Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Try not to judge the kid before it’s here. You might even find you like it and enjoy having a brother or sister. But it will be a big upheaval, I admit – especially when the baby’s actually born. That’s always a fraught time and, of course, Mum will have her hands full, so you may feel a bit left out. Hey, listen – I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t I come over then and take you away on holiday?’

  She stared at him in surprise. ‘But that would mean another flight and you’re terrified of flying.’

  ‘I’d survive,’ he told her, with more conviction than he felt.

  ‘Anyway, the baby’s due at the end of September and I have to be at school then.’

  ‘But they seem pretty reasonable about you taking time out, if it’s a question of a visit from a parent.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but why go through all that crap again, when you hate the very thought of planes?’

  ‘Because I’d like to be with you at what may be a difficult time – so long as you want to go away, that is, and don’t mind missing school.’

  ‘No one minds missing school, do they, unless they’re seriously weird?’

  ‘What about Mum, though? Do you think she might object?’

  ‘No way! She’s forever saying she’d like me to see more of you.’

  Another surge of guilt. Whatever his terrors – and they were mounting to an uncomfortable degree – he must make this trip for his daughter’s sake. ‘In that case, why don’t you leave it to me to clear it with the school, and think of somewhere you’d really like to go.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure, Dad?’

  He nodded. ‘Just don’t choose somewhere too far away from here, please, because I don’t want two long flights.’ It was also a matter of the expense, of course, but he wouldn’t mention that.

  ‘I know – San Diego! Barbie went there on a snorkelling holiday and said it was just brilliant. I’d adore to snorkel, Dad. You see these amazing coral reefs and fantastic fish close-up – rays and perch and starfish, even sea-lions and leopard-sharks.’

  He swallowed. Sharks? ‘I think you’ve … forgotten something, darling.’ ‘What?’

  ‘I … can’t swim.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dad, you can learn. And you don’t have to be a good swimmer. It’s not like scuba diving. You just float on shallow water. And, in any case, you can always wear a safety-vest or hire a body-board – or both, if you’re really worried.’

  He tried to clear an obstruction from his throat. ‘Wouldn’t it be more the sort of thing you’d do with Dwight? He’s the one with the boat.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like as good round here – not as warm, for one thing, and the water’s much more murky. In California, it’s crystal-clear and there are more exciting fish, as well. And, anyway, I want to do it with you, Dad, not with lousy Dwight.’

  ‘I just don’t think it’s going to work.’

  ‘Look, you asked me what I really want to do. And now you’re saying no. It’ll be great, Dad – honestly. We can take underwater photos and stuff and …’

  The full horror of the trip was only now beginning to dawn on him – not just swimming, but being underwater; his face covered by a claustrophobic mask; having to hold his breath while the waves closed over his head; maybe getting tangled up in seaweed and never making it back up. Yet she’d just called him brave, so how could he refuse without reverting to being a loser and a coward? ‘We’ll … see. OK?’

  ‘No, it’s not OK,’ she said, slamming down her knife and fork. ‘“We’ll see” means “No” and I want you to say “Yes”. You’re being totally pathetic, Dad. You just told me all that stuff about broken places making you strong, so be strong, for a change.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I—’

  ‘No, I don’t! It makes no sense. I mean, all those years you told Mum and me you couldn’t fly, and now you have flown. So why can’t you swim, as well? You could take lessons in your local pool from now until September and you’ll be brilliant by then, I bet.’

  Brilliant. She believed in him; actually wanted to go away with him, yet still he was fighting images of planes crashing onto the tarmac, or him choking to death in his snorkelling-mask and—

  ‘So?’ she demanded, getting up from the table and confronting him face to face.

  ‘OK, yes,’ he faltered.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Great! Let’s go online tomorrow and make plans.’

  ‘Actually, there’s something else we need to plan. In fact, I want you to promise me something.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. I can guess – I’m not to go out with boys till I’m twenty-five.’

  ‘I’ll settle for thirty-five! But no, I want you to save me from a Maundy Thursday service.’

  ‘What’s Maundy Thursday?’

  ‘The Thursday before Easter, which just happens to be your birthday. I didn’t tell you this before, but Peggy over the road more or less bullied me into attending church with her that evening.’

  ‘Oh, she does that with me, as well.’ Screwing up her face, Erica gave an imitation of Peggy’s breathy drawl. ‘“Erica, it’s time you went to Sunday School …” “Erica, have you thought of joining our lovely little Bible Study Group?” No thanks! Just ignore her, Dad.’

  ‘I can’t. Half the church are expecting me to show up. And, what’s worse, they’re planning to wash my feet.’

  ‘Wash your feet? Whatever for? Why can’t you wash them at home in the shower?’

  ‘It’s a sort of religious ritual – and one I’d prefer to miss. I’ll need a good excuse, though, so if you and I had this special birthday date, that would fit the bill just perfectly. So, what d’you say – will you rescue your poor Dad?’

  ‘OK. Anything to save you from the dreaded Peggy!’

  ‘Oh, and talking of your birthday, I brought some presents for you, but they lost my luggage, didn’t they, so Lord knows where they are! So can we please go out before the ninth and buy you a few replacements?’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘There’s just one I packed in my flight-bag. Hang on a sec and I’ll fetch it.’

  He raced upstairs; returned with the small jewellery-box, which he had carefully rewrapped, and placed it on the table.

  ‘But I shouldn’t open presents before my birthday.’

  ‘I want you to, OK? But we’d better be fairly quick about it. If Mum knew you were up this late, she’d go ballistic!’

  She tore off the wrappings, opened the box and withdrew the shimmering pendant. ‘Oh, Dad …’

  He felt a sudden doubt. She had so much stuff already – and pricey stuff at that – how could some bijou trifle make any sort of impression? ‘D’you like it?’ he asked, anxiously.

  ‘I adore it.’

  ‘I chose the heart specially,’ he said, ‘because it means “I love you”, and that you have first place in my own heart.’ Hell, this was sentimental stuff – downright naff, in fact. It might rouse his daughter’s scorn, but he had to take that risk.

  ‘It’s the best present I’ve ever had,’ she said, looping the pendant round her neck and trying to fasten the clasp.

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s way over the top!’

  ‘It isn’t, Dad. Here, help me do it up. I want to see what it looks like.’

  Moving her hair aside, he struggled with the fiddly clasp, while she jiggled with impatience. ‘Stand still!’ he ordered, secretly pleased at her show of excitement. ‘That’s it – all done. Now turn round, so I can judge the effect.’

  She faced him, half-self-conscious, half-expectant. ‘Well?’

  ‘Looks pretty good to me. In fact, damned near perfect, I’d say.’

  ‘I want to see!’ She darted out to the hall, to look in the large framed mirror on the wall.

  He followed, watching as she stood fingering the heart, turning her head this way and that, with a smile of unqualified approval.

  ‘It’s great!’ she said. ‘And I love the way
it sparkles in the light. Brooke will be dead jealous! I can’t wait to show her – and Barbie.’

  ‘Well, thank God I got it right,’ he laughed. ‘It was so hard to pick out something when I hadn’t seen you for so long and had no idea what sort of things you like.’

  ‘Dad, if I’d come with you to the shop, I’d have chosen exactly this.’

  ‘In that case, give your old Dad a hug.’

  Noting how shyly she approached, he was careful to hold her neither too close nor too long, for fear he might embarrass her. Yet, for him, no hug could be long enough, since he required it to express a host of different emotions: his joy in having a child at all; his concern for her happiness and safety; his regret about neglecting her, especially missing the whole business of watching her grow up; his grief at the brutal distance between London and Seattle, yet his pride in having bridged it – above all, his aching wish that the bond they had forged this evening should last until his death.

  Reluctantly, he made to pull away. However loath he might be to break the contact, he could hardly continue hugging her all night. Rather, he should return to his parental duties and chivvy her to bed.

  Yet, doggedly, she pressed herself against him, as if frightened he might vanish, or they might never achieve this proximity again. Indeed, he experienced a depth of shame when he realized she could have become a virtual stranger, had he stayed in England, a prisoner of his fear.

  Then, all at once, she drew away and stood shifting from foot to foot; an uneasy frown cutting between her brows. ‘Dad …’

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted, worried now that she might have some new concern, something they hadn’t yet discussed.

  ‘I … don’t think I’ll be Carmella any more. It seems, like, kind of … stupid. It was Brooke’s suggestion, actually, so I guess it’s more her sort of name than mine. So, from now on, I’ll be Erica again.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, his non-committal tone belying his overwhelming relief. He had his daughter back, at last – in name as well as fact.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Eric emerged from the tube into a heavy, sleety downpour. Rain when he’d set out three weeks ago, and now rain on his return. Yet he was so relieved at having survived the ordeal and escaped totally unscathed – no missing limbs; no vacant future as a dribbling paraplegic – that he splashed blithely through the puddles on the short walk to his flat. At least he wasn’t hampered by a case. InterWest Airlines had surpassed themselves by losing his luggage on the return flight as well as on the outward one. Waiting in the long, slow queue to report the second loss had delayed him by an hour or more, but he didn’t care a jot. Anyway, it was Dwight and Christine’s honeymoon case, and he deplored the thought of such a thing cluttering up the flat. And, as for all the stuff inside, well, there was a certain crazy freedom in simply leaving it behind.

  In fact, nothing could detract from his elation at having become a seasoned traveller. Oh, he still detested flying – the cramped seats, the claustrophobia, the lousy food and long delays, the interrogation procedures that made you feel you should have stayed at home – and, yes, his terror was still there. Indeed, he had battled through extremes of it today, yet it was still a great achievement to have conquered it at all. In fact, he longed to yell at everyone who passed him in the street, ‘I’ve flown! I’ve flown – for the first time in my life! And four separate flights in total. Isn’t that heroic?’

  And, having stopped for milk at the corner-shop, he was tempted to strike up a conversation with a customer or two, so that he could try out the unlikely words just added to his vocabulary: shuttle-buses, duty-free: escape-chutes, air-miles, cabin crew. Unfortunately, there was no one in the shop – well, apart from the man who ran it: a surly Pakistani who didn’t look as if he’d be riveted by accounts of sterling courage. So, having bought his pint and a farmhouse loaf, he bounded on to the flat.

  As he let himself in, he was immediately jolted by its shabbiness, compared with the grandeur of his surroundings in the States. Where were the works of art, the cocktail bar, the games-room, the candlelit Infinity Bath? Not that he would miss them, nor the ridiculously pretentious bed that had seemed always to resent him as an unworthy occupant. This was home, however small and poky, and there was a definite sense of security in being back where he belonged. What he did regret was no longer having Erica as house-mate and companion. Already, he missed their long discussions about whether it was wiser to settle for being a Ford – functional and useful – rather than a high-powered Porsche, and whether fear was only natural when the world was so incomprehensible, not to mention downright arbitrary.

  ‘No!’ she’d told him, vehemently. ‘That’s just a crappy excuse. Even if you do feel fear, you have to overcome it, Dad, and say “I can!”, like President Obama.’

  And, since her birthday outing, when, as his introduction to water-sports, she had more or less dragooned him into kayaking on Lake Washington, she now expected him to rise to every challenge. It wouldn’t stop at kayaking, or even snorkelling or scuba diving – that was pretty clear. It would be ocean-racing next, or white-water-rafting, or – God forbid – paragliding. He shook his head in disbelief. Even his daughter’s faith in him couldn’t transform him quite so radically.

  Having dumped his flight-bag, made some tea and gathered up the post, he sat sorting through the pile – mainly bills and junk-mail, but also an elaborate card from Stella, saying ‘Welcome back!’ It touched him that she had kept in contact throughout his three weeks’ absence, as if she knew instinctively how lost he felt away from home. Yet, despite her calmer temperament, she was more alone than he was, in a sense, having never had a spouse or child. Would either of them, he wondered, ever meet their life-partner? The prospects didn’t look too bright and maybe it was simply time he relinquished his romantic dreams: the hope of meeting a soulmate; the fantasy of finding his mother. He couldn’t count on a conveniently happy ending, like the more fortunate Tom Jones, who, by Book XVIII, ‘Chapter The Last’, was declared by the exultant author ‘the happiest of all humankind’.

  I’m away for a long weekend, Stella had scribbled on the card. See you Tuesday, OK?

  Unable to phone her, as he’d hoped, he decided instead to reply to her last emails, which had remained unanswered once Dwight and Christine arrived back from Hong Kong. It had seemed wrong to sit in Christine’s office, using her computer, rather than listen to her travellers’ tales of glitzy nightlife, harbour cruises, dim-sum restaurants and all the maddening rest of it. He suppressed a yawn as he turned on his own machine; aware how stiff and achy he was, after eighteen hours of travelling, and tempted to crash out on his bed rather than pound away at the keyboard. But if he went to sleep so early, he was bound to wake in the middle of the night, when he ought to make an effort to adjust to English time. He was already somewhat confused, since his watch said eight (a.m.), while the sitting-room clock insisted it was four.

  The computer seemed sluggish, as if it, too, were suffering jet-lag, but eventually it responded with a rash of Viagra ads. Whacked as he was, he knew he wouldn’t need Viagra if a voluptuous female happened to waltz in, begging to be shagged – or Mandy, for that matter. It annoyed him that he should still be lusting after her – indeed, even wondering sometimes if he should change his mind and return as her live-in lover. Yet, since he knew deep-down the relationship was wrong for him, it was progress of a sort to have broken with the pattern of his childhood, when he’d been forced passively to accept things that brought him pain and grief. Maybe, when he felt less raw, they could re-establish contact, if only for the baby’s sake. It still worried him that it had no acting father and, if he could make good that lack, even to some small extent, he wouldn’t hesitate. And his reward would be the Precious Box, which he was determined to retrieve. Whatever her motives for making it, he was still deeply touched that she had gone to so much trouble in giving him a life-history, however rudimentary. And, once he had it back, he would guard it as a valuable posses
sion; refuse ever to be parted from it again.

  Stella’s last two emails were still concerned with the new job. Apparently, no one had applied internally, not even the two most likely contenders: Eleanor at Putney and John at Battersea. And Stella said she doubted there would be many outside applicants, so she was continuing to insist that he simply had to take this chance.

  No, I really don’t think, he was just beginning to type, when he suddenly caught Erica’s eye, rebuking him from her photograph.

  ‘Don’t be such a loser, Dad! There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get the job. Stop putting yourself down, and at least have a try, OK?’

  He rocked back in his chair. If he were successful, it would mean a rise in salary – extremely useful to help fund the San Diego trip, as well as regular flights to Seattle. Now that he’d established a bond with his daughter, it was crucial to preserve it, and long-haul air-fares weren’t exactly cheap. And she had promised to visit him, next Easter, so he really ought to move flats well before that, and again some extra cash would come in very handy.

  He rechecked the original memo giving details of the job. Stella was right – it was just his sort of thing and would allow him a much better chance to realize his ideals. He could set up a new literacy project, and perhaps a Book-at-Breakfast scheme, with bacon butties to tempt the punters in, or a Brain Gym for the over-sixties and those at risk of Alzheimer’s. In fact, a dozen different schemes and plans began jostling through his mind, including his long-cherished dream of establishing libraries in children’s homes, which might now actually materialize. And, from all he’d heard, the new library had a definite buzz, so it should be fun to work there, especially if he got in from the start.

  Of course, Stella was exaggerating the lack of competition and she could have no idea, in any case, how many external applicants there were, so someone else might pip him to the post. On the other hand, foundlings had a certain advantage in that they were used to trying harder; had been forced to make their own way without families to help, and often faced with numerous challenges from the time they first drew breath.