I went back inside and returned to the hall and I stared at the painting she’d done. I saw her there, looking so lovely in that pale turquoise shirt, so grown up, responsible, talented. I could still smell her, too, the fragrance of innocence on her scarf and on her coat. I’d wanted to hold her. Wanted to enjoy the feel of her as we worked together. Wanted the juniors to disappear and leave us alone. Wanted to hold her sweet face in my hands and peel her clothes away. Helen Palmer, what the hell are you doing to me? I made myself a coffee and pulled up a chair and scoured her painting, every stroke, every stipple, the way she’d used light and shade for effect, just as I’d taught her. And the reality was clear to me – I wanted to teach Helen Palmer a whole lot more.
I locked up and headed to my car, turning up the stereo and taking off into the countryside. I circled Much Arlock, my regular jaunt, then put my foot down on the bypass to hear the engine roar. The sun was going down behind Merton Ridge, casting amber shadows over the hillside, and I got the calling. The familiar pull of the river from over the hedgerow.
I pulled into the turnoff, and coasted the car to the fence, taking in a breath of air as I wound down the window.
Helen, Helen, Helen.
I grabbed my phone from the glove compartment and called up her details. I typed up a pointless text, then deleted it only to type up another. There was no point.
I’d just have to hope she turned up tomorrow.
And that’s when I saw her, perched on top of the rickety old picnic bench with her knees pressed to her mouth as she stared upstream.
Great minds.
I stepped out and closed the gap, clearing my throat to announce my presence, only she didn’t look at me.
“Sorry,” she said, wide-eyed and sheepish. “I know this is your place. I just wanted some time. I thought if I stayed still you might not see me.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Should I leave? I don’t want to interrupt.”
She shook her head and patted the table. I clambered up next to her and crossed my legs at the ankles.
I took a breath. “You asked me if I was happy, and the answer is, I don’t know. I like to think I’m happy.”
“You think you’re happy?”
“Most of the time.”
“But do you feel it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then you’re not.” She said the answer so matter of factly that I looked across at her afresh. With her uniform stripped away a lot of her girlishness had been stripped away with it. “Why do you think you’re too old for dreams? Nobody is too old for dreams, Mr Roberts.”
“Sometimes people lose their sense of dreams, Helen.”
“And that’s what’s happened to you?”
I smiled, sadly, and the pain in my chest ached in memory. “Yes, that’s what’s happened to me.”
“So, you’ve only lost them… you could find them again, no?”
“I didn’t realise they were missing.”
She pulled a face, and that girlishness was back. “How could you not realise you stopped dreaming?”
I could have given her some light-hearted answer and changed the subject, but it wouldn’t have done justice to her intuition… to her.
“Sometimes people break, Helen. Sometimes they break so badly it’s all they can remember to do just to breathe. And that’s all they do. Breathe. Day after day until they can take a little breath without it hurting. Dreams change in that place. They become about that one little breath, and maybe the one after it…”
She looked so small and fragile, her knees pressed to her lips as she stared at me. Her eyes were glassy but alive, fixed on mine.
“…and it’s easy to forget the dreams they had before they broke into pieces. Sometimes the chasm between the inner and outer never quite heals. Sometimes the person doesn’t even realise, doesn’t even want to know.”
“And that was you?” Her voice was timid and quaky. “You were broken?”
I’m still broken. I’m still alone. I just didn’t know it until I had someone to sit next to.
“I was broken, Helen, yes.”
I could see the questions behind her eyes, and she dropped her knees, her hand dithering in the air as she considered making contact. She didn’t. “What was… I mean… what did…?”
“A beautiful, gifted, vivacious young woman called Anna,” I said. “She died and she left me broken. Heartbroken.”
“Anna…” she repeated. “Who was she?”
I cleared my throat and stared at the river as the sun disappeared behind the trees.
“Anna was my wife.”
***
Helen
My wife.
The words smacked me in the temples, and my heart was racing.
His wife.
He had a wife.
And she was dead.
“I didn’t know…” I took a breath. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry… I’m really sorry… I shouldn’t have pushed… I’m such an idiot.”
“It’s ok, Helen. I rarely talk about it, grief often makes those around us feel uncomfortable, even with the very best intentions, so I keep it to myself. Anna was full of life, and soul, and spirit. I prefer to remember her that way rather than dwell on her death. That’s often been a lot easier in theory than in practice, of course.”
“Please don’t think I’m uncomfortable, please don’t.” A brave hand reached out for his and squeezed it tight. He curled his fingers around mine and didn’t pull away. “You can talk, if you need to. If you want to… I’m a good listener, I think. I hope.”
“You are a good listener,” he said. “You have an intuitive soul and you see more than you say. It’s a good quality, don’t ever lose it.”
“When did she… um… when did she pass?”