“Let’s hope so,” said Eunice.
The next day all thoughts of Portia were purged by the glittering aquamarine waves and warm, salty wind of Brighton seafront. It was the “annual outing,” and this was the first without Douglas or Baby Jane. They had been coming every year since Eunice’s twenty-first birthday trip with Bomber, and the day followed a familiar pattern that had been fine-tuned over the years to provide enjoyment and entertainment to all members of their small party. First they walked along the promenade. In the past, when Douglas and then Baby Jane had accompanied them, the dogs had gloried in the compliments and cosseting of passersby that they inevitably attracted. Then a visit to the pier and an hour frittered away on the flashing, clanging, jangling slot machines. Then lunch of fish and chips and a bottle of pink fizz, and finally the Royal Pavilion. But as they strolled toward the pier, other worries were washing away Eunice’s happiness. Bomber had asked her twice in the space of ten minutes if they’d been there before. The first time, she hoped he was joking, but the second time she looked at his face and her world tipped sharply on its axis when she saw an expression of innocence and genuine inquiry. It was horribly, gut-wrenchingly familiar. Godfrey. He was following his father’s painful footsteps to a destination Eunice couldn’t bear to think about. So far, it was barely noticeable; a hairline crack in his solid, dependable sanity. But Eunice knew that in time he would be as vulnerable as a name written in the sand at the mercy of an incoming tide. As yet, Bomber seemed unaware of his gentle unravelings. Like petit mals, he passed through them blithely oblivious. But Eunice lived them all, second by second, and her heart was already breaking.
The colored lights and bells and buzzers of the pier’s amusement arcade welcomed them in to waste their money. Eunice left Bomber standing by a two-penny slot machine, watching lanes of tightly packed coins shunting back and forth to see which would tip over the edge, while she went to fetch some change. When she returned, she found him, like a lost child, coin in hand, staring at the coin slot on the machine but completely unable to fathom the connection between the two. Gently, she took the coin from him and dropped it into the slot, and his face lit up as he watched a pile of coins tip and fall, rattling into the metal tray beneath.
The rest of the day passed happily and uneventfully. For the first time, as they were without a canine companion, they were able to sample the exotic delights of the Pavilion interior together, where they oohed and aahed their amazement at the chandeliers and clucked their disgust at the spit roaster in the kitchen which was originally driven by an unfortunate dog. As they sat on a bench in the gardens, basking in the coral light of the late afternoon sun, Bomber took Eunice’s hand and let out a sigh of blissful contentment Eunice remembered to treasure.
“This place is utterly fabulous.”
CHAPTER 41
The navy-blue leather glove belonged to a dead woman. Not the most promising of starts for the Keeper of Lost Things. The day after the website launched, a retired reporter had e-mailed. For many years she had worked for the local newspaper and she remembered it well. It was the first proper news item she had covered.
It made the front page. The poor woman was only in her thirties. She threw herself in front of a train. The train driver was in a terrible state, poor bloke. He was new to his job too. He’d only been driving solo for a couple of weeks. Her name was Rose. She was ill; what they called bad nerves back then. I remember she had a little girl; such a pretty little thing. Rose had a picture of her in her coat pocket. They printed it in the paper with the story. I wasn’t very comfortable with that, but I was overruled by the editor. I went to her funeral. It was a gruesome business altogether; not much of a body left to bury. But the photo was still in the pocket of her coat and she was only wearing one glove. It’s such a small detail, but it seemed so poignant. And it was so cold that night. That must be why I’ve remembered it for all these years.
It was the glove Sunshine had dropped in horror when it had fallen out of the drawer. She had said at the time “the lady died” and “she loved her little girl.” Laura was dumbfounded. It seemed that Sunshine was right and once again they had been guilty of underestimating her. Clearly she had an unusual gift and they would do well to listen to her a bit more carefully. Sunshine had read the e-mail impassively. Her only comment had been “Perhaps her little girl will want it back.”