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  Slightly concerned, I leaned forward to see his face and said, ‘Russell?’

  He was crying.

  I put my arms around him. He put one of his around me and held me tightly. I could feel his tears wet on my face.

  I said, ‘Hey,’ and wiped them away.

  ‘I never thought I’d have this, Jenny. Back when my life was so … so bleak. I never thought I’d have anything like this. Did you?’

  I thought back to my life before Russell. That great long empty expanse of nothingness. Endless day after endless day. No future. No past. No purpose. ‘No. No, I never did.’

  He carefully handed her to me. ‘I’m wet, cold, and dirty. I’m going to nip off and have a shower. I’ll use the other bathroom so as not to disturb you and then, if you like, we’ll have our first dinner together. Just the three of us. You can tell me about Marilyn’s debut.’

  I remembered. ‘Did you see Tanya?’

  ‘Yes. Andrew’s taken her home. While they could still get back to Rushford. It’s quite bad out there.’

  I remembered again. ‘Where were you all this time? What happened up there?’

  He paused from yanking clothes from drawers. ‘Oh, yes, I was going to ask you. Do you know anyone who’s got a big horse up on the moor? A really big horse?’

  My heart thumped. It took me several seconds to say, ‘No.’

  ‘Well, someone has. It all went wrong, Jenny. It took far longer than we thought to find the sheep and then we had to dig most of them out. Which also took forever. And then, somehow, we got turned around. It happens so easily. We couldn’t find the path down. Everything was covered in snow. The sheep were useless – all the sense of direction of a sock. And then Boxer neighed and something answered and we saw it standing on the hill ahead of us. Biggest horse I ever saw in my life. We couldn’t get close, but I followed it down. And the sheep followed me. Martin brought up the rear. And here we are.’

  He disappeared. I heard him clattering off down the landing, singing. A door opened and closed.

  Silence fell.

  A special sort of silence. The silence of expectancy. The expectancy of a dark, snow-filled night on Christmas Eve.

  I looked over to the dim corner of the room and smiled. ‘I can see you, you know.’

  He came towards the bed, swishing his tail and filling the room with his smell of ginger biscuits.

  ‘Jenny, my dear friend.’

  I could hardly speak, but he would want me to make an effort. ‘Thomas.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘And the little one?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  I pushed back the bedclothes, wobbled to my feet, and brought her over.

  She stared up at the big, golden horse and the big, golden horse stared down at her.

  ‘Jenny, she is quite beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said proudly. ‘She is, isn’t she?’

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Yes, I named her after you.’

  That startled him. ‘You named her Thomas?’

  ‘No. I named her Joy.’

  She screwed up her face, smacked her lips, and tried to suck her tiny fist.

  ‘Jenny … She’s an angel.’

  I smiled at him. ‘I always remember the last time I saw you. Up on the moor. Galloping away over the crest of the hill. And then, just before you disappeared, you kicked up your heels for the sheer joy of living. So I named her Joy because you bring me joy. Even when you’re not actually here. Speaking of not being here, thank you for bringing Russell home safely.’

  ‘He was lost, Jenny. He didn’t know which way to go.’ He sighed. ‘He hasn’t changed much, has he?’

  ‘Actually, I think he has. He doesn’t drink so much. He doesn’t shout so much …’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But he doesn’t paint so much, either. It’s as you said – he doesn’t know which way to go. He’s lost,’ I said sadly, silently cursing my lack of life experience. ‘I should be helping him through this and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘ Jenny, I think you’ve already done it. I think he draws his inspiration from his own life as he is, at that moment, living it. When he was younger, more brash, more confident, his work reflected that. Now he is older. He’s had had his fair share of disappointment and heartbreak. Just as all of us do, Jenny. It’s called life. He is, at the moment, very unsure of himself, especially in this new role as father – a very novel sensation for Russell Checkland and one which won’t do him any harm at all. He will emerge. You wait and see. And now, you’ve given him this little person to care for. ’

  I smiled. ‘And you, Thomas, how are you?’

  ‘I’m well, and, as always, all the better for seeing you. Sometimes, I miss you very much.’

  ‘I miss you, too.’

  ‘Ah, but you have this little one now. Sometimes …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if you will forget me.’

  ‘You know I never will. I owe you too much.’

  ‘Jenny, I did nothing. You did it all yourself. And now I must go.’

  I knew better than to try and keep him here. He expected more from me.

  ‘It was good to see you again, Thomas. And thank you again for bringing Russell home.’

  ‘We shall see each other again …’

  ‘Will we? When?’

  But he was already fading. I could see the outline of the chest of drawers behind him. There was a last lingering of ginger biscuits and then he was gone.

  Thomas was right. She was an angel. A happy angel. She was Russell’s daughter, with all of his charm and erratic behaviour, but slightly less messy eating habits.

  Russell adored her and she him and yes; he turned out to be an unorthodox but effective father. He spent hours beside her cradle, talking incessantly to her, dashing off sketch after sketch, letting them fall to the floor in his excitement to start the next one.

  And he painted. All day, every day. It was as if a dam had burst. Light and exuberance and movement exploded from every canvas he touched as he brought all the colours and complexities of life to his paintings. He painted his world as he saw it and it was joyful. Every afternoon we would sit with him in his studio as he jabbed at his canvases, whistling, singing odd snatches of tunes, talking to himself. Every now and then he would look across the room to us and smile. He was happy. Because in painting Joy, he had found hope.

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2014

  ISBN: 9781783752188

  Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2014

  The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Aberycnon,, CF45 4SN

  Other short stories by Jodi Taylor

  For more information about Jodi Taylor

  and other Accent Press titles

  please visit

  www.accentpress.co.uk

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  http://accenthub.com/

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

 

 

 
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