Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (10 page)

It
was meant to come here.

“
Has
this R. Kuffs done any other work?”

“
Couldn't
tell you, love.”

Bobby
mentally notes to check as soon as he gets home.

There
must be information somewhere on the Internet.

“
Well
it sure is special.”

How
did somebody paint a scene straight from my mind?

On
the textured paper, the cliff sits at an angle with a white house on
top, so the audience are seeing the cliff diagonally across. The
widest part of the cliff ascends from the right corner to the cusp.
That side cuts short of the page where the sea laps the rocks in
foamy waves.

From
the red door, the path winds one way, then the next like the uncoiled
body of a snake. The blue and violet blobs on the land are not a
secret because he knows what they are. He always has. He can almost
smell their wild scent roaming free and hear the soft hum of those
lazy bees.

All
but the signed shutter are open. The rest spread a glow over the
vines along the white stone. Outside the house is a wishing well
that's painted with colourful dots like Christmas lights. The paint
smudges around the well in deep red to give it a mirage-like quality.
The quality conflicts with the textured paint of the surrounding
artwork, but is eye-catching and works.

The
sky has white waves running through it as though capturing motion.
Bobby recalls the dream and how free it felt.

“
Any
sign of bluebells yet?”

“
No,
not yet. That's why I wanted to ask you a favour.” She trails
off as she heads back to her seat while Bobby continues his stare
into the painting. It is captivating and he cannot help wondering if
someone painted this from a dream, or reality.

Has
someone else been in those woods?

Bobby
tries not to feel jealous by this, but cannot help himself.

Mum
told me it was our secret place.

While
the armchair creaks as Mrs Colby steadies herself back down, a frail
form shuffles through the doorway. Bobby reluctantly turns toward the
sound.

“
I
wanted to ask if you could . . .” Mrs Colby's words fizzle out
as she glances toward a stick-thin woman clutching herself at the
door. Her pelvic bone protrudes from the thin material of her navy
leggings.

“
Morning,
Evie,” Mrs Colby says before turning her attention back to
Bobby. “Write a poem for me?”

Without
responding, the elderly woman hustles her way inside. Her long,
withdrawn face is set within deep wrinkles which sag at the jaw and
neck. As she comes into the bright room, her brown eyes do not notice
the change from the hallway, nor does she survey the room. Instead,
she keeps her head tucked into her collar bone. White, wiry strands
stand vertical from her scalp which tremble with the movement.

As
she scuffles along the floorboards, her fingertips stroke over the
wallpaper until she comes to an abrupt stop in front of Bobby. The
slender digits on her free hand twitch against the cream jumper. It's
raised and limp against her chest, making her appear fragile and
distant.

Backing
up, Bobby stares as the woman who can be no taller than 4ft 11”
and anorexically slim. She continues to feel the wall, twisting her
fingers in jagged circles over the same spot.

“
Just
leave her, Bobby. Evie zones out from time to time.”

Sliding
away, he joins Mrs Colby at the front window as he continues to
glance back towards the woman.

Although
he only comes to visit Mrs Colby, other residents often join them to
listen to the poetry. He sees them fall asleep with slack jaws,
catching flies and snoring. He sees residents soil themselves, or
lose their temper because they fail to do tasks the way they once
did.

This
is different.

Evie's
actions are different from Mrs Colby's fuzzy periods, yet he cannot
say for sure why. She appears distant like they do, frigid and
unresponsive too, but there is more he cannot understand. Yet, he
finds he wants to. Something within his heart screams out for him to
find an explanation.

“
She's
new here. On the first day she was fine, talking about how her
son-in-law always drops her off at bingo every Thursday night. Since
last Friday though, she's been in this detached state.”

“
What's
she looking for?” It slips from his mouth before he has time to
reel it in. He hadn't expected the question to form in his head let
alone spill from his lips.

Where
did that come from?

“
I'm
not sure she's looking for anything, but now and then you can hear
her mumbling to herself. It sounds like she's speaking broken words.”

When
her fingers press into the wallpaper, it creates an irritating noise.
She locates the wallpaper's edge and peels it back without thought.

“
Broken
words?”

“
Yes,
nothing that makes any sense though. Ignore her, Smiles will realise
she's missing from the back in a minute.” Mrs Colby's eyebrows
rise in a visual sign of disapproval, then she reverts her gaze to
the netted window.

Bobby
sits back on the cushion's edge and waits for her to expand on her
request. She glares out the window for a full three minutes. Only the
sound of the wallpaper and the hallway clock ticking fills the
silence. In those minutes, he glares from Mrs Colby to Evie, catching
the full sight of the painting each time he does.

Bobby
is about to question her when she opens her mouth with a dry slapping
of lipstick that forces the corners to lodge together.

“
I
want you to write me a poem. It doesn't have to be long.”

Outside
the window, her eyes pick out a woman on the pavement and follow her.
The baby in the buggy has a raggly rabbit with odd matching materials
stitched together. On the bunny's feet are odd striped socks that are
far too big.

“
We
didn't have much money when Anne was a baby; times were harder back
then. I know people still struggle, but the council fork out for most
stuff we had to work hard to get. John had a simple job in a factory.
He worked all the hours he could, but it was only enough to scrape
by. We couldn't affort to buy Anne toys, so I would sew pieces of my
old dresses together and stuff them with old socks. Washed, mind you.
I made a rabbit like that, although not as grand. The poor thing
didn't even have eyes, but she loved it.”

Bobby
glances back over to Evie, who is on the move again. In her slippers,
she slides across to the corner next to the painting. She still
touches the wall, tracing messy circles over its surface.

“
Anyway,
I don't want to keep you longer than I have to.”

“
It's
no bother, Mrs Colby.”

When
the buggy disappears down the road, she seems composed once again.

“
I
can work on one tonight.”

People
on the Internet ask him if he can write poems for them—not
regularly, but it happens. When a family member dies, they want a
tribute, closure, or something to put their grief into perspective.
Perhaps people are seeking the words to explain themselves—to
be in a context different than what they can manage. Most want poems
to accompany funeral flowers and card inserts. He may have found a
morbid niche for his poetry, but he is happy to oblige.

It
doesn't involve a look at the person and away the pen goes, although
sometimes it is that simple. Sometimes he just clicks with people,
other times it takes understanding, empathy and passion. And it is
baffling that anybody would request him to do any of that.

“
What
I'm after is something hopeful to portray my waiting is not in vain.
Do you understand?”

“
I
think so.”

“
Dear,
I knew if anyone would, it'd be you. I know you'll help them to bloom
before I pass.”

Bobby
nods at the request and sinks into the cushion. Between her and the
woman at the wall, he feels nervous.

He
will need a miracle to produce what she asks of him. If she wanted
bluebells to grow from seeds she hasn't even sown, then he would
stand more chance. What she is really asking is something Bobby
doubts God himself can change.

CHAPTER
FOUR

“
Did
you h
ave
fun?”

Letting
a loud sigh escape his mouth, Bobby pulls himself onto the wall where
Danny sits in the sunlight.

“
Don't
tell me, it was bathing time so you had to help out.”

Bobby
shakes his head in disgust, but doesn't supply an answer.

“
Have
you ever dreamed something and it's come true?”

Danny
whistles. “The ones of Stacy Stockman never do, that's for
sure.”

Stacy
Stockman was a year above them in the all-girl secondary school down
the road. She also lives at the end of their road in the property
that brims with flowers and bushes. Her mother is a gardener who
often pops around the houses in the village to see if they want any
work doing. When she asked Danny, he agreed without consulting his
mum on the off chance Stacy might lend a hand. To this day, their
back garden resembles something from the
Jungle Book
.

Danny
goes a shade past beetroot if Stacy so much as glances in his
direction. If she flutters her eyelashes to reveal those emerald eyes
dotted with hazel, he turns into a mess. If she ever talks to him, he
turns into stuttering wreck—a complete embarrassment to watch.
But he is still adamant she is the girl—with her golden hair
hanging to her waist—he will marry.

Perhaps
his superpower should be brain washing.

“
Well,
only like what I've told you.”

“
It's
not quite the same though. It didn't come true, but I saw a picture
of what I saw in my sleep.”

“
T
hat's
still weird. Is there any chance you could have seen it and then
dreamed it?”

“
No,
I don't think so. I've never seen the picture before today.”

The
sun disappears behind a modest cloud. For the first time since
parking his butt on the brick wall, he feels a strange sensation he
cannot place.

“
I
remember when I had that dream a few years back about that dog
attack. It was a pitbull, I think, but it didn't look like one.”

“
How'd
you know it was one then?” Bobby titters, knowing where he is
going with this.

“
I
don't know
.
You know, sometimes your mind remains rational, however crazy it is.”