Sincerely, Me

About the Book

Danny Mulberry is a man who ‘could do better’. Better at life, better at taking on responsibility and most definitely better at being a grown-up.

But when a misleading photo of Danny appears in the newspaper, people around the country start to think this apparently enlightened man could be the one with all the answers. Letters begin to flood in from strangers seeking his guidance . . .

Wolfie is the teenage daughter of Danny’s estranged sister, Lou. She’s never met her uncle. But her mother needs help, and so, when Wolfie sees Danny’s picture in the paper, she sets out to find him.

Within a week, Danny goes from being responsibility-free to a big brother, an uncle and an unwitting existential ‘guru’ to some very lost souls.

An uplifting and heartwarming novel about a family reunited, second chances and the power of forgiveness, from the critically acclaimed author of The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman.

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

1. Danny

2. Wolfie

3. Danny

4. Danny

5. Danny

6. Danny

7. Danny

8. Wolfie

9. Danny

10. Danny

11. Danny

12. Danny

13. Danny

14. Danny

15. Wolfie

16. Wolfie

17. Danny

18. Danny

19. Danny

20. Wolfie

21. Danny

22. Wolfie

23. Danny

24. Wolfie

25. Danny

26. Wolfie

27. Danny

28. Danny

29. Danny

30. Wolfie

31. Danny

32. Wolfie

33. Danny

34. Danny

35. Wolfie

36. Danny

37. Wolfie

38. Wolfie

39. Danny

40. Danny

41. Wolfie

42. Danny

43. Danny

44. Wolfie

45. Danny

46. Wolfie

47. Danny

48. Wolfie

49. Danny

50. Wolfie

51. Danny

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

Imprint

Read More at Penguin Books Australia

For Sidra, niece extraordinaire

1

Danny

Number two highlight of my thirty-ninth birthday: an extremely fit policewoman calling me interesting in front of some very hard to impress neighbours.

Definitely not unconnected lowlight of the day that followed fairly soon after: the disapproving look on Gentleman’s face as I was driven off in the back of a patrol car headed for Camden police station. He’s also quite hard to impress, for a dog, although a damn sight more forgiving than the neighbours.

I suppose if you’re the kind of person that’s used to it, being called interesting mightn’t seem like such a big deal. But when you’re me, Danny Mulberry, Mr Could-Do-Better, permanent address your best mate’s garden shed, the bar is never going to be high. She had brown eyes and a dangerous swing in her walk, that policewoman, and I’m sorry but I couldn’t help noticing.

When I’d woken up slightly later than the crack of dawn on the morning after yet another night before, half in, half out of the front gate, with a claggy paintbrush on the ground beside me and an open tin of red paint a few feet away, my main concern had been getting to it before Gentleman tried to have it away for his breakfast. He’s probably eaten worse than a bit of solvent in his time, but there’s no point tempting fate, or a dog with a delicate constitution and a firm belief that every tin in the world is filled with gourmet rabbit in gravy.

I managed to get myself upright and push the gate the rest of the way open, and it was right at the moment I picked up the paintbrush and started trying to work out what was going on that the police car cruised around the corner. I mean, seriously, how’s your luck at that time of the morning?

PC Maria Hanley (as it transpired) pulled up to see me standing with the incriminating, almost beyond a reasonable doubt exhibit A in my hand, and a very cushty circumstantial case about to drop in her lap. She leaned over to say something to the other PC and got out of the car, tilting her head to read the painted words on the pavement. Then she stepped neatly around them and addressed me, quite charmingly. ‘And just what is it you think you’re doing, sir?’

I looked down at the paintbrush in my hand, then at the stray bit of hair that had escaped her sensible ponytail and curled on to her neck just inside her collar. It was mightily distracting, and in my defence, I was also experiencing some serious head spins. But did I do what I was perfectly entitled to, which was give it the old, ‘Well, I’m not absolutely sure, but it might not be what it looks like, Officer’ defence? Did I bollocks. What I did was raise both hands in the air, flash what I hoped was a winning smile, and – in hindsight probably purely out of habit and on account of still being half smashed – wink and give it my best shot.

‘Looks like you’ve caught me red-handed, Officer . . .’ I leaned forward to read her badge. ‘Hanley. Bang to rights and don’t pardon the pun!’

Just to clarify, she didn’t actually call me interesting, per se. She squinted her lovely mistrusting eyes like she was considering her options and said, ‘Interesting.’ She left enough space either side of the word to let me know that not only did she suspect I might not have an interesting bone in my body, but that everything coming out of my mouth had clearly been thoroughly rinsed in alcohol so wasn’t to be trusted in the least. About right on both counts, to be fair.

If I’m honest, the speed with which I put up my hand to take the rap for a dirty great piece of graffiti defacing a formerly pristine Belsize Park footpath was a bit of a surprise, even to me. In part because I had no concrete memory of actually committing the crime, although I did recognise the tin of paint (which I’d rescued from a skip a few weeks before with a solid plan to paint the shed door), and the words of the graffiti had a vaguely familiar ring.

The problem was, it was all thrashing around in a mosh pit of other drunken memories from the night before, which included getting a right telling-off from the guy in the kebab shop, and handing over a tenner and my favourite Adidas hoodie to a busker with a ukulele and a chesty cough. I had no idea how, or even if, any of it was connected and, if I’d taken a moment to think things through rationally, I might have reconsidered whether straight up admitting to a crime against Camden Council just to make use of a pretty lame punchline-slash-possible-pick-up line was really such a great idea. But it was a split-second decision and, like I said, I did have the smoking gun in my hand. I figured that, as usual (although not always), the memory of the deed would reveal itself eventually – in easy-to-digest fragments if I was lucky, or in one stomach-churning brain dump if not.

What can I say? It was far from my first rodeo.

I have to admit, there was also a part of me that was just a little bit impressed with both the content and execution of the graffiti, considering the circumstances. The letters were all perfectly legible, the words were well spaced out and, tell the truth, I wouldn’t have thought I had anything quite that existential in me.

A Cat May Look at a King

Legitimately quite interesting, I’d say.

And, oh yes, I coulda woulda shoulda told Officer Hanley and her mate I was quite lawfully standing just inside that posh Belsize Park property because I lived there. That in fact it was actually my dog poking his traitorous, hairy little snout around the corner of the house, trying to stay out of sight and pretending not to know me. If I had, I might have been able to clear up the whole matter there and then. But, standing there with a pounding head and a fairly serious case of love at first sight, I was already entertaining visions of a bit of flirty interrogation down at the Camden nick, a quick rap over the knuckles, then back home via my favourite cafe to pick up bacon butties for Dom and George. Possibly with Officer Hanley’s phone number in my pocket as a birthday bonus.

It was an embarrassment of potential riches, but if the way things went down seems a little foolish on my part, understand I’m not going to come right out and admit I allowed myself to get arrested just to try to get a girl’s phone number. Although for the record, I’ve done worse with some pretty outstanding results.

Nothing much untoward tends to happen in Belsize Park that early in the morning – except maybe an accidental overstretch in a Pilates class or a punch-on between a couple of Cavoodles – so the presence of a police car meant it wasn’t too long before the made-to-measures started twitching. I don’t think it would have been a surprise to anyone that the fuss had something to do with the resident of the garden shed of number 67, though. Because, while Dom and George more than meet local expectations (in-demand plastic surgeon with Dr Dreamy looks and a bedside manner to match; cute six-year-old kid with a floppy barnet and an infinite sense of his own worth), their lodger – i.e. me – not so much.

I wasn’t in a position to do a headcount, but by the time Officer Hanley, still very charmingly, suggested I accompany her down to the station to help with her enquiries (don’t mind if I do and would that count as a first date?), there was fairly good doorstep attendance. It didn’t include Dom and George, who could both sleep through a Mr Whippy van doing wheelies up and down the street at midnight (not one of my prouder moments, although to be fair I was just a passenger), but it did include Ray Dunstan from number 65, who didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t absolutely delighted that I might finally be getting a big old serving of comeuppance.

It had also crossed my mind that Ray was probably the reason the police had arrived so fortuitously in the first place. The guy spent most of his time prowling the length of our shared hedge with a massive camera and a minuscule notebook, taking pictures of any bird that dared show its beak and trying to see what was going on in my garden shed. Which was overwhelmingly nothing, by the way, but it seemed a shame to crush his dreams, so I occasionally played up to his suspicions for the fun of it. Catching me having an early-morning kip not quite in the front garden and illegally painting the pavement to boot was no doubt extremely gratifying for him. Bless.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that what happened next was probably the residual alcohol in my system doing its thing and, yes, I was still very much trying to impress Officer Hanley. I looked down at the graffiti like I’d single-handedly unearthed the next instalment of the Rosetta Stone, rubbed my chin in what I hoped was a very academic way, and said, ‘So, tell me, Officer Hanley. Where do you stand on the whole cats and kings issue?’

According to my third-last job with a direct marketing company, you’ve got about thirty seconds to make a good first impression on someone and after that you’re basically toast. It felt like I was running dangerously behind schedule.

‘You’ve got to admit it makes you think, doesn’t it?’ I tapped the side of my nose. ‘And you know what they say – cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.’

That had come out unexpectedly well and I wondered briefly if I should consider drinking more, not less, if it meant I could come up with gems like that. The fact I’d read the quote on the back of a packet of pork scratchings was, as far as I was concerned, beside the point entirely.

Unsurprisingly, Officer Hanley was unimpressed. She rolled her eyes and held open the back door of the police car. ‘OK, Yoda, in you get.’

I silently willed her to put her hand on my head like they do on TV when they’re bundling people into police cars. But even though I hesitated longer than was necessary, there was no sign of that lovely hand coming anywhere near me. I ran my fingers through my slightly sticky hair and minded my own head. As the car door closed behind me, I caught a glint of something over at number 65 and saw Ray skulking behind his front hedge, scribbling in his little notebook. I had no doubt I was headed for a very dishonourable mention on the Neighbourhood Watch community Facebook page at his earliest convenience.

Officer Hanley executed a perfect three-point turn and I gave Ray a wave, just to show no hard feelings if it had been him that grassed me up. He shot me such a filthy look in return, I couldn’t help spontaneously finishing off with a cheery two fingers up at him. Partly because I think I was slightly high on the aroma of Officer Hanley’s shampoo, but also, the guy had been giving me that same look for the better part of a year and, hey, if nothing changes nothing changes. I’m not sure where I read that one.

You never know, maybe if I’d resisted the urge to give Ray the old two-finger salute he might not have whipped up his camera for an opportunity too good to miss. But I didn’t and he did. And maybe if the editor of London’s newest free paper hadn’t just come off the back of a couple of slow news days he might not have thought a perfectly composed, pin-sharp photo of a hungover middle-aged scruffbag giving Belsize Park an early-morning up yours was something that would entertain his readers. But he did. And it did. So, as it goes, the number one highlight of my birthday was something I could never in my wildest imagination have anticipated.

And it changed everything.

2

Wolfie

I’ve got nothing against dentistry as a profession. Love their work, in theory. But I do have an issue with the personal-space thing. The way they loom over you like the Grim Reaper and cop a front row view down the back of your throat. Who the hell knows what they get to see? Feels like a massive mind-your-own to me. And my business is my business.

But some guy banging around in my face with a mirror and a probe almost feels like light relief when I think about this morning. This week. My mother. I close my eyes and suck in a massive lungful of air through my open mouth. It tastes like mint and burns on the way down, settling in my chest. Hold it. For a split second I try to think better of it, because sometimes it works. But today is not the day and my business is my business. I hold that air in and start to count. One, two, three.

I’m already into double figures before he notices. Hands on my shoulders, shaking me gently at first, then a bit rougher. ‘Hey. What are you doing? Open your eyes.’

Eighteen. Nineteen. I can feel it stirring. Gathering. Twenty-one.

‘Miss? Can you open your eyes, please?’ The shoulder shaking gets downright bloody rude. Where’s your bedside manner, old mate? Do dentists sign up to the Hippocratic Oath? I don’t know, but either way there should definitely be some kind of protocol in place. Like, don’t manhandle the customers without their permission. Thirty-six, thirty-seven. Do keep the small talk to pleasantries about teeth; at a stretch, gums. Forty. Don’t eat garlic on a workday.

There it is, the distant flutter, faint and low. Forty-six, forty-seven, it’s on the move.

‘Hey! Can you hear me? I asked you . . .’

Fifty-something. I miss a beat but don’t go back. Oh, I hear you, buddy, but I’m busy. Not yet. No way. De ninguna manera, José.

Fifty-four, fifty-five. Tiny wings thumping like a drum beat.

‘Young lady. Miss! What are you . . .? Come on now, open your eyes. Look, I know you’re . . . just stop it, all right!’

Steady as she goes, bro. Fifty-nine and counting. The only way out is through.