The Keeper of Lost Things(13)

He had spoken to Laura that afternoon, but he still hadn’t told her that he was leaving. He meant to, but one look at her worried face and the words had dissolved in his mouth. Instead, he had told her about Therese and she had wept for them both. He had never seen her cry before. It wasn’t at all what he had intended. He wasn’t looking for sympathy or, God forbid, pity. He was just trying to give her a reason for what he was about to do. But at least her tears were testament to the fact that he had made the right choice. She was able to feel the pain and joy of others and give them value. Contrary to the impression that she often gave, she wasn’t a mere spectator of other people’s lives; she had to engage. Her capacity to care was instinctive. It was her greatest asset and her greatest vulnerability; she had been burned and he knew it had left a mark. She had never told him, but he knew anyway. She had made a different life, grown a new skin, but somewhere there was a hidden patch, still red and tight and puckered, and sore to the touch. Anthony stared at the photograph that lay on the pillow next to him. There were no smudges on the glass or frame. Laura saw to that. She cared for every part and piece of the house with a pride and tenderness that could only be born from love. Anthony saw all of this in Laura and knew that he had chosen well. She understood that everything had a value far greater than money; it had a story, a memory, and most importantly a unique place in the life of Padua. For Padua was more than just a house; it was a safe place to heal. A sanctuary for licking wounds, drying tears, and rebuilding dreams—however long it took. However long it took a broken person to be strong enough to face the world again. And he hoped that by his choosing her to finish his task, it might set Laura free. For he knew she was in exile at Padua—comfortable and self-imposed, but an exile nonetheless.

Outside, the storm was spent and the garden washed clean. Anthony undressed and crept beneath the cool embracing covers of the bed that he had shared with Therese for one last time. That night, the dream stayed away and he slept soundly until dawn.





CHAPTER 8


Eunice


1975

Bomber grabbed Eunice’s hand and gripped it tightly as Pam recoiled in horror at the rather unusual furniture. It appeared to be made from human bones. She turned to flee but the grumpy Leatherface caught her, and just as he was about to impale the poor girl on a meat hook, Eunice woke up.

They had been to see The Texas Chain Saw Massacre the previous evening and had both been truly horrified. But it wasn’t a nightmare that had broken Eunice’s sleep. It was a dream come true. She climbed out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, where she smiled happily at her slightly rumpled reflection. Bomber had held her hand. Only for a moment, but he had actually held her hand.

Later that morning, on the way to the office, Eunice warned herself to be careful. Yes, Bomber was her friend, but he was also her boss, and she still had a job to do. At the green door on Bloomsbury Street, Eunice paused for a moment and took a deep breath before galloping up the stairs. Douglas rattled over to greet her with his usual enthusiasm, and Bomber called out from the kitchen,

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Eunice sat down at her desk and began sorting studiously through the post.

“Sleep well?”

Bomber thumped a steaming mug down in front of her, and to her horror Eunice felt herself blushing.

“That’s the last time I let you choose the film,” he continued, oblivious to, or perhaps kindly ignoring, her embarrassment.

“I didn’t sleep a wink last night, even though I had Douglas to protect me, and I kept the bedside lamp on!”

Eunice laughed as she felt her red face returning to its usual color. Bomber always managed to make her feel comfortable. The rest of the morning passed as easily as usual, and at lunchtime Eunice went out to fetch sandwiches from Mrs. Doyle’s. As they sat together eating cheese and pickle on granary bread and looking out of the window, Bomber remembered something.

“Didn’t you say that it was your birthday next Sunday?”

Eunice suddenly felt hot again.

“Yes. It is.”

Bomber passed a piece of cheese to Douglas, who was drooling hopefully at his feet.

“Are you doing anything fabulous?”

That had been the original plan. Eunice and Susan, her best friend from school, had always said that to celebrate their twenty-first birthdays, which were only days apart, they would go to Brighton for the day. Eunice had never been fond of parties, and her parents were happy to pay for the trip instead of hiring a hall with a bar and hirsute disco DJ. But Susan had found herself a boyfriend, a David Cassidy doppelg?nger who worked in Woolworths’s, and he had apparently planned a surprise for her birthday. She had been very apologetic, but chose new love over her oldest friendship, nonetheless. Eunice’s parents had offered to come with her instead, but that wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind. Bomber was distraught on her behalf.

“I’ll come!” he volunteered. “That is, if you don’t mind your aged boss tagging along.”

Eunice was thrilled. But tried very hard not to show it.

“Okay. I suppose I could cope with that.” She grinned. “I just hope you’ll be able to keep up with me!”

On Saturday morning Eunice went to the hairdressers for a cut and blow-dry, and a manicure. In the afternoon, having checked Sunday’s weather forecast for the umpteenth time, she tried on virtually every item of clothing in her wardrobe, in every conceivable combination. She eventually decided on a pair of purple high-waisted flared trousers, a flower-printed blouse, and a purple hat with a huge, floppy brim to complement her newly purpled nails.