Virtual Strangers (30 page)

‘I’ve been staying at my friend’s house. She’s been poorly, like you, so I went down to help her out with her children. You know Rose. I’ve mentioned her before, Minnie. The one who moved down to Canterbury.’

‘And that young lad of yours?’

‘Ben?’

‘No!’ she tuts. ‘Your young chappie. Are you married yet? There’s nothing to be gained by a long courtship these days.’

She’s been fighting with the foil so I take it and open it for her. ‘D’you know what,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion just lately that there’s nothing to be gained in courtship at all. Just grief. I’m done with it.’

She hands me a flapjack.

‘Do as you would be done by and you’ll get your reward in heaven. Now, can you pick out the raisins, dear? Darned things always play merry hell with my plate.’

As I walk back down the ward again, the sister’s voice reaches me.

‘Who’s that then, Minnie? A friend from the Maltings?’

I hear Minnie chuckle.

‘That’s my Iris,’ she answers.

I find myself smiling. I mean, who does that hurt?

As Hester has also brought a box of Thornton’s diabetic selection and a copy of
The People’s Friend
with her, I do not feel it wise to stay long with my father. More than five minutes worth of hearing about how a shirtwaister flatters the more mature figure, and I know I’ll be weeping and wailing again. Cannot believe I’ve been crying so much. Decide, instead, that I will drive down to the Maltings for the spot of detective work I’d promised myself.

Minnie’s room is at the end of a short carpeted corridor, with a window that looks over an expanse of flat lawn. There’s a forsythia in bloom, which will please her no end, and, in the distance, a radio mast, which will obviously not. Her two cases stand in the corner, unopened, beside a chest of drawers topped off with a small bunch of early daffodils. Despite knowing they probably have a policy on the subject, I feel a stab of irritation; given the circumstances, it seems a pity the staff didn’t bother to unpack.

I pull the cases onto the bed and clunk them both open. A musty smell mushrooms up; more evocative than unpleasant. There is little here in the way of clothing, but what there is I transfer on to the small clutch of hangers, or fold and find homes for in the large chest of drawers. I’d taken Minnie’s washing bag and nightwear down to the hospital, and all that’s left in one case now is an old onyx soap dish, inside which is a ring and a tiny dry sliver of soap. I close the lid and push the case under the bed. In the other however, is a large shoe box full of papers; most of which date back over the last fifty odd years. I have no wish to pry, so I flick through these quickly ; it’s only references to Edward that I’m interesting in finding. There are photographs too, some of them so old they look nibbled, and pretty soon I find myself looking into the dark eyes of a little girl who I know must be Iris; her hair tumbles to her hips and she is barefoot . The picture is black and white, but I can see she’s quite tanned, and the foliage around her is tropical and lush. I put it to one side to take back to the hospital, and continue my search for the mysterious son.

Which bears fruit before long. Inside an envelope I finally come upon the postcards; the ones the social worker had told me Edward periodically sends. She is right - they’re from a wide variety of locations. Sydney Opera House, Ayers Rock, what looks like Easter Island, and all are written in a small, round, backward-sloping hand. They’re signed Ted, although Minnie always calls him Edward. But then my father would no more call me Charlie than fly. I flick through a few of them, scanning the sentences. I’m aware again that the words are really none of my business, but there is little here bar the usual touristy stuff.

There are a good thirty odd postcards in the envelope, and my short inspection reveals four scribbled addresses; two in Australia, one in New Zealand, and one from somewhere unpronounceable in Singapore. Any of which could be a start. And all of which I can write to. I have no dates, of course; Minnie has ripped off all the stamps, and in doing so, the top right hand chunk of each card.

I gather up the postcards and the photo of Iris, clear the cases away and head off for home.

Sunday.

‘How went the Florence Nightingale bit, then?’

Make a mental note never again to answer a ringing phone. I will in future leave it to ring itself to exhaustion, before availing myself of the convenient 1471 facility and making a policy decision whether to pursue the conversation or otherwise. Because really don’t feel like talking to Rhys right now.

‘Hello,’ I say, wondering how he knows about it. Or even, in fact, which ‘it’ he refers to. He expands.

‘Your lad told me last week you were off down in Kent. Good time? Not too frazzling?’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Tiring. But, yes, lovely to see her.’ I can’t seem to find any conversation to use. He clears his throat.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘reason I called was to ask if you’d had any thoughts yet.’

‘Any thoughts?’

‘About the dinner. My invite? Week before last?’

‘I’m sorry?’

A pause. Then, ‘Thought so. Didn’t get the message. Which would explain why you didn’t answer my email as well.’

Email? Groan. I
don’t
want emails. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No. I didn’t get either. Well, certainly not an invitation. I haven’t looked to see if I had any emails last week.’ (Will eat a spider sandwich before doing
that
.)

‘Not to worry,’ he says. ‘Just that there’s a bit of a charity bash in town weekend after next and I er...wondered if you’d like to er...dust a frock down or something and, er...come along to it with me. I recall you telling me how you could do with a bit of...well, anyway, what do you think? Are we on for it? I don’t want to press, of course, but I’m off to a conference in Denver on Thursday, and I should really RSVP before I go.’

Dinner. Hmmm. Charity dinner. Hmmm.
That
dinner.

Gulp.

‘So what do I do, Rose? What do I
do
?’

‘Go to it.’

‘Bah! How can I? I’m just going to burst into tears all over the place and get myself in a complete state. Besides, it’s not fair on Rhys.’

‘Then don’t go.’

‘But I feel I should now he’s asked me. Especially as he’s been so kind. And if he’s going off on a conference now, it’s going to be a bit late for him to ask someone else, isn’t it?’

‘I shouldn’t flatter yourself that your going is the biggest deal in his life to date, Charlie. He’s a grown up. I’m sure he could go on his own.’

‘Which is all the more reason to go, come to think about it. If it’s not such a big deal then I don’t need to feel so guilty about it , do I?’

‘Then do go. Show Adam what you’re made of. Show him you mean what you say. Show him it’s over.’

‘Over? It hardly even started! Anyway, this is not supposed to be
about
Adam, is it? This is supposed to be about me moving on, isn’t it? So I
should
go with Rhys, shouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t
know
! Look, Charlie, do you actually
like
Rhys Hazelton?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. We have a lot in common. And he’s a nice, friendly, intelligent, uncomplicated,
single
bloke.’

But not Adam.

Monday. Nine ten.

First day of the rest of my life in yet
another
new (and, this time, more sensible) incarnation. As a person for whom the sanctity of marriage is far more important than the selfish pursuit of personal gratification without regard to the consequences. I can kid myself if I like. I am in full PMT flow. And I am also decided. Await Davina.

But cannot
believe
some people. Particularly cannot believe Hugh bloody Chatsworth, as he has left a card (a nasty soft focus photo of a croissant and coffee pot) , plus a box of Bendincks Bittermints from Sainsburys on full view at the front of his desk, the card carefully angled so that the name Rutland leaps out of the mire of his cess-pit desk-top, like a malevolent enemy periscope. I pick it up and read it.

My dear Hugh,

Just a quick note to thank you so much for expediting the sale of our darling Ditchers. Can’t tell you what a weight it is off our minds to know that it’s going to be home to such
lovely
people. Hope they will know as much joy as Mr Rutland and I have. Keep in touch. And thanks again - you’ve been a treasure. Best wishes, Meredith.

Meredith? I am tortured momentarily by an image of the Rutlands screwing on the grass in their ha ha, then reflect that a woman who is named after a biscuit and who also calls her house “Darling Ditchers” probably doesn’t screw; just has daddy’s special cuddles or some such bilge. And I get it. I
get
it. They are complete racist bastards. Their reluctance re. Habib’s offer all falls into place. Hope it turns out that a previously unrecorded plethora of public highways is scheduled for the locale forthwith. Hope a new international airport is in consultation stage as I read. I take two Bendincks Bittermints to consume with my morning coffee. Hope the flavour doesn’t infect my psyche too much.

Ten twenty.

Reorganise the window display to ensure that properties on my own file are in prominent positions and properties on Hugh’s are in dim corners at base. I realise that this is an utterly pointless exercise, but feel markedly better for doing so. Decide to fill a quiet moment by telephoning Social Services to discuss the Minnie/Edward situation. Feel not the slightest smidgin of guilt about use of the company phone as I am, by rough reckoning, no small amount down on my deserved commission status, plus a zillion points up on the martyrdom scale.

Get through to Bernice via a few bars of
Finlandia
, an exhortation to hang on, and only four people. The rest must be herding the current week’s jobseekers into pens.

‘Hello, my lovely,’ she says. ‘Funny you should call today. I was just filing the paperwork for Mrs Drinkwater’s house sale. Have you seen her?’

‘On Saturday. And she’s doing really well. She’s almost mobile again.’

‘Fair play, she’s a one!’

She pauses for a benevolent titter. As people generally do where old mad ladies are concerned. Sometimes not even mad ones.

‘I was calling about Edward,’ I say. ‘I had a chat with your colleague the other week, and I thought I’d have a go at trying to track him down for her. I’ve managed to find some postcards with addresses on them, but I thought I should ring you before sending a letter, because I believe there are a couple you’ve already tried. That’s if it’s not too much trouble, of course.’

‘Not at all, lovely. Hold on and I’ll dig out the file.’

I spend the five minutes while waiting for Bernice to return adding a cartoon tadpole to the logo on my Willie JJ scrap pad.

‘Here we are,’ she says at last.

I read out the addresses I have. Only two match with hers. So there are two still worth trying.

‘That Singapore one,’ she says, ‘sounds quite hopeful, actually. I remember Minnie showing me a card from Singapore quite recently. No address on that one, though, as I recall.’

Mine certainly has one. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m on the case. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’

I feel like Phillip Marlowe. Feel I am going to open a fat can of selfish bastard absentee son worms. Eat third and fourth Bendincks Bittermints and practice a dour and sleuthy expression. Find doing dour easier than it used to be, somehow. Practice smiling instead.

Await Davina.

Eleven fifteen.

Draft a short letter to the absentee Edward, and print out four copies. Address as per postcards. Still feel dour, so frank same.

Await Davina.

Twelve twenty.
Right.

‘Good morning’ she says. ‘Good week? Good weekend? How’s Rose? Bearing up? Everything as it should be?’

In spite of the fact that I know she’s not remotely interested in the answers, I tell her in some detail (where appropriate) how things went. Or perhaps because of. My mind is no more on this than hers.

‘Right,’ she says, jauntily, pinging her PC to life. ‘Busy, busy, busy! Partners meeting at one thirty, Ianthe and her swatches at three, plus the dear old BM at four. So I’ll need you on the case here, Charlie. Oh, and Hugh’s at Brian’s branch for the rest of the day now, so you’ll have to hold the fort and get the ad copy done. Any viewings?’ I nod. ‘Then call Brian’s PA, will you? You’ll need to put the phone on divert.’

She’s so jolly I half expect her to add tra-la, tra-lee and dance a little reel or something.

Davina,’ I say. ‘I need a word, if I may.’

Her head swivels.

‘A word?’

I nod again.

‘If I may.’

‘About what?’

‘About this.’

She is suddenly listening.

‘My resignation,’ I tell her. ‘I’m handing it in.’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m leaving.’

I give her the letter. Which she takes, with a nod, and then, in a spooky re-run of Rose the week earlier, she screws up her face and promptly bursts into tears.

So much crying!

The telephone rang almost immediately after, so I turned around, walked back to my desk and took the call. It was Hugh, for Davina, but I told him she was busy and that she’d call him back just as soon as she could. Then I turned back, expecting the moment to have passed, but to my dismay, consternation and utter astonishment, not only had Davina not recovered her composure, but she was sinking ever more noisily into huge gulping sobs.

This? Over me? Over me leaving Willie J J? Bloody hell. What a turn up. Unless...
Oh dear
.

Of course, I did the only thing humans can reasonably do in such situations. I walked back to her, said ‘come here’, bent down and put my arms around her. She sobbed against my shoulder for a good five minutes, then sighed heavily, released me and transferred her head to her hands.

‘Ohh,’ she said. ‘Ohhhhhh. Oh, God. Oh, Charlie!’

I found my Handy Andies and gave her the whole pack.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘Davina, I don’t know what to say. I never thought in a million years that