Page 50 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘Do you have a name?’ the lady asks me. ‘For the resident you’re looking for? Plus, if you’ve any identification please, I’d need to see that too. I can’t give out resident’s information unless you have some form of photo ID stating the agency you work for.’
Her tone is tight and her face looks like she is super-stressed and wound up like a clock. She keeps typing as she talks but I don’t mind any more as I’m too busy looking round me, my heart aching for those who live here. A skinny Christmas tree sits on a table in the foyer, decorated in tinsel, and around it are cards . . . I presume from some of the agencies this lady is talking about. Mass-printed cards without a personal touch, to no one and from no one in particular.
‘Oh, I’m not from any agency at all,’ I explain to the lady, my tone dropping to match my mood and she finally stops what she’s doing. She takes off her glasses, looks at me properly at long last and her face relaxes a little. ‘I’m just hoping to speak to someone I know, that’s all. Well, I don’t know him, but I am hoping I might get to know him properly soon.’
‘And you are?’ she asks, looking me up and down as if it can’t possibly be true.
‘My name is Ruth,’ I say to her. ‘Ruth Ryans and I’m looking for a young man called Paul Connolly. He wrote to me and I replied but I’ve heard nothing since and I’d love to leave a message for him if it’s at all possible, or even better, if he’s here I was hoping that maybe I could have a quick word?’
‘Paul,’ she says. ‘Paul Connolly?’
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile. She may be looking at me and she still isn’t being overly friendly, but I refuse to let her bring me down.
‘Paul Connolly,’ she repeats, then she fidgets with her pen as her face falls and she gets up from behind the desk and comes round to stand beside me.
‘You’re the one from the newspaper,’ she says to me in a whisper and I nod, with a smile. ‘I thought you looked familiar. And you’re saying that Paul Connolly wrote to you?’
She seems a bit shaken now.
‘He did,’ I say to her. ‘Not that I could ever disclose what he wrote to me about and in what capacity. It’s confidential and I couldn’t—’
‘Yes, yes I get all that,’ she says quickly. ‘But do you knowwhenhe sent the letter? Was it recently?’
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling oh so professional. Maybe she doesn’t believe me? ‘In fact, I have a printout of it here in my handbag. It wasn’t a letter, though. It was an email. Most of my correspondence these days is by email. I suppose that’s the world we live in, isn’t it? Quick messages, quick replies . . . or not in this case which is why I’ve come across town to find him in person.’
I rummage in my handbag and take out a copy of the email but the lady stops me.
‘No, no you don’t need to go to any further,’ she says. ‘I believe you. I’m just so sorry that you didn’t call here sooner, or that he didn’t write to you sooner. Actually, maybe you could check what date is on the email?’
I open it and find the date.
‘Yes, it was sent just six days ago,’ I say to her after counting the days back in my head. ‘Has he moved on elsewhere?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Is he okay?’ I ask. ‘I’ve been thinking of him a lot for the past few days and I know he was in such . . . I hope he hasn’t moved on. I wonder did he even get my reply to his email at all?’
The lady takes a deep breath.
‘I’m Sonia,’ she says, extending her hand. Her hands are freezing. ‘We don’t have friends or people like you calling here very often, at least not the type of friends we would encourage, so I’m sorry if I seemed cold at first. I’m very, very stressed this week and I think this job is really taking its toll on me too.’
I greet her, puzzled at her change from tight and formal to warm and personable in a matter of seconds, as soon as I mentioned Paul’s email. She rubs her forehead, her face ashen with worry and pressure.
‘You should maybe take a break,’ I say to her, unable to shake off my natural reaction to give advice. ‘We all need to take a break sometimes and it looks like you need to before you do yourself more harm than good. We can’t look after others if we don’t look after ourselves.’
‘Oh, never mind me,’ she says. ‘About young Paul . . . I used to see him come in and out of here every day with his little rucksack on his back and his sunglasses on his head, and no matter what he was going through he always had a smile and a hello. They don’t all do that in here, believe me. And no matter what type of weather, he always had those sunglasses on his head. Oh, he was such a gentle soul and he never caused any trouble whatsoever. A very pleasant boy all round.’
‘That’s nice to hear,’ I say to her, wishing she would just get to the point. ‘I really hope I can track him down and see if he’d like to . . . Would you have a phone number for him at all? If I can’t get him here, maybe I could give him a call if he hasn’t moved too far away?’
Sonia looks into my eyes and shakes her head.
‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ she says to me. ‘I’m really sorry but you won’t be able to get him on the phone. Paul won’t be coming back here and you won’t be able to track him down at all. He’s gone, Ruth.’
‘Gone?’
‘Paul died, Ruth. I’m so sorry but he died here just three days ago,’ she whispers, her eyes filling up. ‘I noticed he didn’t come in at his usual time and eventually I checked his room and . . . well, he was buried yesterday in a small ceremony at the council graveyard. I’m so sorry to have to give you such bad news but he’s gone.’
I stop, stunned and take in her words. He’s not justgone. . . he’s dead?
