant singing-voice more than compensated for his halting croak – less Plácido Domingo than crow with laryngitis.

  After the final cadence, the pastor invited all members of the congregation to turn round and greet each other. Delighted by the prospect of more enthusiastic embraces, Eric was soon happily engulfed again, as total strangers kissed him warmly on both cheeks and generally made him feel a VIP. And people were actually crossing the aisle to come and say hello to him, as if he were some new, exotic species, blown in from a far-distant planet, rather than an ordinary bloke from England.

  He was almost disappointed when his fan-club drifted back to their seats and the service continued with a Confession of Faith. The words were printed on the service-sheet Peggy had pressed into his hand, so he was more or less obliged to join in, despite his feelings of hypocrisy in professing doctrines that seemed to make no sense.

  ‘We trust in Jesus Christ,’ he faltered, ‘fully human, fully God.’ Wasn’t ‘fully human, fully God’ something of a contradiction in terms? Although, if there was a God, he owed Him a debt of thanks for the heartfelt affirmations Peggy was pouring forth, which conveniently swamped his nervous stutterings.

  The hymn that followed was much more to his taste and, indeed, could have been penned with him in mind.

  When I feel afraid,

  Think I’ve lost my way,

  Still You’re there beside me

  And nothing will I fear.

  Despite the lack of rhyme and dodgy scansion, he longed for such a comforting resource: an Almighty Presence that could banish all his terrors at a stroke. Why was faith so difficult, he wondered – as difficult as love? Neither could be had to order; neither relied upon to last.

  Suddenly, he noticed that four men had risen to their feet and were proceeding to the front of the church, each armed with a collection plate, which they were passing round the congregation, row by row by row. As one of the men approached, he saw with horror that the plate was full of high-value bills – twenties by the score, a good scattering of fifties and even a couple of hundreds. His cheeks were burning as he fumbled for his wallet, knowing in advance that it contained nothing but loose change. As yet, he’d cashed only one of his travellers’ cheques and already spent most of that at the thrift-shop. And, to make things worse, Peggy was now extracting a whole sheaf of bills from her purse and placing them in the collection plate. Recalling what she’d said about God rewarding her a hundredfold, he half-expected to see a hailstorm of gold ingots descending on her from above. But there was only the shaming clink of his own c
ache of coins, as he offloaded them into the plate.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Bit short at the moment.’ God! Why had he said that? It made him seem a pauper, and only emphasized his difference from these well-heeled adherents of the Gospel of Prosperity. So far, he hadn’t spotted a single person who wasn’t well-coiffed, smartly dressed and, in many cases, clanking with jewellery. Even Dwight’s cashmere sweater, which he had donned once more, in honour of the church, looked a little commonplace in this exalted company.

  He was so mortified, he missed most of the sermon, although partly because his attention kept straying back to Erica. If she was so unhappy here in the States and subjected to such invidious pressures, might she not welcome the opportunity to return to England and go back to her old school? Or would any further disruption upset her even more? She would never agree, in any case, to live with such an inadequate father, nor would Christine ever permit it of course. Besides, it was bound to involve the lawyers again, which meant he wouldn’t stand a chance. All the lawyers he had ever met believed children should stay with their mothers; clearly regarding fathers as an inferior species, never to be trusted.

  As if on cue, the congregation began reciting the Our Father. By now, his mind was all over the place and he began reflecting on his own father – a pretty useless exercise, since he hadn’t the faintest notion as to who the guy might be, or what he did. But supposing he had suffered from depression and Erica had inherited the gene and would never be happy anywhere? Or perhaps she’d inherited his own fears. She didn’t actually seem fearful in the slightest; showed no apprehension about riding, sailing, swimming, skiing – all panic-inducing pursuits he avoided like the plague. But she might have secret, existential fears, even now preying on her mind, although he had scant chance of finding out when she refused point-blank to confide in him.