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The plane landed at five-thirty in the morning. Customs wasn’t the aggressive nightmare I’d been led to believe (but this had come from Simon, who, Lord love him, does sport the kind of beard that has customs agents reaching for the snappy gloves), and after a brief scrimmage through the crowds waiting for loved ones who weren’t me, I found myself in the airport proper. It was now twenty-five past six. I’d been told that the Heathrow Express would take fifteen minutes to drop me at Paddington and from there it would be, at this early hour, no more than twenty minutes by cab to Islington. I had arranged to meet my new landlord — landlady, I suppose, although that conjured up a vision of housecoats, cabbage and disapproval — at nine o’clock. So by my jet-lagged calculation, that left me with two hours to kill.
I considered spending it in the airport, but the entire place seemed to be dedicated to funnelling you into the exit chutes as quickly as possible. And there were soldiers with machine guns. I’d never seen machine guns in the flesh, so to speak. They made me feel guilty and anxious, even though I knew that all I had in my jolly orange wheely-case was a sponge bag and as many clothes as I could fit, and in the backpack I took on board a flight pillow shaped like a Polish sausage and all four volumes of Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time, which had proved heavy going in more ways than one. I decided to catch the Heathrow Express and see what Paddington Station had to offer.
The answer was an ethereally brilliant vaulted glass roof and a few half-decent snack bars, but nowhere I’d feel comfortable sitting for two hours. Stations and airports are the places between. They’re neither where you’ve come from nor where you want to go. I found myself a cab and asked him to take me to any café within walking distance of my new home that would be open by the time we got there.
When we stopped, my heart sank. Two minutes earlier, we’d zipped into a big street lined with shops and restaurants, and busy with vehicles and commuters now that the working day had properly begun. But then we’d hurtled off down a side street, where there was nothing but slightly grubby terrace dwellings and, on one corner, a rather forbidding-looking school. The school down the end of my street back home had low wooden fences, a wide-open entranceway and a big, well-kept grass field. This school had a cracked concrete court and bars on the windows.
At that corner, the taxi had turned sharp left and braked only seconds later. We pulled into a small cul-de-sac parallel to the main road, a piece of waste ground in front of us and a row of dingy shops beside us, culminating in what did appear to be a very small café. On the main road were more terraced houses and what looked like a huge council estate. The only vaguely attractive building anywhere was a church a little way up the road, alone on a scrubby island of green, sheltered by a few nice trees. I realized that if the taxi driver had got it right, my new house must be close by. I began to wonder what I’d let myself in for.
‘You’re dahn there,’ said the driver. I had felt the need to make nervous chat on the way, and as a result had told him where I was going to live. He was pointing down a small side street off the main road, lined by a short row of terraced houses on one side and the massed squat blocks of council estate on the other. The houses looked neat enough. So for that matter did the estate. Which made me feel half a degree better.
‘It used to be bleedin’ rough, that estate,’ said my driver, who was clearly straight out of Central Casting for the role of wry, street-wise Cockney. ‘It’s been cleaned up. Notser bad now. And ’ere’s the caff,’ he added, nodding to our left. ‘Pair of Eye-talians. They do a good brew.’
‘Are you from around here?’ I asked.
He turned. He was in his early fifties, grey hair smoothed back in a thinning Teddy-boy quiff, skin roughened and yellowed by years of dedicated smoking. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder.
‘I might ’ave been one of the reasons they needed to ’ave a clean-up,’ he grinned. ‘But I came right in the end. Want a hand with yer bags?’
I hesitated a fraction and his grin widened. ‘Like I said, it’s notser bad now. You won’t ’ave any trouble.’
But as the cab rumbled away, I could see he’d stopped grinning and was now laughing. For that reason, I eyed up his choice of ‘caff’ with some mistrust. Its entrance was a flap in a plastic tent-like arrangement attached to the front of the building. Then tent’s purpose was obviously to provide shelter for the small number of tables within it. Presumably in summer, it was taken down. Or not — I’d heard that British summers were notoriously crap. It was early May now and the forecast was for about thirteen degrees. The temperature had a fair way to go before it reached that.
It occurred to me that I was both cold and starving. New Zealand was twelve hours ahead so seven o’clock meant dinnertime. And in three hours it would be bedtime. In truth, after close to thirty hours traveling, I wanted to go to bed right now. But it would be another two hours before I could meet my landlady. I wheeled my jolly orange bag into the café and ordered a strong double espresso and big fat ham and cheese croissant.
Of course, when I looked around properly, I saw there were no free tables. There weren’t many tables to start off with and all of them already held one or two people. At the back, near the door to the bathroom, there was a table for four, with only one man at it, sitting in typical man fashion with the newspaper up in front of his face. I dithered for a moment, but decided I was too frazzled to be unselfish. I strode up to the table and pulled out a chair. One corner of the newspaper was lowered, and a dark brown eye appeared, its eyebrow raised in enquiry.
‘Can I sit here?’ I said.
‘Sure.’ The voice was gruff and deep, but seemed friendly enough in a neutral, ‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s’ kind of way.
The newspaper went back up. I sat down. My coffee came, delivered with a smile and a ‘Buon giorno’ by what I deduced was one of the ‘Eye-talians’. He was in his late forties, balding, nice looking. I decided I liked him.
I also liked his café. Now that I had time to look around, I could see it was a deli, too, its floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with pasta and olives, canned tomatoes and boxes of panettone, bottles of wine, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. There was a gelato freezer and a counter full of fresh-made baking, salads and pasta dishes. My heart lifted a degree more. This was quite civilized really. A civilized wee oasis surrounded by crud.
My croissant came. I’d ordered it toasted, and it was golden warm and oozing with cheese. Too ravenous for the niceties of knife and fork, I picked it up and stuffed it in my mouth. It was delicious, and I may have given a little moan of pleasure because there was a rustle and the newspaper was lowered again. I found myself face to face with two brown eyes and eyebrows now knitted in a frown.
I brushed stray buttery crumbs off my cheeks. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Starving.’
But my table companion was staring at my croissant, not at me. He muttered something that I could have sworn was ‘Fucking unfair’.
‘Excuse me?’
He stared at me, still frowning. ‘Bacon?’ he demanded.
I checked. ‘No. Definitely ham.’
‘Mmph.’
He raised the paper again. Clearly that was the end of what could hardly be called a conversation. I glanced around to see if there were any free tables, but there were none, and there was a constant stream of people in and out the door. I got the impression that this timeslot belonged to the pre-work crowd, the lucky ones able to sit for a while, others with longer journeys or earlier clocking-in times stopping only to grab a cup of coffee and a paper bag of something to keep them going. I imagined that around eight-thirty the work crowd would start to thin. And then who would come in? Too early for mothers and babies — they’re more mid-morning if my friends who’ve bred have told me right. Who then?
I finished my croissant and surreptitiously picked up all the crumbs with a dampened fingertip. I checked my watch. Barely seven-thirty! An hour and a bloody half to go! The shops wouldn’t be open and after my conversation with the cabbie, I didn’t feel safe wheeling my suitcase around the neighbourhood. I guessed I could always smack any mugger across the head with my book-laden backpack — probably the most enjoyment I’d get out of the Dance quartet — but decided I wasn’t keen to put that theory to the test.
It made me think about my last conversation with my parents. It was at their house — after I left home, they’d bought a newer, smaller place. It is very tidy and everything matches, including my parents. There is one spare room, but it will never be for guests. My parents don’t do guests. My mother is the kind of person who has guest soaps that remain intact and unused for decades. My mother dusts her guest soaps.
Anyway, I digress. My parents took my news well. I suppose they had little choice; I am thirty-four after all, not seventeen. But they weren’t thrilled. My mother said, ‘Well, I imagine security is much tighter now since those last bombings.’ My father said, ‘I do anticipate that the New Zealand dollar will fall still further against the pound. But I expect you have made provision for a suitable financial buffer.’ Then he offered me a dry sherry. As you can probably guess, I accepted. I may even have downed it in one gulp . . .
I checked my watch again. Seven thirty-three. Sigh. I stared at the newspaper my table companion was holding up. I know it’s rude to read other people’s papers but it wasn’t as if he could see me, having erected The Great Wall of Guardian between us. But the headlines — every one of them — mentioned people I’d never heard of. I found that completely depressing. Not only did I have to start my own life from scratch, I had to get to know a whole different bunch of politicians, media people and minor celebrities. The page was like a code I had to figure out how to break before I had any chance of feeling as if I belonged here. I felt like sinking my forehead onto the table in despair. I would have, too, if there’d been enough room.
Suddenly, the paper was snapped up into brisk folds and slapped down onto the table. My companion was revealed as a broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties, with dark, close-cropped hair and a strong-featured, olive-skinned face. Not handsome as such — not handsome at all really, but attractive in the way that self-confident people are. He was wearing a smart black suit, a white shirt and plain blue-striped tie. He exuded affluence and impatience in equal measure. I could not even begin to guess what he did for a living. To be honest, he looked like the kind of shadowy underworld figure whose life would be turned into a movie starring Robert de Niro or, if budget was an issue, Ian McShane. In either case, there would be a dead pizza delivery boy and at least one ear-slicing scene.
Gangster-man, too, was checking his watch. He blew out a breath, as if it was nowhere near the time he’d hoped it was. Then, to my consternation, he looked right at me.
‘I could go home,’ he said. ‘But then I’d have to come back. Which would be a waste of fucking time.’
He sounded just like the cab driver — straight out of EastEnders. In my mind, Ian McShane just lost the role to Ross Kemp.
‘I see . . .’
‘I can’t order another coffee because it’s bad for my nerves and I can’t order any food worth eating because it’s bad for my arteries. How’s your cholesterol?’
‘I — have no idea.’
He wagged an admonitory finger at me. ‘You should do. That’s the problem. You think you’re young and invincible and then — whammo. You hit forty and you’re fucked. Always pays to get checked out early. You don’t want any nasty surprises. Death, for example. God’s ultimate I-fucking-told-you-s—’
He stopped short because he’d seen my face. Myself, I had no idea how I looked at moments like these; I was always too busy concentrating on just trying to breathe. But from his reaction, which was identical to that of many, many people before him, I suspected I went very pale, very quickly. There may also have been a light sheen of sweat. My palms certainly felt clammy enough.
‘Jesus,’ he said, wide-eyed. ‘What brought that on?’ He leaned forward with a frown. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
The surprise of it actually made me laugh. And I started to breathe again. ‘No!’
‘My wife’s pregnant. Five months. Her moods are — well, unpredictable doesn’t go halfway there. It’s like being stalked by a ninja assassin; one minute you’re whistling in the sunshine, the next you’re diving for cover into the nearest ditch. She cries at the drop of a hat. I can’t let her read the paper anymore, or watch the news. Someone gave her The Velveteen Rabbit at her baby shower and she started crying just looking at the cover. I hid it. I mean, God help us if she’d got all the way to the end.’
‘Congratulations,’ I managed to say. ‘About the baby, I mean.’
‘Yeah—’ He grinned, and went unexpectedly and rather charmingly pink. ‘Thanks.’ Then he frowned. ‘What did I say to I upset you?’
‘Oh—’ Now it was my turn to go pink. I avoided his eye. ‘No, I’m just jet-lagged—’
But then, of course, I reached for my coffee cup and sent it flying. I’d forgotten to give my hands time to stop shaking. There was hardly any coffee left, but it proved too much for the flimsy paper napkin, which instantly began to disintegrate. Even though it was futile, I kept on dabbing. Silently, my companion extracted a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.
It didn’t stay white for long. I glanced at the stained ball of cotton in my hand and bit my lip in apology.
He waved his hand briskly, impatiently. ‘Keep it.’ Then he said, ‘Jet-lag doesn’t usually send you into a funk like that. What’s up?’
Jeepers. I couldn’t decide if I found his directness irksome or a relief. But it was clear he wouldn’t give up until I answered. So I did—
‘My husband died.’
He sat back, surprised. ‘Accident?’
‘Duff heart. No one knew.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Quite a while. But I still get hit by—’ I went pink again. ‘I don’t know what they are really. I call them grief bombs.’
He stared at me. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That’s fucking terrible.’
Time for the awkward pause. It always came at this point. When the other person tried to think of a way to shift either the conversation to another topic — or themselves towards the door.
But then he said, ‘If Clare died, I’d go as far away as possible. Probably spend the rest of my life holed up in some cave in Azerbaijan, wallowing in misery and yak’s piss.’
‘Are there caves in Azerbaijan?’
He blinked at me, then grinned. ‘I have no fucking idea.’
He gestured at my empty cup. ‘Want another? Nerves say I shouldn’t but I say fuck ’em.’
I tested my own nerves and found them to have settled. I was, in fact, feeling remarkably chipper. For that, I believe I owed a big thank you to this large, strange man’s directness. Most people would sooner pluck out their eyeballs than talk about stuff like this. But then, I suspected that the man across the table wasn’t even a little bit like most people.
I smiled at him gratefully. ‘I’d love another. Thank you.’
When he stood up, I realized that he was not only broad but also very tall — at least six foot four, I’d have said. In his black suit, he was quite a formidable presence, but the Italian man at the counter greeted him with relaxed cheer and they chatted away. My companion was obviously a regular — and, I had to concede (with some disappointment) no gangster. There’d definitely be more cringing and nodding if he’d been dodgy. Also a pinkie ring.
My mind started to turn him into a character in a book. This is a terrible habit and one I need to watch. I only do it with people I don’t know very well and it’s for the best that we remain unacquainted — because I have met the odd person again and begun talking to them about something they’d done, only to realise that that something was a product entirely of my own invention and they didn’t have the first clue what I was on about. Quite embarrassing. Not to be recommended.
Hard to stop, though. Fantasising, I mean. By the time he returned to the table, I had mentally made him over so he now looked like a taller Henry Cavill, given him a murky past — how did he make his fortune? — and decided he was locked up emotionally, in denial about his deep love for an innocent, beautiful school teacher (Emilia Clarke with a bun and glasses). I was musing on a name for her — Clare wasn’t bad, but I was leaning towards something even more old-fashioned and intellectual, like Margaret—
He’d said something. I knew he had because he was looking at me both expectantly and a little askance. Lost in my own head, I had heard not a word, and was quite surprised to find he looked nothing like Henry Cavill.
‘Sorry?’
He continued. ‘I said, my wife was supposed to meet some bloke this morning, but she had to go to work instead and asked me to do it. I swore she said it was for eight o’clock, but she insists she told me nine. I’m not about to argue with her; I’m too attached to my parts. But only bacon and coffee are going to make it worth hanging round here any longer, worse fucking luck.’
A small bell rang. ‘Wait. Your wife is called Clare?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘I may be the bloke.’
He regarded me for a beat. ‘I can’t even—’
I stuck out my hand. ‘My name is Darrell. Unusual, I know. Not sure of my parents’ rationale, but there you go—’
He returned my handshake. ‘I’m Patrick. My parents were Irish. Don’t have to be Einstein to make that link.’
I clocked his dark hair and eyes and olive skin. ‘You don’t look very Irish.’
He hesitated a second. ‘Romani. Once known as Gypsies.’
‘Really? How romantic!’
‘If you classify dirt poor and socially untouchable as romantic, then — yeah.’
Mentally, I slapped myself. I could be a real moron sometimes.
He saved me by changing the subject. ‘So you’re OK to live with all the building work going on?’ It seemed more a question of my sanity than anything.
‘I can’t afford not to.’
He nodded. Despite his affluent appearance, I got the distinct feeling he knew exactly what it was like to count his pennies and find there simply weren’t enough.
‘You done with that coffee?’ he asked.
As he’d drained his in one mouthful and was already half out of his chair, my answer could only be ‘Yes.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the house.’
Then he lifted my wheely-case with one hand as if it were no heavier than his newspaper and headed to the door. I hurried behind him, trying to keep pace with his long strides. The nice Italian called after us, ‘Ciao. See you tomorrow.’
I’m sure he meant the man in front, his regular customer, and not me. But as I took a last glance over my shoulder at the small café, I wondered. If I came here again — who else might I meet . . .?
And then I realized a really big man had just taken my wheely-case and if I didn’t get a move on I mightn’t see either of them again.