Epilogue
ALICE – ONE YEAR LATER
Summer Solstice
The sunlight beams through the windows, tracking a stretch of light across the wooden floor. Even though a year has passed since I spotted a similar pattern showing me the way to Spence, there are moments like this where I feel like Michael’s still with me, guiding me forward.
The gallery – a stone’s throw from the renovated mural – is small, just two rooms but brimming with life. The walls are off-white. I can almost hear his voice. Bleedin’ magnolia.
I blink back the sting in my eyes, swallow down the lump of pride in my throat.
Michael’s work shines from the walls: the vibrant red of a single rose against the grey cracks of a footpath; the glow of a cigarette held between a gnarled workman’s fingers; the blue of Alice’s dress against a wall; the bright red of a phone box.
All the colours alive against the grey backgrounds.
And the portrait of Alice, sketched through the medium of words, in the middle of the wall.
Spence’s hand squeezes mine, warm, and steady. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
I reach for a glass of wine from the table next to the placard that reads David Michael Jones (1955-1985): Life through the cracks.
My eyes cast around the room buzzing with laughter and groups of people standing in front of his work. ‘More than OK.’
Pride swells inside my chest, not just over his work, but at my part in this.
The minute the first instalment of my article hit the weekend supplement, Michael and his story found a place in readers’ hearts.
Giuditta agreed to me working from home, and I write in our kitchen, surrounded by leftover cereal dishes and pieces of Georgia’s homework.
Spence often sitting opposite as he marks essays and plans lessons, our legs tangled beneath the desk.
I go into the office every few months, taking them both with me: my family.
Kate smiles over at us, excusing herself from a woman in her forties. Blonde bob, thick eyeliner. Kate pulls me into a hug, Bobby close behind. ‘He would have loved this, seeing everyone talking about his work, seeing what he saw…’ she says, eyes filling. ‘It was his dream…’ She trails off.
I squeeze her arm. ‘I know.’
‘Well done, Alice,’ Bobby adds. He’s wearing a suit, his grey hair brushed neatly. ‘He was a selfless sort. Glad we could play a small part in giving him something back.’
‘Thank you.’ I look across the room. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask Kate, nodding towards the woman with the blonde bob.
‘Oh! Well, back in the day, Mike did a painting on her bedroom wall. A sky wall, she called it, complete with Cheer Bear.’
‘Cheer Bear?’
‘One of the Care Bears.’ She laughs. ‘Wonder how he’d feel if we had that up next to all his gritty stuff.’
I think of Michael, how he even made a child’s bedroom somehow magical. How cruel it was that he was taken away from them all.
My eyes scan the room. ‘Is Carl here?’ I ask, just before I spot him pulling at the neck of his shirt, looking uncomfortable without a stretch of mahogany between him and Josie.
‘Right good turn out,’ he says, joining us, offering Spence a hand. Spence reaches forward, my hand cold at the loss of him, before he slides it back into my palm.
Georgia checks over her shoulder, her arm linked with Ruby’s.
Heather is beside them as they walk around the room.
They pause every now and then, before falling into a fit of giggles.
Josie joins them, her red hair piled on top of her head.
She leans in, saying something into Georgia’s ears that has her laughing even harder.
‘Jesus.’ Kate’s voice brings my attention back.
Her eyes fixed on the door. She reaches for a glass of wine and drains half of it.
My throat catches as Alice Winters walks into the room.
She’s breathtaking, slightly overdressed, but somehow owning the space around her.
‘Still got legs up to her armpits…’ Kate mumbles.
‘Alice, it’s so lovely of you to come,’ I say genuinely.
‘Wow…’ Her voice trails off as she looks around the room. ‘He really was an artist, wasn’t he?’
Kate drains the rest of her glass. ‘Aye.’
‘Alice, can I introduce Kate?’
‘Kate! It’s so wonderful to meet you, I’ve heard and read—’ she smiles at me ‘—so much about you.’
Alice reaches into her handbag. My heart pounds as I take in the piece of ripped paper she unfolds in her hands, passing it to me. ‘It was in an old box I found in storage.’
My eyes fill as I look at the drawing in blue. The image is faded, the creases whitening the once strong lines of Alice’s face. The corner is ripped away. My thumb brushes over the bumps and dips.
‘I’m sorry I’ve only just found it. It should be on the wall…’ She trails off, looking around her.
‘Thank you. I’ll…’ I swallow, smiling through the tears. ‘I’ll make sure it gets seen.’
‘Ah, here she is…’ Carl says interrupting the moment. He makes his way to the door where an elderly woman in a wheelchair is being brought into the room. He bends down, saying something softly and bringing her over.
‘Mam, this is Alice, the woman who found Mike’s letters.’
Her eyes are cornflower blue, watery as she looks up at the photo of Mike by the door.
‘My boy…’ she says, looking up.
‘Mam?’ Carl prompts.
‘Sorry. Yes, Alice?’ She looks up at Kate. ‘He was right obsessed with you. Always drawing your face…’
‘Hi, Mrs Jones, it’s Kate.’
‘Kate.’ She repeats, but her eyes are cast back over the room. ‘Is Mike here?’
My throat tightens as Carl interrupts. ‘In a way… Come on, take a look at these.’
Carl glances over his shoulder with a sad smile.
‘She was never the same, after he died…’ Kate trails off as we watch them move away. Carl moves her closer and her hand reaches out from her chair, a smile in place, recognition lighting up her features.
Spence and I make our way around the room, the gallery owner clinking against her glass.
‘If I could just interrupt…?’ She smiles around the room.
‘I wanted to thank you all for coming, to celebrate the life of David Michael Jones, or Mike as he was known around these parts. I’m sure you’ll agree that he was a man of great talent whose work showed Yorkshire in all its gritty and unexpected beauty.
I’d like to hand over now to the woman who has made tonight possible and who has brought to life the man behind the paintings… Alice Barker.’
‘Showtime,’ Spence says into my ear, taking my glass from my hands. I make my way forward to the front of the room, a full-scale photo of the mural behind me.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ I begin, my voice shaking.
‘I never met Mike in person. As some of you know, I met him through his letters. I still don’t know how his letters found me, whether it was fate, magic…
maybe even a retired postman with a bag of letters that he forgot to post, or just some massive cock-up from Royal Mail…
’ There’s a small wave of laughter. ‘But I do know that his words, his art, and the person he was, spoke to a part of me that I didn’t know existed.
Mike was part of the blood, sweat and tears that make up the foundations of this wonderful county. He was funny…’
‘Only half the time!’ Carl breaks in, laughter bubbling across the room.
‘And he was a romantic, although I’m fairly sure that was part of him that he kept hidden most of the time.
But Mike loved deeply. He believed in the beauty of hard work, in life, striving on despite the hard reality and the elements that try to batter that away.
’ I gesture to the rose. ‘But he was also chasing perfection, as many of us do. But what he also did was reveal that perfection is not where love is really found. It’s found in the place that makes us, us.
It’s found in family, friends, music, art and home.
’ My throat catches as I meet Spence’s eyes, Georgia leaning her head against his arm as I speak.
‘When I got Michael’s first letter, I was lost. I thought I was alone, but he showed me the truth that was hidden in plain sight.
I found love in the simplest of places, with my best friend, just as he did.
’ I catch Kate’s eye, and she gives me a little nod to continue.
‘Mike died too young. But he lives on through his work, through his words and through the life that carries on around us. Summer solstice was one of his favourite times of year. It’s the day that the light shines the brightest. It’s the symbol of rebirth and new beginnings, and so on the longest day of the year, when we feel the energy of Mike’s life all around us, I’d like you all to raise a glass and wish you all a happy summer solstice. ’
I step away, being drawn into hugs and words of congratulations as I desperately make my way to Spence and Georgia.
‘Fancy getting out of here?’ he says, holding my face and kissing me. ‘I’m starving.’
‘I know just the place.’
We walk slowly through the balmy night, bags of chips in our hands. My feet slow as I spot the red of a phone box, now filled with books, a bench next to it.
I lead the way, crossing the road, and sitting down. Spence’s knee is against mine as he unwraps the bag, the air filled with salt and vinegar.
‘This is the place?’ Spence asks, spearing a chip and popping it into his mouth.
‘Yep.’ I laugh as he waves a hand over his open mouth. ‘Hot!’
I laugh, blowing on my own chip. ‘Rookie.’
We eat quietly for a moment. This place isn’t picturesque; there’s a charity shop across from us, a seagull pecking at a crisp packet.
The past nudges me, and I think of Michael and Alice sitting here all those years ago.
The other Alice sitting in a blue dress, dark curls on her shoulders, telling a working-class man that he was beautiful.
‘I can hear you thinking from here.’ Spence wipes his hand and drops an arm around my bare shoulder. ‘Penny for them?’
‘I was just thinking about her, the other Alice, sitting here with Michael, chip grease on her fingers, about to walk away from him to a new life.’
‘And?’
‘And how I thought it was me… how desperate I was to believe in a love story that wasn’t mine…’
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. ‘And now?’
I take a breath, looking into his eyes. ‘I was never meant to be that Alice. I was meant to be this one.’
I lean into him, letting my thoughts settle, then sit up, open my bag, take out an eyeliner and rip off a piece of chip paper.
He laughs as he watches my hand. I didn’t plan this, but as my hands write the words, I know that I was always meant to be here, in this moment with him.
I pass it to Spence, eyes so bright and sure as he reads my four words.
It takes my breath away. He takes my breath away.
‘Yes,’ he says, holding my face, kissing me softly with salted lips, his voice almost breaking. ‘Yes.’ He kisses me again, deeper this time. ‘Yes.’
He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes crinkling at the sides.
Over his shoulder, just rounding a corner, where the sun is beginning to set, I see the outline of a man. He has dark hair, is wearing a denim jacket, paint-splattered trousers, and is carrying a backpack.
My heart skips.
I blink.
And the image is lost in the orange light rippling along the street like a river of gold.
‘You OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I shake my head, eyes on him. ‘No. There’s only you.’
* * *