Broken Places by Wendy Perriam Read Free Book Online Page A

fact he was a lot less wet than Zack, who had neither coat nor anorak.
    All at once, an exotic hen with a pompommed head was being thrust into his arms, the creature squawking in alarm and scrabbling with its scaly feet. But barely had he time to calm it, when Zack seized it back and moved him on, clearly determined to fulfil his role as guide.
    ‘See those brown hens by the fence? They’re Polish.’
    ‘Really? All the way from Poland?’
    ‘Not Poland – Italy. They come from near the River Po. And, by the way, you may not know that chickens are the closest living relative to Tyrannosaurus Rex.’
    Zack would be useful in the library, Eric thought: a mine of information, to help with customers’ enquiries.
    ‘And those are our ponies,’ Zack continued, pointing to a row of heads peering over the stable doors. ‘You’re not allowed in there, unless you’ve paid for riding, but if you cross the yard, you can see the calves and pigs and goats and things. Enjoy your visit!’
    Eric found himself doing as he was told. Although little more than eight or nine, Zack had a persuasive manner and was quite the seasoned professional . Enjoy your visit, indeed!
    His spirits fell, however, as he saw another man, with a small girl in tow, preceding him along the path. Fathers with their children always induced in him a pang of loss and longing. Even if the fellow was divorced, like him, he still had his daughter with him – maybe living close; not separated by the vast Atlantic Ocean and a cruel, uncaring landmass. Not that the guy seemed grateful for the privilege; rather distracted and impatient as he yanked the girl roughly by the hand, and told her off for splashing through the puddles.
    ‘Dad, what are those?’ she asked, as the pair stopped at a large outdoor pen, shared by various animals and birds.
    ‘I told you – twice – they’re goats.’
    ‘What’s goats?’
    ‘Goats are goats, Jane. Don’t be daft. And can’t you hurry up? We should have stayed indoors in the dry, not come out on a shitty day like this.’
    Go back indoors then, Eric all but said, and I’ll look after your kid – although I’ll change her name to Erica. It had always struck him as a miracle, not just to have a child, after a boyhood with no family at all, but a child named after him; bearing his own name, give or take an ‘a’.
    As the girl and her father moved on, a small female goat came lolloping over, put its feet up on the fence and shoved its nose into his hand. As he fondled its white head, it went into instant transports of pleasure, arching its back and trying to nuzzle against his chest. A pity, Eric speculated, I wasn’t born a ram, then I’d have more success with females. The goat was even making eye-contact; its yellow eyes fixed adoringly on his.
    Reluctantly parting from his new conquest, he inspected the next enclosure , where a large ruffled turkey suddenly stretched out its long neck and made a noise like water gurgling down a drain. Eric turned his back. There were enough reminders of Christmas without a turkey adding to the chorus. His last twelve Christmases had been built around Erica – food, presents, decorations, tree: all done in her honour. This Christmas was just eighteen days away. He’d better volunteer; help out at a shelter for the homeless, or a Salvation Army centre, if only to distract himself.
    Lost in thought, he had completely failed to notice the large, spotted pig in front of him; a handsome beast, with bristly fur and a moist grey snout, munching enthusiastically; its mouth wide open and spraying bits of food all over the place. Olivia , he thought, leaning over the fence to watch the porcine glutton. Would he ever meet the right person (barring goats)? He’d read all 200 pages of Stella’s Flirting book, but had done little more, so far, than diagnose himself with various so-called dating illnesses: ‘Rejectaphobia’, ‘Stranger Danger’ and ‘Signal Failure’ – the last