Page 127 of The Art of Loving You

It’s heavy. I carry it through to the kitchen. Through the window, beyond the garden, I see Liam and his friends clustered around one of the outbuildings, deep in conversation. They’ve all offered to help out in return for beer and snacks.

‘It would probably be cheaper to pay them, duck,’ Sid said doubtfully and I will – but in the meantime they are learning about paying it forward.

Kindness.

The ripple effect, that smooth pebble dropped into a pond.

I open the box; inside is a guitar, the Gibson, Jack’s guitar, and with it, a note.

In retrospect, we took too much from you. Rhonda and Bryan.

I curl my fingers around the neck, hearing Jack strum ‘Lay, Lady, Lay’ the night we first made love, feeling his lips on mine, his hands.

Too muchhadbeen snatched from me but in return, thanks to the doctors, I’ve been offered a future. Thanks to the support of everyone surrounding me, a chance to make Jack’s dreams come true. A chance to give back to the community he loved.

We’re all doing it, together.

We’re all being more Jack.

Epilogue

It is spring again. The time for new beginnings, fresh starts. A year since Jack and I had stood looking up at this house, marvelling how lucky we were that it had become ours. The front garden is no longer overgrown; Liam has cut everything back and now the daffodils have once more pushed their hopeful heads through the nettle-free borders. I was worried he’d dislodged the bulbs when he’d dug the earth over, that they’d never bloom again, and yet here they are. We could learn a lesson or two about determination from these sunshine-yellow flowers. No matter how hard it is to break from the clutches of darkness with a cheerful smile they do exactly that, time after time. Today, once more, I can smell honeysuckle and happiness.

The front door, now restored to a shiny British racing green, is open.

Round the side, Faith is hanging bunting from the barn, Alice holding the ladder steady. Chloe sleeping in her pushchair, her skin slick with sun cream although she’s shaded by an umbrella. My once impetuous little sister is an incredibly responsible mum.

Sid is here early. I have a surprise for him.

‘Follow me.’ I lead him through the kitchen, to the small room where he and Norma used to sit and watch the sunset, munching on cheese and crackers with homemade chutney,scones and jam with fruit from the garden.

I’m anxious as I wait for his reaction, remembering how sad he was over FaceTime on moving-in day when Jack had brought the phone in here and he’d seen how the room looked. ‘A shell’ he had called it.

It isn’t a shell now.

Sid doesn’t speak. He can’t. He’s too overcome. I can feel my own hot tears building behind my eyes.

He lightly touches the newly papered walls. I had the wallpaper custom-printed with pages from Norma’s kindness journal; rows of her neat writing covers the space between ceiling and floor. He turns to me and opens his arms and I step into them, feel his fragile spine beneath his shirt, the fluttering of his heart.

‘Let’s sit,’ I say softly.

He takes one of the leather burgundy armchairs I’d sourced, I take the other. On the small table between us is a plate laden with scones, with pots of clotted cream and jam. They won’t taste as good as Norma’s but I’ve tried.

We gaze out over the fields but I know Sid isn’t seeing the grass, the sheep; he’s seeing his bride, his life. A tear spills down his cheek and for a second I worry I’ve done the wrong thing, but he turns to me and says quietly, ‘It’s a beer and skittles day, Libby. I’m so proud of you.’

‘I couldn’t have done it without—’

‘Shh. You may not have my blood in your veins but …’

‘I know.’ I reach out my hand and he takes it and we sit, quietly, for the longest time.

Later, I search out Liam. He’s in one of the barns. The outside walls are covered with graffiti. I’d given him free rein to express himself creatively and the images are bright and joyful. In the centre is Jack. He has his arms splayed and is surrounded by words: love; live; laugh; art; hope. It’s stunning. Jack was right, Liam is immensely talented. Faith has already asked him to assist her in teaching but I’m not sure he’ll be here for long; he’s destined for great things, I truly believe that. The first showcase we host will be of his work.

On the door of the barn is a brass sign; each of the outbuildings has a name. This is the Sid Butler Teaching Room. My photography studio, which Greta will share, is named after my adorable niece, Chloe. Inside, a skylight beams sunshine onto a semicircle of easels. My mouth lifts into a smile as I recall sitting in the centre of a similar set-up, naked, vulnerable, Jack’s eyes on mine.

‘This looks great, Liam. Thanks.’

‘Why don’t you go and get ready?’ Liam says. ‘I’m going to go and blow up some balloons for the exhibition space and then we’re done.’

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