Acts of Kindness Page 4

  Isadora took more mouse-like sips of the water. It seemed incongruous to hear words relating to children’s feet, blood and nails coming out of that neatly-lipsticked mouth.

  ‘Emma was grateful, as any mother would be. She tried to offer the man a meal, money even, but he would accept nothing. He said it was no more than anyone would do. She thought about that. It was no more than anyone like he, or she, would do, but not everyone in the world is alike. This was her epiphany. Small acts of kindness were random. One never knew if or when they might occur. What if one could introduce method into kindnesses and increase their frequency? How imperceptibly and yet how materially humankind would benefit from the cumulative effects of unlooked-for kindness. Emma, at that moment, conceived the basis of the OAK Institute.’

  One more tiny sip and Isadora stood up, looking at Bella as if they were co-conspirators, as if she were Willy Wonka about to show Charlie his factory. ‘Come and see what it has become.’

  Catherine stayed where she was while the others filed out through the far door which led into a small, windowless hall. Ben opened the wooden door in the opposite wall, revealing a tiny old-fashioned lift.

  He swung the grille open and waved Bella inside. ‘I’ll leave you in Isadora’s capable hands.’

  Bella pressed herself against the back of the lift, trying to leave as much room as possible for Isadora who stood in front, with her back to her. There were buttons marked 3, 2, 1 and G. Ignoring these, Ben reached in and pressed a button marked ‘Assistance’ before slamming the grille back into place. The lift whirred into life and began to descend. Bella had an excellent view of the top of Isadora’s head. Her grey hair was stiff with the dull sheen of hairspray and a faint smell of roses emanated from her when she moved.

  The lift came to rest with a jolt.

  After a moment in which nothing happened, Isadora moved her head an infinitesimal amount in Bella’s direction. ‘Could you, dear?’

  It dawned on Bella that Isadora was waiting for her to open the door. She shuffled to the front and grappled with the stiff handle. Once she’d unclasped the fastening, it swung open without effort and they emerged into a part of the building Bella hadn’t seen before. If the main house was perfectly preserved, with all hints of modernity tucked behind curtains and under rugs, this was the polar opposite. The atrium in which they stood had a flat glass roof through which flooded natural light. Along the stark white corridor ahead of them a row of solid steel doors punctuated the right-hand wall. There wasn’t so much as a stray ceiling rose in sight. Disoriented, Bella turned to find her companion watching her like a gleeful child.

  Isadora beckoned her with a finger upon which glittered an enormous amethyst. ‘Come.’

  Bella took a deep breath. Whatever was behind those steel doors couldn’t be as bad as her anxiety dreams. Particularly if it happened to be her mum, who would be a welcome, if unexpected, addition to the scene.

  They approached the first door and it became apparent that Isadora could operate doors by herself when absolutely obliged to, as long as she didn’t have to touch anything. She stood close to a small panel beside the door and commanded, ‘Open.’

  Sesame, Bella was thinking to herself as the door slid aside.

  ‘This,’ announced Isadora, ‘is one of our observatories.’

  For a moment, Bella thought she had stepped into one of her dreams. Everything was movement, colour – her eyes were telling her brain impossible things about the depth of field. Gradually, as if she was staring into one of the ‘Magic Eye’ posters that had covered her walls when she was a child, she forced the pieces of the puzzle to make sense. There were perhaps a hundred people in the room, wearing headsets and carrying tablet computers. Every millimetre of each concave wall was covered in television screens.

  She followed Isadora over to stand behind a man in a green T-shirt and glasses who was absorbed by the action on one of the screens. It showed a young woman, hesitating at the bottom of a flight of steps in what looked like a train station. She grasped a large suitcase and started to heave it up the stairs. On the first step, she nearly overbalanced and had to grab for the handrail, struggling to hold on to the case with her other hand as commuters shoved past her and streamed up the stairs.

  The man in the green T-shirt was speaking into his headset and typing on his tablet while he watched the girl on the screen. From the left side of the shot, an unremarkable middle-aged man in a suit appeared. Without a word, he took hold of the suitcase, flashed a brief smile at the young woman, and carried it to the top of the stairs. She sprang up the stairs after him and seemed to be thanking him before he strode off out of sight.

  The man’s attention then switched to a different screen, and as Bella looked around she realised this process was being repeated over and over, thousands of times, all day long. Unsuspecting members of the public were being helped via the medium of millions of cameras and microphones which acted as the eyes and ears of this covert team.

  When she was a little girl, Bella’s grandmother had told her that Jesus was watching her all the time. All the time. That had made her stop and think. And for a while Jesus’s eyes would pop into her head at inopportune moments, halting the progress of an index finger towards a nostril or making her close the door to the biscuit cupboard and climb back down off the stool. As she got older, she formed her own opinion about Jesus and his eyes, an opinion which she didn’t share with her grandmother for fear of upsetting her feelings. Nonetheless, despite being certain that nothing godly was peering over her shoulder, Bella found herself almost always behaving as if she were observed. Her constant question to herself was what would people think of this or that act that she was about to perform.

  Here in the observatory, Jesus’s eyes popped into her head again without warning. All those times when she’d imagined she was being watched – she was being watched. As she and Isadora weaved their way through headset-wearing hordes in the observatory and Isadora explained some of the technology in use, she realised the full extent of OAK’s eyes and ears. They hacked into CCTV, webcams, security cameras and spy planes. They installed hidden cameras in vehicles and appliances. Their agents wore tiny cameras in their clothing. It struck Bella that she herself had probably been helped by the OAK Institute in the past.

  Isadora indicated a screen in the centre of the far wall which displayed a number that was changing from 11,348 to 11,349. ‘The kindness tally for today.’ She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then gave a slight shrug and added, ‘Well, it’s still early I suppose.’

  ‘Will I… Will that be part of my job?’ asked Bella.

  Isadora shook her head. ‘The observe and deploy teams are specially trained. They are recruited for that work.’

  Something in her tone gave Bella the impression that she wouldn’t fulfil the criteria for the observe and deploy teams; not by a long shot.

  They left the room and were passing down the corridor as Isadora continued. ‘You’ll find there are a lot of specialisms at OAK. Different jobs require very specific skillsets. But all our people are integral to the correct operation of this organisation, from the elite teams you’ve seen in action here right down to the smallest, greenest leaf on the OAK tree,’ she said, crinkling her eyes at Bella.

  Bella wasn’t terribly flattered by the implication that she was the smallest, greenest leaf but made no comment.

  They passed by more observatories down the long corridor, Isadora’s deportment and the way she held her head perfectly balanced atop her shoulders bringing to mind a ballet dancer – or perhaps a rather strict ex-ballet dancer who now taught novices.

  ‘The scale of this…’ Bella trailed off, indicating the numbers of rooms packed with people. ‘Where does all the money come from to fund it? There must be thousands of people employed by OAK.’

  She saw Isadora shoot a glance at her and wondered if she’d overstepped the mark. Before answering, she led Bella through a door and up a short spiral staircase to a mezzanin
e overlooking one of the observatories.

  ‘It’s a very astute question, my dear,’ she replied, as they stood by the glass barrier and looked down on the milling mass of observe and deploy staff, each wrapped up in his or her own on-screen drama. ‘AC is the front company and does provide some financial support, but not enough to run an operation like this. It’s vast, as you suggest, although only operational in the UK and parts of the US to date. We plan further expansion into the US this year, and Europe the year after. We did try a pilot expansion into Paris.’ She sniffed and plucked an invisible thread from her sleeve. ‘Sadly, the levels of hostility we encountered from the average Parisian demanded a much greater level of kindness intervention than we’re able to finance at this point.

  ‘We generate income for OAK from various sources. I mentioned my ancestors were wealthy – the Fayes are one of the largest landowners in England. We invest our income from our property holdings, and we also own a portfolio of companies whose affiliation to OAK is not public, but whose income helps to support us.’

  As she finished, she gave Bella a tight smile which seemed to indicate the topic was now closed.

  Looking at her standing there, in her classic Chanel suit, against the backdrop of glass, steel and screens, Bella felt a question rising to her lips that not even the warning growls of What Others Might Think of Her could repress.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ she asked. ‘All the money and effort that it takes, why not just run AC as a normal business?’

  Isadora laughed and turned to face Bella, one manicured hand resting lightly on the glass barrier.

  ‘You might as well ask why…’ her eyes darted around the space above Bella’s head as she searched for the right analogy, ‘…why Shakespeare wrote plays or why Mozart composed music. OAK is my life, it’s why I’m here on this earth. And besides, if we weren’t here, you’d know about it, my dear.’ Unexpectedly, she took one of Bella’s hands in both her own. Isadora’s hands were soft and dry, the grip firm. ‘Imagine if those little positive interactions with strangers that brighten your day stopped happening. How would you feel? If your car broke down and no one stopped to help. If you forgot your money and no one would lend you your bus fare home. If you were choking on something in a restaurant and no one stepped forward to save your life.’

  The grip tightened on her hand. ‘I can tell you exactly how you would feel. You would feel abandoned, neglected, hurt, alone. You would resent those around you. You would come to expect no fellow-feeling from others and in return, you would show none. The world would be a colder, crueller place. That is life without the OAK Institute, my dear, and don’t you forget it.’

  Chapter Five

  Back downstairs, Isadora commanded another door to let her in. It obeyed and her face lit up as the room inside was revealed. ‘This is my favourite place in the whole complex.’

  It looked like a library designed by a sufferer of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Row upon row of books, as far as the eye could see, all bound in the same fawn shade of leather, all the same height and thickness. The fact that this was Isadora’s favourite place said something about the woman, it was as neat and immaculate as she was. Bella had an urge to pull a book out of line or add a mismatching one, anything to break the monotony, like wanting to yell ‘Who gives a fuck!’ in the middle of a boring meeting. The only point of contrast was a large oil painting on the back wall, which depicted a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Isadora. The woman looked to be in her early forties and the style of her satin shift dress, multiple strings of pearls and elbow-length gloves suggested it had been painted in the 1960s.

  ‘A relative?’ Bella enquired, as they paused in front of it.

  ‘My late mother, Elizabeth Faye. She died not long after this was painted.’

  They stood in silence for a moment and then Isadora beckoned her on through the room, which had been decorated in the style of the original house, with elaborate cornicing and chandeliers. They passed shelf after shelf of the beige books. At the far end, Isadora turned to the left.

  ‘This,’ she said, in a tone of triumph, ‘is The Librarian.’

  The man woke up with a start. He had been sitting with one hand resting on his chin, his elbow on a large wooden desk, dozing. Rousing himself, he rose to his feet with quiet dignity. Marred slightly by tripping over the chair leg as he manoeuvred himself around the desk.

  ‘Charmed,’ he murmured as he clasped Bella’s hand in both of his own. The strength of the alcohol fumes suggested he’d been steeped in spirits overnight. He was a compact, stocky man. Broken veins snaked, purple, across his nose and cheeks. He wore a three-piece suit which appeared encrusted to his body. Nothing about him marked him out as an ideal candidate for the guardianship of a valuable collection of books. He returned to his seat behind the desk, while Bella and Isadora sat in creaky leather armchairs opposite. Opening a deep drawer, he produced a decanter and three glasses.

  ‘It is tradition,’ Isadora explained, ‘that new members of the OAK Institute toast their arrival with The Librarian.’

  Bella knew she was the only new arrival for a couple of months. The Librarian must have been keeping his toasting arm in good practice in between. He sloshed a generous measure of golden liquid into each glass. Whisky. She hated whisky, it made her feel sick. Ever since she was seventeen and it had been produced at a house party late on in the evening, leading to a marathon vomiting session.

  They raised glasses and clinked them. As they held them there, elevated, there was a moment of complete silence. The steel door shut out any external noise, and the thick carpet and millions of pages were like blotting paper for sound.

  ‘A single act of kindness may change a day, a life, the world. Kindness is powerful. OAK is mighty,’ The Librarian said, as if he were reciting a spell, with Isadora murmuring along with him.

  His unfocused gaze met Isadora’s and held it before he knocked back his drink. Isadora sipped at hers, as she had done her water. Bella raised the glass, let the liquid touch her lips, felt queasy and put it back down.

  The Librarian refilled his glass. ‘This room contains the history of the Organised Acts of Kindness Institute, from the very day it began. Your name will now be added to its annals.’

  He looked at her as if she had won the lottery.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said. It seemed inadequate.

  Tossing back his drink, he staggered over to a row of glass cases that were fixed to the wall. He put his hand in his trouser pocket. Bella saw the hand hunt around beneath the greasy tweed, before coming out empty. He held it palm up and frowned. His other hand entered boldly into his other pocket. The investigation was repeated. He swayed, grabbed on to one of the cases and righted himself with a business-like cough. Bella sneaked a glance at Isadora and found she was looking unconcerned. The Librarian was now patting himself down in the most unlikely places before trying his waistcoat pocket, his face lighting up as he extracted a key.

  ‘This,’ he declared, ‘is the key to our most valuable case. I always keep it here, close to my heart.’

  He seemed satisfied that he had conducted himself with aplomb and proceeded to open the cabinet. A very old book, bound in fawn leather like all the rest, was produced. It was dropped on the floor, recuperated, polished against The Librarian’s trouser leg and placed with a reverential flourish on the green leather of the desk.

  ‘This is the First Record.’

  He smoothed the binding with one trembling hand before opening the book at the first page. Having cleared his throat, he read aloud.

  ‘Thursday, October 21st, 1814. Mary Cutler gave an apple and a penny to a vagrant who was sheltering under White Horse Bridge. This is the second kindness of the Organised Acts of Kindness Institute.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Bella could see that Isadora was mouthing the words as he spoke. When The Librarian finished, he closed the book and regarded Bella from underneath his unruly eyebrows, waiting.

  ‘The second ki
ndness?’ She turned to Isadora. ‘Because the first one was the man helping Emma Faye’s son?’

  Isadora looked pleased. ‘Well done.’ She took the book from The Librarian and turned over the pages, rings flashing in the light of the reading lamp. ‘The Institute was modest to begin with. Just Emma and two of her servants, Mary Cutler and George Jennings. Emma recorded every kindness in this book and subsequent books. Over time, as she grew more confident and more ambitious, the Institute expanded. She recruited more staff to the position which would come to be known as agent. Slowly, with extreme secrecy, she built an organisation which would bring help and happiness to people all across the country.’

  ‘Why in secret?’ Bella asked. ‘Why can’t OAK be open about its activities?’

  The Librarian snorted.

  ‘Think about it, my dear,’ said Isadora. ‘If people knew the kind stranger who helped them was being paid, the sense of gratitude and fellow-feeling they experience would diminish. It follows that the recipient of the kindness would then be less motivated to carry out their own act of compassion when the occasion arose. OAK isn’t purely about helping someone in the moment, it’s about encouraging the spread of benevolence. That’s why we carry out small, individual acts of kindness instead of funding the type of large-scale community projects that we feel are better managed by charities and government departments.’

  ‘And speaking of government departments…’ added The Librarian, with a knowing look at Isadora over the rim of his near-empty glass.