Page 12 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Fair broke the old lady’s heart.’

‘And the house was sold and torn down, and they built bungalows on the land.’

Beatrice hadn’t been able to stop her disappointment from showing in her face. She half-stood, beginning to thank the men for their time.

‘Ah, stay and have another drop of this good whiskey with us, do.’

‘Wait, there was another house, wasn’t there?’

‘In London.’ The old man’s face brightened. His friend gestured to the bartender and more whiskey was poured. ‘In the East End, I believe.’

‘The Doyles were after buying big houses.’ A phlegmy cackle. ‘Before they lost all their money, that is.’

‘It would’ve been the old woman and her husband that bought it. Some notion of family history, because it was in Spitalfields that they first made their fortune, back when all the Irish weavers crossed the sea to work there.’

‘But they never lived there, because the war came.’

That was all the information Beatrice had been able to glean. The name of a place – Spitalfields – and a family – Doyle.

The nib of her pen hovering over the notebook, she traced the area on the page of the map. The yellow and white lines of the roads, their names printed in black, gave her no clue as to what the place might actually be like. But there it was, Tower Bridge to its south, Whitechapel to its east, the City of London to the west and Shoreditch and Hackney to the north.

None of those names meant anything to her either, yet they felt somehow mysterious and full of promise. She could almost taste the words as she formed them silently with her tongue.

Leaving the dregs of her tea and most of her black pudding, Beatrice tucked a ten-pound note under her saucer, pushed back her chair and stood up, tucking her books back into her bag. Now that she was almost there, almost within touching distance of a goal of sorts, she felt newly apprehensive, tempted to return to the familiarity of her hotel and Friends, and sleep some more.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t get another chance until next weekend and she couldn’t afford to waste another week with no longer-term home and all her questions still unanswered.

She pushed open the door of the café and headed out into the street, the sunshine dazzling her before she lowered her shades over her eyes and started walking.

TEN

I remember the time before Beatrice arrived as a kind of halcyon period – the calm before the storm. But that’s not really how it was. It was only a week, after all, between me moving in and us meeting her, and the honeymoon phase continued for quite a while afterwards.

Still, that Sunday stands out in my mind like a kind of landmark – a full stop between before and after.

The ‘before time’ began when Luke drove me to Mile End to pick up my things. The drive wasn’t long – only about fifteen minutes, because it was Sunday afternoon and the traffic on the Mile End Road was light. All the way, we chatted. He told me about his card in the newsagent’s window, how he’d studied fine art at university, then briefly worked as a graphic designer.

‘But I hated it,’ he said. ‘Stuck in front of a computer all day. No disrespect to graphic designers, but it didn’t feel like art at all, really.’

So he had slipped back into doing the construction work he’d learned from his uncle. Orla’s house, he said, had seemed like a golden opportunity: free accommodation and a wage that was enough to pay for his other needs, in return for work that didn’t look likely to dry up any time soon.

‘That place is a project and a half,’ he said, his hand lifting from the steering wheel to push back his glossy hair. ‘And I won’t be able to leave her in the lurch before it’s finished.’

‘You’ll be an expert in house restoration by then,’ I remarked. ‘You’ll be able to start your own property development business and make a fortune.’

He laughed, and I saw the flash of his white teeth. ‘God, no. I want to transform buildings in a different way.’

‘What’s that then?’

He hesitated, then said shyly, ‘Street art. You know, like⁠—’

‘Banksy?’

‘Banksy’s a wanker. All that anonymity and secret squirrel bollocks.’

‘His art’s worth a fortune, though.’

‘Maybe, but… I want to do different stuff. Stuff that properly transforms urban communities. Makes them more relevant and vibrant for the people that live there.’