Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (28 page)

He
pokes around in his jacket to find the paper, then unfolds it.

The
weather today is nothing that belongs in the summer months. The air
outside is mild with the sun behind one huge, permanent cloud, but
it's enough to prickle skin inside, so he refrains from removing his
jacket.

“
I'm
not sure this is any good, but I have your poem, Mrs Colby. Mrs
Colby?”

When
he touches a fingertip to the thin sleeve of her blouse, she tilts
her face towards him, then a smile graces her lips.

“
Sorry,
Bobby. I was miles away.”

“
Somewhere
nice, I hope,” Bobby replies, only to see Mrs Colby's smile
fading. “Are you okay, Mrs Colby? Shall I get a nurse?”

As
Bobby goes to rise from the chair, the woman waves her arm.

“
No,
that isn't necessary, Bobby. Honestly, I'm fine. Some days—sometimes
only for a moment—there are grey areas. It's like I'm slipping
from reality into a space between here and the afterlife.”

“
A
daydream?”

“
Kind
of, yes. Say, what's that?” Pointing to Bobby's hand, she
gestures to the paper he holds.

“
It's
the poem you asked for, remember?”

“
Oh
m
y,
you are prompt.”

“
It
just seemed to flow.” Bobby gushes and turns to face outside.
He doesn't supply her with more information, like how he was glad to
do it because it took his mind off his father. Or how he was happy
not to engage his mother's bruises.

While
the pen is in his hand, he forgets everything, including who he is.
That is what poetry does—it transports his spirit high above
the confines of his body. It encases him inside haunting images, or
seductive patterns. He doesn't guide the pen, the imagery does, and
that is freedom.

“
May
I?” Subtle eyes glance at him with an anticipation he couldn't
have imagined seconds earlier.

He
sees her eyeing him from the corner of his eye, but to succumb to her
will only deepen the blush on his otherwise bland complexion.

“
If
you don't mind,” he says without his usual politeness of eye
contact. “Can you read it when I'm gone?”

Bobby
lets the paper slip from his grip and into hers without protest. His
scruffy handwriting faces him for a second, then disappears into her
lap.

“
I
hope that's not embarrassment I see.”

Bobby
tilts his head and shrugs. Embarrassment perhaps is not the
appropriate word, but having his poems read while waiting for the
verdict is hardly cause for popcorn.

“
What
did I tell you, Bobby?”

“
I'm
not T.S. Elliot.”

She
chuckles, but respects his request. Leaning over, she tucks the poem
between the modest stack of paperbacks on the table.

“
I
will save it for later than.”

Settling
back into the seat, she begins asking about his mother when an
elderly lady enters, making her fall silent.

The
woman from his last visit who was running her fingers over the
wallpaper pads along in her filthy slippers. Once again, she drags
her slender frame closer toward the furthest wall without noticing
the activity at the front. Her slumped shoulder grates along the
wall, lifting her jumper as she uses her arm to feel along the
surface. Bobby cannot help from the protruding memory of Benji with
his turned-up collar. When he tries to shake it away it only grows
more intense.

What
is she looking for? Does she save this until I come around?

Why
would she? It's not like you're something special.

Inaudible
mumbles fall from her mouth, but the soft noise is almost deafening
within the silence.

“
Ignore
her, she's been like this again all morning.”

“
What
is she—?”

“
I'm
still not sure, Bobby. Maybe she can sense something we can't.”

He
looks back over to the woman in her thin nightie. The material hangs
loose from her bones and heavy wrinkles claim every inch of exposed
skin. Bobby watches her uncut nails trace over the wall as she goes.

When
he turns back to Mrs Colby, he finds her staring at him instead of
the other resident. He knows what is coming, so attempts to resist
the squirming his body wants to engage in. But it is to no avail.

He
doesn't believe his head will accept her questions without exploding
and spraying Mrs Colby with brain particles, so he swallows hard and
fidgets his way to his feet.

“
Sorry,
Mrs Colby. I've got to go, I only popped round to—”

“
It
happened again, didn't it?”

As
he is picking his bag up from the floor, he halts and flickers his
eyelashes.

Yes,
it did. I did nothing as usual. I haven't slept well, and when I do
drift off, I see awful things I wish I didn't remember.

“
No,
I'm just—”

“
Bobby.”
Genuine comfort laces her voice as she reaches out and plants the
warmth of her hand over his. It is heated considering the chill
inside the room. “I am always here if you need anything—”

“
Thanks,
Mrs Colby,” Bobby says, rushing to get the words out before she
finishes what she is about to say.

“
I
hate to think of you both in a situation like that.”

“
Everything
is fine.”

Her
eyes narrow as she appears to be searching his face for something,
but Bobby cannot tell if that's honesty, or suffering. Yet, after a
moment, her soft smiles finds him.

As
he flings the bag over his shoulder and positions it, he cannot help
the heated blush creeping over his cheeks. She knows the truth, he
can feel it in the way she turns away in dismissal. He cannot prevent
the guilt from surfacing for his lies, or not confiding in her after
everything she has told him about her daughter. After all, she knows
how it feels to be looking in on a situation she is helpless to
change. She also understands the silent suffering no one should
ignore.

“
You
know where I am,” is all she says as she goes back to peering
out the glass. Her sagging eyelashes droop in slow waves before
blinking open again with effort. The dampness glazing over the
otherwise dry orbs is startling.

Bobby
turns to the slim woman who is now running both palms over the centre
of the wall.

The
blue field stares back at him. He can almost feel the lazy heat
coming from imagery into reality, along with the perfume that wafts
from the flowers.

“
Mrs
Colby, I think I found the artist of that painting. This strange
thing happened last night.”

When
he spins back to the woman in her stale clothing, he notices she has
slipped back into indifference. He doesn't know if she is sparing him
the secrets about his home life, or to rush him out the door so she
can read her poem. Her eyelids hang on the precipice of falling into
dreamland, so he decides he will tell her next time.

“
I'll
drop by in the week. I hope you like the poem,” he says as he
moves away from the unoccupied seat again. “And thanks, I'll
keep what you said in mind. It's just hard, you know?”

She
doesn't glance up, but the way her lips curl inwards tells him the
words hit home. And more so, she understands despite the invisible
barrier between them now.

“
Evie,
love, what are you doing wandering around?”

The
woman who enters is not Smiles, but a girl he hasn't seen before. Her
blonde ringlets slide down her collar bone to the pocket watch she
has clasped to her left breast. Under a short snout, her lips pout
into plump, shiny cushions as she jolts to her left to avoid running
into Bobby.

As
he passes, he doesn't miss the startled look within her widening eyes
at his presence. Not stopping to acknowledge him further, she shakes
her head and reaches her arms out to the old lady.

“
Evie,
come on. Let's get you back to bed; it isn't safe for you to be
walking in your state.”

Bobby
watches the young nurse from the hallway as she tugs on Evie's
shoulders as though she is a child who has seen something they want
in a toy store's window.

He
lingers his eyes over the painting behind them and, once more,
savours its beauty. He wonders whether he might have the mysterious
artist show up on the internet again later.

He
doesn't notice he is staring until the faint whiff of burnt toast and
bacon drifts down the hall. The scents wakes him
from his trance, and he leaves with his stomach rumbling.

•

One
bus journey later, Bobby is standing in Spon Street. He looks down
the almost deserted road where many Tudor buildings still stand. The
medieval timber-framed buildings escaped the bombings in World War
II, and were declared part of a conservation area in 1969. Many
buildings are not original, but the ones that weren't rebuilt are
admirable—a contrast to the modern shops in town.

He
cannot recall what the name of the art shop is, but he will know it
when he sees it. All he can recall is the plank mahogany door with
the iron handle and the step down into the store. No matter how many
lights decorate the walls, he can remember how gloomy and dank the
place is. Although the owners restored it twice since the 80's, it
still carries destruction in the air. No bombs hit here, so Bobby
doesn't know why that is.

While
heading up the road, he comes to the store where paintings sit in the
window in a decorative display. Most have plain white borders and are
a quarter the size of the one in the care home. From here, none look
like the artist's work, but maybe there will be inside.

True
Blues?

Bobby
shakes his head as he glares at the board with the fancy sky blue
writing. He cannot help feeling the store name is more suited to
something football orientated. It's nothing he would call an artistic
shop.

It
should be a clothing store.

“
'As
t
rue
as Coventry blue',” Bobby mutters, and steps towards the door.

A
sudden cool air comes at his front as the store door opens. A blonde
woman with a thick fringe coating her forehead steps out. Bobby
cannot keep from staring at the floral halter-neck top she wears
because it's more suited to a slim teenager rather than a middle-aged
woman. Instead of adding the hint of sex appeal, it screams
desperation as it clings far too tight to her midriff.

“
Sorry,
love. You'll have to come back later; I have to shut up for an hour.”