Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (9 page)

Mrs
Colby's daughter, Anne, was a victim of domestic abuse. She was
pregnant for the second time when she finally took hold of her senses
and left. It was too late by that point though. There is not a day
where Mrs Colby doesn't regret not intervening sooner, despite Anne
not listening to earlier pleas.

Her
granddaughter is now in her late twenties with a family of her own,
living in Yorkshire. Despite finding her and writing letters, Mrs
Colby has not received one word in reply. In all these years, she has
thought about nothing more than what life would have been like if her
daughter and second grandchild had escaped that fateful night.

“
Okay,
I promise,” he agrees.

He
lifts his ass from the cushion long enough to slide the paper inside
his back pocket. While she cannot see, he wills the moisture in his
eyes away before he glances back forward.

“
So
now that is out the way, what have you got for me today?”

“
Well.”
He reveals a glossy covered book from the pile he has with him. “I
thought we could read the classics.”

Her
eyes light up as she reads the bold and decorative title, '
The
Nation's favourite Poems'
. The book has seen better days with
folds across the gloss where it has been bent for some time. The
pages have yellowed with the corners scuffed in places, but it is
what his grandfather left him. To part with it, or update to a newer
version has never been an option.

“
My
granddad used to quote most of these. They may not be all personal
favourites, but I guess you can't better poems that come with
memories.”

“
Well
said, dear.”

•

They
read many stanzas by the likes of
Rudyard Kipling
,
William
Wordsworth
,
Edgar Allan Poe
,
Robert Frost
and the
poem his grandfather quoted the most, '
Not Waving, but Drowning
'
by
Steve Smith
. Even now, if he listens to himself reading, he
can almost hear his grandfather reciting it with a grin upon his
face.

“
They
were lovely, Bobby. You should recite your poetry; your voice carries
the emotions well.”

Crimson
brush sweeps across his cheek, over the bridge of his nose and onto
the other. Since childhood, he's found embarrassment is one thing,
but getting complements is different. It's far worse. With his
brother receiving praise from both parents and him not receiving any,
it makes it difficult to accept, especially from complete strangers.
He finds he cannot believe anyone would compliment him.

“
Thanks,
Mrs Colby. I'm not that good though, especially at writing them.
Maybe if I read someone else's—”

“
No,
Bobby, you mustn't,” she says waving her hand in dismissal. Her
wrinkled wedding finger still brandishes a gold band that lends
normality to her. She drops her hands together in her lap, squashing
the flowers on her dress.

“
You
think they are worthless because they are not structured like the
poems in your hand. Why?”

Looking
behind Mrs Colby, he notices the new painting for the first time
since entering which is strange because it is too large to miss. He
wonders whether it was hanging on the wall before he sat down to
read. With the sun spilling through the netting, the artwork
illuminates as though it possesses magical properties.

“
I'm
not professional,” he says as he swallows hard.

Now
he has seen the painting, he cannot tear his eyes from the sight.

It
wasn't there before.

Of
course it was, what else do you suggest? Someone came in and placed
it here while you had your nose stuck in that book?

Bobby
scratches at his head, and wishes Gage's voice would stop leaking
into his mind.

“
They're
just thoughts and feelings. They are all disorganised with far too
many metaphors. I always seem to be in a weird place when I write
them. The words flow and I can't stop long enough for them to make
sense. Maybe one day I'll write something with some conscious sense,
but I'm not
T.
S Elliot
,
and never will be. I doubt anyone will ever call my work important,
not like '
The
Wasteland
',
or
Poe's
,
'
The
Raven
'.

“
Well,”
she says with a stern expression. “You know why that is, don't
you?”

Bobby
cocks his head in response and waits as she adjusts herself.

“
Because
you are not
T.
S Elliot
.
There is only one of him. It isn't like Bobby Ames to want to be like
someone else.”

Bobby
drops the book back inside the bag to advert his eyes from her gaze.

“
Not
usually, no.”

“
So
what has changed?”

Bobby
shrugs. “I just think it'd be easier sometimes.”

“
Easier
for who?”

As
his fingers twiddle with the straps, he realises he doesn't have an
answer which will please her.

Perhaps
if he were more football orientated or liked rugby, or boxing like
the kids in his class did, then things would have been different. All
boys that grow into “real men” instead of writing poetry
and reading do.

Maybe
then I wouldn't be such a disappointment.

He
would have gained more friends if that were the case. Plus, he could
protect his mother.

Benji
would still be alive now too.

He
knows that isn't the way to be thinking. Yet, living in somebody
else's shadow and not being good enough for his father is difficult
to digest. He has promised himself if he ever has children, which
will involve somebody liking him, he will be proud of everything they
do.

“
Listen,
Bobby. You are not like other people. You like what you like, and
your strength is admirable.”

Strength?

“
Yes,
strength.”

Glancing
back up, he eyes her with suspicion.

How
does she always know?

“
I
don't have strength, look at me.”

“
Strength
is not only a physical trait, Bobby. It is a mental attribute.”

“
I'm
nothing but a coward.”

Placing
her hand on his, the metal clanks against his bone. “You are
not a coward at all, you hear me?”

Bobby
cannot help the expression across his face—partial shock and
hurt—so he turns away. Removing his hands from the warmth of
hers, he strokes his face and hopes to restrain the emotion.

“
Please
give her the leaflet, Bobby. If it means I don't hear your sweet
voice for a while I can live with that. I just want to know you are
safe.”

Bobby
clambers to his feet, and moves to the far wall beside the landscape
painting. He doesn't need an apology, at least not from her.

“
Listen,
you will go far, Bobby. I believe you are already on that path. Your
words can change fate.”

Bobby
turns to see Mrs Colby following his eyesight.

“
That
is why I ask a request of you.”

Slinging
the backpack over his shoulders, he waits for her to proceed.
Instead, she reaches for the wooden cane propped against the wall and
remains silent. Bobby makes a play for it to save her the struggle,
but she bats his hand away.

“
Pride
may be one of the least desirable traits, but the older you get the
less you care.”

When
she steadies her feet, she hobbles past Bobby. Once at the painting,
she grabs at her bad hip with a frown.

“
Beautiful,
isn't it?”

Smiling
at the woman's determination, he moves in beside her. “Sure is,
Mrs Colby. Any idea who painted it?”

“
Somebody
who goes under the name R. Kuffs.” She stretches her hunched
back as far as she can before settling a finger on the painting. “See
the signature there.”

Bobby
catches the black squiggle on the light blue shutter instead of the
bottom right corner.

“
Any
idea who this R. Kuffs is?”

“
I'm
not sure, Bobby. Betty went shopping with her daughter to look for a
present for Gareth, her grandson. Anyway, they had a quick walk up
Spon Street. You know, that winding road with the old buildings and
that quint, little art shop? She spotted the painting in there. It
isn't her usual thing, but she said it took her breath away. It's
something, isn't it?”

“
Definitely.”

“
It
o
nly
cost fifty pounds, so whoever this R. Kuffs is, they aren't famous.
Betty said the woman who owns the shop put the frame on it, but
didn't know why. It came with a frame by the guy she brought it from,
but it didn't compliment the painting, so she changed it.”

Bobby
gives the frame the once over. The silver surface is a distorted
grunge style he wouldn't have put with the painting in a million
years, yet it works.

“
Not
my style, but it sure brings the painting to life, doesn't it? I
believe the owner was gutted Betty saw it. I think she meant to take
it home herself.”

“
Was
the guy she brought if from not the artist? Because if he was maybe
we—”

“
No,
I believe he was his agent, or something. I only know because Betty
asked.”

“
If
I went down there, do you think the owner would tell me?”

“
I
doubt it, Bobby. Why do you want to know?”

“
I
umm—”

“
Don't
worry,” she says tapping his shoulder. “You don't have to
tell me.”

Bobby
looks away. Telling her is one thing, but to have her believe him is
another.

“
How
long was it up for sale?”

“
Just
that morning. No one come in before Betty, besides the postie because
they don't open until ten. But if they had, I reckon someone would
have snatched it up like a shot.”