All the Lonely People Page 6

  Within a matter of a few short moments Hubert found himself standing at the entrance to the community center’s main hall. Through the small square of glass in the door he observed half a dozen tables set out at one end of the room with groups of mostly women sitting at them.

  At the opposite end a small group of women and a solitary man were practicing a line dance routine to a country song playing from a paint-splattered CD player in the corner. Their thumbs were curled around their belt loops like cowboys as they hopped, stepped, and twirled in time to the music. In the center of the room was a table-tennis table that two couples were using to rest their coffee cups on while they chatted animatedly.

  Hubert did not want to go into this room. He was scared and he felt vulnerable and the last thing on earth he wanted was to try to make friends with these strangers. He wished with all his heart that Joyce were here with him. After all, it was always easier to meet new people if there were two of you. It gave you confidence and made you feel at ease. Look, it said to the world, I already have one friend so I can’t be all that bad. And Joyce always made him feel like his best self anyway, so there would be no resisting him.

  From his vantage point Hubert couldn’t help noting that compared to the few men present, who were wearing short-sleeved shirts and jeans, he was somewhat overdressed. He had wanted to make an impression but they would all probably think he was trying too hard in his sports jacket, tie, and pressed beige summer trousers. It also dawned on Hubert that aside from an Indian woman playing cards, everyone in the room was white.

  While Hubert couldn’t easily recall the last time he’d been the victim of racism, that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. These days, like smoking in public, racism was less socially acceptable than it used to be and therefore more subtle. Yes, people were less likely to abuse Hubert in the street, refuse to serve him in a shop, or physically attack him than they had been in the fifties, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was welcome everywhere. And while he was more than happy to be rejected by strangers for being ill-tempered, awkward, or stubborn, it hurt more than he cared to admit that he might be rejected simply because of the color of his skin.

  The woman at reception lifted her head up from a magazine as Hubert passed her desk on the way out.

  “Couldn’t you find it? I can show you where it is, if you like.”

  Hubert adopted his formal voice again.

  “No, thank you. Your directions were perfect but I don’t think it’s for me.”

  That afternoon, following a ham sandwich washed down with a cup of tea, Hubert settled on the sofa with Puss. Scanning up and down the TV channels, he went in search of an old black-and-white film to distract him from the morning’s failure. While there were game show repeats and cheap daytime soap operas galore, black-and-white films were thin on the ground. Then he found a station playing The Adventures of Robin Hood, and best of all it had only just started. Joyce had always had a thing for Errol Flynn. Whenever one of his films came on the TV she would drop everything to watch it and Hubert would always tease, “Oh, your fancy man is back on the scene!” and she would reply, “I don’t need a fancy man, Hubert Bird, I’ve got you,” and then she’d give him a peck on the cheek. It was a little routine they had, one of many that never failed to make him smile to remember.

  Hubert quite enjoyed the film to begin with, but for some reason it wasn’t enough to lift the dark mood that had descended on him. He couldn’t help it. He felt like a failure and a fraud. He’d wasted his one and only opportunity to do right by his daughter and to make friends. Now he would have no choice but to tell her the truth. Rose would be absolutely livid when she found out and so worried about him that he didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d pack up her life in Australia and come home to care for him. He couldn’t have that on his conscience. He couldn’t have her giving up on the career she’d worked so hard to establish, just to spend her days looking after a foolish old man.

  Filled with despondency, he picked up the remote control and switched off the TV, plunging the room into a silence that was broken a moment later by the sound of the doorbell.

  Whether it was a parcel courier hoping to leave something with him for a neighbor or a police officer coming to take him away for being such a terrible father, Hubert cared not. All he wanted was a distraction from his current thoughts and so, gathering his wits about him, he answered the door. It was the young woman from next door who he’d last seen in the vet’s. She was dressed differently from when he’d seen her before: smarter, in a navy-blue jacket, matching skirt, and heels. She looked as if she might be going to work or possibly a funeral. Her young daughter was with her too, but this time she was strapped into a stroller and was too busy playing with a book attached to the frame to take any notice of Hubert.

  Hubert considered the young woman more carefully this time, and much to his dismay observed that she was struggling not to cry.

  “Sorry to disturb you… I know you don’t know me from Adam… and I know it’s a massive favor I’m about to ask, but I’ve completely run out of options. I literally don’t know what else to do. I’m not trying to sound dramatic but the thing is you really are my last hope. Would you… could you… find it in your heart to look after my Layla for a bit?”

  “You… you… want me to do what?”

  “Just mind my daughter for twenty minutes… half an hour, tops.”

  A tense desperation inched its way into her voice.

  “I wouldn’t ask if there was any way round this. Really I wouldn’t. But I’d booked a babysitting service and they’ve literally just let me down at the last minute—something to do with a double booking—and now I don’t know what to do. I said to them, ‘There’s no good saying “I can only apologize” when I’ve got a job interview in ten minutes. What am I supposed to do, just rock up there with my daughter and tell the vet, “Don’t mind my little girl, she’ll be fine there with her coloring book and crayons”?’ She wouldn’t mind—she loves coloring, but that’s not really the point, is it? It’s just not professional.” Her pale green eyes searched Hubert’s face, hoping to discover if he was following her line of argument. “That’s why I need your help,” she continued, more slowly this time. “I’ve got an interview, you see. Remember the other day when I saw you at the vet’s when I was dropping off my CV? Well, they got back to me this week and asked me to come in today to meet them, so that’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it? I know it’s only for a receptionist’s job, and of course it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t get it, but I really think this is a great opportunity. You see, I don’t just want to be a single mum all my life, I want to be somebody one day, maybe even a veterinary nurse. So my Layla can be really proud of me and grow up with a good role model.”

  Her words came out so quickly and so tightly wrapped in that strange accent of hers. Hubert had to strain the entire time he was listening and although he didn’t quite follow all of it, he grasped more than enough to get the gist of what she was asking. He concluded it was madness.

  “Look, me see you in a pickle. Really, me see that. But have you lost your mind? You can’t just ask a complete stranger to look after your child. Don’t you watch the news?”

  “Of course I do,” said Ashleigh. “And yes, I know sometimes the world’s a horrible place, but not always. Sometimes it’s a lovely place where nice things happen for no reason and I’d much rather…” She began to get upset. “I’d much rather live in that world than the other one!”

  She burst into tears, leaving Hubert feeling very uncomfortable indeed. He never had been able to bear the sight of a woman crying. Whether it was his mother upset because she was worried about how they were going to afford to feed themselves, Joyce fretting about one of the children, or a young Rose sobbing over a grazed knee, women in peril always brought out the chivalrous side of him. And now here he was with a strange woman weeping on his doorstep.

  Surely this wasn’t his problem to solve. He didn�
��t know this person. He didn’t know how to look after a child—at least not anymore. And anyway, last time he checked he was an eighty-two-year-old man. Who asked eighty-two-year-old men anything other than whether they took their tea with one lump of sugar or two?

  Hubert reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a handkerchief.

  “It’s clean,” he explained, handing it to her. “Me like to put a fresh one in my pocket every day.”

  Ashleigh gratefully received the handkerchief, but just as she was about to dry her eyes, she stopped suddenly and sniffed.

  “It’s cologne,” explained Hubert. “Me like to spray a little on to make it smell nice.”

  “It smells well lush,” said Ashleigh.

  She dabbed her eyes with it, then used it to blow her nose several times. Finally she attempted to return the sodden handkerchief to Hubert but he refused.

  “Keep it, me have plenty more where that come from.”

  Ashleigh stuffed the handkerchief in her bag, glanced at her watch, bit her lip, and then fixed her eyes on Hubert imploringly. Hubert felt his resolve crumbling. He couldn’t bear to watch this woman cry any more. He couldn’t bear another second.

  “Fine,” he said. “Me will help you out, okay?”

  He offered Ashleigh his hand and she shook it.

  “The name is Hubert… Hubert Bird. Just tell me what it is you want me to do and me do it.”

  8

  THEN

  April 1958

  The sense of relief Hubert felt when he saw Joyce walking toward him as he waited outside the entrance to the Regal was enormous. Her desire to go to the pictures with him hadn’t been an elaborate dream, a figment of his imagination, or a practical joke. She was here, she was really here, and the sight of her made him grin from ear to ear. She was, he thought, even more beautiful freed from the confines of her Hamilton’s uniform of demure black dress with dainty white bow and lacy collar. Sporting a navy-blue duster coat over a flowery lemon dress with green heels, she was a vision of spring and Hubert told her so.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “The dress is new. I made it myself from a pattern in Vogue. Mum wasn’t sure about the color but I think it’s cheerful, don’t you?”

  Hubert smiled.

  “It’s like a piece of sunshine on a dull gray day.”

  Joyce gave him an admiring glance.

  “You look very smart, by the way. Very dapper. I love your tie. It almost matches my dress.”

  “Great minds think alike!” said Hubert, pleased by the connection, and he handed her the flowers he’d bought for her. “Me didn’t know what kind you like so me just bought carnations.”

  Joyce admired them fondly.

  “Oh, Hubert, they’re lovely. Absolutely beautiful. Thank you.”

  Following Hubert’s lead, she joined him line for the cinema, made up almost exclusively of courting couples, already snaking out of the door. They chatted about the little they knew about the film, and then talked about other pictures they had seen recently. Hubert tried his best to sound knowledgeable but the truth was the sign on the wall next to them detailing the various ticket options was distracting him. The cheapest seats were at the front and the most expensive in the back row. Gus had given Hubert strict instructions to get back-row tickets. “Them the best seats in the picture house,” he explained, “because no one can see what you’re getting up to!”

  This information had left Hubert with a dilemma. If he asked the cashier for back-row tickets there was a good chance Joyce might think he was only after one thing, but then if he got the cheaper tickets it might look like he wasn’t willing to spend money on her, which he absolutely was. With all this in mind, Hubert reasoned that the best way forward was to buy tickets for seats slap-bang in the middle of the picture house even though in his heart of hearts he actually wouldn’t have minded sitting at the back, even if all they did was hold hands.

  As it was, however, by the time they reached the front of the queue the decision had been made for him.

  “The only tickets we’ve got left are two singles toward the back or these two,” the cashier said. He pointed at the map of the auditorium inlaid on the counter to two seats in the front row.

  Hubert searched Joyce’s expression for guidance.

  “We’ll take the two at the front,” she told the cashier, then turned to Hubert. “At least we’ll be sitting together then. And anyway, if it’s any good we can always see it again and sit at the back.”

  As they waited for the doors to open, Hubert noticed for the first time that he and Joyce were attracting the attention of a number of couples, and not in a good way. One woman, a tall bottle blonde standing next to an equally tall man dressed in a dark suit and knitted vest, had thrown a look of disgust in Joyce’s direction, but Joyce had been so busy chatting to Hubert about her favorite film stars that she hadn’t noticed.

  Hubert didn’t care about the looks for himself, as after three months in this country he was used to them and had almost stopped noticing, but he did mind when it came to Joyce. He stared so hard at the woman that in the end she had no choice but to look away and mutter something in the ear of her date that made them both collapse into a fit of mean-spirited giggles. Hubert, however, carried on looking right at them, and once they realized this, they stopped laughing and kept their eyes fixed ahead until the usherette opened the doors and everybody filtered slowly into the auditorium and took their seats.

  Not being a fan of musicals, Hubert thought the film only mediocre, but the fact that he got to sit in such close proximity to Joyce in a darkened room more than made up for the songs, the story (which Hubert found perplexing to say the least), and the strange artificial color of the film. Because he didn’t want Joyce to feel bad for suggesting it, Hubert told her that he’d enjoyed it, to which she’d replied that she had too, but even though Hubert didn’t know her very well, he couldn’t help feeling that perhaps this might not be entirely true.

  As they made their way out of the cinema, Hubert’s mind turned to thoughts of what might happen next. The last thing he wanted was for the night to be over, but with his budget and already down the cost of two cinema tickets his options were limited. Thankfully, not only was Joyce in no hurry to get home but she also had an idea of what they might do, which to Hubert’s relief would cost nothing.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk?” she suggested. “It’s lovely down by the river and it’ll give us a chance to talk a bit more.”

  Hubert agreed that this would be good and added that he’d never seen that part of the city. “In that case,” she said, taking his arm, “I think you might be in for a treat.”

  As they walked and talked, Hubert, keen to know everything there was to know about her, peppered Joyce with question after question about her life. She was twenty-one years old and had been working at Hamilton’s ever since she left school at fourteen, starting out as a general gofer in the staff canteen before being promoted, first to waitress and finally to assistant in the haberdashery department.

  She lived at home with her parents, John and Rose Pierce, in Bromley. John worked for the post office, while mum Rose was a housewife. Joyce had three siblings: an older sister, Peggy, who used to work at Hamilton’s until she got married last summer; a younger brother, Eric, who worked with her dad; and a big brother, George, who worked as a bus mechanic and was married with three children.

  “They’re an all-right bunch, my family,” she concluded, “especially when you catch them in a good mood. Dad can be a real joker at times and when him and George get going it’s like a proper double act!” She paused, as they finally reached the river and began walking along the bank. “Anyway,” she said, “that’s enough blabbering from me. Tell me about you and your family, and life in the West Indies. I want to know everything, don’t leave anything out. Tell me all about the sights and sounds and smells. I’m not very well traveled, I’m afraid. The only trip I’ve ever taken out of England was a coach tour to Edinburgh a
few summers ago and I was sick the whole way there and back.”

  As they strolled along arm in arm, Hubert told her all about his family and the farm back in Jamaica. He told her about the cockerel that used to wake them up every morning, about the old dog that slept in the yard and was meant to be a guard dog but which his mother fussed over so much he had grown fat and lazy. He told her about the fruit trees lining the path they used to take to school and how for breakfast they would help themselves to guava, oranges, and soursop, arriving at their classroom with fingers sticky with juice. He told her about his mother, who was a terrific cook and could transform the most meager of ingredients into a feast fit for a king. He told her about his brother and sisters and their funny ways. How, as the eldest, Vivian would still try to mother them all long after they had stopped being children. How his little brother, Fulton, was easily the best mimic on the island and his impression of the local pastor would make them all cry with laughter. How the baby of the family, Cora, dear sweet Cora, would as a child always insist that Hubert piggyback her to bed every night.

  “And what about your dad?”

  “He’s not around,” said Hubert quietly. Joyce didn’t press him any further. Instead she said: “You must miss them all something rotten, being so far away from them, not to mention Jamaica. It sounds wonderful.”

  Hubert smiled.

  “It is and I do. But me come here because this is where the work is. There just isn’t enough to go round back home right now. And a man can’t sit twiddling his thumbs all day.”

  “Well, if it helps, I for one am glad you came.”

  Hubert smiled again.

  “Yes, that does help. It helps a lot.”

  They reached Westminster Bridge and halfway across came to a halt looking out across the inky-black Thames, its surface dotted with patches of light reflected from streetlamps and passing boats. It was, thought Hubert as they shifted their gaze from the water toward the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben silhouetted against the evening sky, a romantic moment, one that would be the perfect backdrop for a first kiss.