Mitchell stared at him in disbelief.
Barry held a palm up. “I didn’t go,” he said defensively. “Anyway, I’m meeting Tina tomorrow. She’s an artist.”
The number of women’s names spilling from Barry’s lips made Mitchell’s temples throb. “Good luck, Casanova,” he said.
Barry stayed with Mitchell a while longer before excusing himself to meet Megan. “I’ll ask around about your toolbox,” he said. “Make inquiries.”
“Thanks, the tools cost me a packet.”
After Barry left, Mitchell lay in bed, stewing and urging Samantha to reappear. When she eventually returned with a clip file and paperwork, she removed the tube from the back of his hand and stuck a plaster on it. “Yes, you do have to legally sign these papers to discharge yourself,” she said and handed him a pen. “You have an appointment at the clinic here next week to have your stitches removed. I’ll give you a leaflet about concussions to read. Your back is bruised and might be sore for a while.”
Mitchell closed the curtains around his bed and sat down heavily on the mattress. His polo shirt still had patches of dampness and felt strangely stiff. After pulling on his trousers, he stuffed his keys, wallet and phone into his back pockets.
The realization of what he’d done was beginning to dawn on him.
He wasn’t a hero at all. He was a stupid person for putting himself in danger, when the outcome could have been a lot worse.
If he hadn’t felt a flicker of interest for the woman in the yellow dress, he would have walked on by and not seen her fall. He wouldn’t have spotted the padlock in her hands. Helping her had triggered a chain of events he wished hadn’t been set in motion.
A sob suddenly reared inside him, threatening to break out like a lion’s roar, and he gulped it away. He dropped Barry’s shoes to the floor and tried to stuff his foot inside one of them, even though he knew it wouldn’t fit. When he bent down to pick them back up, tears blurred his eyes and he clutched the shoes to his chest like a child with a teddy bear.
It was his job to put Poppy first and he’d let her down.
As he pulled back the curtain from around the bed and stepped beyond it, he took a pained breath.
When he shuffled off the ward, guilt clenched his gut that he’d been able to help a stranger, but not Anita.
4
PINK FRIDGE
Mitchell eased himself into a taxi outside the hospital and asked the driver to take him across the city to Miss Bradfield’s house. Anita had always spoken of arranging for Poppy to take extra music lessons and the teacher came highly recommended by another parent. She gave independent lessons in the evening, as well as her daytime job teaching in several local schools, including Poppy’s school, Hinchward primary.
As his damp trousers squeaked against the leather car seat, Mitchell watched the red illuminated digits of the taxi fare rolling higher and higher. The cost distressed him almost as much as his aching body.
Budgeting for him and Poppy was always tight. Things like family days at theme parks, lunch without thinking about the bill and popcorn buckets at the cinema were resigned to the past. Now he scoured the internet for cheap things for them to do together. He had discovered that strolls in the countryside, making cheese sandwiches and attending free events in libraries were just as much fun, and provided the opportunity to chat with Poppy more. Or it meant he could try.
Sometimes Poppy still swung his hand in hers, chitchatting away about school and new songs her friends had downloaded. Other times she wore a cloak of sadness that he couldn’t break through.
“I want people to like me,” she said when she moved to Hinchward after Anita died. “Not just be nice to me because Mum’s gone.”
And her words had seared into him, making his guilt bloom like dye in water.
When Mitchell slid out of the taxi, he clamped Barry’s shoes under one arm and looked up and down the road. There was a curve of pretty small white houses, many with hanging baskets bursting with colorful flowers. He felt a pang of envy that they had small front gardens, when his own apartment didn’t have any outside space.
When Mitchell rang Miss Bradfield’s doorbell, he placed one foot on top of the other in an attempt to disguise he wasn’t wearing shoes.
The woman who answered the door wore large red-and-white spotty earrings that reminded him of toadstools, and had rows of black dogs on her white shirt. Her brown hair had streaks that shone purple like a beetle shell when she moved her head.
“Hey,” she said. “Poppy’s dad? I’m Liza Bradfield.”
“Yes, I’m Mitchell Fisher. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“It happens, though maybe not this late.” She raised an eyebrow. “Come inside.”
He followed her into a glossy powder-pink kitchen that looked like something a child would design. Poppy sat at the dining table.
“Are you okay?” He rushed toward her.
“You’re really late, Dad,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. Her straw-blond hair snaked into a waist-length plait, with wispy curls along her hairline. She was going through a blue clothes phase, not wanting to wear her more girlish pink things any longer. When she stood up, she launched into a ferocious hug, her fingers clutching his back. “Don’t ever do that again.”
They held each other until she dipped her head and pulled away.
Miss Bradfield smiled at them, as if watching a play.
There were chunky fish fingers piled on Poppy’s plate like Jenga blocks with no vegetables to be seen, and her drink was a shade of chemically enhanced orange. A ginger wiry-haired terrier sat on the floor, wagging its tail at him.
Mitchell was too tired to make small talk and wanted to go home. If he hadn’t had an accident, Poppy wouldn’t be eating and drinking this stuff.
Poppy guzzled the orange liquid. “Hmm,” she sighed, as if it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
Miss Bradfield picked up her dog and held it, legs dangling, under one arm. “You finished it all, yay.”
“It was so good. Thanks.”
Miss Bradfield turned to Mitchell. “Poppy’s done great. She was a bit upset at first, but I played her some classical music. A sonata can soothe the soul.” Her voice had a lyrical quality, as if she sang some of her words.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Mitchell said.
“We learned how to hold the guitar and practiced a few notes. She’s a natural, I can tell.”
He wondered if she said this to all her pupils. “We should go and leave you in peace.”
The dog leaned forward and licked the back of his hand, its wide pink tongue leaving a shiny trail on his skin.