Page 6 of The Art of Loving You

It would be full of joy again.

‘You’re not going to sleep in that bed are you?’ Alice broke through my thoughts.

‘We’ve brought our own mattress, but the frame is staying.’

‘Didn’t Sid want any of his furniture?’ Alice ran her finger through the dust on the bedside table.

‘No. His room at the home is furnished. It’s ours. All of it.’ Jack pulled me close to him. We grinned at each other.

Ours.

‘It’s overwhelming really,’ Jack said. ‘Imagine if I hadn’t met Sid. If he’d taken up a different hobby. If—’

‘If. If. Ifs. You can’t think like that. It’s unhealthy.’ Unselfconscious in front of my sister, I pressed my lips against his.

‘Get a room,’ Alice said.

‘You’re in it!’ Jack and I chorused, perfectly in sync.

‘I guess I am.’ There was something melancholy in her response and I glanced at her, but she was gazing out of the window across the sprawling fields at the back of the house, dark green and peppered with grazing sheep. We could hear the bleating of the lambs as they trotted after their mothers.

Before I could ask her what was wrong she said, ‘We should raise a glass, to your new home and to Sid.’

I nodded. After all, if it wasn’t for the kindly old man we wouldn’t be here today.

Jack said it was luck but I believed it was fate that had led Sid Butler to Jack’s art studio. He had told me later that Sid had reminded him of his late grandfather, who he’d adored, with his thatch of white hair and pale blue eyes full of kindness.

I had felt that instant bond with him too when I met him. Sid was unobtrusive, unassuming.

Undemanding.

There was just something about him and I loved spending time with him and hearing his stories. We both did. I had taken to popping in after Sid’s lesson, checking out the progress on his painting. He’d shown a natural talent, despite the shake in his hands,his difficulty in holding the brush for prolonged periods. He’d managed to capture Whisky the cat over the following few weeks once he’d enticed him inside with pieces of meat from his sandwich.

One day it had finally been finished. Sid had untied the apron he wore over his once white shirt and moss-green tank top.

‘It’s fabulous!’

I had studied the finished piece. The pink nose. The long whiskers. I could almost feel the softness of Whisky’s fur beneath my fingers.

‘Thanks. Me and Norma had a cat just like him once. Our one and only pet. Seventeen he made it to. People say black cats are lucky but the ginger ones have more personality, don’t they?’ He studied his canvas before turning to me. ‘I want you to have it, duck.’

‘Don’t you want to hang it at home?’ I asked.

‘There ain’t nobody to see it.’

Jack’s eyes met mine, full of pain. I understood. The thought of Sid being lonely, alone, was unbearable.

‘Don’t you go feeling sorry for me.’ Sid nudged me. ‘You’re a good girl, Libby. Always bringing me sausage rolls and making me tea and whatnot. You’ve always time for a chat with an old man.’

‘Thank you. I’ll treasure it.’ I could see that giving me the painting meant as much to him as it did to me.

Jack was quiet, eyes downcast. ‘You won’t stop coming now you’ve finished, will you Sid?’

‘Depends if you’re still here.’

Confusion crossed Jack’s face. ‘Why wouldn’t—’

‘Sit down, laddo.’ Sid patted the stool next to him. Jack sat down, swallowed hard, emotional. His grandad had always called him ‘laddo’, not that Sid knew that of course.

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