TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (30 page)

Unable to face me, he turns away and eyes the passing traffic as it whizzes past making that grand

prix noise. “It’s not like that Beth. Elise was someone I knew when I was ten. For Christ’s sake, who

knows what they were doing when they were ten?”

I feel a pain in my heart like that caused by a sharp object or a painful recollection. “I do.”

Looking puzzled he turns around and catches sight of something serious in my eyes. As well he

might.

“I was ten when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was Wednesday 21 st April 1996,

three months after my tenth birthday. For most of the year, I watched her suffer, go through the agony

of chemotherapy, lose weight, lose hair, lose hope. So, yes, some of us do remember what we were

doing when we were ten.” Through cloudy eyes I gaze upon his sympathetic face.

“Oh, Beth, I’m so sorry.” In the tight space he still manages to lean over; he’s pulling me to him

and wiping away a tear with his cuff. “I had no idea. Do you want to tell me about it?”

I nod, needing for him to hear about the mother I adored and continue to adore every single day. I

sniff back tears and lean back a little. “Four days after my eleventh birthday, my dad said she had died

peacefully in the night after holding on for as long as she could for me …” I feel a paternal kiss on my

forehead.

“Poor baby.”

“That was a strange birthday. Mum had dad dress her and carry her downstairs. We ordered pizza

and all sat around watching TV. Some school friends came over, but mum was the guest of honour.

She hadn’t been downstairs for months. I actually thought, ‘Hey, she’s getting better,’ but after an

hour the pain got so bad it made her wince and turn ashen. I saw her gripping the arm on the chair like

she was giving birth. Little did I know a life was being taken, one breath-stealing day at a time. It was

heart-breaking to watch; her trying to be so brave for me.” I pause, allowing the memory to fade a

little before continuing. “Dad carried her upstairs to bed and gave her morphine. When she felt a little

better I went up to see her, and she gave me a ring, her engagement ring. It was her mother’s. After

that I wore it every day. It was her parting gift.” Without knowing, I’m rubbing my finger where it

used to be, like an amputee feeling for invisible limbs. “But someone took it from me. He ripped it off

my finger.”

Ayden lifts my chin with his finger and we are eye to eye. “We’ll get it back,”

“I know you mean well Ayden, but don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m not. If that bastard who broke into your apartment took it I’ll find him and, when I do, I’ll get

your ring back even if I have to break every one of his fucking fingers. I’ll get it back for you.” He

takes a cleansing breath. “Dry your eyes and fix your face. I want to show you something.” He turns

on the engine and it comes to life like an impatient beast snorting into the gravel, leaving a trail of

dust and debris. Before pulling out he tells me, “Put your seatbelt on.”

I do and feel myself being thrown back in my seat as he accelerates into the flow of traffic. The sun

is low and the light is fading from the sky; a single oasis of light stretches out before us like a flare.

It’s probably my imagination but I could swear we are heading towards it.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re turning off a busy high street and cruising at the national speed limit

down a leafy avenue onto what appears to be a dead end.

“Where are we going?” I ask curiously, admiring the houses and the well-tendered gardens.

“You’ll see. We’re nearly here.”

The car comes to rest outside a large wrought iron gate almost obscured by branches. On the right

hand side is an intercom and on the left, a sign that reads ‘Bright Hill Children’s Residential Home.’

My heart’s in my mouth.

“You can just about read the sign. Someone will have to cut back the branches. You could read it

when I was here. But that was 21 years ago.”

“This is where you grew up?” I don’t bother trying to hide my surprise.

“Yes. I spent most of my childhood here when I wasn’t being fostered, which wasn’t often.” He

unbuckles his belt. “Come on, let’s take a look. Get your jacket.”

I grab his hand before he lifts it from the seatbelt catch. “Are you sure?”

He sniggers, “No. But let’s go in anyway.”

The car alarm sounds behind us, followed by the buzz of the intercom. “It’s Ayden Stone.”

A muffled voice answers. “Hello Mr. Stone. Come in, we were beginning to think you weren’t

coming.”

“Well, I’m here now. Are you going to let us in?”

The gate opens with a painful creak. We walk through it and Ayden makes sure it’s securely locked

behind him: old habits die hard. He reaches for my hand and I feel the softness of the skin and the

penetrating heat; he’s nervous.

“It’s a big house,” I comment, tipping back my head to take in the Victorian façade. The decorative

stonework gives it a very grandiose look and the arched doorway makes for an imposing entrance.

Either side of us, triangular bay windows reach out into the garden, drawing every ounce of fading

light. Ayden presses the buzzer and together we wait.

A woman in her late forties answers the door. Her hair is a mass of black curls and her hands are

covered in paint; she’s wearing a cream coloured apron that barely covers her ample bosom. Her face

lights up when she sees Ayden.

“Oh you’re here,” she announces, I heard you were coming. What a lovely surprise.” Keeping her

multi-coloured hands aloft, she leans into Ayden and kisses him on the cheek. “Forgive the hands …”

I really believe that if it wasn’t for the paint, she’d hug him. “Come through.”

“Martha, this is Beth. Beth, this is an old friend of mine, Martha. I’ve known her for …”

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t. You’ll give my age away if you tell her that. Don’t listen to a

word he says Beth. I’m thirty if I’m a day.” She throws her head in a slow, sweeping motion and

flounces off into the first room on the left.

My heels are noisy on the parquet floor and I attempt to tiptoe to lessen the sound. I feel Ayden’s

grip tightening on my hand ever so slightly as we enter. There are ghosts in this room, it seems.

“Come in and take a look.”

Despite the stark exterior, inside the room is modern and clean in pale shades of blue. Around the

walls are desks with slim-line computer screens, parked up against junior office chairs and keyboards.

In the centre of the room, beneath a decorative ceiling light are ten children; little Marthas with their

aprons and curls and paint covered fingers. They appear to be from the age of five to ten and they are

engrossed in the process of creating a masterpiece.

“Look this way everyone,” Martha instructs softly. “We have a special guest today: Mr. Stone and

his lovely friend.” Some of the children poke their heads around wobbly easels, while others prefer to

remain hidden. “You’ve all seen Mr. Stone before, remember?” Some of the older children nod and

smile in such a jolly way, I can’t help but smile back. They’re delightful.

I look to Ayden for an explanation but, to my utter amazement, he’s so taken with the children that

he’s forgotten I’m here.

“Hello everyone. What are you painting today?” he asks, as naturally as breathing.

A small boy with fiery red hair raises his hand. “We’re painting ourselves.” He holds up his

painting proudly; it’s full of glorious orange and red strokes and big blue eyes.

Ayden turns to me. “Look Beth, he has your eyes.”

I laugh joyfully and nod. “It’s lovely. You’re very talented,” I tell the artist who is preparing to

apply the final touches.

“Now remember to ask the person next to you to describe you to them.” Martha gives me a warm

smile, and I watch it broaden as she focuses her attention on Ayden. “Are you here to see Winnie?”

“Yes, and to introduce her to Beth.”

“Well, don’t let us keep you. You know you’re always welcome here.” With her arms wide, she

kisses him on the cheek again. “Back to work. Van Gogh over there will be finished in a minute and

need entertaining …”

Ayden takes my arm. “Bye everyone. Listen to your teacher and be good.” We say our goodbyes to

Martha and Ayden closes the door, leaving us standing in a large hallway with a broad set of stairs

wide enough for two adults to walk up, side by side.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs. There’s someone I want you to meet.” He holds out his arm, allowing

me to go first.

This is turning into an unexpected adventure; every new revelation is leaving me lightheaded with

wonder. Only now am I beginning to see what this open book day is all about. It’s about a small boy

with stunning green eyes called Saphir Pierre, who spent his childhood in this very place. Each new

page is an eye-opener and I dare not blink for fear I might miss something.

To redirect my thoughts, Ayden squeezes my hand and kisses it. “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m very surprised.”

“It’s my open book day. It wouldn’t be any good now, would it, if it didn’t have a couple of

surprises?” he states smartly.

“Oh, it has that,” I confess.

“Then prepare yourself for the next chapter. It’s a real page-turner.”

He raps on the door straight ahead, just off the first landing, and turns the brass knob. I look

downstairs at the hallway and how the colours from the stained glass have set the parquet floor on fire;

flames of iridescent light are reaching out like the fingers on Martha’s hand, touching the wooden

table and the rows of boots paired underneath it; so many little feet in such a compact little space.

Ayden makes an entrance and greets the women in the office with an unfamiliar smile. “Hello.

Sorry we’re a little late. Is Winnie around?”

Instantly a young receptionist of around twenty two, who is only now deciding to close her mouth,

offers her assistance. “Yes … of course Mr. Stone. I’ll get her for you. Would you like to wait in her

office? Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting?”

“Beth,” He turns to me. “Do you want a drink?”

I’m still a little stunned. “No, thank you. I’ll pass.”

“Same here. It’s only a flying visit.” He leads the way and I follow him into the office at the far end

of the room. As Ayden moves, so do the heads of the office staff. He must feel them undressing him

with their eyes? I do.

Once inside the room, I become aware of a heady fragrance: peonies and freesias, I think. Along the

back wall there’s a bookcase filled with photo albums and ring binders, books and boxes. I’d love

nothing more than to rummage through them.

“Take a seat Beth, she won’t be long.” He strolls over to the window and looks out. “I used to come

to this room a lot. It was where all the naughty boys came for their punishment. I had a season ticket.”

He sniggers at the memory. “Nice view though.”

I join him and observe the vast green landscape out towards the back of the house. To the right is

what looks like a vegetable garden and to the left is an enormous play area, for children of every age

and size. The children here are well taken care of and I suspect I know who might be funding that care.

Behind us the door swings open and to my utter astonishment, in steps a rotund black woman with a

red bow in her hair and a gypsy skirt in a kind of cerise colour: she’s hard to miss.

She opens up her arms to Ayden. “Saphir,” she calls out as he approaches her. Even though she is a

foot smaller, she pulls him to her with a heartfelt hug that has me raising my hand to cover my gaping

mouth.

“Are you getting taller or am I getting smaller?” she asks. “Let me look at you.” She turns to me.

“Isn’t he handsome?”

I find my voice. “Yes, he is.” I watch him squirm.

“Winnie, this is Beth. Beth, this is Winnie.” He outstretches his arm to me and I reach out my own

instinctively.

“Yes, yes, of course it is.” Beating Ayden to it she takes my hand and pulls me to her, and hugs me

so tightly the air leaves my lungs with a gasp. I stare at Ayden over her shoulder and notice how much

he is relishing this moment. This woman means the world to him.

Winnie releases me, only to hold me at arms’ length so she can give me the once over. “Oh, how

wonderful to meet you Beth. Is that short for Elizabeth?”

“Yes, but no-one calls me that.”

“Well, I’m going to. Elizabeth’s such a lovely name.” She takes hold of Ayden’s hand and places

mine into it. “Just look at you two. What a perfect match.”

She leans into me, pretending to whisper but knowing perfectly well Ayden can hear. “I hope you’re

keeping him in his place. He can be such a naughty boy, you know.”

Ayden raises a brow, gives me one of his scorching looks and I have to look away. I simply smile.

“I do try. But he can be very charming.”

“Oh, can’t he just? Ever since he was a boy, he could charm the hind legs off a donkey and then

come back for the tail.” She looks across to him with so much affection it’s heart-warming.

“You never let me get away with a thing Winnie. My charm was wasted on you.” Ayden feigns