The Keeper of Lost Things(68)

“I blew him a kiss,” she said, “and he caught it.”

The date on the umbrella’s label matched the exact day of Alice’s visit to Central Park and the umbrella was found on the sculpture. Laura was delighted.

“I think it must have been meant for you.”

“I really hope so,” said Alice.

For the rest of the day Carrot lay guarding the door of the shed, and Sunshine talked about her new friend Alice. Alice was at university studying English Litter Tour and Drama. Alice liked David Bowie, Marc Bolan, and Jon Bon Hovis. And “the lovely cup of tea” had been summarily supplanted by the Builder’s variety.

That evening over a late supper of spaghetti Bolognese, Laura told Freddy all about their visitor.

“It’s working, then,” said Freddy. “The website. It’s doing what Anthony wanted you to do.”

Laura shook her head.

“No. Not really. Not yet, anyway. Remember what the letter said: ‘If you can make just one person happy, mend one broken heart by returning to them what they have lost . . .’ And I haven’t done that yet. Of course Alice was pleased to find the umbrella, but we can’t be absolutely sure that it was meant for her. And the girl with the hair bobbles; her heart wasn’t exactly broken when she lost them.”

“Well, at least it’s a start,” said Freddy, pushing back his chair and getting up to take Carrot for a final stroll around the garden before bed. “We’ll get there in the end.”

But it wasn’t just about the lost things. There was the clue; the one that was so obvious once Sunshine had pointed it out. The thing that had started all this. Anthony had called it “the last remaining thread” that had bound him to Therese, and when he lost it on the day she died, that final thread was broken. If her Communion medal really was the key to reuniting Therese with Anthony, how on earth were they supposed to find it? Freddy had suggested that they post it on the website as a lost item needing to be found, but as they had no idea what it looked like or where Anthony had lost it, there was very little useful information that they could share.

Laura cleared the plates from the table. It had been a long day and she was tired. The satisfaction that she had felt after Alice’s visit had gradually dissipated only to be replaced by a familiar feeling of unease.

And in the garden room the music began again.





CHAPTER 44


Eunice


2013

In the residents’ lounge at Happy Haven the music began again. Mantovani’s “Charmaine.” Quietly at first, and then louder and louder. Too loud. Edie turned the volume up as high as it would go. Soon she would be gliding round the ballroom to the strings’ glissandos in a froth of net and sparkles. Her feet would spin and sweep in her best gold dancing sandals and the glittering lights would swirl around her like a snowstorm of rainbows.

As Eunice and Bomber passed through the lounge on the way to Bomber’s room, they saw a ragged bundle of nightclothes barely inhabited by a thin, whiskery old woman with a greasy straggle of gray hair and tartan slippers. She was stumbling round the room with her eyes closed and her arms lovingly wrapped around some invisible partner. Suddenly there was an explosion of sticks and expletives from one of the armchairs.

“Not again! Jesus fucking Christ and Jehovah! Not again! Not again! Not again!”

Eulalia had burst out of her chair cursing and thrashing.

“Not a-fucking-gain, you stupid, crazy, dirty bitch! Me just want a bit of peace!” she roared, flinging one of her sticks at the dancer, who had stopped in her tracks. The stick missed Edie by a mile, but she let out an anguished yowl as tears began to course down her cheeks and urine down her legs and into her slippers. Eulalia had struggled to her feet and was pointing with one of her claws.

“Now she piss herself! Piss her pants. Piss the floor,” she cackled furiously through spittle flecked lips. Eunice tried to move Bomber on, but he was frozen to the spot. Some of the other residents had begun shouting or crying, and others stared into the distance, oblivious. Or pretending to be. It took two members of staff to restrain Eulalia as Sylvia led poor Edie away. She was trembling and sniveling and dripping piss from the hem of her nightgown as she shuffled out miserably, clinging to Sylvia’s arm and wondering where on earth the ballroom had gone.

Back in the safety of Bomber’s room, Eunice made him a cup of tea. As she drank her own, she took in the new additions to Bomber’s growing collection of swag. He had begun stealing things; random items that he didn’t need. A vase, a tea cozy, cutlery, rolls of plastic bin bags, umbrellas. He never stole from the rooms of other residents, just from the communal areas. It was a symptom of his disease apparently. Petty theft. But he was losing things too. Thick and fast now he was losing words like a tree loses leaves in the autumn. A bed might be “a soft sleep square” and a pencil “a stick with gray middle writing coming out.” Instead of words, he spoke in clues, or more often now, not at all. Eunice suggested that they watch a film. It was all that was left of them now. Eunice and Bomber, who for so long had been colleagues and best friends. Bomber’s occasional boyfriends had come and gone, but Eunice was his constant. They were husband and wife without sex or certificate and these were the last paltry scraps of their once rich relationship; walking and watching films.

Bomber chose the film. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.