Helen of Orpington

by PN Moore

Coda

  Julian was charged with perjury, was struck off and received 9 months prison. It’s funny, I used to think would I go and forgive Julian as I did Lesley, practice ‘Restorative Justice, have our hair done together? I think not. I believe there is only a certain amount of forgiveness in each of us and my share had run out. Now five years later he works for a medical research company in Holland.

  Sean is doing very well at school and is being ‘groomed’ for Cambridge he will get there Stephen will make sure of it. We all met up a year or so ago, I didn’t recognise the boy, so tall and well spoken. He said that he found it hard to adjust to the school, well, not the school exactly more the other boys, but any problems soon dissolved. Sean said his Dad still cut his hair but had learnt to do it much better, he thanked Stephen for his help but Stephen would have none of it. Sean still limped, and probably would do so for life. While Stephen was over he spoke of Joyce. I had of course been keeping up with her progress and had been pleased when she had been accepted into a top South-western College to study Business. She was doing very well, as was her sister and mother, Becky was not. She had not taken Joyce going away very well. He grades were down and community college was her only option. She got in with the wrong crowd and started taking drugs and later became anorexic, she is now an airhostess and is learning to fly herself.

  Young Emma is now five and proud of her two year old brother James. I take her shopping when I am home, we talk eat cake and try on lots hats together. Pam and Kenneth a still the ‘love-birds’ but had a scare when Pam found a lump. The doctors were wonderful and believe hey have removed it all.

  Lesley is now a Lay-Minister of the Tucson Christian Church and was very kind to Becky when she was ill. She married two years back to a widow named Randy. He is about ten years older than Lesley but nice enough, and has a young girl called Mary now aged ten. She sold 6996 Grasshopper Drive and now lives across town in Randy’s house. We still keep in touch but she is keeping things simple ‘for the Lord’.

  When I am in Texas, most days I work in the studio De-Hems had build near his office. I like to start work early and finish at lunchtime. A couple of afternoons I will work on the promotion or production of Emma’s work. There have been eight books produced from ‘our’ office, including one containing images of ballet dancers that was written by Warren. He comes over every so often, he seems to be happy and lives in Brighton with Mark. The other afternoon I fly my own little two-seater plane with the help of Bezz, but only Bezz as He and Pippa broke up. She was offered and took a job with Disney in California that evidently put an enormous strain on the relationship.

  For my birthday De-Hem arranged a small get together in his office, after something of an embarrassing speech he handed me a small box.

  ‘Go on open the Goddam thing’ he barked’ so I did

  In the box a exact replica of the gun I ‘borrowed’ back then when I was Clint Eastwood for an hour. I held it in my hand weighing it up, identify how perfect it was, how it fitted my hand so well, and what a wonderful piece of art I had made it.

  ‘Don’t think you’re getting any ammo’ laughed De-Hem, ‘I know what you’re like’

  To be honest I didn’t want any, but I treasure it to this day. On that note Maureen retired from work, I don’t know about her ‘other’ job but I haven’t had any more emails or requests, but I think I would still help out if I had too, so there is time yet.

  At the five years anniversary of Emma’s Accident I travelled to St Andrew in France. It was the first time I had visited the town, and after parking the car walked through the rows of little shops to the monument. I had been apprehensive taking the trip but I knew I had to at some stage, but I was not prepared for what I saw. The jeep on top of the blocks of stone was just as Emma has captured it; slightly leaning to one side and painted a funny yellow ochre colour. It was the writing that covered both the jeep and the stones hundreds and hundreds of names and messages. There was a lose rope surrounding the ‘site’, so stepped over it to read the writing.

  ‘God Bless you Emma’ ‘We love you Emma’ ‘I think of you everyday my love Stefan Hamburg’. People from all over Europe, some from as far as America and Australia.

  I stood open mouthed at the site; the writing covered almost every part of it. There were things left, plastic flowers, ribbons, statues, and pictures and photos of some of the people who had visited the site. One photo showed two young Japanese girls who wrote under the Polaroid ‘your Art is alive, you are alive’ Looking closer, some of the writing and the things lefts were a little spooky. Someone had left a small wooden crucifix with the ends of the crossbeam cut off short. I counted three little statues of the Virgin Mary with the hands snapped off; this sent a chill through me and made me pull back. Other cards left said ‘Pray for us Emma’ even one asking ‘Emma, give us peace in the world’

  Behind what looked like a biscuit shop was a small café run by a young woman from Paris, I sat with a coffee trying to recover.

  The woman started to talk to me as children ran in and out laughing.

  ‘Just for a visit Madam?’

  I told her I was passing through and had noticed the monument, she laughed.

  ‘That is a funny story, a young English girl came over a few years back and photographed the monument and were printed in America, you know what they are like out there’ she said shaking her head.

  ‘Well the young girl was in an automobile accident and had her hands taken off and then she died. Some students started to come hear having recognised the place and started to lay flowers, then the writing started and then God knows what; statues, crosses, everything.’

  She wiped the tables and cleaned some cups away and continued.

  ‘The jeep and the blocks of stone were only meant to stay for a few months for the anniversary of D Day but the mayor has said it must stay. We don’t mind it brings in lots of business, look I have a post card if you want to buy one’

  She held up a postcard with the picture of the wonky jeep on the stones covered in flowers. Two young girls came into the café and went behind the bar and made some drinks, nodding to me as they did so saying bonjour Madam. It gave me time to settle myself, sipping the wonderful coffee.

  I made out I recalled seeing the pictures

  ‘Yes I remember now, wasn’t there three older ladies in one of the photos?’

  The woman came round from the bar and sat with me.

  ‘Two are dead now and the other…she pointed to her head and revolved her finger ‘You know upstairs has gone’

  ‘She is in a home now, but the local paper asked her about Emma, all the poor woman could say was ‘beautiful Emma, an angel. Of course the paper printed that and people would come and pray at the jeep-crazy!’

  ‘What about the little girl in the photo the one in the jeep’ I asked innocently.

  ‘That’s the strange thing, no one has been able to find her, she does not come from this town or those around here. The mad people say she is an angel too, I say she was on holiday.’

  I had another coffee, trying to come to terms with all this. I thought of visiting the old lady, but thought better of it. Let the woman have her dreams, if it is a comfort to her in her last years, so be it.

  I said goodbye to the café owner and the children, who insisted on showing me a little bookshop that sold books on Emma and her work. I didn’t go in, but looked at the display of books that I, De-Hem and Warren had put together, then woolly headed, walked to the little park where Emma had taken the pictures of the widow women. No old women, but it was just the same as the photos. I sat on the same bench as the women and Emma had, and felt I was with her, talking and laughing about all this.

  After a review of One of Emma’s books on the BBC, her old art college called and asked if they could hold an exhibition in her honour, I declined saying they were five years too late. De-Hem suggested that we dedicate a book to her old tutor Mr Stephens who recognised her work. We did this and passed over a
royalty to him for his kindness. This should allow him to follow any path he wishes, hopefully keeping his wonderful eye out for new artists.

  Juliet has a one-year-old baby girl from Philip the French biker who divorced his wife and came back. Saffron is of course fluent in Spanish and we speak on the phone in our special language. She tells me Mummy is happy and Philip ‘silly’.

  It turns out he was not so silly. He and a consortium bought Rick out, letting him stay on the board and have a large share of the business and ideas. Philip have opened three more ‘Dakar Pit-stops’ all based on Rick’s Idea

  What of Rick? Well, returning from France I drove to my flat in Sussex in Pole Hill, just sauntering up the drive early in the morning I saw something chalked on the large white wall, a little further on I managed to read it.

  RICK CUTHBURT FOR HELEN KIRBY

  There by the flat stood a large motorbike.

  Now we mostly live at 6173 Grasshopper Drive Foothills Tucson, like Lesley’s old house backs onto the desert. Hardly a car drives through Grasshopper now, leaving the ‘Drive’ to sink back to nature. We could have lived in 6996 but neither Lesley nor us wanted to live there with the ghosts of cactus past. Lesley sold the place and sent the money back to Margaret who now lives in…where else but Holland.

  Rick has devised a cross-country bike ‘run’ that follows the Warhol trip he made back in 63 and is looking into a ‘Pit-stop’ somewhere along the route.

  Emma lives inside me, and going by the press and letters we receive in many others as well, especially a lot of young girls who are not sure of their place in the world. I would like to say thank you to her, and the only way I can do that is to do the best I can with her work. I miss her and talk to her everyday. The only time I feel she talks to me is when I silk-screen, sometimes I feel I am being guided, that gentle touch, making things beautiful rather than technically perfect, that where the art lies.

  Who knows when that strange alchemy turns like into love, form, line and composition into art, and hate into forgiveness? I don’t, but this I do know. When the fences and barriers that surround us are taken down, you can hear the hummingbirds sing.