were making a dreadful racket in there. She was almost encouraging it.’
‘She’s a disgrace,’ Angel said. ‘When she’s at home with them, she probably sits them in front of the television and feeds them chocolate to keep them quiet. I’m sure she hasn’t any professional qualifications.’
‘Lucy’ll be better off with us,’ Eddie said.
‘There’s no question of that. She’s just not a fit person to have charge of children.’
By the afternoon of Friday the twenty-ninth of November their preparations were almost complete. That was when Eddie acted on the spur of the moment; as so often, it seemed to him that he had no choice in the matter. The sense of his own helplessness outweighed even his fear of what Angel might say and do when she discovered what had happened.
Circumstances played into his hands – forced him to act. Rain, a cold dense blanket like animated fog, had been falling from a dark sky for most of the afternoon, persuading people to stay inside if they had any choice in the matter. At Angel’s suggestion, Eddie set out to explore the geography of Carla Vaughan’s neighbourhood.
The prospect of plodding through a dreary network of back streets between Kilburn and Kensal Vale would have been boring if it had not scared him so much. In his imagination, this part of London was populated almost exclusively by drug addicts, dark-skinned muggers, gangs of uncontrollable teenagers and drunken Irishmen with violent Republican sympathies.
Shivering at his own daring, he parked the van in the forecourt of a pub called the Rose of Connemara. With the help of a map he navigated his way through the streets around Carla’s house. Much of the housing consisted of late-Victorian terraces, with windows on or near the pavement. Lights were on in many of the windows. He glimpsed snug interiors, a series of vignettes illustrating lives which had nothing to do with him: a woman ironing, children watching television, an old man asleep in an armchair, a black couple dancing together, pelvis to pelvis, oblivious of spectators. He met few other pedestrians and none of them tried to mug him.
The way he found Lucy – no, the way Lucy came to him – seemed in retrospect little short of miraculous; if he believed in God he could have taken it as evidence of a divine providence hovering benignly over his affairs. He had been exploring an alley which ran between the back gardens of two terraces. One of the houses on his right was Carla’s, and he had carefully counted the gardens in order to establish which belonged to her. He saw no one, though at one point an Alsatian flung itself snarling against a gate as he passed.
He identified Carla’s house without trouble. The windows were of the same type as those at the front – UPVC frames with the glass patterned to imitate diamond panes; wholly out of period with the house but typical of the area and the sort of person who lived in it.
The little miracle, his present from Father Christmas, was waiting for him, her dark hair gleaming with pearl-like drops of rainwater.
‘It was Lucy’s fault,’ Eddie told Angel later. ‘She’s such a tease. She was asking for it.’
Angel was furious when they reached Rosington Road. She didn’t say much, not with Lucy there, but she suggested in an icy voice that Eddie might like to go to his room and wait there until she called him. Angel took Lucy to the basement. By that time Lucy had started to cry, which increased Eddie’s misery. It made him so sad when children were unhappy.
‘I’m too soft for my own good,’ he murmured to himself. ‘That’s my trouble.’
Eddie sat on his bed, hands clasped over his plump stomach, as though trying to restrain the sour ache inside from bursting out. On the wall opposite him was a picture, a brightly coloured reproduction in a yellowing plastic frame. It showed a small girl in a frothy pink dress; she had a pink bow in her dark hair, a mouth like a puckered cherry and huge eyes fringed with dark lashes. The picture had been a Christmas present to Eddie’s mother in 1969.
The girl, now seen through water, blurred and buckled. Oh God. Why don’t you help me? Stop this. There was no God, Eddie knew: and therefore no chance of help. He thought briefly of Lucy’s parents, the policeman and the deacon. Let the woman’s God console them. That was his job. In any case, Eddie was not responsible for the Appleyards’ pain. It had been Angel’s decision to take Lucy. So it was her fault, really, her fault and Lucy’s. Eddie had been no more than the agent, the dupe, the victim.
Time passed. Eddie would have liked to go down to the kitchen and make himself a drink. Better not – there was no point in upsetting Angel any further. He heard cars passing up and down Rosington Road and snatches of conversation from the pavement. The house itself was silent. The basement was soundproofed and Angel had not switched on the intercom.
‘Lucy,’ he said softly. ‘Lucy Philippa Appleyard.’
Eddie stared at the picture of the girl and stroked his soft little beard. He had been five that Christmas. Had the artist been lucky enough to have a real model, someone like Lucy? He remembered how his mother slowly unwrapped the picture and stared at it; how she picked a shred of tobacco from her lips and flicked it into the ashtray; how she stared across the hearthrug at his father, who had given her the picture. What he could not remember was whether she had spoken her verdict aloud, or whether he had merely imagined it.
‘Very nice, Stanley. If you like that sort of thing.’
What had Eddie’s father liked? If you asked different people you received different answers: for example, making dolls’ houses, taking artistic photographs and helping others less fortunate than himself. All these answers were true.
Stanley Grace spent most of his life working at the head office of Paladin Assurance. The company no longer existed – it had been gobbled up by a larger rival in one of the hostile takeovers of the late 1980s. In the days of its independence, the Paladin had been a womb-like organization which catered for all aspects of its employees’ lives. Eddie remembered Paladin holidays, Paladin Christmas cards, Paladin pencils, Paladin competitions and the Paladin Annual Ball. Stanley Grace bought 29 Rosington Road in 1961 with a mortgage arranged through the Paladin, and promptly insured the house, its contents, himself and his wife with Paladin insurance policies.
Eddie never discovered what his father actually did at Paladin. The relationship between his parents was equally mysterious. ‘Relationship’ was in fact a misleading word since it implied give and take, a movement from one to the other, a way of being together. Stanley and Thelma did not live together: they coexisted in the wary manner of animals from different species obliged by circumstances beyond their control to use the same watering hole.
Eddie remembered asking his mother when he was very young whether he was human.
‘Of course you are.’
‘And are you human, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Daddy?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of course he is. I wish you’d stop pestering me.’
Stanley was a large, lumbering man built like a bear. He towered over his wife. Thelma was skinny and small, less than five feet high, and she moved like a startled bird. She had a long and cylindrical skull to which features seemed to have been added as an afterthought. Her clothes were usually drab and a size or so too large for her; her cardigans and skirts were dappled with smudges of cigarette ash. (Until the last year of her life she smoked as heavily as her husband.) When, later in life, Eddie came across references to people wearing sackcloth, he thought of his mother.
