Read Online Based on a True Story by Elizabeth Renzetti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Renzetti
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Augusta again. Two years after she’d bought the flat, Kit was dead, and Augusta was left with a mortgage, the mere spectre of future work, and no painkillers to ease her passage into the day.
The punks huddled closer, and Augusta strained to see what they were busy with. A spliff? A bag of pills? She felt a spasm of envy as she imagined what they would soon share: a magic carpet of fellow-feeling, insulation from the chatter of the crowd and the voices in their own heads.
A wintry breeze blew through the open window, carrying the scent of the canal, diesel, and weed entwined. The old England and the new. The afternoon stretched before her, Siberian in its emptiness.
With a last glance out the window, Augusta picked up her coffee and moved to her desk. As she set down her mug, she ran her finger over the surface, scarred with rings from more glamorous drinks. She picked up the picture of Charlie that sat beside her computer. It was taken when he was — nine? Ten? She didn’t remember much about that school holiday, except that Kenneth had brought the boy to meet her down by Tower Bridge. He had left them, backing away down the Thames path as if he were afraid to let the boy out of his sight.
Augusta and her son had sat on a bench watching the tourist boats on the river, and she’d whispered that maybe, if they were very lucky, a sailing ship would come by and the bridge would be raised, its two vast blue arms creaking slowly to the sky.
The boy looked at her politely but didn’t say anything, and she tried to think, for the thousandth time, who he reminded her of. Caramel hair, eyes almost the same colour, freckles matching those, and a ridiculously small nose. But didn’t all children have noses that size? It was adulthood that brought the giant honker, the misshapen hooter, the syphilitic proboscis.
Charlie had accepted her offer of an ice cream, and sat eating it with neat deliberation, his eyes on the river. She kept one hand in her purse, her fingers touching a flask of whisky.
“We’re studying the river at school,” he said. “Do you know how many bodies they pull out a week?”
“What, now?” she asked, startled.
“Yes. There are special river police — do you know how many bodies they pull out?”
She shrugged, thinking that if she’d known children were this morbid, she might have been more interested in having one.
“One a week. Fifty-two a year. On average.”
They’d sat for at least an hour, hardly speaking, but content. At least she was. Being with her son gave her a strange, electric thrill. She’d imagined that passersby were staring at him, handsome in his school blazer. The bridge never went up and no police boats went by. As the sun set Kenneth came to find them, astonished they hadn’t moved.
Perhaps that silence presaged this one. Seven years. What kind of son doesn’t speak to his mother for seven years? She opened the lid of her computer and laboriously punched in an address she knew by heart. The book shop’s web site was designed to look like it had been produced on a typewriter, the letters black and wavy-edged. Hell Yes Books, West Third Street, Los Angeles.
She placed her cursor above the tab that said Who We Are, held her breath, and clicked. Charles Price, events manager. As always, she was grateful for the tiny concession he’d made by keeping her name. Well, her adopted name. She squinted at his photo. He was beautiful, her boy, but he looked sinewy, almost gaunt. Augusta thought: If he’s on a raw food diet I’ll kill him.
She felt the familiar indignation rise. He couldn’t pick up the phone? Admittedly, she might have made more of an effort. But she had been busy. A woman on her own, trying to make her way in the world. Irritation drew Augusta up a little higher. The boy sold books in a Los Angeles shop. Part-time. Which of them had more time for maintaining bridges?
Some people preferred burning bridges. She imagined Kenneth Deller, tight polyester
The punks huddled closer, and Augusta strained to see what they were busy with. A spliff? A bag of pills? She felt a spasm of envy as she imagined what they would soon share: a magic carpet of fellow-feeling, insulation from the chatter of the crowd and the voices in their own heads.
A wintry breeze blew through the open window, carrying the scent of the canal, diesel, and weed entwined. The old England and the new. The afternoon stretched before her, Siberian in its emptiness.
With a last glance out the window, Augusta picked up her coffee and moved to her desk. As she set down her mug, she ran her finger over the surface, scarred with rings from more glamorous drinks. She picked up the picture of Charlie that sat beside her computer. It was taken when he was — nine? Ten? She didn’t remember much about that school holiday, except that Kenneth had brought the boy to meet her down by Tower Bridge. He had left them, backing away down the Thames path as if he were afraid to let the boy out of his sight.
Augusta and her son had sat on a bench watching the tourist boats on the river, and she’d whispered that maybe, if they were very lucky, a sailing ship would come by and the bridge would be raised, its two vast blue arms creaking slowly to the sky.
The boy looked at her politely but didn’t say anything, and she tried to think, for the thousandth time, who he reminded her of. Caramel hair, eyes almost the same colour, freckles matching those, and a ridiculously small nose. But didn’t all children have noses that size? It was adulthood that brought the giant honker, the misshapen hooter, the syphilitic proboscis.
Charlie had accepted her offer of an ice cream, and sat eating it with neat deliberation, his eyes on the river. She kept one hand in her purse, her fingers touching a flask of whisky.
“We’re studying the river at school,” he said. “Do you know how many bodies they pull out a week?”
“What, now?” she asked, startled.
“Yes. There are special river police — do you know how many bodies they pull out?”
She shrugged, thinking that if she’d known children were this morbid, she might have been more interested in having one.
“One a week. Fifty-two a year. On average.”
They’d sat for at least an hour, hardly speaking, but content. At least she was. Being with her son gave her a strange, electric thrill. She’d imagined that passersby were staring at him, handsome in his school blazer. The bridge never went up and no police boats went by. As the sun set Kenneth came to find them, astonished they hadn’t moved.
Perhaps that silence presaged this one. Seven years. What kind of son doesn’t speak to his mother for seven years? She opened the lid of her computer and laboriously punched in an address she knew by heart. The book shop’s web site was designed to look like it had been produced on a typewriter, the letters black and wavy-edged. Hell Yes Books, West Third Street, Los Angeles.
She placed her cursor above the tab that said Who We Are, held her breath, and clicked. Charles Price, events manager. As always, she was grateful for the tiny concession he’d made by keeping her name. Well, her adopted name. She squinted at his photo. He was beautiful, her boy, but he looked sinewy, almost gaunt. Augusta thought: If he’s on a raw food diet I’ll kill him.
She felt the familiar indignation rise. He couldn’t pick up the phone? Admittedly, she might have made more of an effort. But she had been busy. A woman on her own, trying to make her way in the world. Irritation drew Augusta up a little higher. The boy sold books in a Los Angeles shop. Part-time. Which of them had more time for maintaining bridges?
Some people preferred burning bridges. She imagined Kenneth Deller, tight polyester
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