A Year of Marvellous Ways by Sarah Winman Read Free Book Online

up and everything changed. Something wrong with her heart, that was what the doctor had said. But Drake knew there was nothing wrong with her heart. It was just too heavy so it broke.
    The sound of a brewer’s cart echoed in the mist as hoofs clopped their way across the bridge. Drake finished the remains of the bottle. He stood up groggily and threw it into the black river. He watched it bob briefly on the surface before the tide carried it down to Silvertown, to Wapping, to the open sea beyond. He felt spent. Fuckit, he was drunk, his stomach was on fire. He climbed back up to the streetlights above, to the sober majesty of St Paul’s Cathedral, to a cold lodging house with a garish painting of chrysanthemums above the bed.
    He stopped. Turned back for one last muzzy look.
    And that old dog of a river sighed.

7

    T he next day, Drake awoke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the room next door. Jesus, even the mornings were closing in. His head pounded, his tongue as rough as brick dust, his bowels hot with liquid. He stared at the blue flock wallpaper until he realised where he was. He picked up his wristwatch. Shit. He had slept past lunch.
    Are you still in there? shouted Mrs Marsh, her fist hammering against the door.
    Still here, Mrs Marsh, he mumbled.
    He paid for his room and headed to Paddington Station to try to salvage something of the day. He had decided to buy the train ticket first then find a room around the corner for an early start to Cornwall the following morning. That was about all he could manage. His hangover chewed at his brain like a rat and he felt the sticky wash of anxiety welcome him back.
    He had missed the busy hours of day-trippers and passed through the ticket hall with relative ease. Clouds of steam rose as a train came to a halt, and he stood back to let the passengers and porters pass. He looked up at the clock. It pointed to hunger so he made for the tearoom to his left.
    He had eaten little since breakfast the day before, and most of that had joined him on the deck of the car ferry. He asked the waitress for tea and a bacon roll and she noted his rudeness, said, A please wouldn’t hurt. God, if only she knew. He fumbled in his pockets for the right amount of money. He wasn’t rude, just economical with words. He was struggling not to slur, not to shake. It took both hands to get his tea over to a table without spilling it. It was strong and dark, English tea – the French couldn’t make tea – and he drank a mouthful straight away. He went back to the counter. Here, said the waitress. Your bacon roll, sir .
    Drake looked at her. He knew she didn’t like him, knew she wasn’t fooled by him. Not by the French clothes nor the peppermint breath. She knew what lay underneath that clammy sour sheen.
    Thank you, he said. And I’m sorry. Bad night.
    Bad morning by the looks of it.
    Bad everything, he said, and he managed a smile. Now that didn’t hurt, did it? he thought.
    He sat down and ate quickly. Watched the waitress clear the table opposite and his headache was momentarily soothed by the tilt of her breasts, by the rise and fall of her hips. She disappeared behind the counter and his sullen mood returned. He watched passengers tick-tock past the window and let himself be drawn into the hypnotic state of motion. He ate the last of his roll and lit a cigarette. He started to feel clearer.
    It was then that a blonde hurried by. It was brief but he caught her none the less, because she slowed as she passed, slowed to take in her reflection in the steamy glass. Not a moment of vanity, but a simple one of recognition, as if she was a ghost seeing herself with a body once again, seeing herself alive once again.
    Missy? Drake stood up and knocked over his tea. No, it couldn’t have been, God his head was so fucked. He righted his chair and tried to mop up the tea with his handkerchief. He sat back down, tried to get a grip. He lit another cigarette but stubbed it out straight away, it