Читать книгу The Secrets of Sunshine - Phaedra Patrick - Страница 20

Mitchell was usually like a coiled spring, ready to take up his bolt cutters and get to work. However, today his movements were slower because of his sore back and aching limbs. He felt glum rather than determined when he saw all the locks stretching out in front of him. When he trudged over to Redford, he found Barry working there.

Barry cut through a shackle and kicked the lock across the pavement. He rubbed his neck and stared at his mobile phone before he noticed Mitchell. ‘I can’t work in this heat,’ he groaned. ‘Just look at the amount of locks now. We need a drastic solution here.’

Mitchell surveyed the railings and for the first time ever, the size of the task removing the locks felt overwhelming. ‘A stick of dynamite might be the only option,’ he said.

‘It’s all down to you and me, mate. Russ isn’t going to help us.’

The word impossible appeared in Mitchell’s head and he ordered it to go away. All he could do was set to work and keep going. ‘Do you have any spare bolt cutters I can use?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, but they’re a bit rusty. I’ve asked around about your missing toolbox, too, but no luck. We could stick a note to the railing and see if anyone replies. I’ve got paper, a pen and sticky tape.’

‘That’s very organized, for you.’

Barry shrugged self-consciously. ‘Tina the artist said I should try out some landscape drawing, but that’s not going to happen.’

As the two men walked along Redford, Mitchell glanced at the river, and a shiver ran down his spine. The water wasn’t gushing as quickly today, but it looked cold and gun-metal grey. He thought of Yvette Bradfield’s smile and the gold heart-shaped padlock glinting in her hands.

We did share a connection, didn’t we? How does she know me?

‘I found out the woman I helped is Liza Bradfield’s sister Yvette,’ he told Barry. ‘But she’s been missing for almost a year, and the family have no idea where she is.’

Barry blew from the corner of his mouth. ‘Wow. Mind blown.’

‘I know. And now Liza wants me to find Yvette’s lock. She hopes it might provide a clue to her sister’s whereabouts.’

‘Can’t they put something on Facebook?’

‘I think they want to keep things in the family.’

Barry stared at the thousands of locks on the railings. ‘Hmph, you’ve got no chance.’ He picked up a thick black pen and wrote on a piece of paper ‘Lost toolbox (shiny metal). Award for safe return.’ ‘We should add your phone number to this,’ he said.

‘My mobile’s not working, and I don’t want to put my home number.’

Barry rooted around in his toolbox and handed a gnarled plastic mobile to Mitchell. ‘It’s a spare one, a bit bashed, but it works okay. You may get calls from random women looking for dates. Not that it’s a bad thing.’

‘Yes, it is. And I’m still going to look for Yvette’s lock.’

Barry put his hand on his hip and looked around. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It’s easier than cutting them off, and I’ll tell you about Enid.’

‘Another lucky woman?’

Barry nodded proudly. ‘A dog stylist.’

‘I thought you didn’t like dogs.’

‘I like cats better, but she looks great in her photo.’

Mitchell moved the conversation on by describing Yvette’s lock to Barry. He tried to remember roughly where she’d fastened it.

‘At least it’s a different shape to the norm,’ Barry said as the two men crouched down on the pavement. They worked methodically, examining locks on a stretch of railing, one by one.

‘Are you sure we’ve got the right place?’ he asked after a while when they failed to find it.

Mitchell was beginning to doubt himself, too. ‘Let’s try further along.’

As he picked up another padlock, he became aware of someone standing behind him.

‘Are you him?’ a voice said. ‘The Hero on the Bridge? You look like him.’

Mitchell and Barry looked up to see a young woman clutching a fake Mulberry mustard-coloured satchel. She had an ice-blonde straight bob and wore a white blouse with a large bow at the neck. Plasters were stuck to the back of her heels, where her half-size-too-small designer court shoes had chafed.

Barry stood up and smoothed his hair. ‘Barry Waters,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘I meant him.’ She held her hand out towards Mitchell. ‘I’m Susan Smythe.’

Mitchell recognized her name from the online article. He straightened himself up and tentatively returned her handshake.

‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘Well, in training.’

He retracted his hand. ‘We don’t know anything about Word Up,’ he said dismissively. ‘We get asked about them all the time.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Susan’s eyes glistened as she took a tissue out of her satchel, giving her nose a blow.

‘Hay fever?’ Mitchell asked warily.

‘I’m gathering myself. I’m a bit, um… I’m rather upset.’

Barry took a step to the side. ‘Time for my break,’ he said and sidled away. ‘Catch you later.’

Mitchell waited for Susan’s sniffling to stop. She stuffed her tissue back into her satchel and moved the strap higher on her shoulder. ‘I wrote a piece about you for the Upchester News channel. Your name is Mitchell Fisher, right?’

He nodded reluctantly.

‘I recognized your, um…’ She eyed his face.

‘My courageous and dashing nature?’ he quoted from her article.

‘I was about to say your eyes. I came to give you something.’ She opened her satchel again and took out a batch of ten or so letters fastened together with a purple rubber band. ‘These. They arrived this morning. I, um…’ Her tissue reappeared, and she spoke to herself through clenched teeth. ‘All I want to do is come up with a great story, and I messed up. Again.’

Mitchell was surprised to feel a touch of paternal-like concern towards her. There was something about her determined demeanour that reminded him of Poppy. ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing of the sort.’

She gave him a self-depreciating smile. ‘My first week on the job, I spilled coffee on a politician. During the second week I got stuck in a traffic jam and missed an interview with Brad Beatty.’

‘Brad who?’

‘The lead singer of Word Up. For my triple whammy I wrote an article about you jumping from the bridge and didn’t include your name. I asked the general public to submit their stories and didn’t publish an email address. The news channel address was printed online, so people sent letters instead. And, here they are.’ She proffered them to him.

Mitchell thought of all the envelopes stuffed in his nightstand drawer and he raised a palm. ‘Thank you, but I have plenty of my own.’

Susan kept her hand outstretched. ‘My boss warned me not to mess up again. I thought you could help me out.’

‘Um, how?’

‘Perhaps by reading these letters and selecting a winner for the competition? They’re all addressed to you, anyway.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I want to move on from what happened.’

She gave a defeated sigh. ‘I suppose I’ll just throw them away, then. Or leave them on my boss’s desk, where he’ll use them as coasters. He’s more interested in the sport and crime stories.’

Mitchell glanced at the letters in her hand. He’d so enjoyed receiving the ones Anita sent him in the past. He wished he’d kept them to remind himself that she did love him, once. With some reluctance, he took the letters from Susan and hoped there weren’t any featuring red hearts among them.

The top envelope was textured and white, already opened, so he slid out the letter and read it.

Dear Sir/Madam,

My neighbour read your story about the heroic man on the redbrick bridge, and I felt compelled to write and tell you mine.

I was nineteen when I met Douglas and he was twenty-two. We met on the same red bridge, many years ago. The Second World War had just ended and the streets rang with cheering and laughter, as the entire city celebrated. Strangers kissed strangers and didn’t care who watched.

I first saw him standing in the middle of the bridge in his army uniform. He looked so handsome and tall, like a matinee idol. Our eyes met. He said hello and I smiled back. For a while we were like small birds, a little shy of each other. But then he took off his hat and scooped me into his arms. I’d never kissed a man before and my first time was definitely the most memorable.

Afterwards, Douglas apologized. ‘I got caught up in the moment,’ he said. ‘I usually treat ladies with respect.’ But I really didn’t mind. He insisted on walking me home and shook my father’s hand. ‘May I request your permission to take your daughter out one afternoon for tea, sir?’ he asked, and I tried not to smile, for we were already acquainted well.

My father was a kind man and he liked Douglas straightaway. When we eventually got engaged and married, he was delighted to have a new gentleman addition to the family. I wonder if he’d have felt the same if he had seen us kissing on the bridge!

My father died many years ago and Douglas passed on six months ago, God rest his soul. Today, I hung a padlock on the bridge in his memory. I’m almost blind now and use a cane, but I still felt Douglas beside me. ‘Chin up, old girl, give me a kiss,’ he said, and I laughed to myself. I suppose anyone who saw me must think me a foolish old woman, alone and chuckling. Yet inside I felt nineteen again, and there’s nothing foolish about that. At my age, it’s really rather lovely.

With kind regards,

Annie Rogerson (Mrs)

The letter in Mitchell’s hands felt heavy with a lifetime of love, something he and Anita would never get to experience. An ache rose in his chest that she’d never write to him again. She wouldn’t get to read his own apologetic words and his throat tightened. ‘It’s a fine letter,’ he managed to say. ‘What should I do with it?’

She shrugged at him. ‘It belongs to you now. You’re its keeper.’

‘I told you I have enough of them,’ he said and slipped it back with the others under the rubber band. ‘I am really busy.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘You jumped into the water to help someone. I thought you’d be a nice guy. It’s up to you, but it would help me out immensely.’

Mitchell thought of Anita again and shame bubbled inside him. She’d probably encourage him to do this. ‘This is only two days’ worth of letters, right?’ he confirmed. ‘More might arrive?’

‘I expect so.’

‘And you’d like me to read them all?’

Susan fiddled with the fastening on her satchel. ‘Only if you want to.’

Mitchell gave a small nod. ‘Well, okay then.’

‘See, I knew you’d be a good guy,’ she said. Bidding him goodbye, she grinned as she walked away.

When Barry returned from his break, he stared at the letters in Mitchell’s hands. ‘Are you really going to read them?’

Mitchell nodded. ‘I told Susan I’d do it.’

‘She wouldn’t know if you didn’t.’

‘I would know.’

The two men resumed their positions next to the railings and began to examine the padlocks again.

After a while, Mitchell picked up a lock and time stood still. It was gold, large and heart-shaped. ‘I think I’ve found it!’ he said to Barry excitedly. He read the words engraved into the metal.

MY HEART IS ALWAYS YOURS.

‘What does it say?’ Barry asked.

When Mitchell told him, his voice cracked but he couldn’t explain why. He ran a finger over the sharp ridges of the letters and read them over and over. It sounded stupid, but he felt the words could be meant for him.

Barry handed him the rusty bolt cutters. ‘Here you go.’

Mitchell didn’t take them. He had removed thousands of padlocks off the bridges of Upchester, but this one was different. ‘I can’t cut it off,’ he admitted eventually.

‘Why not?’ Barry demanded. ‘You got a cramp or something?’

‘No, I just think Yvette’s lock should stay on the bridge, where she wanted it to be. The message must mean something, and I don’t want the lock to be broken. Liza will want to see this, too.’

Barry scoffed at him. ‘When you go back to hospital, you should get your head checked out, mate. That bump is doing weird things to your mind.’

Mitchell touched the plaster above his ear. ‘I’ve got an appointment soon.’ When he stared at Yvette’s padlock again, he felt like wrapping his fingers around it to keep it safe.

As he looked around him, at all the locks fastened to the bridge, he thought of how others saw them as love tokens. He tried to resist but couldn’t stop himself from glancing at a few padlocks and reading their words.

TM. MARRY ME? PV

TRISH AND PETE XXX

WORD UP, FOREVER

HONEYBEE LOVES WASP

An unnerving picture flashed into his head, of a mountain of locks abandoned on a scrap heap with their messages rusting and flaking away. He found himself wondering if Honeybee might be a beekeeper. Were they a man or a woman? What kind of person called themselves Wasp?

He reminded himself he was being paid to remove the locks, not consider the people who hung them there. However, as he reached out for Barry’s bolt cutters, his fingers were stiff and unresponsive. The locks had always been an irritant to him, just a way to earn a living, but now he wondered if his job cutting them off was like removing flowers from a grave. He thought about Annie’s letter and how her eyes met with Douglas’s on the bridge. Just as his own had done with Yvette’s.

Get a grip. They’re only chunks of metal.

Before he carried on working, Mitchell tried to call Liza to tell her he thought he’d found Yvette’s lock. When she didn’t pick up, he presumed she was busy at work and left her a brief message.

He tried to get on with his job, but with each padlock that broke and fell to the pavement, his mood shifted lower. The stitches above his ear itched and Barry’s rusty cutters took double the time to cut through the lock shackles. He didn’t feel his usual sense of satisfaction.

When 4.15 p.m. came, he’d had enough of work for the day. He wanted to see Poppy and try to catch Liza at Hinchward if she was working there. ‘I’m finishing now,’ he said, shoving the bolt cutters back into Barry’s toolbox.

Barry stared at him. ‘You’re forty-five minutes early.’

‘It won’t make much difference.’

Barry’s mouth fell open.

Mitchell kicked his padlocks into a heap and stuck the batch of letters into his back pocket. He wished Barry a good date with Enid, and when he walked away from the locks on the pavement, a strange sense of attachment to them washed over him.

As he made his way towards the school, Mitchell opened a few more of the envelopes and read snippets of the letters inside them along the way.

Dear Man on the Bridge,

My wife and I read about your courageous act, jumping from the bridge, and we both think you deserve a medal. We have two teenage sons and hope they grow up to be as helpful as you are. There are so few role models these days…

He opened a very short one from an eight-year-old named Matthew, which started:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to you because you are very brave and because my mum says I have to learn my writing more because I need to write better or I can’t have a phone…

Another came in a flowery envelope with a thank-you card inside.

My name is Alicia and I’m writing to say the Hero on the Bridge has restored my faith in men. Well, almost. Four months ago, my husband took our dog for a walk and never returned. I’ve had a downer on him and all blokes since, but this guy has shown maybe there are some decent people still out there in the world. Do you know if he’s single? I’ve got the dog back and am MOVING ON with my life.

As Mitchell read their words, an unexpected warmth spread over his body that his impromptu act had initiated this outpouring of support. People were opening up and sharing their stories with him, a stranger, and the molecule of pride it sparked inside him was something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

Finding it tricky to read and walk at the same time, he pushed the letters back into his pocket and promised himself he’d read the rest of them later.

Mitchell exited the city centre and noticed how the sun sparkled crystal-like on the surface of the river. He smiled at a couple of teenagers who shyly held hands.

And, as he walked on, he wondered where Yvette Bradfield could possibly be, and why his pulse quickened whenever he thought about her.