The Heart's Journey

Chapter 6

“Did you manage to find any jobs?” I ask Dad, later on that afternoon.

I’m standing in the doorway of his shed, watching him sweep blue across a canvas. Cobwebs sparkle above his head, caught in the glint of the setting sun.

“I… er, didn’t get chance to go in,” he replies, avoiding my gaze, “it was packed with people, so I thought I’d pop in another day.”

My spirits deflate at his words. Will another day ever arrive I wonder? I purse my lips into a tight line. I’m not going to nag, but I do feel disappointed in him.

“So where did you go?” I keep my voice light.

“Oh I had a wander around the church and the gardens, sat in the coffee shop with my newspaper. Had a browse round the shops.” Dad puts down his paintbrush, “I got you something.”

Dad shuffles over to his cabinet and pulls the lower drawer open, “here.” He passes me a package, wrapped in a plastic carrier bag.

“Thank you,” I smile, touched by his kindness.

I peer inside the bag. It’s a notebook, covered in a pretty floral pattern.

“There’s a pen in there too,” Dad tells me.

“It’s lovely,” I gush, “I can take this tonight.”

“That’s what I thought.” Dad sits back down, “I know you love your stationery.”

“I do,” I fish my hand in the bag and extract the pen, which is nestled inside a glass case. It’s a papermate and is exquisite.

I swing my arms around him, hugging him tight, “thank you.”

“You’re going to write a bestseller with that,” he pushes up his glasses, which have slipped off the bridge of his nose, from my exuberant hugging.

“I’ll try my best,” I say with a smile, “and you’re going to paint a masterpiece.”

Dad dips his brush into a pot of clean water, “I went today… to the art gallery. They had a new pottery collection in there, from a local lady. Birmingham I think she was from. It was wonderful.”

“You’re wonderful,” I lean my head on his shoulder, “have you spoken to the staff there? Told them what a great painter you are.”

Dad chuckles, “I’m not one of those egotistical artists Lou and I’m realistic about my talent.”

“You don’t realise how talented you are Dad,” I protest, “and you definitely need to have more self confidence. Get yourself out there, be pushy …” I stop, no that’s not my dad. He’s a quiet, gentle soul and he’s humble too. All the things I love about him.

“I’ll go start tea,” I brush the dust from my jeans, “shall we give this shed a good clear out this weekend? Before the weather turns too cold.”

“Only if you’ve got time love.” He smiles softly, “that would be nice.”

“It’s a date.” I close the door behind me and head back up the garden, pondering on what I can do for tea.

* * *

I’m waiting at the top of the drive, when Marvin screeches to a stop in his svelte new mini.

“Nice wheels,” I say, hopping in and admiring the sparkling dashboard. Marvin’s previous car was a tip. I wonder how long this car will remain clean and tidy.

“Have you bought the cakes?” He asks as he pulls away from the kerb and rejoins the road.

“Yep.” I pat my rucksack, “eight chocolate eclairs.”

“Eight?”

“Two for the library staff.”

“Cool.” Marvin turns up the music and moves his head in time with the tempo.

I wince as he slams on the brakes, narrowly missing a double decker bus.

“Still getting used to driving it,” he mouths apologetically.

I check my seatbelt is strapped across my body in the correct position, “how tall are you again?”

“Six foot four.”

“Oh.”

“I know what you’re thinking. Why have I bought such a small car right?”

I glance at him, “you do look sort of hunched up.”

He pats the steering wheel, “believe it or not, this is my dream car. I’ve always wanted a mini.”

“I’d be happy with any car,” I muse.

We pass an expanse green of luscious fields, where a group of children are kicking a football about.

“Do you like living here?” I ask.

“Wolverhampton?” Marvin nods, “yeah sure. I mean it’s not the worst place in the country to live.”

“I’d love to live beside the sea,” I sigh, “Devon or Cornwall. A romantic fishing village where I can spend my time writing.”

“Those places are bleak in the winter,” Marvin gives his nose a knowing tap, “surely you can write wherever you live.”

“There are too many distractions at my house, always something to do.”

“Sounds like procrastination to me,” Marvin indicates right and the library comes into view.

It’s a small building, painted black and white with a ramp leading up to sliding doors, complete with two colourful hanging baskets that are swaying in the breeze. One of the writing group members is standing outside, chewing her thumbnail. She waves when she sees us pulling into the nearby parking space. Her name is Raveena, she’s been coming for six months now. She’s loud and cheerful, with a penchant for swearing. I’m always shushing her and reminding her that libraries should be quiet, calm places. Raveena’s booming laugh and use of offensive language has almost had us ousted on a few occasions. Luckily for me the librarian Martha has a soft spot for my dad and has overlooked the noise, so far. As I slip out of the car and fall in step next to Marvin, I notice the distress etched over Raveena’s face.

“Blimey,” Marvin says out of the corner of his mouth, “what’s up with her now?”

Every month heralds some catastrophe in Raveena’s life. Last month she’d lost her job and had spent the whole time at the writing group mithering over it. The time before that she’d had a spectacular fall out with her mother-in-law at an Asian wedding. Sometimes I wonder why Raveena comes to the writing group, she does very little actual writing and seems to use it more as a free counselling service. But I don’t have the heart to confront her, so I let it go, as I do with most other annoying things in my life. Laid back Lou, that’s me.

“Be nice,” I say to Marvin.

“If I must,” he mutters.

“Raveena, hi!” I step back in alarm as she rushes towards me, flattening her small frame against my chest. Did I mention that I’m five foot ten? In my heels, Raveena’s head is in line with my chest. She is tiny, with flowing black hair, the most amazing dark eyes and a figure to die for. When I first met her I literally tingled with envy, she’s that gorgeous.

“Lou!” She wails, “my life is such a mess.”

Over her head, Marvin rolls his eyes.

“Ssh,” I soothe, “what’s up?”

“Jay,” she sniffs, “he’s gone.”

I’m shocked by her words. I’ve met Raveena’s husband Jay a few times and he always seemed besotted with Raveena. Referred to her as his princess, spoilt her rotten, so she told us all. Seems like all is not perfect in paradise.

“Urm… Raveena,” she pulls back from me slightly and I notice a wet splodge seeping through my t-shirt. “Are you sure you should be here?”

“Yes,” she nods her head furiously, “I need to see friendly faces and I could really do with a heart to heart Lou.”

“Okay,” I fumble in my bag for a tissue, “how about we grab a coffee after the groups finished?”

“Please,” Raveena blows her nose, “I can’t believe the s**t bag has done this to me.”

“Let’s go inside,” I say decisively, “we can talk afterwards.”

The three of us walk into the library, it’s dark in here, probably the council on a money saving initiative again I think. Martha is at the self service machine, showing an elderly lady how to electronically return her books. She smiles when she sees me.

“Hi Lou, I’ve reserved a couple of tables for you. Meet my new volunteer,” she pulls a bespectacled man from behind the bookshelves, “this is Guy.”

“Hi,” I wave.

“Louise runs the writing class,” she informs her protégé.

“Group,” I cut in, “a very small, informal gathering.”

“Ah that might be changing,” a look of excitement flits over Martha’s face, “I made flyers.” She strides over to her tidy desk and returns with a leaflet. I stare down at the glossy paper she has thrust into my hand.

“Creative writing class,” I read, “explore your love of writing at our monthly meeting. Suitable for complete beginners as well as the more experienced writer.” In the right hand corner of the leaflet there is a picture of me surrounded by swirls and hearts, with a contact number for the library.

“I hope you don’t mind,” says Martha, “I took the picture from your f*******: profile.”

I bite my lip, “I’m not a teacher Martha. How many of these have you given out?” I have visions of hundreds turning up and a surge of fright rises inside me.

Martha looks offended, “not many. I only made the flyer last night. Don’t you like it Lou?”

I sigh with relief and look again at the leaflet, “it’s very kind of you to think of us, but maybe… you could just advertise it here, inside the library.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Martha bustles over to her desk where a customer is waiting and I turn to Marvin and Raveena who are whispering.

“Looks like our little gathering might be expanding,” Marvin says.

“I like our small group,” shaking my head, I stalk towards the tables and plonk my box down. “Let’s get organised.”

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