by PN Moore
Margaret, and Kenneth call
‘Could I pop down and see you old girl? Talk over a few things’
It was Kenneth.
‘What is it?’ I said down the phone irritated at the secrecy and drama, which I believed would only turn out to be something trivial anyway.
‘Is something wrong, what is it?’
Since our divorced we had met a few times, mostly to go over finances and sort out belongings. We hadn’t really talked about why we had broken up, both resigned to the thought that living together without Emma was really not a good idea, thinking rightly, that we would only remind each other every second of every day, that we were alone. After the break up, Kenneth had moved back to his elderly mother’s for a while, then bought a new flat not far from the station. When we broke up, I did miss him every now and again when I wasn’t eaten up with grief for Emma and hate for Lesley. Now I was with Rick, things had changed, and with some time between us I felt much better about my ex husband.
‘Is it mother?’ is she alright?’
‘Mothers fine Bee, a little gar-gar but still going strong, she sends her love. I just have something to discuss with you and I could take a run down Saturday morning, about eleven OK?’ he said a trifle coercing.
‘Oh for God’s sake Ken’ I said exasperated, ‘you know that I clean on a Saturday morning, come at twelve when I have finished’
‘Suits me’
‘Don’t be late’ I added ‘I may be going out in the afternoon’
‘I’ll be on time’
‘Alright I’ll see you then-oh are you staying for lunch, you know, just something small?’
‘Love too’ he said rather flippantly.
I put the kettle on at 11.55 and at 12 noon the doorbell rang. He had changed, it was only a year or so, yet he seemed younger and more relaxed. His hair was longer, giving the air of dashing, rather than dandruff. He was jauntily, giving me a ‘Hello Bee’ kiss on the cheek as he came in. (‘Bee’ being the last part of Kirby’.)
This is a lovely place, very swish, you were right to buy it’ he said looking out at the gardens, no doubt imagining grassing the lot over and whacking a golf ball around it.
‘Now don’t ‘Bee’ me’ I said, sitting him down having already made the tea.
‘How are you?’
‘I’ve said I am very well now what is it?’ I said huffily, what a fuss, I knew it wouldn’t be important.
‘I’m getting married, to Pamela, you remember Pam from work’
I did remember a Pamela from work, she was younger than me; blond/grey, quite slim, and what I could recall, not a bad sort. I was shocked.
‘What on earth for? Are you sure she wants to marry you Ken? She’s rather pretty’
‘I know I am not the best catch in the world but…’ he hesitated, we are in love’ He flushed not really knowing where to look.
‘Dear God’ I said, still a little taken aback. ‘Where’s her husband? Wasn’t it Frank? The one with the flashy cars’
‘Frank went off with a blond bimbo; you know that mid-life crisis thing. Left Pam and the daughters, they are both grown up now but they still felt it’
I sat down, holding on to my saucer tightly, feeling that if I should stand I would be very unsteady.
‘Well,’ I said haughtily, ‘if you want to remarry, why drive all this way here to tell me, it’s none of my business, you are a grown man, you obviously can do as you wish’
‘Not tell you Bee, ask you, ask you if you don’t mind, I want your permission’
I could feel my eyes beginning to moisten, I’m not sure why.
‘You don’t need to ask me, I’m not Pam’s father’ I managed after a pause.
‘Just as well’ laughed Ken ‘mans been dead twenty years’ Look, I know we have had our differences but you are, well you know…my friend and wife’
‘Ex-wife’ I snapped.
Everything was changing and moving on at such a speed I could no longer even try to control it. I didn’t want Kenneth any more, he was nice enough, always had been, so why should I be upset that he was getting married? Perhaps I just felt left behind, even though I had Rick, it just seemed to make the break, the break from the past and therefore Emma, permanent. I always thought divorce would be the closure, would be the lawful and ritualistic end to the union. But in reality, it appeared that when the ex partner re-marries or co-habits following the marriage, that is the sign, the signifier to the conclusion.
Most people break up because of a third party, the reality being, they have really got fed-up or bored with their partner, and go looking for someone else. With Kenneth and me, we broke up because we were alone. I wanted him to be happy, though not that happy, and certainly not with someone who was pretty, sensible and bright, that wasn’t fair.
‘Oh go on then’ I said, after an age, go and marry her it you must, just take your face out of the newspaper every-so-often for her, and wear a different after-shave for the poor woman’
‘Well done old girl’ he beamed.
He did look happy, not smug, which might have been the case a couple of years back, just pleased, it was settled, Sherry time!
‘I did love her’ He said, as we sat opposite each other at the lunch table, wine bottle draining as we spoke.
‘Just didn’t understand her.
‘I know you did Ken’
‘I didn’t know what she wanted’ he continued, ‘she could be quiet and secretive. I know I should have been more open with her, but being a only child myself, I was a bit lost on that front’
‘You did fine Ken, there’s worse than you. You helped her with her homework and took her to music lessons, don’t blame yourself, it wasn’t all you’ I said, as the quiet of the room and the spring light cloaked us in an intimacy previous unknown.
‘Reading the paper while she spoke is one thing, being jealous of her is another’ I wasn’t drunk, but these hidden, locked in words, were now beginning to slip out of my mouth, words I had never allowed to formulate consciously past my burning ulcer.
‘I don’t believe that for one moment’ huffed Ken
‘Of course I was, still am, if I was honest, probably why I felt I had to help her, stay with her, support her, all of it. I always thought she had it too easy: the good schooling, the trips out, the music, horse riding, and then the art. We had struggled for so long for everything, school, college and all those god-forsaken courses one has to endure, yet she didn’t have to do any of that. Gives up History, picks up a camera and bang, she’s made. Do you know how much she was making for those pictures?
‘The kind of money that would have taken us years to make.’
I was in full stride now, not caring what I revealed.
‘At her death She was worth more than any of us, my parents included. I don’t begrudge it to her, but I couldn’t help feeling that she had it easy and was lucky. Of course that does nothing for my guilt and sleepless nights.
Kenneth sat opposite me’ shaking his head saying: No Bee, don’t say such things’ I continued.
‘The whole thing was guilt that pushed me on. It was a strange and debilitating dichotomy when she asked me to work with her. One part of me was chuffed to bits having been asked to support her with her studies. Yet the other part resented her for her ease at succeeding so easily. I know it’s not the right thing to say but it’s the truth. I loved her, but felt it all fell into her lap. Of course, then she was knocked down and everything I had hated or was jealous about, came back to haunt me. In some way I felt it was my fault, felt that I could have prevented it. That she may have even known I resented her success, oh God, I don’t know what I am talking about’ I started to cry and Kenneth put his hand on my shoulder.
‘People must have looked at the distressed mother at the funeral and thought what a caring loving mother. No, not me, guilt riddled my body and mind through the whole service’ I sat quiet for a while, holding Ken’s hankie then continued;
‘I feel I did all the right things,
for all the wrong reasons. I know it sounds horrible, but I wanted her to succeed, but not more than I had, and certainly not at twenty. I know it’s wrong somehow, but it’s how I felt Ken, I was torn up with jealously, perhaps this is why I have avoided meeting Emma’s art agent out in Texas. He emails every week telling me I must sort things out as her estate is growing, what does that mean? See, ‘art agent out in Texas’ who wouldn’t be jealous, a bad mother that’s who’
Kenneth came round and sat with me, holding me close, closer than ever before.
‘I wish I could have had more time to be with her, to grow through that post-teenage stage with her. Mothers and daughters, sons and fathers feel that tension of the next generation taking over the mantel, but my tension stopped in the middle of that jealous phase, I feel I have been trapped by it ever since. I would have gotten over it in time, chuffed to bits that she had got on well, better than we did, it’s the natural thing. It was like her dying in the middle of an argument and I not having the time to say sorry. But she was not unhappy with me. I don’t think that she was gloating, nor trying to out-do me or be better than me in any way. See, even her kindness hurt me, I was bitter and resentful. I would have been over that now, I can see I was stupid and insecure. It was about me really, me getting lost and seeing our darling girl growing up and out of my control, which, as you know I am not very good at’.
Kenneth gently held my hand, and after a pause began to speak.
‘You have been a wonderful mother, even if you say you were resentful, and I don’t believe it for one second, you looked after her, gave her time and attention, more than I ever did. You cared for her, loved her, I could see it in your eyes, and she loved you. If she came home and I was there, she would always say ‘where’s mum? I must tell her about a painting I have seen today’ or some such thing, she loved you Bee, don’t put your self down, she loved you very much. I would have felt the same if we had had a boy and he started to beat me on the golf course. Probably chucked the clubs in the pond and sulked off home, I do understand Bee. As you say it’s a natural process, but if you did have these feelings towards her, you didn’t show it, she never knew. You would have worked through it, and been the best of friends, I know that.
‘I have a little confession to make; when Emma died and we had split up, I had a bit of a break down, couldn’t cope with the loss of both of you. I missed Emma so much, just her being around and her quiet way. I had things I wanted to say to her. I wanted to be at her wedding you know, the normal things a father does for his daughter, all gone now, I didn’t want to go on without her. Dam silly really, told work I had some sort of illness, doctor backed me up on that one, off for months, I had to take ‘happy’ the pills for a while though. Losing you didn’t help, missed you like mad, all a bit off really, all went pear-shaped.’
After a while we sat on the sofa, he with his arm around me, I laying into his chest thinking why it took such a tragedy to get this close. We sat quietly until Ken dozed off. If I hadn’t of had to go to the toilet I wouldn’t have moved but there the spell was broken, reality was back. We spoke about De-Hem, as Kenneth had no idea what was going on with Emma’s art. De-Hem would email me saying that this or that image was being used without permission, that things needed to be sorted out and that unless copyright was applied for Emma’s art, it was being stolen. I didn’t know what that meant but De-Hems now held most of Emma’s work, yet only the first few images where owned or controlled by him.
‘What? Emma making money out there? What real money from the photos?’ he said surprised, adding
‘Tell you what though, I wouldn’t trust those yanks’
‘I don’t know Ken, it’s all a bit much for me, but he’s the only one looking out for her. I don’t understand it. It’s only photographs and those paintings she did in the garage. I thought she had sold the painting to him and we had kept the rights to negatives and things, I really need to meet him, he has invited me out to see him but, I feel a bit bad about it. A little ‘head in the sand attitude’ really, but I promise I will go, it should be put right’
‘If you’re up to it, but go when you are ready, you know what these pushy Yanks are like’ same old Ken
‘Look, there is one other confession I have to make’ I said.
‘Is it the motor-bike man’ laughed Kenneth, which shocked me.
‘Oh’ I said ‘someone’s been talking?’
‘When you were away, Emma’s hospital rang me to clear something up and I got chatting’ he smiled
‘I was going to tell you Ken, but you know how things are. No the secret is not about him. When I was away it was not really a holiday. I met the woman who killed Emma, I traced her and beat her up’
‘Dear God, what on earth?’ He pulled back from me confounded,
‘Dear Dear God, good on you girl, but dear God’ he spluttered.
I told him the full story, the hospital, the police, the beating and how, eventually we got along. This of all things seemed to hurt Kenneth most. It was as if I had gone over to the other side, let Lesley get away with it, let Emma down, and from his point of view he was dam right. I explained the circumstances as best I could and he seemed to come round a little.
‘Well, if you are sure Bee, sure she wasn’t taking you for a ride, you know what these people are like’ and I did.
Lesley could have been lying to me, could have been pulling the wool over my eyes in the most manipulating way possible, but the weight gain, the drug and alcohol dependence and most of all, isolation, made feel she was genuine.
‘You know what you are doing old girl’ said Kenneth; still unable to create a mental picture in his head so relied on the facts I had told him.
It was late now, I made Kenneth a light snack and asked if he would like to listen to the News. I turned on the radio and there we sat, looking out at the now dark garden lost in thought. Without asking I made up the spare bed and tided up. Ken kissed me on the cheek as he went up to bed, then turning on the stairs simply said;
‘Thanks love’
‘Mrs Kirby?’ you may not remember me but I am Margaret Howard, Lesley Howard’s, mother in law’
How she had found my phone number I may never know, as I was not in the book. It was a month or so after Kenneth had been down, and having just arrived home from work the phone rang.
After the usual pleasantries she got straight to the point;
‘I think we should meet up, I know you still work in town, how about lunch or tea at Simpson’s-my treat’
Of course I asked what it was all about, but she was hesitant to answer.
She waved me over to the table by the window, I hadn’t been to Simpson’s for a long time, it hadn’t changed much, which was comforting, but the continuity of decoration did nothing to allay me fears. I had asked if Lesley was all right on the phone, and Margaret affirmed she was, it was ‘something else’ she needed to talk to me about.
‘I believe you visited my daughter in-law when you were last in America’ she questioned in her ‘school mistress’ tone. ‘She told us all about it. You see, both Julian and I are worried about her, you must remember that Julian is a Doctor and knows best’
I sat nodding to the Margaret Thatcher waxwork, pinched and tight-lipped. She had a way of leaning towards you when she spoke, to emphasize her point, then moving back, preventing response.
‘I believe you may have made her give up her prescription tablets, medication she needs to stay healthy. She is a sick woman, always has been. You of all people should know that, she knocked down your only daughter and killed her, while under the influence of alcohol. You saw her out there in America, what a disgrace. The whole family are, the brother breaking up with his wife the father going round the bend, you know the sort…’
She sat back, took a sip from the teacup, replaced it and leaned close.
‘I don’t know what you are playing at, she killed your daughter, ruined my son’s life, can you imagine how he felt having the newspape
rs, if that’s what you can call them, prying into our affairs. Having his picture in the paper, associated with that woman, nothing but trouble, drinking and driving, indeed, and he a respected doctor’ she sat back adding, ‘I told him he should never had married her’
I sensed she had said too much.
‘I didn’t realise you where still her mother-in-law’ I said, as casually as I could.
‘Of course I’m not’ she snapped ‘and thank God, but she is still taking money from Julian, he bought her that house after she had to be moved, we are still looking after her you know, this is for her own good. I would like you to keep away from her, why you should wish to meet her, I have no idea. And another thing, do not ever, ever, use my daughter Charlottes name, pretending to be her indeed, what were you thinking woman?
‘You have seen her now, and I can see she has manipulated you, got you just where she wanted you, right in the palm of her hand. Those silly child-like eyes, Julian fell for those too. Can’t you see that you are being used? All pally pally are we now? Keep away, I am telling you this for your own good’
Her face was now tight and contorted, she looked like a strange wild animal, a hungry eagle perhaps.
‘I went to see her’ I retorted, ‘to hear why she did it, why she killed my daughter’ I said, now tense and edgy after the verbal slap.
‘And did she tell you? Tell you she was drinking all night without telling Julian, then got in the car?’ She seethed, a sarcastic smile on her chiselled face.
‘She didn’t know why she did it, she couldn’t say why she did those things.’
She sat back in triumph.
‘Well there you are, she was so drunk she couldn’t possibly remember’
‘I used your daughters name as it was the only way I could see her, I am sorry if I offended you or your daughter Charlotte, it wasn’t my intention.’
She lent forward; ‘do the descent thing, forget about her, we are looking after her, she is back on the medication and if she wants to balloon out with the junk food that is her problem. Julian is taking care of her, what other husband would have stuck by someone like that, my son is a saint’.
I stood up, ‘thank you for inviting me, I will think upon what you have said to me, but I feel it is up to me who I visit, it was my daughter you know’
‘And she is dead now remember’ she spat.
I threw down the napkin onto the table; ‘don’t contact me again’
‘You’ve been warned’ she said casually as I walked from the tearoom.
My first thought was to call Lesley. I had often considered calling to see how she was getting on, but thought better of it. I had asked her not to call me, thinking that it may somehow complicate things. After a few days following the meeting with Margaret I decided not to call after all. Margaret was obnoxious, but probably right, I should leave Lesley alone, in the end, she did kill my daughter. What did I know about medication and anti-depressants? Well quite a lot really, but I didn’t want to get involved in any of it. Margaret had being rude, very rude. Yet I reasoned, that I would be the same if someone was interfering with my family. I knew this was a different situation, but chose to leave it and move on, I had Kenneth’s wedding to…’look forward to’, is perhaps too strong a sentiment, ‘consider’ is a more appropriate choice of word. I had mixed feelings about the wedding, but to see him settled was a comfort, if a little frightening.
Pam, the happy wife to be, called not long after Kenneth had been down to see me, she was sweet, making me feel just a tiny whiney bit jealous and dull. She sparkled as she spoke, eternally cheerful and optimistic, she must be marrying Kenneth, I thought cruelly.
‘So glad you are Ok about the nuptials’ she enthused. And thank you my dear for putting Ken up when he came down to see you. I am so sorry about Emma, she was such a sweet young thing, we all loved her’
This was no empty platitude; she had been most kind to Kenneth and me when Emma was knocked down; writing letters of support and sympathy. She would call round once or twice to see if she could help, all done without fuss or invading our personal space and grief. Her daughters’ laid a beautiful bouquet of flowers at the funeral and I recall them all crying their eyes out. Frank, her husband wasn’t there, too drunk to come, yet the girls stuck together and never ever, ran the poor man down, saying he was ‘too unwell’ to attend.
Other times Pam could be quite honest about Frank; ‘he’s away in his cups,’ Pam would laugh, however heart broken and embarrassed she must have been at her husband’s mutable social faux pas.
‘Would you be a darling and meet up with Ken and chose a decent tie for him for the wedding? Said Pam, chuckling down the phone.
‘You are about the only person he trusts. Both the girls have offered to take him into town to help with the wedding clothes, but he is having none of it. Did you know that my eldest is pregnant? Could be around the time of the wedding, but she has promised to hold on until after to have it. We are so looking forward to it coming Helen, God, I feel old saying I’m going to be a Grandmother. Ken’s looking forward to it too, I can see him with the grandchild on his knee, as long as it doesn’t pee, that is’.
This stung; Granny, Gran, (anything but Nanner) it would never happen to me, Rick didn’t have any children so that would be that.
Pam felt my hurt through the silence.
‘I am so sorry my dear, that was very thoughtless of me, I do apologise’ She meant it, I could feel it.
‘Please don’t worry about it, I’m very happy for you and your daughter. I am so looking forward to seeing them again at the wedding’
We chatted for a while on the arrangements, the legal ceremony at Bromley Register office, then to the golf club for the wedding breakfast. I finished the call promising to meet Ken, pleased that he was marrying Pam, God it could have been much worse, it could have been someone like Margaret. I could now see why Pam would want someone like Kenneth: stoic, disciplined, routine orientated, stolid and just a tad boring, being the complete opposite to the pickled Frank. Ken could cope with a small child now, we both could, knowing at a terrible high cost what we should have done the first time round. He would bounce the new baby on his knee, cuddle it fondly, making up for all those empty years. I would love to do that, could feel that yearning deep within me.
‘Not that one Ken, oh for God’s sake, it’s hideous’ We had been in Marks and Spencer’s for almost an hour, and still the tie was elusive, to me anyway. His choice of shirt and tie for his wedding would have consisted of: brown shirt and yellow tie, pink and green tie, dark-blue and light blue tie, it was no good. I lost patience when it brought over a ‘Casual shirt and tie pack’. It had been reduced in price (I wonder why) and obviously put together by The Colour-blind society; it was time I took charge. So metaphorically, taking him by his ear, marched him along the upper floor of the Bluewater shopping Centre in Kent, straight to the John Lewis store. After precisely three minutes I had a white cotton shirt and grey tie that had slight celebration silky sheen to it.
Following lunch, I sent Ken off to look at the gulf equipment section while I chose a hat for the wedding. I felt old; I could remember my mother trying on hats while I waited for her bored rigid. It would have been bearable back then, if I had been allowed to try on a few of the funny looking hats to pass the time, but that was frowned upon. My hands began to sweat as I tried on the hats that didn’t make me look too much like Paddington Bear. That uncomfortable feeling occasionally creeping up on me, the one that whispered I should be doing this for Emma’s wedding, not my husbands’. We parted with Ken thanking me for being a good wife, apologising for his shortcomings, and I for mine. We kissed and went our separate ways each searching for our lost cars in the huge car park.
The day passed off pleasant enough, the registry office was not the cold clinical patent office I thought it would be. Pam’s daughter provided some beautiful music for the service, and the other daughter had arranged some wonderful tasteful flowers. Kenneth l
ooked bemused and embarrassed by it all, saying what he had to say, standing stiffly next to the beaming Pam. Her daughter’s father-in-law had given her away. The pregnant daughter Elizabeth, looked ready to give birth any moment, and there was Rick.
Rick didn’t think he would be able to come, the business was busy and to be honest I was glad. I wasn’t ashamed of him but…I don’t know really what made edgy, he wasn’t like the other people there and felt that he may feel uncomfortable. Kenneth shook his hand rather haughtily for my liking, grunting something. Later however, I overheard him asking Rick’
‘Brought the bike with you old man…? Got to be careful of those Spanish …and all those English people out there, don’t know how you do it’
Although Rick was in his late forties he looked young against Kenneth, even though he was just sixty. Ken had always been old, some people just are. He didn’t look like Rick at that age, which was I thought as relatively youthful. I had escaped the jokes, at least to my face of having a ‘Toy boy’. How could a man in his forties be a Toy Boy anyway? Although Pam and Kenneth looked the ‘happy couple’ they were not the centrepieces; the huge fronted Elizabeth gained the most comments, with everyone one asking
‘When’s it due?’ etc. To be fair to Pam, she was gracious enough to go along with it, and ‘Liz’, kind enough to pass the light back to her mother when she could.
During his speech, Kenneth wished Rick and me happiness; it looked like he meant it too. Later he had his photograph taken in the middle of Pam’s daughters’, bringing a smile to his face, I was pleased for him. Rick and I wandered around the outside of the club-house, the heat was unbearable on that early summers day, especially for Liz who seemed tired and ready to give birth at any moment.
‘How’s Saffron? I asked fanning myself with the new hat. ‘Is she well?’
‘She’s fine; she is quite the mummies girl now. Juliet has stabilised and is working hard; to be honest, she is almost running the place. She does the laundry, the breakfasts and cleaning which leaves me time for the advertising and the workshop’ Rick glowing at the thought.
‘Oh good’ I said, a little of the green monster creeping through the undergrowth. ‘What about Saffron’s education? I take it she is going to stay’
‘You know she has learnt Spanish well, better than me. There’s a little school she can go too, but I said I would speak to you about things before anything is finalised’
To be honest, I was finding things a bit much this living in two different countries, wondering if we could ‘make-it’. But when we were together it was wonderful, perhaps it was because we lived away from each other. Every so often I would be exasperated by the situation, yet pacified myself by thinking that it wasn’t forever and things would one day work out.
‘Sounds like you three are getting along just fine’ there, the green monster had jumped out and there was nothing I could do about it.
He held me and smiled. ‘You remember that Philip, you know the French one? Well he called back in on the way back to France, not for my cooking which you might be shocked to hear. He wanted more than somewhere to stay, he’s been back twice since, gets on well with Saff too’
The monster was running down the fairway, far away, taking with him, the tight back pain that came with possessive envy. I felt a decade and stone lighter.
The cake was cut, photos taken, promises of lunch with just about everyone from Pam, her daughter, and even Franks brother where forth-coming. A round of kisses and goodbyes and it was over, leaving us to drive back to my flat in the heat of the early evening. Later that night, Elizabeth gave birth to an 8lb 7oz baby girl named Emma.
De-Hem
It was driving me mad, I could not longer deny, nor put off, putting Emma’s affairs in order. If I was to admit to it, I feared finalising Emma’s affairs and putting her work in order. What would happen once I had done that; sorted her work and stored them in some dark cupboard. I did hang a couple of the screen-prints, ones that I remember working on with Emma what seemed so long ago now, a different age, the others? I did the most natural thing, nothing, simply pretending they didn’t exist. It was easy to begin with, a child’s art or course work took up a large part of any parent’s attic, and we were no exception. What was different however, I had pushy American e mailing me most weeks, well in fact his secretary, informing me that we should meet or put Emma’s affairs in sort of order. De-Hems had bought Emma’s first photos and paintings back when she was a student. He had promoted two of the photos; one in a successful ad campaign featuring her friend Warren, and the other, a picture of a young couple on his cable music channel. The image was to be used on all their art-work, and the back drop for the TV show, young people bought the tee-shirts with the image printed on.
Truth was I didn’t want to lose control, didn’t want to lose any part of Emma, didn’t want to ‘let go’ of the art work, especially those that I had worked on, but I didn’t want to hide them away either, that was unfair to Emma. De-Hem part-run a media company that dealt with just about everything; Advertising, magazines with fingers in many pies including cable TV. I had met De-Hems assistant Bezz, who had been so kind to attend the funeral and had been with Emma the night she died. Emma had planned to work with De-Hems for at least a year, his company paying her as an intern.
The company had been kind to Emma, and she was looking forward to working in the States, but then it all went wrong. Although De-Hems emails were annoying, the turning point came when they stopped coming, I suddenly felt alone and frightened, not really knowing what to do, set adrift. I had come to rely on the badgering emails, some gruff, some abusive, yet always on the side of Emma, wanting the best for her work and reputation. He had bought the pictures in the first place because he liked them, for his private collection rather than making money from them, that was a agreement he had with Emma, but things took off out there and they agreed to ‘business up’. When I had not heard from his company for almost six weeks it was my turn to email him, enquiring the state of Emma’s affairs, I soon received a reply.
‘If you wish to discuss Emma’s business you must come out, things have moved on and projects are progressing. Your daughter was an employee of our company and it’s time we got this whole dam thing sorted out.
Please arrange flights and accommodation with Billie (my PA) and book at least a two week stay.
DM
His PA Billie, arranged the flights for November as it was the soonest I could secure leave from work. I submitted my details over the Internet to a efficient, but not very friendly Billie. It was a nice surprise to be given first-class; at least I could get some sleep and stretch my legs. Who cares about champagne? I just wanted to put my feet up and fend off the varicose veins, thus slowing down any moving blood clot for a few more years. The pictures of the hotel looked nice, with all the extras; swimming pool, gym, Air-con and beautiful view. The conformation came through on the Thursday evening when I checked the computer after work. The reservation email preceded another; a font and design I recognised from somewhere, but for the life of me I could not recall. The email looked like cheap ‘spam’ something about deals on car-hire and travel insurance and a return address for confirmation. A while later in the shower, a chill came over me, the same font, bright cheery colours, it was the exact same design as the ‘Maureen’ emails.
By the time I had opened the email ‘in-box’ there was another one which freighted me. I had not seen or heard from Maureen for almost two years. She still worked for the same company, as I had seen her name come up on training schedules. I had not quiet forgotten the help that was given to me by her and her ‘friends’, both the business with the next door neighbours and the Lesley search, were most helpful. It worried me they knew I was going away, were they monitoring me? Did they know everything that I did or sent over the Internet? It seemed they knew more than I cared to think about.
Reading the email, this time more closely, I could see what they were asking.
‘Now that you have booked your vacation you have been selected for a special travel option, use the link below to contact us’
I waited over-night sleeping on the thought, hoping that I would know what to do, or that it would all go away. What would they do if I didn’t contact them, what would they do put a horse head in my bed?
Next day as I was leaving work, reception handed me a courier letter
‘Dear Helen
We understand you have booked a flight to America and would very much appreciate while you are there delivering a document to a gentleman on behalf of one of our friends. All arrangements will be made, and you can rest assured that there is no danger or anything illegal regarding this delivery.
We will understand should you rather not undertake this service. But, you may recall, how a little help can go a long way, to alleviating pain, for these around us, who cannot get help, any other way.
Please reply by email
With kinds regards
Maureen.
I emailed back saying that I would do it, adding that this would be the last thing I would do for ‘them’.
I made Maureen meet me for lunch.
‘Look it’s nothing sinister’ she laughed, ‘ it’s just a friend of ours, her husband has run off to the States and forgot to provide his agreed maintenance, it’s very near to where you are going, all you have to do is hand him a document saying we know where he is. You don’t need to know any more than that, but it is like us all, when control is taken away from us. Think of it like the Women’s Institute, sometimes a letter of complaint is not enough. You remember that don’t you, how do you think these things get done?
‘I don’t like being spied on’ I said, Maureen laughed,
My son in law Greg says that if you own a telephone or use the Internet you are wide open, everyone knows that, or should know anyway. Helen, these are friends of ours, people like you and me who can’t help themselves’
‘I want this to be the last one, I don’t like it’
‘You don’t have to do this, I have turned loads of stuff down, no one is going to hurt you, do what you wish, we are all together, all on your side, don’t worry’
‘Just deliver a document? Nothing else? No drugs or anything I will go to jail for?’
‘Just think about it Helen, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But Greg told me to tell you that when you where out in the States the last time, a search was put out for you and the sister in law of the lady you went to visit. Greg put a hold on things until you returned. Everything is fine now but it could have got messy’
‘Jesus Christ, what is all this? It’s like the secret service’
‘No’ she smiled, ‘just people like you and me looking out for each other. Just family and friends making life a bit easier’
We said our goodbyes, me promising to think about it and get in touch. I have to say it worried me, not so much delivering the document, well not unless he was violent or something. No, it was the thought of never escaping all this. I had paid my fee for both the next door neighbours and the Lesley search, both, I admit thoroughly professional and cheap at the price, I just worried that they, whoever they were would keep asking for ‘favours’. I thought it must be Maureen’s Greg and other people like us, who could not get justice any other way, partially through the courts. This man out in Texas, perhaps smugly thinking he had got away without paying maintenance to the little woman. OK, I thought, I will do it, but this is the last time, and anyway I thought I owed them something for the stalled police searches, God, how high did this go? I didn’t want to think about it.
After a restful first-class flight, I was met at the airport by limousine and driven to the outskirts of Houston, away from the downtown business district that I had expected to go.
The grizzled driver spoke through the intercom; ‘Mr De-Hem’s sends his best wishes and hopes you had a nice journey’ then looking at a piece of paper, added; ‘Mrs Kirby’
The hotel was just as good as the photo hinted, if a little faceless and bland. Inside was nice enough, with a wonderful view of the hills and a far off freeway. Billie called to see if I had settled in OK and asked if I could come by the office tomorrow. I said all was fine and that I was looking forward to coming over to meet Mr De-Hem. A time was arranged so all that was left to do was to have a massage and then Mexican meal at the hotel restaurant.
The office block was on a high-tec low-rise complex not unlike Bluewater, but the building was surrounded by blue-chip software and IT companies with satellite dishes dotting the roofs. Pulling up at the reception I could see the sign behind the desk; ‘SAND-SPRING MEDIA’ home of WRREX 98.5 FM and SSM Cable TV and printed Media’
Everyone was very pleasant, an older woman (about my age) came from behind the desk taking my hand in both of hers whispering:
I am so sorry about your daughters passing’ this said with the sincerity of a cable TV evangelist. The building was a very large, an open-plan steel and glass construction picked out with wood, that just tipped the place into expensive ‘tat’.
I sat flicking the array of magazine published by SSM; fashion, style (there is a difference, I know now) in-house TV, film and Art. I taken to the second floor, sharing the lift with Shane, he smiled, showing me to Mr De-Hems suite. It felt rather like being taken to the head-masters office at school, only this time I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he looked like.
‘Mr De-Hem will see you now’ said the young man knocking on the huge ‘western’ wooden doors.
‘OK, Ok’ barked the irritated answer to the knock, we walked in.
‘Where the god-dam hell have you been, I have been contacting you for the last year and you have persistently and consistently have been ignoring my requests for a reply. Do you know how long I have been trying to talk to you? It’ a God-dam disgrace. You should be looking out for your dear daughters business, God rest her soul, instead of burying your head deep in the God-dam sand, and letting a gang of sorry low-lives steal the very tail off the horse.
‘Don’t you think that your daughter would have wanted you to sort this sorry mess out? And another thing, you were in this country last year, an hop and skip away and you didn’t come over, I have had two heart attacks, had had a triple by-pass operation, doc tells me to lay off the smokes, God-dam, he should have warned me about you, you’re a health hazard. Jesus I feel like I am having a coronary right now, one year, three months, 75 emails and a thousand cigarettes later you turn up here when all this should have been cleared up a year ago. You owed it to your daughter to take care of business’
His face was purple red, tinged with grey, I felt like I had just walked into a hurricane. He was inches from my face, having moved towards me with each word. I was unable to move.
‘Can I get you a drink Mr De-Hem? Asked Shane calmly
‘Dr Pepper’ De-Hems snapped, staring at me intently, waiting for what, I was not sure.
‘And get the woman something’
I shook my head at Shane hoping to follow him out and fly back to England as he left the room.
‘And don’t start feeling sorry for yourself, you have suffered loss, we all have God-dammit, but we don’t forget our loved ones, we respect them, do the best we can for them, not sit around drinking high-tea with Hugh Grant, or wishing too, while the world turns round, and God-dam, everyone else is ripping off your daughters work and lining their God-dam pockets’
He was so close now, I could smell the cigarettes from his breath, see and smell the nicotine remains on his yellow/brown-pointing finger that was now inches from my face. He dropped his hypnotic gaze and finger, turned and walked back into the office towards a large, I mean huge, floor to ceiling window overlooking the grounds at the back of the complex.
He must have been about my age, but from another one. Snake-hipped, tight blue jeans, ornate brown pointed cow-boy boots, tight white shirt with metal tipped collar, sleeves rolled up tight to his upper arms, revealing sinew
y tattooed arms, oh and a cow-boy hat curled up at the sides.
‘Good morning Helen, did you have a pleasant flight?’ I asked sarcastically.
‘Now don’t get funny, it doesn’t suit you’ he said, still walking without looking back, adding ‘God dammit’ clenching his fists as he walked.
He looked out over the grounds; a large ornate fountain formed the centrepiece of the mock Mexican landscape.
To the left side of the office, a massive elaborately carved twenty-foot wooden desk. Three computers sat side by side, more worryingly racks of handguns lined the walls behind the desk. Across the room two humongous black leather sofas surrounded an outsized western-style coffee table, laden down with books and magazines. I stood like a naughty schoolgirl waiting for the detention. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched the fountain fill the trough. Shane came back, putting the can of Dr Pepper together with a glass on the coffee table.
‘I thought you might like a mineral water’ he said with a sly smile.
I heard a whisper from the window ‘Mineral water!’ shaking his head.
I drank the water, looking at the guns, there must have been every type of handgun ever made; old cowboy looking pistols, examples from both world wars, Nazi party too, and a massive gun that could bring down an elephant.
‘Sit down’ he barked, then realising his tension, whispered; ‘sit down- please’
He turned from the window, gesturing me to the sofa. He walked over to the desk pulling out a two hundred pack of Marlborough’s, then lit up. He seemed to calm down, the tense sinewy frame unlocking as he sucked in the thick grey smog, then letting out a thin stream of discoloured mist towards the ceiling.
‘You have been a very very bad woman, I don’t even wanna hear why, you never contacted me or my people, nearly gave Billie a complex. I wanna say this before we put the boxing gloves on; I am sorry about your daughter, our loss, she had a huge amount of potential, and it’s too bad things have turned out this way’
He lit another cigarette off the diminishing butt, catching my eye as he did.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Jesus, I pay a doctor enough to send both his daughters to college to do that for me, what does he know anyway…’
‘I didn’t neglect my daughter…’
‘I haven’t flown you all this god-dam way to hear your sob-story, this is about young Emma, this is about her, not you’ he snapped.
‘You are being very rude and unfair’ I got up to leave
‘If you walk now, you will have to sort this out yourself, this should have been done over a year ago, now you have every agency who owns a computer ripping off her work’
I sat back down.
‘Do you know how much money you have lost? He said seriously ‘That is not a rhetorical question, go on how much?’
‘I don’t know’ I said rather sulkily
‘Go on indulge me’ he said
‘Five thousand pounds?’
He jumped up shouting ‘Jesus H Christ, Jesus fucking Christ, you haven’t got a God-dam clue’
He started to shake his head and laugh ‘Five thousand pounds, Jesus Christ’
So we played the game:
‘Twenty thousand?’
‘Up’
‘Thirty?’
‘Up woman up, keep going up’
‘A hundred thousand?’
‘Ha’
‘Two hundred?’
‘Now you’re getting there, and that was for just the West-Coast ad agencies, for the use of that fagot looking kid promo.
You have lost money because you would not sign the necessary paper-work and trust me, and that’s nothing to do with the book deal’
‘What book?’ I asked incredulously,
‘What book? The book just about every art publisher wants to put into print. The only reason they didn’t is because I forged your signature, now don’t get all shirty about that either’
‘I wasn’t going too’ I said calmly
‘Wasn’t going to? Jesus Christ, no wonder we are losing money. Guy you never met says he’s forging your signature and you don’t MIND? Jesus’
‘Don’t play with me’ I snapped, my body tensing tight across my shoulders and back. ‘I don’t know what is going on, why should I?
‘Why should I know about things like that, who would? Now raising my voice to shout level. ‘I don’t know how these things work, we are normal people, not arty at all, we are from God-dam ORPINGTON’
I stood up, this was the nearest to walking out I could get without leaving the room. Abuse was one thing; I could take that if it was going to help Emma’s work, being used as the butt of his jokes was another.
‘OK now calm down’ he said ‘you’ll end up like me’
I sat back down, he lit another cigarette.
‘Lets get to it then’ he said puffing. ‘I love your girls’ work, have done since I first saw it almost two years ago. Your friend Mr Stephen’s sent Emma’s artwork, along with some other images through the wonder of the Internet, for me to look at. Stephens and me go back along way; he contacted me when we published some images of the Gulf war. He was doing some God-dam research on the subject and we kept in touch. Anyhows, I loved the work, you know why?’
‘Do I have to start guessing again?’ I asked dryly
He gave me a sideway glance, saw I wasn’t up for any more quizzes.
Because the people in them pictures were smiling. Have you seen the majority of images around today? Unless they are Coke adverts or weddings, most people-subjects are down-right poe-faced. I remember sitting in this very office day they came in, Billie was sitting right there, I’d had a bad weekend, third wife playing up again, wanting even more money, babbling on the phone while I opened the images and bang, I had a God-dam smile on my face. I had to put the phone down on the woman. That little French girl up on the jeep, what an image, Jesus. The picture of the old-hags smiling, made me feel good you know. Not so sure about that picture of the Virgin Mary picture card on the memorial, bit creepy, but hey, I’ve done acid, I know weird when I see it. It’s how I got started; you know, that hippie thing back in the sixties…’
He seemed to start losing himself now, sucking a little harder on the smoke, blowing out less, leaning back a little more.
‘You do acid Helen?’ he asked causally.
The look I gave him, answered his question.
‘Anyhow’ he said sitting up ‘I started doing graphic design for those old Psychedelic freak shows, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Hendrix, all those swirly patterns topped off with that fat bubble text. Did that for couple years before the whole scene became a sell-out. I moved down the coast from San-Francisco in the early seventies just when the surf thing was happening started a small ‘cool’ magazine, with my partner Will Wiler. By the eighties Apple computers had got their act together and we wanted the big bucks. We were ahead of everyone, producing artwork and magazine on those early computers, colours bit fuzzy, but those surfer guys are so stoned man, they think we did on purpose. We were headhunted by SSM here in Houston to work on the graphics for the new growing youth market. We are still on the board of three of the titles and producing credits for the cable shows, ‘youth market’, who the hell invented that concept? MTV probably, holy shit!’
He started to laugh then cough so hard I thought his chest would cave in.
‘Just a tickle’ he spluttered’ he was away again.
‘I like your daughters art, like her choice of subject, where she turns her gaze, that’s what it’s all about; choice. Where we look and what we choose to look at. Have you seen those god-dam photography books you see in those super-book-stores? Black and white pictures of poor people and the American wilderness, Jesus, what are we in the 1930’s. critics say ‘In black and white you can see the texture of the tree better’, or some such esoteric horse-shit, if you have to have a black and white photo to show you the texture of a tree, you have not been outside of your house. Tho
se photos of rural folk, depression on their faces, everything is so dull and boring, we have a beautiful country, beautiful people, Jesus, now I sound like Martin Luther. Only those who have enough money and live in the city would want to see such images. Then wham, I saw the screen-prints Emma had done, wo-oh, they knocked me out. That colour, man, Ok, it’s a bit Warhol, but shit, if you gonna rip some one off it’s gotta be that guy.
I sat back drinking the water, letting the raging river flow.
‘I bought the whole set of prints and negs from the French trip for $10.000, including the one of that young punk on the school bus lighting his own gassers, hey, guys in New-York probably say that’s art too! The screens, I bought for a $1.000 each, but you know Emma kept the rights to any publications, and that is the thing I needed to talk to you about, things been getting out of hand. I had a show of her work, don’t look at me like that, you got an innovation but I heard nothing’
(For the record I can not remember any of invitation email, perhaps my mind was elsewhere; Rick, Emma, the boys next door, but I swear I didn’t see it.)
‘The show was in a small down-down gallery over in Austin owned by a friend of mine, you know, one of those group shows, I just wanted to show off my brilliant find really, everyone loved the pictures. That’s when I sent Bezz to check out her work and we got in contact with her. When she did the images over in the Carson show we knew we wanted her. She had a good unique eye, ‘fresh’, they call it in the trade. She was bright and clever; the pictures that were sent back from that show blew me away. We projected them all over this building, I had them on strict rotation on my wall here, twenty foot high, then the girl gets knocked down, in the god-dam street.
He sat back taking off his hat momentarily as if to let a little air in and steam out. I could just make out a grey greased quiff before he put the hat back on and continued;
‘We didn’t hear from you, didn’t know what the hell was going on, she was one of our employers, had signed a contract for two years, you know what? She still on our pay-role, so you got that too. When she died my friend at the gallery told some people, students and the like, that the young Brit girl had died, and would of course not now be coming out. Like vultures round a dead buffalo; Emma Kirby was in great demand. We did another show in her honour; had people, serious collectors and all from the West-Coast, offering silly money of those pictures. We had fagot guys coming into the building here wanting to know more about her, wearing tee-shirts they had made themselves from the images in the catalogue that Pippa had taken, God dammit, she was becoming an Icon!’
I didn’t hear most of the above, I had got stuck on ‘two years contract’. I always thought Emma said it was one year, it cut me but I was not going to bleed there.
‘Some of her images were being used without permission, I didn’t mind those crap garage band guys who wore them at their crap concerts, but when they were picked up by a ad agency, I put a stop to it. I claimed the rights, trying in vain to put a stop to those guys making a quick buck out of a dead girl, that’s when I signed your name. You gonna tell be you didn’t get the e-mail asking for permission for the perfume ad? We had a long meeting, all the office, Bezz and Pippa were there too, it was the only image we said they could use, that was the one that rode the New York buses and subways for so long’ He looked at me puzzled ‘Do you have any idea what is going on?’
‘None at all’
He shook his head and broke off for a much-needed break; it was like being hit with a puffing hammer. We sat out on the shaded terrace looking down on the fountain.
‘Do you want to take your shoes off?’ he asked, concern on his face.
‘Both my first wives always did that, and you look hot’
It was glorious, my feet had been aching for hours, the heat was not so kind to me as it was in Arizona, nor my breathing. I sat wiggling my toes under the table as he smoked.
‘I collect art, always have, mostly photos, some screen-prints few canvas’s, if the right thing comes along. We publish magazines, on just bout everything from fashion to music, only thing we don’t publish is porn or woodwork, good money in both mind you, but don’t seem right somehow. I wanted Emma’s work, and wanted her to work on a couple of the magazines art department, she felt it was a good thing to do, even Warhol did that. She was an artist, not fine, nor graphic like me, hell, I used to work with t-squares and sharp pencils, more equipment on my work bench than a high school storeroom in the old days. But I pictured Emma selling and making art, I wanted her to do a book for us, hell, I’ve had to put a few blocks on the books about her’
‘Books on Emma?’ This shocked me, books about my girl, ‘what on earth would they say about her?
‘Put a block on one just the other day’
‘What are they saying about her?’ then it dawned on me ‘it’s because she had her hands cut off, then died, is that it? All this fuss because she died isn’t it?’
De-Hem took his hat off. ‘Not all of it, but the art market is like that, the whole dam media world is like that, rock stars, artists just about everyone sell much more work when they are dead than alive. Don’t necessary mean it’s a sick thing, no, people scared of losing something special, like your daughter Emma, worried she taking a beautiful piece of the world away from them when they ain’t ready for it. Prices for her work went up ten fold when she died. I don’t want to make money out of her loss, but I don’t want anyone else to either, and they will if we let them. It’s the way it is, and I think Emma would have liked to have sold the work and become famous, I know this sounds kinda ungracious, being posthumous an all, but it is her name, her work and love we taking about. Why not take some time out and think about it, meet Will and some of the guys here, see what we’re about. You can use the office over there, see the one with the plants? One of the women here bought you an English Rose, kind make ya feel at home.
‘That’s most kind’ I said rather puzzled ‘why do I need a office?’
‘So you can research your own daughter, and be careful, don’t believe a God-dam thing unless I wrote it’
‘Do you want to ask me anything before we move on?’ he asked.
‘Only one thing for now, do you always wear your hat when you are inside?’ He smiled at this.
‘Only when I’m unsure about something and I’m unsure about you, little bit less than when you came in, but the hat ain’t off yet’
‘Emma Kirby’ click.
1856 related pages, well my God, this was scary.
‘Emma Kirby, the young London fashion student knocked down in a London street by a drunk driver’
Next;
Emma Kirby, the young artist whose arms were amputated due to the result of a accident with a London bus…
Next;
Emma Kirby photography. Here the website showed some of the French photographs, a screen print that I had helped with and a photo of her in what looked like Milan. Perhaps one that had been used at the exhibition that De-Hem had set up, this was all too much.
Next;
‘Emma Kirby gay icon’
Next;
‘Emma Kirby ended her own life as a limb-less torso….’
Next;
‘Kirby’s work sells for a million.’
I decided to end it there and take a break. What the hell was going on, this was not my little girl, they all had the wrong person, even De-Hem somehow thought she was a girl about-town aware of her fame, everyone had the wrong person. She had not planned any of this, or had she? The more I looked the more difficult it was becoming to know what was real. One thing I did know, I could not handle this myself, I needed De-Hem. I looked over at the vase of Roses on a glass table by the massive window looking out at the fountain. I could make out De-Hems office, could see him pacing about. Someone had taken a lot of time to arrange these flowers, as they looked so beautiful.
We met for lunch on the terrace of his room, he drinking coffee, me eating salad.
‘You see Helen,
everyone projects what they want that special person to be, Dykes want her to be a dyke, Gays want her to be an icon, Princess Di or something, and the art media call her Frida Kahlo. See what we are up against?’
‘But they have got it all wrong,’ I said bewildered. ‘it’s like they’re talking about someone else.’
De-Hem laughed; ‘tell me about it, ask anybody at all who has even the smallest amount of fame, they will all tell you that they got them wrong too-it’s projection. Who do you think wrote that horseshit about Richard Gene and the Hamster or God-knows what it was. Not his fan-base, no, just some lonely gay guy with a hutch full, hoping’
I had no idea what he was taking about, hamsters!, what did they have to do with my daughter? But I could see things were being made up about her, and even I knew that when enough people agreed on something, however untrue, history is made.
‘What are we going to do?’
He took his hat off ‘Lord have mercy, the ladies arrived’
‘There are around 300 known images produced by your daughter, I have most of them, own about fifty and signed for the others. As you know almost one hundred screen-prints were made, 20 have already been sold at a silly price before she died. Don’t Marker if they’re signed, Warhol got his friends to sign his anyway, but we need to formalise all this before it gets out of control. We held the other screens back after her passing, as things were crazy. What I would like to do and I’ve spoken to Will and Alice who owns the gallery about this, and we hope you would go along too.
‘We have a retrospective exhibition with just about everything we can get hold of, retaining a few select items, giving the art dealers and her fan base a healthy hint of paranoia. We bring out a serious of three books; two on the photos, one on the screen prints. We would like to have a proper web-site built and some interviews done with the art press, if it’s not done you can be sure they will make it up. Alice thought, and I agree, that at least fifty of the prints could warrant screen-prints made from them, and we get a registered number done, proper like, then we either copyright or license her work. How’s that sound?’
‘Yes to all of it, but just a couple of things; I would like a veto on the projects, not your items, you were good enough to buy them, their yours. Just a look at what’s going on, that’s all.’
‘OK’
He showed me round the complex; the large offices filled with computers, the graphic department, the ‘chill-out Zone’ and the boardroom. Met Will; a short tubby man with round glasses and grey ponytail, and Billie, a prim, well dressed African-American, who asked if the flight and the hotel were ‘of standard?’
While we walked he talked; ‘well, right now, I’m on my own, just broke up with my third wife, just can’t seem to settle. We originally from Holland, great grandfather crossed the country looking for gold like every other poor guy from Europe, Likewise with many others, he got diverted down here in Texas, you know, promise of Jobs and all the rest, they got by though. My own father and brother are in a correctional facility up near Dallas, which is handy for visiting and all. Pop got ten years because of his record and my brother got a straight eight; importing and selling stolen goods, ma died in 92’
He asked me about my life I told him what I could; commuting from Orpington everyday did not seem quite so exciting.
‘Here at SSM, we will have nothing to do with the promotion of the work, all that will go through the Alice gallery. What we will do here is inform people and create a little hype through the magazines, not that it will need much. We want your daughter to get what she deserves, a worldwide audience, in a controlled, classy way, the way it should be. Take a few days out, get to know Houston, think about things then if you are happy come back and finalise the show’
‘I do need to get away for a while actually, how far is Houston to San Antonio?’
‘Hey, you got business out there? Better deal huh?’
‘No, not at all, you are specious’ I laughed
‘I have to see a man, about…about something’
‘Cagey lady!’ he laughed adding; ‘Bezz will take you, Pippa has family out there, he can show off his new plane.
Make you an offer…
The plan was that I should go to the office of Mr Ripley-Moss and ask for him at reception. I would have to hand the document to him in person and ‘make eye contact’, wait for the message to sink in, then leave. It there was any problems I should call the number given and/or call the police. I would say that I was delivering a letter for a friend; the names would be given once I had called the number. I would be glad to be clear of this one, but someone had to arrange for my help with the brats next door, someone had to access Lesley’s private details, so I could do this-but it would be the last.
Bezz and Pippa picked me up at the hotel early Tuesday morning and drove me to the private airport. They were younger than I remembered, twenty-five perhaps, Bezz was a pure Latino, wearing a white cotton under vest and blue jeans that hung down his backside. Pippa too was latino, but mixed with a few Europeans along the way. They spoke of their sadness of losing Emma, telling me of their last night they had with her and how happy she had been. They said Emma had been looking forward to coming out to Houston and working with the team on a style magazine, and flying out to different locations for photo shoot projects. Pippa kindly invited me to stay with her parents but I declined, but took their number in case anything should happen.
It didn’t seem right (or safe) somehow, that this young boy, with his sticky-up up black hair, youthful smile and wore-out baseball boots, multi-coloured string bangles and chucky platinum watch was going to fly me 200 miles across the Texas sky. There seemed an awful lot of airliners flying around when I landed at Houston airport…
‘If you don’t mind me saying’ I said rather cautiously
‘You are very young to have your own aeroplane’ which was the nearest I could get to saying;
’Are you old enough and safe enough, to fly us across this State without crashing?’
‘Don’t worry’ he chuckled, reading his flight charts and checking his sunglasses in the mirror. ‘I have hundreds of flying hours, flown in all weathers, ask Pippa. I’ve been flying since I was fourteen. Most kids I know have access to a plane, one way or another; it’s not that unusual this day and age. In the old days, kids would ask to borrow their Dad’s car to go riding, but now you borrow the plane, but this babies mine’
Pippa nodded: If you live on the coast, most kids have a boat to sail, us, stuck so far inland have a plane, bit safer anyways’
‘It’s not so unusual mam’ said Bezz as we shot along the runway, my hands clenched with a vice-like grip to the seat
‘Most families go in for a fractional share scheme, and aviation gas is still pretty low-cost, even with the down-turn in the economy’ then we were up.
I sat behind Bezz and Pippa in the twin-engine eight-seater, gliding up to God knows what.
‘De-Hems tells me you out in Tucson last year, couple of nice airfields there; Ryan Field? Apache Junction? Get to see them?’
I had to say I hadn’t, remembering that all I could remember was Wal-Mart and Blood.
‘Just sit back and relax, we do this run at least once every month’
I did sit back, trying my hardest not to enjoy myself; I felt a little twitchy, on account of why I was there; the ‘letter’ waiting for delivery in my handbag. Cheering up a little I thought of much Emma would have loved all this. This should have been her, not me. I looked down at the Texan land divided up into squares of dark green and a sort of pinky brown, of which I could not quite make out what these patches were, I began to release my hands and breathe, watching, the long road train trucks on the long endless roads.
The couple up-front chatted for a while unaware I spoke Spanish.
Mostly about the sleeping arrangement at Pippa’s family house, and why her mother would not let them sleep together, I looked out at the passing terrain far below.
After g
oing our separate ways with Pippa and pilot taking a hire car to the suburbs. The taxi took me out of the busy city and to a high-tec science park on the outskirts of town. I found the Office building; a tall concrete and glass box. ‘A-MECRA, computing solutions’
I was determined to get this out of the way as soon as possible, leaving the cab waiting I strode up the steps to the reception.
‘Good afternoon’ I said to the receptionist as cheerily and confident as possible.
‘I’m a good friend of Mr Ripley-Moss who works here and I have just arrived from Britain and he said I could pop in any time I was in town, and here I am, would you be so kind as to call him to come down for a moment’
The receptionist turned to her colleague who had been listening to my every word and shrugged
‘Ok, Ms…?’
‘Smith’ I said, kicking myself inside for being so unoriginal
‘Very well Ms Smith, please sign here, one moment’
She turned her back as she tapped in the number
‘Mr Ripley-Moss? Yes, you have a visitor down in reception; no, she does not have an appointment, no… someone to see you on an informal visit’
She moved away from the desk and turned her back on me, yet I could still hear her whisper down the phone.
‘Yes female, no, middle aged, average…’
Then she giggled and turned back to me. ‘Take a seat he will be right down’
I stayed stood up, holding the sealed white envelope, trying not to look suspicious. The other three women behind the curved reception desk, speaking into their microphone head-sets, the woman who spoke to me stood watching me from the corner, hoping no doubt, for a wonderful reunion by these wacky Brits.
I knew it was him as soon as the lift door opened, just much younger than I had imagined, but it is perfectly possible to be twice married and avoiding maintenance payments at thirty these days. The dark suit, short-gelled hair; the look of a bit-part player in an English East-End gang movie.
He looked disappointed I was not a blond cockney scrubber, yet he was still the charmer, holding out his hand to me as the receptionist waved him towards me. I took the hand firmly, giving him a big confident eye contact smile and welcome.
‘Mr Ripley-Moss, very nice to see you again, I’ve waited a long time to meet you’.
He smiled, slightly unsure what was happening
‘I’m sorry, do I know you, were you at the Austin conference?’
I laughed; ‘yes that’s right, and I was just passing and knew you worked here, I’ve brought you a little present, more an invitation really, from Mrs Ripley-Moss’. I handed him the envelope.
‘Just a little reminder that you are never far away from those you should care about’
He looked at me puzzled, irritation beginning to tense his body and fixed smile. He was unsure what to say having been taken off guard, so looked over at the receptionist who was now blatantly watching with hands on hips.
‘Thank you’ he said, anger rising as if he had been the subject of a practical joke.
I had planned to walk straight out the building after the handover but his attitude stopped me, I moved closer to him.
‘Anything you want to say to me?’ I said, standing my ground.
He looked at the receptionist ‘No, not right now’
‘Well’ I said getting ready to leave ‘if you think of anything, you can ask me next time I come to visit you, don’t worry I know your timetable’
‘I’m sure you do’ he said now thoroughly irritated at the realisation that his past had just caught up with him.
‘Goodbye Mr Ripley-Moss, everything will work out just fine you’ll see’
I started to walk out, then turned to the receptionist, ‘such a sweet man, has children back home you know…’
I got to the bottom of the steps then felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘You come anywhere near me again and you will be in serious trouble’
His teeth clenched, seething the words.
‘Take your hand off me, or I will blow your fucking head off’
I could feel his body tense as he pulled back from the gun pushing into his rib cage. We stood looking at each other for what felt like minutes but must have been no more than a few seconds. I knew that it was my stare rather than the gun that made him back-off calling as I climbed into the waiting taxi;
‘Fucking nutter’
I told the driver to take me into town, anywhere I would walk for a while and change cabs. I looked back to see Mr Ripley standing on the steps holding the letter, I gave a dainty wave, worthy of the Queen as we turned out of the drive and onto the main-street.
The adrenalin pumped hard and fast through by body, I wanted to go back for a second go, be even more sweet, charming and intimidating, take my time, lean forward, relax a little, smoke a cigarette perhaps. I had wondered in the past why people did this sort of work, and now I knew, it made you feel bloody brilliant; I wanted to join the mafia.
Exhilaration ripped through me, pumping around my body that made me clench my fists with excitement. I wanted to eat something, yes, a big slab of chocolate that was on top of a rich chocolate cake, have sex, and buy expensive clothes, all at the same time if at all possible.
Back at the hotel, I lay on the bed after the most relaxing bath, surrounded by unopened shopping bags from expensive shops and beautiful gorgeous chocolates, in a thick gold box, while feeling the gun.
It felt right; the size, weight and balance, so perfectly ergonomic, why wasn’t everything made with such thought care and excellence? I had tried every gun on De-Hems wall while he was called away. I could see him waling across the courtyard so, knowing I had all the time in the world I looked for some protection. I didn’t try any of the big handguns at the top being a little unsure I would be able to carry them; it was the little shinny ones at the bottom that caught my eye.
There were two or three flat rectangle shaped ‘pieces’, but they didn’t feel right. Down on the bottom row, a little silver revolver, with highly polished wood handle and stubby barrel, it felt like Emma’s hand in mine; perfect and right.
‘Anything in a gold frame and expensive price-tag, that was my first wife’s criteria for buying art, Jesus Christ, she used to look in magazines to see what she should like. It’s like someone telling you what music to buy. How the hell we had two children without looking in a style magazine, I have no idea’.
De-Hem had been like this for about half an hour; like most of his employees, including Billie and Bezz just let it all flow over them. I had arrived back in Houston with shopping bags full of clothes I wouldn’t wear and the promise of a diet some time in the future. Anything else would have to wait until I flew to Spain!
De-Hem was now in full swing, setting up the future for Emma’s art and the ‘Estate’. He had set up a series of meetings for me with his legal team to oversee the development of the first book of photographs. I sat looking out the window while De-Hems went on and on, I only woke up when he mentioned Emma.
‘Yes Emma, she didn’t need someone to tell her where to point the camera, she just knew, you can’t be told or learn such things, you got IT or you ani’t. People ain’t got a clue what they like, well that’s a lie they do, but they so scared that it ain’t gonna be the “right” thing to like, they ain’t got the confidence to say ‘that painting is a piece of shit’ just cos some God-dam idiot for the East-coast says it’s good, don’t mean it is.
‘Like what you like and stick with it, that’s what I say, don’t make no different what nobody say, well it shouldn’t, it’s too God-dam important. Look at the young people today; what the hell is going on there, retro this retro that, too scared to break out the mould, so they live in some kinda sixties-seventies cultural hybrid, base-ball, boots, flared jeans, I think I’m having a acid flash-back when I go into town these days.
‘Only kids who breaking out with their new scene is the black community, least they got something of their own goin
g, but even now I’m seeing a few afros, like the Jackson Five all over again. What the kids gonna look back on when they sell out and get married? A retro-retro a pastiche of a time that didn’t exist… know what else they bringing back now? Vinyl, yeah, records on vinyl; they think it’s cool. Cool? What’s cool about playing a black dinner plate full of scratches, it will be eight-track and cine-film next. They can download music now from the Internet, yet 90% of the stuff they rip is from the 60’s and 70’s Led Zeppelin and the Who. Young people buy anything media tell em too. And who’s the media anyway? Some sad misfit kid who had to be in before 10.30. The problem seems to be that they buy the image from the music TV shows, yes I have a music TV show but… the music comes from the image now-days rather than the radio, which is much stronger.
While he went on and on, it gave me time to file my nails, square, like the women out there in the States, ‘it would be nice to have it done properly, perhaps I will do that before I go’ I thought as De-hem paced the room puffing.
‘Have you heard one thing that I have said? Jesus Christ’ he lit another cigarette shaking his head
I sat up, ‘of course I have…very interesting, all of it’
‘Now I ain’t gonna get you to jump through hoops, that’s not the way either of us want it to go, but I would like to reward Peter Sach; the director of our Cable music TV channel. He liked Emma’s work and supported the decision the have her work as part of the corporate logo, you know the kissing couple image behind the TV presenters?’
I nodded slowly, eyeing him suspiciously
‘Just that Peter knew you were coming and asked if we could do a live web chat after the Top-Forty show tomorrow, just asking questions and the like, Emma got a lot of exposure because of that, well will ya? Take a few questions? Just a few, she’s becoming an enigma’
During the closing credits for the TV music show that whizzed left to right across the screen at such a speed that it’s a wonder that anyone could read them, an email address for the cable company flashed on the screen for people to email me once the show had finished. The young Japanese presenter made an announcement at the end of the show that the mother of the young British artist who died in an automobile accident would take questions on a live web-chat.
Peter Sach was sitting with me; a large well-groomed, with hair-sprayed hair.
‘Ready Helen?’
I nodded; ‘as I will ever be’
‘This is a real be trill for us all, God Bless you’ he said nodding righteously.
The emails were waiting on the screen, so I took them as they came:
Chris from Cold Spring
‘When did Emma take up photography?
This was easy, I thought, I was worrying over nothing
Helen; ‘When she was eighteen, while on a college trip to France’
Abby from Galvesten
‘Did Emma have a premonition of her accident?’
‘Oh dear here comes the nutters’ I thought.
Helen; not as far as I knew
Scott from Crockett
‘Was the shot of the young girl on the army Jeep in France a critique on the Gulf-War
Helen; Not as far as I know, I believe it was a pure opportunist photo.
Roberta from Blessing
The shot of the French senior citizen women, show imbedded wedding rings. I took that image as expressing the constraint and oppression imposed by the patriarchal regime upon women in the Middle East, was this Emma’s intention?
Helen; No
José from Navasota
What equipment did Emma use, and did she ever use digital?
Helen: Well José you have got me there. Emma borrowed a camera to shoot the early French photo’s (the little girl on the Jeep etc) but she used a Cannon Sure-Shot that we had at home for most of the others. Later when she earned some money she bought a 35mm Pentax but I am not terribly sure which type, sorry.
Jake from Eagle Lake
Did Emma retain an interest in photography after her hands were amputated, and if so which images did she take during that time. Very sorry to hear that she died.
Helen; Thank you Jake. No, Emma did not have any interest after her operation, therefore did not take any photos.
Stuart and Kiel from Honey Island
Would Emma have enjoyed being a gay icon? We just adore that ‘boy on the Bus shot’
Helen; I didn’t know she was, but yes, I should think she would have been chuffed to bits, why not!
Beth Sable from Palestine
Did Emma come to the States, if so, where and when?
Helen; No, but Emma was planning to tour the country. She would have liked to visit New York and follow Warhol’s route across the country to the West-Coast, then head back down here to Houston to take up employment.
Chelsea from Cedar Lane
It is clear Warhol was a major influence, who else?
Helen; yes Emma loved Andy Warhol’s work. She also liked David Carson the Graphic designer and attended one of his work-shops in Milan. Another artist was David Hockney in particular the Pearblossom Hwy collages.
Cher from Waco
Is it true that Madonna owns two of her screen-prints, and that she had optioned the book?
Helen; I don’t think so, to both questions
Merrill from Austin
I read on the net that Emma’s ashes were stolen and that she hung out with Boy George
Helen; I think that’s probably enough for now, thank you everyone for your questions
Helen Kirby
‘They seem to put so much into the pictures’ I said to De-Hems, while I sat exhausted in the air conditioned office.
‘Called projection Helen, we all dump our feeling on art, that’s what it’s for’
Smoked De-Hems sitting opposite me, in one of the large comfy armchairs, hat off and legs stretched before him.
‘The young people seem to think there is much more than there really is, they dump their hopes and reams and their desires onto the image’
I stretched too, looking at the sun go down through the large windows.
‘It will only be there for those who want to see it’ he said earnestly ‘and going by the reaction of the work and the web-cast there is a lot of folks seeing a lot of stuff. Let me tell you something Helen, I saw something too, Jesus Christ, I don’t know what it was; just reached out and touched me. Who can say what it is we see.
‘I just don’t think it contains what people think it does’ I said casually.
He jumped up, pointing at me.
‘You been in love Helen?’
‘Yes, I think so’
‘Well then you should know. Now if all the other women saw what you did in your man, he would be a lucky guy, but only you can see that love and beauty in him, no one else can see it, touch it, or learn about it like my ex wife from a magazine, but God dammit its there or IT ain’t, love and art is in the eye of the beholder’
He got up and looked out at the orange and yellow sky filling the window.
‘Now I know this is gonna sound strange, but I have to say it.’
He stood facing out the window, the orange sky now turning red in the quiet.
‘I feel a bit bad about buying your daughter Emma’s work’
‘Why’ I said, sitting up. ‘You have been very kind, why would you feel bad?’
‘I know it sounds kinda dumb but… sometimes I think I killed her somehow, I know what you’re thinking, ‘ole De been on the grass again’ but I’m serious.’
I got up and walked over to him, he seemed smaller than before, I had never seen him this thoughtful.
‘What on earth are you talking about, how on earth could you have killed he, you gave her life’
He turned away from me
‘I know it’s gonna sound kinda strange but… it’s like this; I have only really collected three peoples work, I know I have bought loads of other paintings, but that’s business. These three women, all European mind you, and
this is the worst of it, all dead. Helen Farr, a young Scot, part of that whole Glasgow school of art thing, magnificent images; transcending, a real high. Bought the whole show over the phone, died in an automobile accident a year later. Helen Chadwick, got captivated by the woman and her art, reduced me to tears, that fucking shrine she did for Frida Kahlo died a few months later, in the middle of her prime. I thought it was coincidence but then I saw your Emma’s work, so young, I thought nothing could happen to her, Jesus, she was just a kid. Just feel I killed her somehow…’
My first reaction was to laugh, I had never heard such bunkham in my life, yet looking at him, staring off into the distance I could see he was visibly shaken, crushed and guilty.
Instinctively, I put my hand on his shoulder
‘You didn’t kill her, I can tell you that, most defiantly. Nor did you kill the other women, it was not you, not in any way shape or form, now there’s an art term! Or is from it ‘South pacific?’
He turned and smiled, but the light had gone from his face.
‘You mean that?’
‘I do sir, take it from me’
He held my hand then hugged me tightly, then gently, I could smell the cigarette smoke, feel the fresh cotton shirt and the relief as his body relaxed.
‘Thank you, thank you’ he whispered
I pulled myself together as we sat down, he lit up.
‘Your Emma’s work, Man, it’s good. It doesn’t intimidate people, it’s accessible to everyone, but it’s deep enough to swim in. But you know who’s buying it the most? Women and young girls, men like it too, but the females identify with her somehow. You know it would be good to do some silk-screens and have an exhibition at the gallery, there’s a waiting list for any prints that have come out, how do you feel about that Helen? Stop me if you think I am going too fast’
‘No, a show of screen-prints would be good, but I must ask one thing’
‘Go on, what is it?’
I swallowed hard ‘I want to do them, I helped with the others, I know how she would have liked them done’
He laughed loud at the ceiling ‘Glory be, Glory fucking be, this is gonna be great, I will get you the best studio in town’
We talked of the practicalities of the project and I got up to leave. Standing by the open door I paused. ‘I have a confession’
I pulled out the gun and handed it to him. ‘I’m sorry, I really am’
He smiled, ‘Well Jesus Dam Christ, I ain’t gonna ask why, just take it, but be careful’ He laughed again.
‘No’ I said ‘it’s yours, it’s part of your collection, please take it, it belongs back there on your wall’
Reluctantly he took the gun and I walked out the door. Half way down the corridor he called; ‘You women, Jesus Christ, you’re a Goddam mystery to me, but that’s why I love ya all’
Hair-do and nails
I flew first class from Huston to Tucson, feeling not exactly scruffy but dishevelled; I had on my new khaki trousers, light-blue cotton blouse and soft brown leather slip-on pumps. These felt right but I just needed a sort-out, I somehow felt, and looked rough beside the other women on the plane. Perhaps it was because I was feeling better, more positive, but when I looked at myself in the ladies room mirror at the airport my hair was standing on end, and not only that, it itched like mad.
I told the woman at the car hire desk that it didn’t Marker what the car was as long as it was big and had lots of space in the trunk and powerful air conditioning. A young boy brought round a large navy-blue 4x4 Range-Rover type car (truck). Sitting high up in the soft white leather seats, air-con protecting me from the baking heat and a Iris De-Mont CD that De-Hem had given me playing softly on the stereo. All this made the drive to Lesley’s house a pleasant experience.
I had called Lesley from Texas to see if I could come over to see her. This would be the first time I had spoken to, or seen her for nearly a year. We had agreed not to communicate on leaving, but I had wanted to contact her, but then her ex-mother-in-law called and soured everything and I held back, Lesley sounded good.
‘Do, oh do, it’s been so long I have much to tell you, when will you be here?’ she gushed.
Something was different; I wasn’t sure what, but Grasshopper Drive wasn’t how I left it, it felt odd, I was to find out later much had changed. First thing I noticed a little yellow car parked on Lesley’s drive. The baking heat on just opening the car door, knocked me back, but the air was good and that fresh air feeling hadn’t changed, allowing me to breath deep without pressure on my lungs. I felt I could straighten up and pull back my shoulders, which I did as I rang the doorbell.
While waiting I looked at the house, it seemed different; a whole lot cleaner and brighter. The front yard was tidy and had flowers planted, then the door opened, I thought for a moment I had the wrong house, then she pulled me close hugging me tight, It felt all wrong as I held only half of the woman I had known last year.
I could only utter; ‘Dear God, dear dear God’
She held my shoulders at arms length, I pulled back immediately, I moved back to the car, feeling repulsed. She was back again; the woman in the dock, the woman who killed my daughter, the blond hair the pale skin, that smile, and of course, those eyes.
She ran to me ‘Helen, Helen what is it, why are you being like this? I thought you wanted to see me, please come in, please don’t do this, it’s me Lesley’
I stood staring at her, jumbled up inside, as if I had been slapped awake from a beautiful dream. I could hear Lesley taking far away somewhere in the distance; ‘ Are you Ok? Come in, please Helen, I don’t like it your scaring me’
Somehow I got in the door, walked like a zombie to the back kitchen and I sat automatically on a chair; a bottle of water and a glass placed before me.
After a few minutes I looked nervously round the kitchen, everything had changed; the whole place had been gutted and turned round. Gone was the high serving bar, the one where Lesley found the knife and slashed her arms, collapsing behind it. The wood-effect units had vanished. Instead tasteful cream cupboards, dark kitchen tops and a stainless steel sink and mixer tap. It was light and airy, peaceful and calm, but I was dazed.
She sat beside me sensing I was coming out of shock, laying her hand on mine. ‘Tell me Helen, tell me, what’s troubling you?’
So I told her, told her it was a shock to see the old Lesley back, the killer Lesley, not the old fat dependant Lesley, who could not fit in the shower. She didn’t say a thing, just held my hand and listened. When I had finished she put her slim arm around my tense shoulders, now tight and rounded.
‘I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I thought you would be pleased, you helped me Helen, all this is for you. I always thought that if you should ever come back, I wanted to look better for you, show you I have worked on this, worked for you every day, I hoped you would come back. You know I can’t leave the country, so I have had to wait here for you. I always thought you would be pleased, I didn’t do this to hurt you’
A smile came to my lips breaking the tension. ‘Stand up’ I asked.
She smiled, then like a little girl in her new party dress, stood up
‘We my God, you look wonderful’
The blond hair, perhaps a shade or two darker, plus a few grey hairs at the side, but still beautiful. She was tall 5.9- 10 and slim, not as slim as she was, yet slim, just the same. On her feet; fun confident green pumps, embroidered with playful gold tread. The white fitted trousers, emphasising the long trim legs, the white cotton blouse topped with a soft round décolleté collar, illuminated the silver chain and crucifix that hung from her elegant neck. But none of this Mattered; it was the smile that counted, together with the warm blue eyes radiating benevolent grace, not the face of a drunk-driving killer at all. She was stunning.
‘I have lost ten stone, toning each day so as not to have skin hanging down, but you don’t really want see my tummy, I still have some work to do down there’
She beamed pro
ud like a first prize-winner, and of course she should be.
‘But Helen you look different too, you look amazing’ I said stunned.
We sat in the kitchen for a while boasting each others egos, before showing me round the transformed house, starting with the front room that now had wood floors
‘They were hiding under these dreadful carpets’ she laughed. Everywhere was painted a soft off-white, the furniture; natural colours such as stone, Hessian, and straw. The bathroom white with small grey/blue tiles with a light coloured blind, filling the room with dappled Arizona sunlight.
‘I have loved working on the house, did it all my myself mostly, except the kitchen, but then I got someone from the church to install it’ she touched the chain around her neck, then looking down like a school-girl with a crush said;
‘I think I have found the lord’
We talked about the changes to Grasshopper Drive. Lesley told me this main road running around the edge of the estate had now been re-routed and people no longer used it as a cut-through. Consequently the area had become silent and forgotten as a result. It did have an exceptional peaceful air, to what was an already a slow-moving pleasant address.
‘Can I take you out to lunch’ I asked
‘You can take me but I’m paying’ she smiled, she really had returned to the beautiful girl in the dock.
‘Look, what I would really like is a haircut, I remember a place down at the mall would you come with me, see if they could fit me in?’
She looked me up and down smiling ‘sure, I think I have business card for that mall, let me look’
After tossing a dime, I went first, while Lesley had her nails done. My hair had always baffled me and everyone else. Long, coarse and wavy. What the 70’s adverts used to call ‘unmanageable’ God how right they were, now I wanted it off. So there we sat, me in the middle of a row of black hairdressing chairs filled with women talking, drinking coffee and reading magazines while Lesley sat near the back chatting to the manicurist.
‘I don’t like any of it, the length, the thickness nor the condition, you have a free hand’ The young lady stylist, dressed head to toe in black with black framed rectangle glasses, lifted the Brillo-pad textured hair, and let it drop’ grimacing as she did so.
‘Lets get started’ she said
‘If you don’t mind me saying I like your hair’ I said as we walked to the shampoo basins.
‘I want them curved not straight and not too long, oh and a pearl clear varnish’ The manicurist nodded then we chatted for time while Lesley sat in the black chairs. The stylist looked much more interested than she did with my mop, she called assistants over to look at the long naturally blond hair. But it was not the dirty rat-tails anymore; it was fantastic;
Gemma the stylist worked miracles on my hair; tons of the stuff lay on the floor, it was now soft and straight, and with the tasteful colour, it was not me anymore in that mirror, but I liked who I saw. A consultant asked me if I would like to see a beautician, just to help with makeup, now that my skin tone would look different, did she need to ask?
Through all this I had worried that I would look some sort of tart, or a dogs-dinner, but it seems those days have gone, there’s big money out there making middle aged women feel and look good, rather than stupid. Lesley’s hair of course looked gorgeous, we laughed as we met at the coffee bar.
‘Helen you look wonderful, truly wonderful’
‘Thank you, I feel wonderful. But yours is lovely too, no other word but lovely.’
We walked around the mall, every so often I would catch a look of my reflection in the shop windows, disregarding the initial shock, I was quietly chuffed. I looked younger than I did at college, without actually trying to be younger than I was. We stopped for coffee, feeling good with each other, but I had to bring us back to earth.
‘I was warned off talking to you by your ex mother in law, she wanted me to stay away’
Lesley smiled and knowing smile
‘She’s like that, likes control, even when we were married she had the rains. I do feel grateful, living in the house that they bought, I feel I owe them something, so I put up with it. I’m not sure why she should worry about you though’
‘Nor am I, she is a bit of a funny one, bit of a pushy cow really, though I was with her all the way at the trial’
This seemed to put a slight dampener on the day, so I said ‘come on, let’s buy some shoes’
Although I was still spending my money, I was spending it a bit easier knowing that Emma’s money had been paid into my account. I didn’t want to benefit from her death, go out enjoying myself, getting ‘dolled up’ like some pools winner, when she had suffered so much. It was a lot of money that had been transferred into my account; touching seven figures, and this would increase significantly if De-Hems was telling the truth. It was a funny feeling having the bank account stuffed full of money. I pacified myself, reasoning, that if I helped with the work that sold I could take a salary; otherwise, if I didn’t earn the money I wouldn’t take it.
We drove back in the ‘tank’ feeling peaceful, happy and free, my lungs expanding, due to the clemency of the atmosphere, producing a most agreeable feeling of well being. We bumped over the traffic control bumps that were now in place along the now silent roads that led to Grasshopper Drive.
I dropped Lesley off and headed back to the hotel, I had thought of staying with her but I didn’t want to intrude, so I promised to come over in a day or two. During the time I had been at home in England I had received a number of letters from Becky’s parents: Stephen and Brenda. To start with, the letters really just told me how Becky and Joyce were getting on and any softball scores. Later Stephen had asked after my enquiry regarding his trust fund, and it was to this subject, that I had arranged a dinner meeting with them at their house.
The quiet single storey wood-clad building, stood on a long wide street, shaded with large well cared for trees. It was good to see them, and they most welcoming, taking genuine pleasure at showing me around the ornate house. Matching carpets, curtains and soft furnishings filled the house. Large high-hung gold-framed photos of the family lined the walls; Rebecca as a baby, Rebecca as a toddler, Rebecca as a girl scout, first day at school etc until I came to the current picture which shocked me. Even after just a year, she had changed, more grown up, slimmed down with a little of the look of Stephen in her eye. She came running in from school, hugging me as if a long lost friend. The greeting touched me, even if I was cynical about the sincerity.
‘It’s so nice to see you, Gee, I have pestered Dad to take us to Europe to see you, but he’s too mean’ she shot him a glance, which he returned by poking his tongue out. She ran over pretending to punch his arm.
‘How’s Joyce these days?’ I asked, interrupting the bonding, yet sensing it pleased Brenda that I did. They looked at each other.
‘Not good news Helen, They have moved to Phoenix, Her mother lost her job and became unwell, they have gone to live with Joyce’s aunt. She has had her education disrupted and things are not so great, it’s too bad’
Brenda pulled out all the stops for the meal, before which we bowed our heads and prayed. The best floral printed china, crystal glasses, napkins that matched the furniture in the back dinning room and heavy elaborate cutlery again florid decorated, picking out the pattern of the plates. Conversation centred round Becky. Softball was on the way out, and boys and exams were on the way in. Becky had met a ‘nice’ boy at church and had been taken to the movies (and picked up) by Brenda, they seemed happy enough, even though Becky said she could have made her own way home.
After dinner the couple showed me the photographs of their son who had passed away. Unlike those of Becky, Patrick’s image was not dotted around the house but a small shrine on the wall on the first floor landing. A narrow table stood in front of the bank of pictures showing the life of the frail boy. Even as a baby he looked ill, thin emaciated, and pale. All the pictured followed this pattern of fra
gility, yet there was smiles too.
Brenda began to choke up when she explained the pictures, Stephen held her, taking over and trying hard to raise the atmosphere.
‘He was a great kid, great fun, always a smile on his face, gave his sister what for, if he thought she was getting one up’
We sat on the back porch until it got dark, then moved in for tea that Brenda had bought specially; it was getting late so I moved in.
‘I hope you don’t mind my being forward, but you mentioned a trust fund to help someone go to college, is that still on?’
Stephen looked at his wife who nodded.
‘It is’
‘It’s just that I know, or knew someone who may need some, or even a lot of help to get through school, his name is Sean and was in hospital with Emma…’
I told them about poor old Sean, and how he had made such progress since being in rehab. The latest I had heard was that there had been a few slip-ups at school, mainly due to family problems; Dad turning up drunk at sports day, and one of the brothers stealing a teachers car hadn’t help Markers. Despite all this he was being ‘groomed’ for Cambridge, and even a scholarship could not pay the education and living costs.
They nodded their heads and listened intently, that was one of the things I liked about the American people I had met, they did listen, then I got to the point.
‘Look, like you, I have had some great misfortune losing my child. I think we both feel that we would like to do something to help others in the memory of our children. In one way I have been very lucky, my daughter has accumulated a large sum of money and I am told that this can only continue. The point is, if you help Sean, I will help Joyce.’
This shook them a little, making Brenda shift around on the sofa; they nodded for me to continue.
I know Joyce’s mother would not like to take hand-outs, or any charity, but this will be an educational trust fund. Not some poverty payment, made to make them feel poor; anyway, what am I going to do with the money? I haven’t any children of my own anymore. I know there are children in my own country that need help that’s why I thought of you with Sean back then. Not to take the place of Patrick but for Sean to succeed, turn his accident into a positive rather than negative.
They sat for a while in silence, then Stephen spoke;
‘I have one question’
‘Go on’ I said, all ears
‘Can I have some coffee, I can’t get on with this tea’
We all laughed prompting Brenda to go into the kitchen leaving Stephen and me alone to talk. He couldn’t see any problem with the idea, saying he would love to make some links with Britain again. He felt that we should present a Educational trust fund to Joyce’s mother Lily-May, as it would sound better than a hand-out, knowing her pride was still intact to support her daughters without state help.
I left around 10.30, with Brenda promising to think about the proposal and talking it over with Reverend Seger, Stephen gave me the ‘thumbs up behind her back. Before I got in the car Brenda touched my arm.
‘I believe the Lord works in mysterious ways’ she said beaming a most contended smile, then added;
‘And I have been meaning to say all evening; your new hairstyle’s most becoming, I wish I could wear mine like that’
Two days later, I went to see Lesley
After a superb early dinner (all low-carb and calorie) Lesley took me by the hand: ‘I want to show you something’
She led me through the back door and on to the garden patio, and stood for my response.
Initially it felt strange, like I was falling and needed to hold on to something, as if being near to the edge of a very tall building and looking over the side while your tummy turned.
‘Lesley, what have you done?’
‘Do you like it? Tell me Helen it’s important that you like it’
‘Just give me a moment’ I said as I let go of the back door and walked forward. She took my hand and we made our way down the garden, and walked and walked for hundreds and hundreds of yards into the desert. When the heat became too intense, we turned and looked back at the house. It was like looking back from a ship after sailing from shore, the land where you had once stood, now far away and appearing different.
I laughed, giggled at the strange illusion, a fair-ground trick to unsettle the senses.
‘Yes I like it, I really do, I can see it now, I really can’
‘It took me so long to think about, but once I got the idea it was simple, and so freeing. I was going to make a desert garden with all the indigenous plants I could find. I looked it all up on the Internet. I planned out the spaces and the sun direction, the view, and even thought of some night lighting, but it didn’t feel right.
Then, laying in bed somewhere between sleep and wakefulness it came to me, I looked out the window towards the garden in the pale morning light, and got up. I put on some old clothes and went down to the end fence, and took it apart bit by bit, until all that was left was the posts. I dug round them until they fell and I dragged them out. I was careful not to hurt the colourful wildflowers that grew just the other side of the fence: bright Honeysuckles, Desert Willow, Trumpet Creeper, Paintbrush, and Coral Bean. I was later to find out that these plants attract Hummingbirds, but I had not heard them before. The next day I found the rake and spread the shingle from the garden out into the desert, blurring the boundary of the garden and the land.’ Lesley laughed shaking her head.
‘Next door must have thought I was mad, but nobody has complained, and I don’t think I have broken the law.’
We stood looking out at her new garden that now extended hundreds and hundreds of miles to the hills, mountains beyond.
‘Sometimes I sit on the porch at night and watch the animals come into the garden. The unrestricted view allows me to witness the sky change colour from blue to yellow red and then black as the night falls. But the best bit is I can now hear the song of the Hummingbird’
It truly was liberating, the space was endless, and unlike my initial fears, the space now had a strange comfort to it.
‘It’s wonderful, I hope you are safe though’ I said a little concerned
‘No more at risk than having the fence up and people hiding, I’m pleased you like it, I really am. But I need to tell you something; when I was dismantling the fence I began to feel strange, at first I thought it must be the hard work. When I started to dismantle the fence something started to open in my head. It was as if a little door creaked open little by little as the fence came down, it felt as if the garden opened up and the confines vanished. I ignored the feeling by raking the shingle out from the garden and onto the land blurring the boundaries, and sat down with a soda. I just sat, looking at the garden drifting out to the rough spiky sea, and I started to remember the night… remember the night of the accident’
I turned to look at her, she averted her eyes, gazing down, wringing her hands nervously as she sat on the edge of her chair, she looked up.
‘ Not all of it, just small fleeting glimpses; getting ready to go out, Julian, even the function we attended beforehand…
‘I have made a good friend at the Church I attend on a Sunday, a lady called Christine, and I have told her everything. She has kept it to herself but her brother in law Chester is a therapist and I have started meeting with him’
Behind the door Warren
My name is Warren Foster, and I consider myself one of Emma’s closest friends. Helen has asked me to tell you about her daughter from my point of view. She has said in the past that she didn’t really know Emma that well. I believe she exaggerates this a little, as I believe she knew Emma as well as anyone. Helen has asked me to be honest and give a perhaps more rounded view of her daughter as she believes that her view is rather narrow and tight. Furthermore, she has promised not to change or edit the following in any way, so here goes. Helen or Mrs Kirby was not always as she is today; open, friendly and dare I say, nice, she was not like that when I met her.
&nbs
p; I first met Emma on her second day at Art College; she had changed from history to art in her second year resulting, as you know, from her photographic success. She was sitting on the floor outside one of the classrooms in a busy corridor, surrounded by what looked like a college jumble sale: her personal bag was emptied out, the contents of two huge portfolios lay strewn, and what looked like the sale items of a stationary shop, covered the floor as students stepped over her, I stopped to help.
‘I’ve lost my car keys and my mother will kill me’ she said flustered.
Her hair was incredibly straight, shinny and kept falling in her eyes. I loved her immediately. She had a slightly turned up nose and wonderful blue eyes, yet looked so venerable and a little helpless. I stood her up, she was tall, well, taller than me anyway. We packed up all the stuff and walked back into the classroom to look for the keys. We started chatting, just the usual stuff; courses, homework etc, she was nice, not like the other girls, trying a bit too hard to be cool. Having no luck with the keys in the classroom we walked to the car park where we found her keys still in the ignition. I got my bike and that was it.
We would see each other in the canteen, she with some of those boring arty types. Together with my friends we noticed that all the ‘creative’ students all look the same; dressed down middle-classers trying desperately to construct memories because they will not come naturally. OK, I’m a bitch, always have been, but this is about Emma not me. It wasn’t long before we stuck together like glue. The other students on the English Lit course I was on all seemed to have an extra loony or angry gene, and therefore kept my distance, my friends came from outside the English lab.
Pretty soon Em and I found a common interest, dance, we loved it. Both put of by the regimented classical ballet that Emma called ‘organised gymnastics’. She was bright and funny that way. That is one area that Helen has missed out, Emma had a great sense of humour, she would make me laugh so much. There was a dance programme at the college so we would go watch the girls (and the men!) do their thing, and it was rather good. We liked to buy the ice-cream, and ice lollies they sold at the dance shows, especially the highly coloured ones that make you look like you are wearing lip-stick, that too would make us giggle. We got to know some of the male dancers; I knew a few of them anyway, from around town…
Sometimes a few of us would go back to my place; (61) that I shared with Bernadette (who everyone called Bernard due to her angry dyke moods). She wasn’t around much, so we had the place to ourselves, as Bernie had a pretty girl-friend across town and stayed there most of the time. The college had a large dance library with many videos that some of our dancer friends (le and Tim) would take out. We would watch the old classical ballets mostly to mock really, cat calling the hunky men and bitching the women, it was all harmless fun, all jealous of the skills on the screen.
We fell in love with Martha Graham, everything about the woman, her look, natural control, choice of dancers and costumes. We knew she wasn’t the first to break the ridged dance conventions. Isadora Duncan was another hero and perhaps even more groundbreaking, being well… larger than the average dancer of the day. Yet we loved her freedom and simple expression that wasn’t a regimented routine. But it was Martha ‘Our Martha who art in Heaven’ who captivated our hearts.
Lee and Tim would bring home college dance videos of Martha, and project them twelve foot high on to the wall from a projector they stole from the college, it was magnificent. We would sit and marvel at the magic on screen, stunned at the woman’s talent. Sometimes lee would get up and mimic Martha, dance along with her, he was always such a drama queen.
Sometimes the four of us would call into the sweetshop on the way home from college and buy ‘penny-sweets’ (only they weren’t a penny any longer, more like 5); milk-bottles, white chocolate mice, sherbet pips, and penny-chews ready for the performance in the evening. Our top three Martha Graham pieces would be: (depending on how we felt of course):
1. Lamentation
2. Appalachian Spring
3. Frontier
Frontier would always be third but the top two could, and did change. I have video footage of Emma dancing Martha’s new bride to Tim’s Merce Cunningham in Appalachian. This will never be released, it’s too beautiful, sometimes we would project the film on the wall; she really was pretty good.
Emma couldn’t work at college, she said it was like a factory. Ok, Warhol had a factory, but he didn’t have loser students expressing their first time away from mum by looking like a prat and playing the rubbish records the music papers told them to play, she needed Aaron Copland. The predicable noise from the CD players in most of the studios only served to emphasised how little young people are prepared to venture out of the box. Things changed when she started to work at home, the worked flowed once she was away from the tutors who all wanted her work to look like something they had seen before in a magazine or book- or more worryingly like something they would like to do.
I know Helen has mentioned Emma’s feelings on the creative process and I, along with the others agreed with her. She felt people, which really meant the critics/tutors confused a well-crafted painting and technical competence with art. Oil on canvas does not make art, that makes a coated canvas, art is the other bit. She said it was like love; just because two people come together it doesn’t mean there is love, you are either in love or not. Not a little in love, not sort of, but you are or you ain’t! You might have all the ingredients and elements; it might make a baby, but not love.
Emma didn’t think her work was art, she just thought that it was photographs, or silk-screens, if people made art out of it that was fine. Emma didn’t think that telling people it was art was right, what is art for someone may not be art for others. She said it was because people felt frightened not to know what ART was, and needed others to tell them. I thought it was art, and just about everyone else thought it was when they first saw it Emma’s work.
Now her work is in the public domain and people have wrote about it so it must be art! It’s as if the culture police will come and arrest you if you say Van Gough was crap. I think she felt like that because she did not come from that sort of back-ground, both Helen and Kenneth knew rubbish when they saw it, never taken it by hype. Furthermore, Emma went straight into the second year of her Art degree, thus missing her foundation and first year, when students are ‘told what art is. She was like the little boy in the Emperors New Clothes who didn’t see the imaginary finery, just a fat mans willy.
After hearing Emma chat (and I mean chat, she never got haughty or doctorial) about the painting/art dichotomy Tim wrote a great essay on the said theme, it upset just about everyone who read it, which of course was his intention. He wrote that Classical music would not be around today if it was not for the middle class. He said classical music was a tool of social positioning that separated the classes. Furthermore he said that nobody listened to it anyway, being used as a visual comfort. One could look with satisfaction at the CD collection and know that no one in the council estate had any of them . He did balance it out a bit by saying that the working class would not smoke and drink and shout as they walked home through the tree-lined expensive houses from the pub if the middle-class were not here to listen to them. Tim didn’t stop there, saying that middle/upper class people didn’t like most of the social signifiers: art, music, or wine they had in their homes. They were frightened to buy something they really loved just in case they were ‘wrong’. They had to be told what to like from Sunday-paper magazines, that’s why they were there; to tell people what was ‘right’ and once consumed, confirm their choices. Tim didn’t get a good mark
Lee told us a story of a guy who was going to sue some theatre because Rudolph Nureyev did not leap high or long enough, and wanted his money back. I remember Emma saying that the guy ‘probably missed the wonderful feeling and joy of the jump, through worrying how high it was’.
She expressed dismay that such beauty could be measured in feet an
d inches.
We were all excited when Emma told us she had a date, I say excited, as we all felt a little put-out that she could like someone outside our set. But we wanted it to be like a Hollywood movie, where we would dress the young girl up for her important date with the hunky quarterback, then ask her if she had sex with him when she returned home, but it was not to be. We did dress her up, but she didn’t need it really, she was lovely. Anyway, when we saw her for the post match analysis, something was wrong. She didn’t want to say much, but it seems like Mr Quarter-Back (who was really a third year English student) was forceful-very forceful. Not sure if it was quite rape, but something happened, and I am not sure she wanted it to happen (I told you these English students are weird). Some of her light faded after that but, work and Martha pulled her through at least ostensibly.
Early in her third year Em had sold her work to Mr De-Hems, it was like a fairy-tale (well it was at our house) we all dressed up and danced showing all three favourite Martha pieces one after the other. I would bike over to her house sometimes. Compared to our place it was very cold and quiet, even colder and quieter than my home (but that’s another story). I would talk to Emma as she worked in the garage. The work was absolutely brilliant. Helen would come out to tell Emma to turn the lights out when she had finished and clean up the mess. I never liked Helen or Kenneth; it was as if Emma worked at the house, or was perhaps a lodger. I never saw any closeness between parents and daughter, worse still; Emma didn’t miss it, at least I was aware of not having any experience of parental warmth. Emma was not in anyway neglected, she had a stable home and that counts for a lot, just a chilly distance between her and Mum and Dad.
Of course all that changed when Emma opened up to her mother, asking her for help she didn’t really need. I am pleased and proud that Mrs Kirby, who then became Helen, worked with us during those last few months together. They were happy times, I could see Helen changing; she didn’t suck her teeth in, didn’t’ tut’. She wore old clothes that were much better than those ill-fitting flowery catalogue clothes, inch-by-inch she let go of the vice-like grip on the invisible ties around her daughter. We drank Champagne when Emma had completed her show, a wonderful time for all of us.
I saw less of Emma when she started to travel, such as the Milan trip, but we still kept in touch, then the accident happened and Helen went back to being Mrs Kirby, and I understood completely. It upset me so much me, to think of Emma like that, her poor hands removed. I have to confess I couldn’t go to see her, just couldn’t face it. It is something I will always regret. When she went to Sussex, Helen asked us not to visit for a while, but I drove down with lee after about four months. We walked up to the unit and saw the kids through the window; some hobbling around with scares on their heads, another young girl in a wheel-chair with a protective helmet on, and then Emma; feet tied to a tricycle, being pulled along with a glazed look on her face, while her stumps rested on the handlebars. We just couldn’t go in, just couldn’t face her; I know it’s little compensation to say we cried all the way home.
When she died, it sent Tim into a depression that didn’t really end for at least a year, and Lee and me were just torn to bits. The day before the funeral we went to the countryside to pick wild flowers for her, but they looked so dead when we got back we didn’t lay them for her. In truth we would have like to have bought Emma flowers from the supermarket, she would have like that lack of pretension. Even better, buying ‘tacky’ flowers from a petrol station forecourt, leaving on the sickly paper wrapping, Emma would laugh at the gesture. But we reasoned that Helen and Kenneth might have thought it was lack of respect, so we just did nothing.
I loved the girl; I really did and still do. It annoys me when I see things written about her on the Internet or in magazines by people who never knew her. Helen and I are in full agreement that anything confidential will stay that way. We will release images and information in a very controlled way. I have at least 200 hundred rolls of film that Emma kept at 61. Some of these rolls of film are very very personal to both Emma and me, and no one will ever see in my lifetime. Mr De-Hem has approached me to compile a set of three books; two on the many photographs Emma took of the dancers rehearsing and performing, and one of the ‘Pride’ march she ‘covered’ in London.
A exhibition of the silk-screens taken from the ‘dancers’ shoot will be shown concurrently with the publication of the book, Helen will silk-screen the images, as no one else knows how Emma would have liked them done, furthermore these is no one better at printing than Helen.
