The Keeper of Lost Things(64)
“How could I resist? I’m just thankful that Ma and Pa aren’t around to witness the whole ruddy circus. Especially what with Ma being the chairwoman of the local Women’s Institute.”
Bomber chuckled to himself at the thought of it, but then donned a more appropriately serious expression for his next question.
“Now, I’m almost afraid to ask, but I probably need to know. Is it terribly . . . explicit?”
Eunice let out a hoot of derision.
“Explicit?! Remember that time when Bruce was here ranting on about that Peardew chap and lecturing us on the key components of a bestseller?”
Bomber nodded.
“And he told us, and I quote, that the sex should never be too ‘outré’?”
Bomber nodded again, more slowly this time.
“Well, unless he and Brunhilde are far more adventurous in the carnal compartment of their marriage than we ever gave them credit for, and that informs his definition of ‘outré,’ I think he’s changed his mind.”
Bomber placed his hands on the small wooden box that stood next to Douglas’s on his desk and warned:
“Cover your ears and don’t listen to this, Baby Jane.”
Eunice smiled a little sadly and continued.
“One of Harriet’s customers has sex with a breadmaking machine, another lusts after women with beards, hairy backs, and ingrowing toenails, and yet another has his testicles bathed in surgical spirit and then stroked with the mane of a My Little Pony. And that’s only chapter two.”
Bomber picked up the book from its wrappings and opened the front cover to be greeted by a glossy photograph of his sister wearing a self-satisfied smile and a silk negligee. He snapped it shut again with a resounding thump.
“Well, at least she didn’t simply steal someone else’s plot wholesale this time. She did make some of it up herself.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Eunice.
The next day all thoughts of Portia were purged by the glittering aquamarine waves and warm, salty wind of Brighton seafront. It was the “annual outing,” and this was the first without Douglas or Baby Jane. They had been coming every year since Eunice’s twenty-first birthday trip with Bomber, and the day followed a familiar pattern that had been fine-tuned over the years to provide enjoyment and entertainment to all members of their small party. First they walked along the promenade. In the past, when Douglas and then Baby Jane had accompanied them, the dogs had gloried in the compliments and cosseting of passersby that they inevitably attracted. Then a visit to the pier and an hour frittered away on the flashing, clanging, jangling slot machines. Then lunch of fish and chips and a bottle of pink fizz, and finally the Royal Pavilion. But as they strolled toward the pier, other worries were washing away Eunice’s happiness. Bomber had asked her twice in the space of ten minutes if they’d been there before. The first time, she hoped he was joking, but the second time she looked at his face and her world tipped sharply on its axis when she saw an expression of innocence and genuine inquiry. It was horribly, gut-wrenchingly familiar. Godfrey. He was following his father’s painful footsteps to a destination Eunice couldn’t bear to think about. So far, it was barely noticeable; a hairline crack in his solid, dependable sanity. But Eunice knew that in time he would be as vulnerable as a name written in the sand at the mercy of an incoming tide. As yet, Bomber seemed unaware of his gentle unravelings. Like petit mals, he passed through them blithely oblivious. But Eunice lived them all, second by second, and her heart was already breaking.
The colored lights and bells and buzzers of the pier’s amusement arcade welcomed them in to waste their money. Eunice left Bomber standing by a two-penny slot machine, watching lanes of tightly packed coins shunting back and forth to see which would tip over the edge, while she went to fetch some change. When she returned, she found him, like a lost child, coin in hand, staring at the coin slot on the machine but completely unable to fathom the connection between the two. Gently, she took the coin from him and dropped it into the slot, and his face lit up as he watched a pile of coins tip and fall, rattling into the metal tray beneath.
The rest of the day passed happily and uneventfully. For the first time, as they were without a canine companion, they were able to sample the exotic delights of the Pavilion interior together, where they oohed and aahed their amazement at the chandeliers and clucked their disgust at the spit roaster in the kitchen which was originally driven by an unfortunate dog. As they sat on a bench in the gardens, basking in the coral light of the late afternoon sun, Bomber took Eunice’s hand and let out a sigh of blissful contentment Eunice remembered to treasure.
“This place is utterly fabulous.”
CHAPTER 41
The navy-blue leather glove belonged to a dead woman. Not the most promising of starts for the Keeper of Lost Things. The day after the website launched, a retired reporter had e-mailed. For many years she had worked for the local newspaper and she remembered it well. It was the first proper news item she had covered.
It made the front page. The poor woman was only in her thirties. She threw herself in front of a train. The train driver was in a terrible state, poor bloke. He was new to his job too. He’d only been driving solo for a couple of weeks. Her name was Rose. She was ill; what they called bad nerves back then. I remember she had a little girl; such a pretty little thing. Rose had a picture of her in her coat pocket. They printed it in the paper with the story. I wasn’t very comfortable with that, but I was overruled by the editor. I went to her funeral. It was a gruesome business altogether; not much of a body left to bury. But the photo was still in the pocket of her coat and she was only wearing one glove. It’s such a small detail, but it seemed so poignant. And it was so cold that night. That must be why I’ve remembered it for all these years.