Broken Places (4 page)

‘Well, we do have time, before we break for our soup, if the rest of you don’t mind?’

Several people nodded their agreement, although anorexic Lee looked highly nervous, as usual, at the mention of the soup. She especially hated the buttered rolls and, while the others were eating, sometimes felt compelled to leave the room.

‘Hannah, would you like to read it for us this time?’ Another risk, since Hannah had a speech-impediment, as part of her cerebral palsy. But it gave her enormous pleasure to read aloud and have people actually listen – something unknown in her daily life. And, anyway, since everyone had copies of the poem, they could follow it for themselves, even if they couldn’t quite decipher her distorted words.

In the brief silence after she’d finished, Sue cleared her throat, shuffled her feet, and suddenly said in an embarrassed tone, ‘I wish I’d known about that poem all the time I was in Springfield. I’m sure it would have been a comfort.’

All eyes turned to her. Sue had not contributed a word, as yet, to any conversation or discussion, nor revealed a single fact about herself, yet here she was admitting to a stay in the local psychiatric hospital.

‘And the other poem even more so. I mean, just to realize it’s OK to feel such huge despair. You say Hopkins was a priest, yet he still comes very close to losing hope.’

All at once, several people started talking – Rita chipping in about her own spell in a mental ward; Graham remarking that religion couldn’t always help and sometimes made things worse; Barry letting out that his shrink had been worse than useless and they had almost come to blows.

Eric watched as Warren, with his ear-stud and tattoos, leaned across to comfort Rita, in her tweeds and sensible shoes. It gave him a sense of achievement that this disparate group were confiding in each other;
beginning
to forge bonds. On paper, it shouldn’t work – too big a difference in
background, age and social class, yet they were actually sharing secrets, opening up, finding confidence to express opinions, when, at the start, they’d been tongue-tied, wary, highly nervous and mutually suspicious. Meeting in this small upstairs room, away from the main library, was definitely a
plus-point
, in that it afforded privacy to speak one’s mind, and encouraged a certain intimacy, since they were all sitting round the table, like one big family – not a happy family, perhaps, but at least communicating.

He could do with some help, of course; needed to recruit a volunteer, to assist him once the project took off. And he was determined that it should succeed. He was aiming for higher numbers altogether; wanted more men in the group and more from ethnic minorities. And he planned to invite a poet along, to talk to them about producing their own poetry, and maybe set up a separate Creative Writing group, as well as develop his new idea of music therapy.

It would all take more funds, of course – funds they didn’t have – demand energy on
his
part, but just give him time and he’d damned well make it work.

‘I thought we said six,’ Stella tapped her watch in disapproval. ‘I was just about to give you up.’

Eric plonked himself down on the faded red-plush banquette. ‘Sorry, really sorry. Trevor kept me – I just couldn’t get away.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Well, to tell the truth, he gave me a bit of a bollocking – you know, how I mustn’t let my ideals run away with me. And how my attitude to Harriet leaves a lot to be desired. Well, what about her attitude to
me
?’

‘Poor Eric! Let me buy you a drink.’

‘No, I’ll buy you one. It’s the least I can do, after keeping you waiting.’

He fought his way to the bar, annoyed that all his earlier elation should have been punctured like a balloon. This afternoon he’d been flying high, ready to let go of any controlling string, so that he could soar up to the stratosphere, yet now he’d been reduced to a few shrivelled scraps of rubber. And the season didn’t help. Just eighteen days to go till the Big Day of hype and hypocrisy, and every shop and restaurant and public place was trumpeting the fact full-force; this pub no exception. Normally, he loved the Dog and Duck; a cosy refuge within minutes of the library; what he
didn’t
like was its ersatz Christmas overlay. The oak beams were wreathed in tinsel, sprigs of plastic holly blighted every table, and the bewhiskered barman (a Father-Christmas lookalike) sported a Santa cap. Even at home he couldn’t escape; the dreaded C-word cropping up with depressing
regularity
every time he turned on the TV. Last Christmas had been bad enough, but at least his wife and child had been around.

‘Cheers!’ said Stella, raising her glass of vodka and Coke.

‘Cheers,’ he muttered morosely, feeling anything but cheerful amidst the aggravation of canned carols tinkling from the sound-system.

‘Now, listen, Eric, we’re here to talk about your love-life, not – I repeat
not – about work. So will you please switch off and give me your full
attention
.’

He did his best to comply, although he was still smarting from Trevor’s strictures and not exactly overjoyed to have to confront the desert of his love-life. Still, he thought, at least he wasn’t condemned to a life of
permanent
celibacy, like poor Gerard Manley Hopkins, who had once described himself as a eunuch.

‘You won’t get anywhere, you know, unless you rewrite your profile. The existing one isn’t working.’

‘You’re telling me!’ Perhaps a vow of chastity might actually make things easier. From what he had read about eunuchs, they led quite a cushy life, with nothing to do in the harem except look after gorgeous girls.

‘Mainly because you insist on sticking to the truth. Most people big themselves up, so you’re putting yourself at an instant disadvantage.’

The word ‘truth’ induced the usual surge of guilt. How duplicitous he was, posing as a truth-teller, yet concealing so much from Stella – indeed, from all his friends. Yet the few times in the past he’d come clean about his background had not been a huge success. Those he’d told had viewed him very differently thereafter – with pity, with suspicion.

‘I mean, you’ve put “average” for appearance, but that doesn’t do you any favours. Can’t you say “
above
average”?’

‘No, because then they’ll be disappointed. In fact, I reckon lots of people must get quite a shock when they compare the descriptions with the reality. Actually, I’m thinking of writing a guide to all the terms in current use, if only as a warning. “Lively and outgoing” means a noisy, manic, show-off. “Articulate”: never stops talking. “Independent”: bossy. “Honest”: tactless. “Creative”: out of work.’

Stella fiddled with a strand of her fairish, wavy hair. ‘Mm, I suppose you have a point. I met this guy who described himself as sensitive, and he turned out downright moody. And another said he was thoughtful, but “dull and utterly boring” was a damned sight nearer the mark.’

‘Yes,’ said Eric, warming to his theme. ‘“Caring”: soppy; “scrumptious”: vain; “free-spirited”: unruly; “home-loving” agoraphobic”.’

With a sudden laugh, Stella began joining in herself. ‘“Spontaneous”: tactless; “entrepreneur”: crook; “fun-loving”: vacuous; “no baggage”: stony-broke.’

‘“Family-oriented”: mother of six; “down-to-earth”: uncouth; “
curvaceous
”: hugely fat.’

‘Come off it, Eric, I used “curvaceous” myself.’

‘Sorry! I forgot. You
are
curvaceous, Stella – in the true meaning of the word.’

‘You can lay off the flattery, thank you very much! Anyway, it got me quite a few replies.’

‘Yes, but neither of us have met anyone remotely suitable.’

‘What d’you mean, “neither of us”? You’ve only had one date so far;
I’ve
had seventeen.’

He reached for his packet of crisps; crunched a couple despondently. ‘Frankly, I’ve lost heart, Stella, after the fiasco with Olivia.’

‘That was your own fault. I told you – twice – on no account to invite anyone to dinner.’

‘She invited herself.’ He was forced to raise his voice above ‘Silent Night’. Hardly silent. The large party in the corner – office revellers, by the looks of them – were whooping and guffawing, and had just started pulling crackers, shrieking with excitement at every little bang.

‘Well, you should have made some excuse, just settled for a quick drink after work.’

If only. The final bill, paid by him in total, and including service and three desserts for Olivia, had come to
£
325. Which meant none of his friends or colleagues would be getting much for Christmas beyond a card or calendar.

‘If you go to a restaurant, you can get stuck with someone for hours, even if it’s obvious you’re not going to hit it off. So, best to meet in a bar, order one quick beer, then scat within the first ten minutes if you can see the vibes are wrong. Still, I admit you were unlucky with Olivia – you clearly met a weirdo.’

Another pang of guilt. Perhaps he’d been unfair – too critical,
judgemental
. There was a school of thought that believed greed was simply fear of scarcity, often associated with a lack of parental love. For all he knew, Olivia might have had a history not unlike his own.

‘To be honest, I’m plain jealous of the woman. I mean, from what you say, she can stuff herself, yet not put on a single pound in weight.’

He glanced at Stella, who, despite her buxom breasts and ample thighs, seemed to exist on little more than cottage cheese, with the occasional bar of chocolate as a treat. As usual, she had refused to share his crisps; declined his offer of a sandwich or scotch egg. Of course, he had no idea what she ate in private, and he’d learned long ago that most people had a secret life, sometimes totally at variance with the façade presented to the world.

‘Anyway, just because you drew a blank the first time, doesn’t mean there aren’t loads of decent women, panting for a date with you.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘But you won’t attract them without a punchy headline. “A great catch!” – or something on those lines.’

‘I’m not a great catch.’

‘You
are
, Eric! If only you could see it. You’re loyal, honest, generous and passionate about your job.’

‘Try telling that to Trevor!’

‘We’re not talking about Trevor. I’ve told you – twice – forget about work and think about a headline. How about “Last of the Lost Romantics”?’

‘No fear! They’ll be expecting Byron.’

‘OK, “Nothing ventured”. Brief but enigmatic.’

He shook his head. The word ‘venture’ was risibly inappropriate for a coward on his scale.

‘God, you’re hard to please! I know – try a bit of humour. “Lowbrow Scrabble-Player Seeks”—’

‘“Lowbrow” will only pull in all the air-heads.’

‘Well, go the other way. “The Thinking Woman’s Crumpet”.’

‘I’m no one’s crumpet, Stella – more a stale old crust, fit only for the feathered kind of birds.’

‘Stop putting yourself down. It’s entirely self-defeating.’

‘OK, I’m a paragon. But I also happen to be forty-four – which you said yourself was ancient. In fact, half my life is over – maybe more. Do you realize, according to life-insurers, every eight years we’re twice as likely to die.’ Tom Jones, he mused, was sixty-eight. On the radio last night, the singer had been boasting that, when he performed, women still flung their knickers on to the stage, along with their hotel-door-keys. Closing his eyes a moment, he imagined himself taking the applause, picking up the knickers, inserting keys into rows and rows of doors.

‘Don’t be so morbid, Eric. And, by the way, I hope you’re updating your Facebook profile every couple of days. You have to try all avenues, you know.’

Facebook left him cold – all those people bragging about their thousands of friends, when the whole point about friends was that they
didn’t
come in thousands. Friendship wasn’t a matter of competitive acquisition, but required personal commitment, loyalty, unselfishness. ‘I reckon most of them are pseuds – or “clicksters”, as I like to call them.’

‘“Clicksters”?’

‘Yes, to rhyme with tricksters. One click and they bag a new friend – except it’s
not
a friend, nothing like.’

‘You need to be more adventurous in general,’ Stella continued, ignoring his interruption, ‘strike up conversations with women in the launderette or supermarket.’

‘What, and get arrested for sexual harassment?’ The woman in his local launderette was eighteen stone, with acne. He watched a group of girls troop in, all mouth-wateringly young and pretty. Having jostled their way to the bar, they stood giggling and chatting, waiting to be served. If he were a sheik and this was his harem, which one would he choose to pleasure him tonight? Easy – the redhead in the skin-tight jeans.

‘D’you think I’m too old for jeans?’ he asked Stella, with a worried glance at his own legs.

‘No one’s too old for jeans.’

Did Tom Jones still wear them, he wondered, although it was the
other
Tom Jones who had always been his hero – the eighteenth-century literary one. He kept the reason dark, of course, like so much else in his life.

Stella was looking at him critically. ‘But perhaps you could do with some help with your wardrobe.’

‘I don’t have a wardrobe any more. There isn’t room for one in my flat.’

She didn’t appear to be listening; her gaze travelling from his sweater to his shoes. Was the sweater too bright; were the shoes uncool?

‘Actually, you might really push the boat out and make an appointment with a dating coach.’

‘A what?’

‘Someone who helps you show yourself at your best.’

‘Stella,
you’re
my dating coach and, much as I appreciate your efforts, frankly one is more than enough. I mean, all that stuff you told me about body-posture. I practised it at home and got so hung up, I even embarrassed the cat! In fact, I used her for the eye-contact thing – gazed into her eyes, like you said to do with a woman – and she was out the window in one minute flat.’

‘Cats don’t count.’

‘They’re easier. At least, dear old Charlie loves me, whatever my
body-posture
.’

‘Well, if you
want
to spend Christmas alone with your cat …’

‘OK, you win! I’ll update my profile tomorrow and you won’t recognize
me, Stella. I’ll be vivacious, sparky, tactile, vibrant, athletic, classy,
scrumptious
and free-spirited.’

‘Great! Only I’d play down the “athletic”. You might attract a female jogger who expects you to run ten miles with her before you both start work. And, listen, talking of Christmas, you’re more than welcome to join us in Ibiza. One of our party has just dropped out, so you’d be doing us a favour. I know you’re short of cash, but it really is dirt-cheap.’

Eric played for time, spinning out his last few inches of beer. How could he reveal to Stella that he had never, ever, been on a plane, and didn’t intend to start? Forget vibrant, sparky, free-spirited – a wimp and a coward would be closer to the truth. But dating sites avoided any mention of phobias or fears. OK to list your hobbies, your politics, your star-sign, but not the things that brought you out in a cold sweat. ‘Er, can I let you know?’

‘’Course. But don’t leave it too long.’ Stella fumbled in her holdall and withdrew a Waterstone’s bag. ‘Listen, Eric, don’t be offended, but I’ve bought you a little present.’

‘Why should I be offended?’ Opening the bag, he read the title aloud: ‘
Teach Yourself Flirting
. Oh, I see,’ he murmured, crestfallen.

‘It’s by this guy who calls himself a date-doctor and it’s full of quite fantastic tips. I thought it might be useful, because it deals with things like the shrinking-violet syndrome and what he calls desperitis.’

‘Oh,’ he said again, feeling seriously deflated. Shy he might be, but hardly a shrinking violet – and hardly desperate, either. Besides,
could
you teach yourself flirting? He had once tried to learn to tango from a book containing diagrams of feet, but had failed to get as far as Lesson Two. ‘Another drink?’ he offered – a bid to make amends to Stella for his obvious lack of enthusiasm about her choice of gift.

‘No, better not. Every one of these’ – she pointed to her glass – ‘is at least another hundred calories. Anyway, I must push off. There’s a load of stuff I need to prepare for tomorrow.’

‘OK,’ he said, disappointed. Despite the seasonal excesses – a
maddeningly
jaunty
Good King Wenceslas
was now trilling out, full-volume – he much preferred this cosy pub and Stella’s company to his lonely, chilly flat. On the other hand,
he
had homework, too: he had to teach himself to flirt in sixteen challenging chapters.