The Secrets of Sunshine Page 6

  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 throu
gh 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.

  8

  Chocolates

  Mitchell arrived thirty minutes before the end of Poppy’s club, so there would be no disapproving looks from Miss Heathcliff today. He headed along the main school corridor, which smelled like baked bread and crayons. The scent of schools always made him feel uneasy. He and his childhood friend Graham had once been discovered smoking behind the PE block and hauled into the head teacher’s office. In fact, it had only been Graham trying out a cigarette for the first time. Mitchell had followed him to quote statistics on lung disease in an attempt to stop him from doing it. The long anticipatory wait outside the head teacher’s office had been far worse than the lines and detention doled out to them both.

  Thinking about his friend reminded Mitchell he hadn’t been in touch with Graham for a long time, and he made a mental note to do it soon.

  As he glanced at Miss Heathcliff’s office door, he heard feet clipping along the corridor and saw Liza walking towards him. She wore a fuchsia-coloured summer dress, a necklace with glass beads that looked like marbles and pink pointed shoes. She was holding an armful of tambourines.

  ‘Mitchell?’ Liza cocked her head at him. ‘Are you here to get Poppy? She’s in the middle of a quiz and probably won’t appreciate you showing up early. End-of-term games are very competitive, you know.’

  ‘Miniature chocolates at stake?’

  ‘A huge box of them. I’m rather jealous.’

  They smiled at each other. ‘Did you get my message?’ Mitchell asked, their pleasantries out of the way. ‘I called you earlier.’

  ‘No, sorry, I’ve been here all day. Not even had a chance to check my phone. Not that anyone rings me these days apart from Mum.’ Her face grew serious. ‘Have you found Yvette’s lock?’

  ‘I think so. And there are words engraved into the metal.’

  Liza drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘What did they say?’

  Mitchell wished he’d taken a photo of the padlock to show her. ‘The message said, “My heart is—”’

  There was a sound of wood scuffing against carpet as Miss Heathcliff’s door opened outwards, creating a barrier between Mitchell and Liza. A parent scuttled out, her head bowed.

  ‘Please see Miss Penfold on your way out,’ the head teacher said to the parent. ‘She’ll give you the offending item back.’ She turned to Mitchell and the hairs on her top lip glowed in a shaft of daylight. ‘Mr Fisher,’ she said. ‘Have you recovered from your ordeal?’

  ‘Just about,’ he said. ‘Thanks for asking, and for looking after Poppy until my friend collected her.’

  ‘It’s our role to care,’ she said. ‘Might you have a small moment to converse?’

  Mitchell glanced at Liza apologetically.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll catch you later,’ she said and moved away.

  Miss Heathcliff led the way into her office. ‘Please take a seat.’

  Mitchell followed her inside. Individual black sports shoes, broken trophies and lost sweaters were piled everywhere. She picked up a couple of pieces of paperwork, shook her head at them and set them back down again. ‘The last day of term is always such a kerfuffle,’ she said.

  ‘Poppy was excited by the idea of not doing much work today.’

  She didn’t smile at his joke. ‘The children have been working on some notes for their school holiday project,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting to see some excellent pieces.’

  ‘I’ll make sure she does her best.’

  ‘Good. I do suppose her end-of-year results came as a surprise to you?’

  Mitchell clasped his hands together in his lap. ‘Um, end-of-year results?’

  ‘You might have noticed Poppy’s grades in her report are noticeably lower this time around?’

  His blank expression must have told her what she needed to know.

  ‘Ah. Another missing report situation.’ Miss Heathcliff tutted. ‘Please remain seated.’ She left the room.

  Mitchell felt like he was fourteen and sitting alongside Graham again, waiting for his punishment. He cursed himself for forgetting to ask Poppy about her report when he undoubtedly had it noted down in his hallway.

  When Miss Heathcliff returned, she passed him two sheets of paper.

  Mitchell scanned over them and saw Poppy’s grades had dropped across her subjects. He read parts of the comments. Not meeting her full potential… mind appears to be elsewhere… more effort needed.

  ‘Oh.’ He screwed his eyes shut, feeling instantly responsible. This was all his fault. It had to be. Perhaps she needed even more planning and structure to help her.

  He couldn’t stop from babbling things Miss Heathcliff already knew. ‘Poppy’s mum died and I switched jobs to look after her. She’s been coping with everything really well. Or, so I thought.’

  Miss Heathcliff observed him kindly. ‘The latter primary school years can be a time of great change for children and they all manage it differently. We’re here to give Poppy all the support she needs. I suggest we put this aside for now, Mr Fisher, and start afresh in the next school year.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Notwithstanding, my expectations are high for Poppy’s holiday project. Perhaps it’s something you can work on together.’

  ‘She says my ideas are boring,’ he mused, but then mentally added it to their schedule of things to do together. ‘We’ll give it a go, though.’

  ‘Good. And there is another important thing for Poppy
to do during her break.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She should have plenty of fun, Mr Fisher. You only have one childhood, and we adults are a strong influence on that. Encourage Poppy to work hard, but to enjoy her time off, too. I understand she’s booked into the activity club here, during the school holidays?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll be spending time with her, too.’

  ‘Well, that sounds just splendid. I’m sure she’ll have a great time.’

  Mitchell left Miss Heathcliff’s office and still had several minutes until the after-school club finished. He peeked into Poppy’s classroom and the quiz was still in full swing. Twenty or so kids sat to attention, waiting for the next question. The box of miniature chocolates sat on tantalizing display on the teacher’s desk.

  Mitchell patrolled the corridor, glancing into the classrooms, looking for Liza. The lilting, sorrowful sound of a violin came from the Year Six room and he stuck his head around the door to see Liza sitting on a child’s chair with her eyes closed, lost in the music. He tried to step quietly into the room but kicked a tambourine on the floor.

  Startled, she stopped playing and lowered her violin. ‘Oh, hi. Did you mean to creep up on me like that?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you. It sounded… beautiful.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s one of my favourite pieces.’ She placed her violin in its case and closed it. ‘Did you know that listening to music increases the neurotransmitter dopamine? It makes you feel better.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You can get it from eating chocolate, too. Though that’s more fattening. I can’t imagine life without it.’

  ‘Music or chocolate?’

  ‘Both.’ She gave him a quick smile. ‘Look, can we talk about Yvette’s lock? What was written on it?’

  Mitchell took a child’s seat at the table opposite her, his knees jutting out like frog’s legs. He hoped he’d found the right padlock. ‘It said, “My heart is always yours.” Does that mean anything to you?’