Chapter 10 Stephanie
Stephanie
Present day
‘So there’s this huge book, and apparently it’s full of stories and letters and drawings about the war,’ I told Tara at The Vine later.
She was polishing glasses and I was watching her.
Now as I talked, she handed me a cloth and pushed one of the glasses towards me.
I screwed the cloth up in my hand and ignored the glass.
‘Finn had to go so I didn’t get to have a proper look inside but he says it’s unbelievable. It should be in a museum or something, not an old people’s home.’
‘Where did it come from?’ She frowned. ‘Was it just stashed in a closet somewhere.’
‘It was in the basement apparently. They found it a couple of years ago when they were doing building work.’
‘And this guy – this Finn – he’s the one who found it?’
I scoffed. ‘No, he’s a historian.’
‘That’s not a job.’
I threw my head back in triumph. ‘That’s what I said! But apparently he teaches history or something.’
‘And he has the book now?’
‘Yes, and it’s amazing.’
‘Now you sound like a historian.’
I leaned on the bar, looking out over the tables so I didn’t have to meet Tara’s gaze. And ever so casually, ever so quickly, I said: ‘I thought it might make a good subject for the community art project. You know? Presents from the Past and all that stuff?’
‘What?’ Tara bellowed, so loudly that two women sitting in deep conversation to the side of the bar both looked up.
Shaking out the cloth I still held in my hand, I pretended to wipe a non-existent mark from one of the beer pumps. ‘I thought it might be a good idea for the grant application.’
Tara squeezed my arm. ‘Yes! This is perfect.’
She took the cloth from me and gave me a little nudge in the small of my back. ‘Go on then.’
‘Go where?’
‘Home.’
I looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m working until ten.’
‘Not now you’re not.’ She looked round the bar. ‘It’s quiet, and Lucas is working at eight. I can hold the fort until then.’
‘Why do you want me to go?’ I was confused.
‘So you can get started.’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Stevie, go home now or I’ll fire your ass.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
Tara folded her arms and stared at me, unsmiling. ‘Try me.’
I wasn’t about to test her resolve.
‘I’m going,’ I said, skirting round her and lifting the hatch to get out from behind the bar. When I was safely out of arm’s reach, I added: ‘But I’m not happy about it.’
She threw the cloth at my retreating back and I ran.
*
I knew if I went back to my flat and got comfortable, I’d never venture back down to the garage. So when I got home, I didn’t go up the stairs. Instead I left my bike leaning against the wall outside, and taking a deep breath I opened the garage door and went in.
It took me a moment to get accustomed to the dim light inside so I had to blink a few times as I slowly approached my stack of canvases, nervously as though they might come for me – like a lion tamer approaching a lion.
‘Come on, Stevie,’ I muttered. ‘Come on.’
My forehead was sweaty. I wiped it with the back of my hand, annoyed at myself for reacting so badly.
I reached out for one of the carrier bags that I’d shoved all my equipment into.
I didn’t need paints or anything like that at the moment.
I just needed a sketchpad and some pencils really.
All I wanted to do was to start getting some ideas on paper.
‘It’s no biggie, Stevie,’ I told myself. ‘Stop making such a meal of it.’
Obviously all my pads were at the bottom of the bag. I reached inside, wishing I had the cash to just buy new stuff instead of going through this trip down memory lane. But I didn’t, so I had to grit my teeth and get on with it.
I pulled out a tin box, which I knew had tubes of acrylic paint in, and put it down on the concrete floor of the garage with a clatter.
A tray of watercolours followed. And underneath that was a stack of tiny canvases.
I caught my breath. Normally I painted big.
Not as big as a mural, perhaps, but I painted on canvases the size of fence panels, swirling the paint across them.
They were kind of landscapes but not. And they had been the paintings that got me noticed and had been in the exhibition.
But when things started getting complicated in my life – Dad moving abroad, Nan’s dementia, and Max being Max, my paintings got smaller and smaller.
By the time Max stole the contents of my flat I was painting tiny squares of canvas, the size of a ready-meal container.
Tight, dense pictures, which I could see now as I pulled them out of the bag, were really not very good.
And then – after the police arrived at the gallery and I had that heart-stopping moment when I thought my brother was dead – I couldn’t paint at all.
I dropped the little canvases next to the paints, and as I did, a photograph fluttered to the ground and skittered across the smooth floor.
It was my favourite photograph of Max and me, taken when we went to Glastonbury together, years ago.
I was looking straight at the camera, beaming at whoever had taken the picture – I couldn’t even remember now.
And Max was laughing and looking at me with such love that it made my heart skip.
We’d been such buddies back then. He’d been my best friend in the world.
And now he was in prison and I was on my uppers and he hated me.
How had everything fallen apart so completely?
My hands began to shake. My chest tightened and I felt my breathing get shallower. I’d been standing, leaning over the bag as I rooted around, but now I sank to my knees because my legs were suddenly unable to support me.
‘No, no, no,’ I breathed. ‘Not again.’
I had thought the panic attacks that had plagued me after Max’s arrest were in the past. I’d not been able to afford counselling but I’d learned some basic strategies in the little bit of the therapy course I’d completed, and I’d also done a lot of googling and some of the techniques I’d found online had helped. I’d not had one for ages.
But here I was, crouched on the dirty garage floor, trying not to be sick as my forehead grew clammier and my breathing more rasping.
My heart was racing and I thought I might pass out.
I put my head down onto my knees, squeezing my legs tight, and tried to concentrate on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, counting to five each time just like I’d seen on one of the websites.
With my head still on my knees, I put my hands down on the floor, feeling the dust on the rough concrete, I could smell the washing powder I used to clean my jeans and engine oil and I could hear my breath, more regular now.
I kept breathing and counting, and as I felt my pulse return to normal, I lifted my head and, to my shock, saw Micah sitting next to me, watching me with a concerned expression. He reached out a hand and put it on my arm gently. ‘I didn’t want to scare you,’ he said. ‘Panic attack, yeah?’
Surprised by his insight, I could only nod.
‘How you feeling now?’ he asked.
I breathed in deeply. ‘It’s going,’ I told him. ‘Better.’
He gave me a little smile. ‘That was a long one.’
‘Do you …?’
He shrugged his skinny teenage shoulders. ‘School’s not always easy, you know?’
I felt a rush of affection for this gawky man-boy. ‘I know.’
‘Gaming helps,’ he said. ‘It stops me thinking about all the stuff that’s in my head.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Fancy it?’
‘Gaming?’
‘Yeah, I’ll show you what to do.’ He unfolded his long legs and stood up, holding his hand out to me to help me to my feet.
‘You’re very kind,’ I said.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell no one.’
I saw him glance at the photo I’d dropped and my bags of painting bits and pieces. ‘Do you want me to bring that bag?’
I shook my head. ‘I just needed a sketchbook.’
Efficiently, Micah scooped up the picture from the floor and wiped the dust from it on his behind.
‘I’ll put this in the bag and keep it safe,’ he said.
He dropped it on to the equipment, making me think we had different views of what constituted keeping something safe, and then reached down and pulled out a sketchbook. ‘This one?’
‘Perfect.’
Feeling stronger, I spotted a pack of pencils in the other bag, along with a case that I knew had coloured pencils in, and pulled them out too.
‘So,’ I said to my school-uniform-clad saviour. ‘What are we playing?’
*
It turned out, Micah was absolutely right.
Gaming did stop me thinking about my troubles.
We played two matches of a football game, which I lost so thoroughly, Micah laughed like a drain.
Then he showed me a cowboy game that was almost a film, because the story was so gripping.
And I found a strange satisfaction in shooting all the baddies.
As we played, eyes focused on the screen in front of us, Micah occasionally chatted.
‘I worry about big tasks,’ he said out of the blue, scoring another goal against me. ‘Get in! I freak out and I can’t get started.’
I didn’t reply, not wanting to put him off.
‘I’ve had some … help at school and stuff,’ he added. ‘And now I know to start with one bit of it. So if I’m worrying about doing, like, my chemistry homework or something, I just tell myself to do one question. That’s all. Because that’s manageable, innit?’
‘It is,’ I said, impressed. ‘That’s good advice.’
‘So whatever you’re worrying about, maybe just start small.’
‘Maybe I will.’
I thought for a second. ‘Have you ever done any art, Micah?’
He looked dubious. ‘Like colouring in?’
I laughed. ‘Maybe. Anything really.’ I adjusted my position on the sofa so I could see him better. ‘I was learning about art therapy before I lived here. Before things got messed up. It can really help.’
‘I’m rubbish at drawing.’