Page 71 of The Art of Loving You

‘Yes.’ There was a crack in his voice. He cleared his throat, began to cough. He reached for his packet of Polos and took his time peeling back the wrapper, composing himself while he took a mint and placed it into his mouth.

‘There was a time Norma had … the blues we called it then. Guess you’d call it depression now. It wasn’t talked about much then, it was shameful, not like now, all that hashtag mental health and whatnot.’

‘Sid! Where did you learn about hashtags?’

‘One of the carers put that tweeting thing on me new phone so I can keep up to date with what’s what, you know, what’s … trendy? Trending? Not that I use it much. Bunch of people being offended by everything far as I can see. But anyway. Perhaps it’s a good thing talking about things that bother you. Norma … well it was after we found out we weren’t ever going to be blessed with kiddies. She took it hard.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Life ain’t all beer and skittles but knowing that … well it didn’t help none. One day I bought her this book. Thought it might help her to write her feelings down, keep a diary like, but instead she wanted to use it for something else. “I can’t keep thinking of myself all the time, I’ve got a lot to be grateful for, Sid. I’ve got you,” she said. “I’m going to start doing nice things for other people and I’m going to write them down so when … if … I’m feeling sad I can think that perhaps, in some small way, I’ve made a mark in this world.”’ Sid lowered his head, sniffed hard, took his time before he spoke again. ‘She made a mark on my world,’ was all he could say.

‘What a lovely thing to do. May I?’ I reached for the book and Sid slid it across to me. I began to read aloud.

22 January 1966 – Mrs Wilson – cleared her drive of snow.

‘Mrs Wilson had the farm down the lane,’ Sid expanded. ‘Her husband had died and she was all alone.’

I picked another entry,1 March 1966 – Fred Haycock – wedding dress.

‘His daughter was getting married and he couldn’t afford to buy her a decent frock so Norma cut her wedding dress up and fashioned her something new. She kept a scrap of it herself though, for her quilt.’

I read on.11 March 1966 – Joey Watson – milk & blackberries.

‘Ah now, little Joey Watson. The milk had been going missing off our step for weeks when Norma stayed up half the night to see who was taking it. It was Joey. He were only a lad, about twelve. “Sorry.” He hung his head in shame. “Me mum can’t afford milk and I’ve three younger sisters and …” “Take it,” Norma said. “I ain’t no charity case.” Joey was indignant. “Well you can help me pick the fruit and I’ll pay you a fair wage and you can buy your own milk.” And that’s what happened. She saw the good, Norma, see. Much like Jack.’

‘Jack certainly saw the good in everyone. Everyone had written off most of those kids he taught. Thought they were nothing but trouble.’

‘Nobody is completely one thing,’ Sid said. ‘And boys … well I got in some scrapes when I was younger. Had the odd fight.’

‘Liam’s been in a punch-up.’

‘Reckon he’s lost his way a bit again. Poor lad. How’s college going for him?’

‘He’s not going as much as he should; the course isn’t what he thought it would be and …’ I didn’t want to betray Liam but I trusted Sid. ‘He also stole my laptop and purse yesterday.He returned it though. He … he wants to help with the house. The centre.’

‘And you? What do you want to do?’

Be more Jack.

Be more Norma.

‘I could find himsomethingto do. As long as he keeps up with his coursework. I don’t want to be responsible for him getting kicked out of college.’

‘I’m sure he could do his assignmentsandwork part-time. Some of the carers here are students. Spend more time out of college than in it. The trust could pay Liam a wage, give him a bit of self-respect. Might do wonders for him.’

‘It could be the making of him. What could he do?’

‘What about gardening? That’s an honest day’s work.’

‘Perhaps. I’ve been mulling over some plans for outside. I’ll show you.’ I fished into my bag for my notebook and showed him my earlier sketch where I mapped out everything at the back of the house, marking the sprawling lavender, the apple tree. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think Jack definitely had the talent for drawing.’ Sid pointed at the page. ‘What are those sticks poking out from under the clouds?’

‘They’re legs! It’s the sheep in the field beyond the garden …’ I realised from his smile he’d been teasing me. ‘Why don’t you, Mr Discovered-I’d-a-talent-for-art-at-eighty, draw instead?’ I turned to a clean page.

Sid picked up the pen and slowly, carefully began to draw what he could obviously still see in his mind’s eye.

‘Here’ – he tapped to the left of the house with his finger – ‘was Norma’s herb garden. I’d built her a little rockery and in between the stones she grew parsley for the sauce for our Friday night haddock,sage for the stuffing for our roast, and thyme she’d sprinkle over a rack of lamb. There were others too. We kept the mint in a pot of its own, mind. It’ll take over if you don’t keep it contained.’

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