Next to a window – that definitely needed opening – a table was laid out with pots of paints, brushes and sketchbooks. A jam jar swilled brown with dirty water, a paintbrush left out on the side. Maria found herself staring at it. Albie had held that paintbrush, had used that water when he last painted. The loss of him overwhelmed her for a moment. She took a deep breath and forced herself on. Paintings were stacked up against each other under the table, some original works on the wall, either side of a cuckoo clock. Then she realised with a start: they were his works. His small signature in the bottom right-hand corner of a beautiful painting of a river at dusk: a purple wash of colour, languid ripples on the surface, so realistic she could see the movement of the water, wanted to reach out and touch it.
She moved slowly across to the table, fingering the sketchbook that laid open. It was a pencil drawing of the South Downs, stretches of rolling fields beneath a wide sky. The image made her swallow, imagining him walking there, his flat cap on his head, a stick in his hand. He had been so full of life, it was cruel to think he had been robbed of the years ahead. The sketch was stunning too. How she wished again that she had asked him to show her his art. Like everything else, he had hidden this incredible talent.
Rosie was quiet, standing silently in the corner, watching Maria as she moved around the room, picking up and putting down things at will.
‘It’s all yours now then,’ she said.
Maria paused, placed a gaudy teapot back on a shelf. ‘It is.’ She knew she wasn’t ready to face what she would do with the flat. There were too many reminders of him today: the paintings, the notes in his illegible writing, a book on walking left spine up, a biro without its lid, all overwhelming her.
She moved out of the living room. There were only two more doors off the corridor, one a small, neat bathroom in avocado green with only a bath, a shower attachment connected to the taps. A sink, a flannel folded neatly over the side, beneath a shelf containing a toothbrush and toothpaste. His toothbrush. The other room must be his bedroom and Maria couldn’t help but feel a strange embarrassment flood through her as she lingered outside: it felt wrong to be entering such an intimate space without him.
Rosie appeared in the corridor behind her, nodding an encouragement as if she knew Maria was undecided. Maria turned and stared back at the door, an innocuous cream door with a brushed silver handle. One push and she’d be inside, yet still she waited.
‘Go on,’ said Rosie in a soft voice from behind her. ‘That must be where he’s keeping all the precious stones and suitcases of money.’
This light-hearted comment was what Maria needed to take that final step, her hand reaching for the handle as she twisted it and stepped inside.
What she saw took her breath away.
She would stop and talk to anyone. And even when people were cold and distant, she would persist until they melted.
We were walking by the arcade when she spotted a policeman talking to a policewoman, their car parked some way off.
‘Mummmmmeeeee, it’s a lady.’ She pointed to the policewoman, who spotted her, smiled and came over.
‘Hello,’ she said, bending at the knees and talking to her. ‘Would you like to try on my helmet?’
She nodded, watching in wonder as the woman removed her hat, her brown hair flat, and placed it on her head.
Grinning, she spun round to look at me in the oversized hat, ‘Mummy, look I policeman.’
‘You look very important,’ the policewoman said, smiling. ‘And are you going to be a police officer when you grow up?’
She spun back round to answer, shaking her head so the helmet slipped down over her eyes. ‘No,’ she said from under it in an earnest voice, ‘I’m going to be a witch.’
Ten
It dominated the wall above the wooden double bed, the colours vivid against the plain magnolia walls. A beautiful portrait in oils of a woman sat in a high-backed chair, her hand resting on her arm, a half-smile on her face as she stared at the painter. The resemblance was uncanny: the portrait was of her.
She must have let out a noise because suddenly Rosie had joined her.
‘Are you alr— Hey, it’s…’ she was staring at the wall opposite too, ‘…you.’
Maria nodded dumbly. ‘Albie never painted portraits.’ He had told her that, said he preferred landscapes and still lifes, said they were less problematic than people. She had moved around the side of the bed, drawn to the image, unable to drag her eyes away. He had flattered her, that much was clear, her grey hair glossy, her blue eyes bright, her skin smoother – fewer crow’s feet and lines across her forehead.
He painted her.
‘He hasn’t finished it,’ Rosie pointed out, looking at a patch on the bottom left, clothing yet to be painted, a sparse canvas background needing filling.
Maria studied it carefully, unable to respond, simply soaking up every last detail, feeling tears prick her eyes so the colours blurred together. He would never finish it now.
The thought was so overwhelming she found she couldn’t stay standing, lowering herself onto the edge of his bed, eyes still roving over its surface. Why would he hang something half-finished? Another question to swirl and bump up against the others in her mind. Finally, she dragged her eyes away from it, soaking in the painful realisation that she had meant so much to him. He had left her all this, displayed a painting of her over his bed. She imagined him then getting in and out of bed, her face the very first and last thing he would see. She felt herself burn with heat. She thought of the things she would say to him if he were here, imagined herself reaching for his hand, revelling in the rough skin, paint caught in the edges of his squared-off nails.
Closing her eyes, she pretended for a moment that he was there, felt a warmth flood her body.
Rosie had asked her a question but Maria wasn’t concentrating, caught up in the past, in the memories she had of him. Had he ever tried to tell her what she meant to him? Why hadn’t she shared her own feelings? Why had she held back? He had been so understated she had missed the signs, or maybe she couldn’t imagine someone like him feeling like that about her. It had been so many years and she had long lost her faith in men. And now, it was too late.
Looking around the room, she let the details soak in: a flat cap and trilby hat on a stand, a neat line of brogue shoes, shiny from polish, a cactus on his dark walnut dresser. She didn’t want to clear any of this away, she wanted to curl up in a ball on the top of his bed and sleep there, to pretend for a second that he was in the room next door, sat in the leather armchair, that he would join her soon.
Her eyes fell to his bedside table: a lamp, an ashtray, his watch, reading glasses, some cufflinks and a small red alarm clock competing for space. She almost missed the piece of paper. It was folded in two, largely hidden by the ashtray – a souvenir from the past as he had told her he’d given up smoking years ago. For a brief second she doubted that fact – had he lied to her about the small things too? But then there was no evidence the ashtray had been used, no lingering smell trapped in the room.
She reached for the piece of paper, unfolding it and smoothing it out. Then she turned it over in her hands – it felt wrong to be rifling through his belongings, this might be personal.
‘Read it.’ Rosie’s voice was gentle but determined.
Maria bit her lip, ‘But what if it’s…’
‘Personal?’
Maria nodded, looking up at Rosie, who in that moment seemed so wise for her years.
‘Nothing’s personal now, it’s all yours.’
Rosie moved across to sit next to her. Gosh, she’s a cheeky thing, thought Maria. She’s also right, though.
Maria thought then of the slip of paper, the note about the keys. Perhaps this was something more: an explanation, a reason. She felt her fingers itch, needing to know, desperate for more. Carefully, she turned the paper back over, reading the heading spelt in large sloping letters in a green fountain pen.
Wish List
<
br /> She frowned – not a letter then. The page was crammed full, a list of bullet points and small ticks next to half of the list.
For the local RSPCA charity:
• Donate a generous sum ✔
• Volunteer once a week ✔
For St Joseph’s Primary School:
• Provide them with a year’s worth of stationery ✔
• Help re-paint the children’s nursery ✔
• Buy flowers for the playground ✔
For the library:
• Purchase the staff a new coffee machine ✔
• Volunteer for readings once a month ✔
• Donation of books ✔
For the youth centre:
• Donation for a football table, ping-pong table and jukebox ✔
• Offer help for monthly drop-in sessions ✔
• Mentor a youth ✔
Rosie was reading the list over her shoulder and Maria realised the words were blurring as tears glistened at the kindness of her beloved friend. He had told her about the furry cat, Mr Pickles, that he’d adopted, who had promptly run away on the second day. He had mentioned Troy, a young boy who lived on a nearby estate, whom he regularly met, Albie’s pockets always filled with cigarettes that he had confiscated from him. Maria had some sympathy for this teenager – she had once been a smoker, another bad habit from a lifetime ago. She remembered the day Albie had appeared in the café splattered in magnolia paint after helping out at the school. His grin as he told her about his favourite story – ‘The Odd Octopus’ – he read at the library.
‘How was the Octopus odd?’ she had asked in a bemused voice.
‘Ah, you’ll have to come to the library next Tuesday and sit on the mat with the kiddies to find out.’
Why hadn’t she gone to the library? Why hadn’t she sat on the mat and listened to his voice, the long drawn-out r’s, his eyebrows moving as he read from his favourite book, revelling in the delight on the faces of the listening children? She had cried off, ‘My hip! I’ll never get up.’ What she wouldn’t give to go back to the café and change her answer. The tears fell now, into her lap as she held the list away from her body. What a stupid woman, to waste time, to say no.
‘I can’t believe… I didn’t…’ Her words were choked as she wiped at her face. Rosie sat next to her, a quiet companion, letting her cry, letting her get it out. Maria felt Rosie rest a hand over hers.
‘I’m sure he knew you cared. He left you everything for a reason, you must have been very special to him.’
Her words gave Maria a sliver of comfort, enough to smooth out the paper once more and continue to read. She took in the rest of the list that had yet to be ticked.
For Keith:
• Buy him a coffee and sandwich every day ✔
• Help him re-connect with his family
• Pay for him to get a haircut
• Make sure to smile and stop to chat every time you pass him
For Timothy:
• Find him and thank him for saving my life
• Take a trip to the sea together
• Donate to a charity of his choice
For Pauline:
• Splash out on a makeover for the café (state-of-the-art coffee machine, new fridges and stove, get rid of those tablecloths!)
• Buy her a gift – a spa day maybe? Check with Maria
For Cathie:
• Make amends and say sorry for not forgiving her
• Try to make up for lost time
• Treat her to a trip to Paris and try frog’s legs and snails
She read as fast as she was physically able, her mind racing. She knew Keith, a local homeless gentleman – Albie had mentioned him in passing, that he liked his coffee with milk and two sugars. She’d heard about Timothy too, he had saved Albie’s life when they were students. They’d lost touch and Albie, on more than once occasion, had tried to track him down. Why hadn’t she asked more? Why had she never probed? She wanted all the answers and now it was too late. Pauline, she knew well – Albie had always fallen into such easy conversation with her on their Thursdays at the café and Maria had let him, barely chipping in, but enjoying listening to them both. She bit her lip at the suggestion that he should ‘check with Maria’, as if she would have been the one to advise him.
She frowned at the other name though: Cathie. He had never mentioned a Cathie before. She was sure of it, she could recall all their conversations and Cathie had not been a name to pass his lips. Yet the name seemed familiar. She felt a rush of heat course through her and realised it was jealousy. She would most definitely have remembered her name if Albie had told her it. She wondered who she was, a small dread settling in her stomach. Paris: the city of love, romance. He had promised to take Cathie there. What would Cathie think of all of this?
Then she remembered where she had read the name: the solicitor’s pack had contained a few addresses and she thought Cathie had been one of them. So who was she? Maria would have thought more about it, but the next bullet point made everything else leave her mind. Her own name, written in the green fountain pen, in his hand.
For Maria:
• Take her to The Ritz for afternoon tea – for some proper tea and cake!!!
The Ritz?! She couldn’t begin to imagine the grandeur. She would have had to have worn her Sunday best. Probably a hat. She thought of her wardrobe – nothing in it would suffice for somewhere so fancy. She would have had to go shopping for something new, something she hadn’t done for years, something she had once enjoyed a lifetime ago, when she had been someone else entirely.
‘It’s you!’ Rosie said, interrupting Maria’s thoughts. And then of course bringing her back to this room, this list and the very fact that Maria would never be planning an outing with Albie to The Ritz. She’d never get to go there.
‘Oh, you never went. But look,’ Rosie said, shifting closer to Maria, ‘look at the next thing on the list.’
Maria forced her eyes down.
• Paint Maria (don’t give up – actually finish it this time! Even though it’s impossible to truly capture her beauty)
She felt her heart beat faster, her cheeks tingle. Such kind words. She looked up at the painting over his bed, at how he had viewed her. How could she have missed it? How could she have wasted so much time? Looking down, she continued reading quickly, needing to know it all. The next line shocked her.
• Go to the grave with Maria and plant some tulips
She must have made a noise because Rosie was asking, ‘What?’
Too stunned to say anything, Maria couldn’t even look at her. She didn’t want to read anything more about it either. It made her stomach ache with fresh pain. She didn’t want to think about the grave, couldn’t. And the fact that he had known how hard it might be made her even more muddled. She looked down and read the final bullet point next to her name, wanting to distract herself from the thoughts piling on top of her.
This time she definitely gasped out loud, the noise loud in the tiny room.
‘What is it? What?’ Rosie asked, peering down quickly as Maria folded the paper in two once more.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, her voice high and quick.
‘Of course it is or you wouldn’t…’
‘Really,’ Maria insisted, hastily opening up her handbag, secreting the folded paper inside.
‘But, you…’
Something in her expression made Rosie’s words fade away.
Maria’s handbag felt weighty with the list – and that last bullet point – inside, as if it were more than just a single slip of paper. She sat there dumbly on the bed, seeing the last line in her mind, repeating it in her head. Her fingers itched to open her handbag once more and check: it couldn’t be possible, had she really read it right?
I had to take her into work for leaving drinks. Michael had been at the company for twenty-five years and had secured us our first TV advertising campaigns. They were presenting him with a plaque and
the room was packed with people in the industry, many down from our London office and one or two across from New York.
I had dressed her in a velvet dress with an enormous bow around the waist that she said made her look like Sindy. She was a sociable child and I hoped she would just sit quietly while I circulated.
I’d had a great evening, chatting with the CEO in our London office, hints of a bright future for me. He’d breathed cigar smoke in my face and squeezed my waist and I’d smiled and let him.
His wife had joined us after a while – a striking woman with a Roman nose and a high forehead, dressed in a taffeta dress with a beaded bodice. She talked at me: the intricacies of a recent whist evening and her latest charity do at The Savoy, her expression forbidding.
My daughter had appeared at my side, eating a pineapple chunk on a stick. ‘Go now,’ she said, tugging on the hem of my dress.
‘And who is this?’ the CEO had asked, ruffling her hair.
His wife looked down her nose at this small child in a velvet dress and then back at me.
My daughter glanced up at this woman and then, with no warning, she told her, ‘Your dress is really pretty.’
And I watched in amazement, my heart swelling, as this haughty woman cracked the first smile of that evening.
Eleven
For a moment she considered going to the beach, imagined herself walking along the promenade, the breeze through her hair, sand to her right, the sun setting on the horizon, a boat idling by. But she dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, knowing she didn’t have the strength. She would catch a glimpse of the pier, be forced to remember a past she had been determined to put behind her. She would be forced to walk away.
The Wish List Page 8
