Broken Places by Wendy Perriam Read Free Book Online Page B

nothing to do with trains. But, even if he worked through all the given cures, it didn’t change the depressing fact that to find an intelligent, attractive woman, with compatible views on politics, religion and general philosophy of life, would be little short of a miracle.
    Wandering on, he all but collided with the black girl, and racked his brains for something riveting to say beyond a flustered ‘Sorry!’ He must be more adventurous, strike up conversations, as Stella had advised, but there were other people in earshot – three teenaged girls, helping sweep the paths,and a young lad with a wheelbarrow. Did he really want the whole gang of them listening to his chat-up lines? They were all busy talking, anyway; exchanging jokes and banter; a little community in themselves, with a shared purpose and sense of belonging.
    Far from astounding them with his conversational flair, he managed to get in the way of the wheelbarrow and was jabbed sharply in the leg. ‘Sorry,’ he gasped again, removing himself to the far end of the site – an area planted with flowers and vegetables, with allotment-plots beyond. The cabbages and carrots and cheerful marigolds brought a surge of regret for his much-missed Kingston garden. It had given him such satisfaction to keep it neat and tidy; grow dead-straight rows of lettuces and beans; pounce on any weed or other threat to its good order. Order was essential when one had grown up in a state of chaos.
    ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘You’re here to search for Charlie, not indulge in self-pity.’ And since he hadn’t seen a sign of the cat, he’d better push off home – although ‘home’ was hardly the word. It didn’t feel like home – never had, never would. The bars on the windows seemed to turn it into a prison; he a lifer in solitary confinement.
    ‘Come off it! You’re lucky to have a place to live at all – and one so conveniently central.’
    The black girl was looking at him curiously – and no wonder, when he was talking to himself. He’d better get the hell out of here, before he was locked up as a mental case.
    As he retraced his steps and turned into the street, he spotted a child’s red wool glove, waterlogged in a puddle in the gutter. On impulse, he retrieved it; shook and squeezed it dry. Erica had gloves like that, and he could almost feel her firm, woolly grip as she clasped her hand in his. Yet how limp and lonesome the glove looked. Things should be in pairs.
    By the time he reached his flat, the rain was slackening off – although that didn’t mean to say he wasn’t drenched. He didn’t bother to change, however, but just sat in his cramped kitchen with a consoling cup of tea. Dusk had already fallen, although basement flats were always pretty gloomy, even in the daytime. The big advantage, however, was that Charlie had access to the garden – access forbidden to him , since it belonged to the ground-floor tenants, whom, in fact, he very rarely saw. Those on the first and second floors were more in evidence: one couple prone to shouting-matches and the other engaged in non-stop DIY.
    Still, now it was as quiet as the grave, which only underlined Charlie’sabsence. He missed her rumbling purr; her little mews of pleasure when he spooned food into her bowl; the way she scrabbled at the door when she wanted to go out. How could he tell Erica that Charlie had gone missing? – not that she was likely to ring. The divorce settlement had stipulated regular phone-calls, along with a raft of other measures to ensure they remained in contact, including a six-week stay in England every summer. This first year of her absence, though, the long-awaited visit had failed to come about, as she’d been stricken with glandular fever for most of her vacation. And, in the last few weeks, even the letters and the phone-calls appeared to be tailing off. He wrote, of course, every week; emailed almost daily, and rang whenever possible, but