Come Fly With Me...: English Girl in New York / Moonlight in Paris. Fiona BrandЧитать онлайн книгу.
would do.
She strode over to the bedroom, shedding her dressing gown and bed socks and pulling her pyjama top over her head. She found the bra she’d discarded earlier and fastened it back in place, pulling on some skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt.
Her pink baseball boots were in the bottom of her cupboard and she pushed her feet into them.
There. She was ready.
But her stomach started to flutter again.
The light in the bathroom flickered. Was the light bulb going to blow again? Which it seemed to do with an annoying regularity. She walked inside and ran the tap, splashing some cold water over her face.
She stared into the mirror, watching the drops of water drip off her face. Dan would have labelled her a nutjob by now. He probably wouldn’t want her help any more.
But the expression on his face was imprinted on her brain. He’d looked stunned. As if he couldn’t understand—but he wanted to.
She picked up the white towel next to the sink and dried off her face. Her make-up was right next to her. Should she put some on? Like some camouflage? Would it help her face him again?
Her fingers hesitated over the make-up bag. It was late at night. She’d been barefaced and in her pyjamas. He wouldn’t expect anything else.
But it might give her the courage she needed. It might make her feel as if she had some armour to face the world.
She pulled out some mascara and a little cream blusher, rubbing some on to her cheeks and then a touch on her lips. There. She was ready.
She crossed the room in long strides before any doubts could creep into place. There was no point in locking her apartment door. She would only be down two flights of stairs.
She placed her hand on the balustrade, ready to go down, and then halted. The television was booming from the apartment across the hall. Mrs Van Dyke.
The neighbour she’d only glimpsed in passing and never spoken to. The neighbour who might have some baby supplies they could use.
She hesitated and then knocked loudly on the door. ‘Mrs Van Dyke? It’s Carrie from across the hall. Daniel Cooper sent me up.’
She waited a few minutes, imagining it might take the little old lady some time to get out of her chair and over to the door—praying she’d actually heard her above the theme tune from Murder, She Wrote.
She could hear the creaking of the floorboards and then the door opened and the old wizened face stared out at her. Oh, boy. She really could be six hundred years old.
‘And what do you want, young lady?’
Carrie jerked back a little. She had such a strong, authoritative voice, it almost reminded her of her old headmistress back in London.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Van Dyke, but we found a baby on the doorstep and Dan said you might be able to help.’
As the words tumbled out of her mouth she knew she could have phrased it better. If this old dear keeled over in shock it would be all her fault.
But Mrs Van Dyke was obviously made of sterner stuff.
‘Oh, dear. What a terrible thing to happen. What does Dan need?’
Just like that. No beating about the bush. No preamble. Just straight to the point. Wonderful.
‘We got some things from Mr Meltzer’s store. He opened it specially to help out. We’ve got nappies—I mean, diapers—and pacifiers and bottles and milk.’
There was a gleam of amusement in the old lady’s eyes. ‘Just as well. I doubt I would have had any of those.’
Carrie shook her head. ‘Of course. I mean—what we don’t have is any baby clothes. Or any clean blankets. Do you have anything like that? Dan wondered if you might have some things packed away.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded slowly and opened the door a little wider. ‘I might have a few things that you can use, but most of them will be at the back of my cupboards. Come in, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Carrie stepped into the apartment and stifled her surprise. ‘Wow. What a nice place you have here.’
Clutter. Everywhere.
The floor was clear, but that was pretty much it.
There was no getting away from it—Mrs Van Dyke was clearly a hoarder.
She gave a smile and stepped further, keeping her elbows tight in against her sides for fear of tipping something off one of the tables or shelves next to her.
On second thoughts, Mrs Van Dyke wasn’t your typical hoarder. Not the kind you saw on TV with twelve skips outside their house so it could be emptied by environmental health.
There were no piles of papers, magazines or mail. In fact, the only newspaper she could see was clearly deposited in the trash. And all the surfaces in the apartment sparkled. There was no dust anywhere. Just...clutter. Things. Ornaments. Pictures. Photo frames. Wooden carvings. Tiny dolls. Ceramics. The place was full of them.
No wonder Dan had thought she might have something they could use.
‘They’re mementos. They’re not junk. Everything holds a memory that’s special to me, or my family.’
Carrie jumped. Mrs Van Dyke seemed to move up silently behind her. Had she been so obvious with her staring?
‘Of course not,’ she said quickly.
Mrs Van Dyke picked up the nearest ornament. ‘My husband used to carve things. This one he gave me on our first anniversary. A perfect rose.’
Carrie bent down and looked closely. It really was a thing of beauty. She couldn’t even see the marks where the wood had been whittled away—it was perfectly smooth.
‘It’s beautiful.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’ She walked slowly through the apartment, pointing as she went. ‘This was the globe he bought me at Coney Island. This was a china plate of my grandmother’s—all the way from Holland. This—’ she held up another carving, this time of a pair of hands interlinked, one an adult’s and one a child’s ‘—is what he carved for me after our son Peter died when he was seven.’
Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
Mrs Van Dyke ran her finger gently over the carving as she sat it back down. ‘It shows that we’d always be linked together, forever.’
She reached a door and gestured to Carrie. ‘This is my box room. This is where I keep most of my things.’
Carrie was still taken aback by her comment about her son, so she pushed the door open without really thinking. She let out a gasp of laughter. ‘You’re not joking—it is a box room.’ And it was. Filled with boxes from floor to ceiling. But there was no randomness about the room. Every box was clearly labelled and facing the door, and there was a thin path between the boxes. Room enough for someone of slim build to slip through.
‘The boxes you’re looking for are near the back.’ She touched Carrie’s shoulder. ‘Your baby—is it a boy or a girl?’
Just the way she said it—your baby—temporarily threw her for a second. It took her a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Straight to the back, on the left-hand side somewhere, near the bottom, you’ll find a box with David’s name on it. And behind it, you might find something else that’s useful.’
Carrie breathed in and squeezed through the gap. The labelling was meticulous, every item neatly catalogued. Did this really make Mrs Van Dyke a hoarder? Weren’t those people usually quite disorganised and chaotic? Because Mrs Van Dyke was none of those things.
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