The Beauty of Broken Things Page 3

  And he began to remember something.

  ‘Luke?’ Helen’s voice was bright and excited as she entered the house. ‘Wait till you see what I’ve got!’

  Luke had been sitting in the living room. It was the weekend and he’d declined going antique shopping with Helen. She hadn’t minded, laughing at how bored he got when she dared to drag him to one of her favourite shops and knowing she’d enjoy the experience far more if he wasn’t there. How he wished with his whole heart that he’d gone now just so he could have spent a few more precious hours with her.

  ‘What have you got there?’ he’d asked as she came into the room carrying a paper bag.

  She smiled one of her big wide smiles as she popped the bag on the sofa beside him and took out the bubble-wrapped object.

  Luke watched, unable to guess what it might be and feeling slightly underwhelmed when she revealed a blue and white vase.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, trying to show some enthusiasm, but failing. ‘It’s got a chip in it – there.’ He didn’t want to point out the imperfections, but the craftsman in him just couldn’t help it.

  ‘I know! That’s why it was so cheap,’ she told him, her hazel eyes bright with excitement. ‘Anyway, chips are good.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They show that it’s been loved and used.’

  ‘Or knocked.’

  ‘But that’s all part of its life. I learned that from BB.’

  ‘Ah, BB!’ Luke said, recognising the moniker of Helen’s online friend. ‘The chipped-china woman!’

  Helen pulled a face at him.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. ‘BB’s posts are so beautiful.’

  Luke smiled. Helen’s greatest obsession was her photography and sharing her pictures to a site called Galleria. Whole hours could be gently lost in the pursuit of beauty, of sharing content and swapping comments. His wife now had thousands of followers on her page and was following hundreds of others. It was a world that Luke hadn’t so much as dipped a toe in, but he was aware of some of the online friends his wife had made, including the one referred to as ‘BB’. Beautifully Broken was her account name. He didn’t actually know her real-life name and neither did Helen. She was one of the people who hid behind a handle, who created a whole world without giving away very much at all about their private lives. Even her avatar was carefully obscure, merely showing a china vase filled with flowers, not dissimilar to the one Helen had just bought, and it gave absolutely nothing away about the person behind the pictures taken.

  Luke peered at the screen.

  ‘What is it about women and old bits of china?’ he asked, genuinely baffled as he looked at a few of BB’s photos.

  ‘Just look at those darling little rose buds and the hairline crack below the rim,’ Helen said, tucking her chestnut hair behind her ears as she pointed to one of the pictures.

  That was Beautifully Broken’s signature, Luke had learned – collecting the flotsam and jetsam of life, the pieces often overlooked by others, the damaged, the dirt-encrusted, the chipped and the chucked away. BB had an eye for the unlucky and the unloved.

  ‘So you bought a chipped vase because of BB?’

  ‘No, silly! I bought it for her. It’s a present.’

  ‘You’re going to post that thing?’

  ‘I’ll make sure it’s wrapped well. In fact, I think I’ve got some ribbon somewhere which would look just perfect with it.’

  Luke thought about the conversation now. It had been just a week before the train crash and, as far as he knew, Helen hadn’t posted the gift to BB.

  He left the bedroom, knowing that he had to find the vase. Their home only had two small bedrooms and the second housed a single bed for guests and what they called their overflow wardrobe. There was also a tiny chest of drawers in there. It was the only place Helen could have put the vase, Luke thought.

  Sure enough, as he entered the room, he saw it. He walked towards it, picking it up carefully in his large builder’s hands, knowing that the last hands to have held it would have been Helen’s. He hadn’t really shown any interest in the piece before, but he did now. This beautiful, imperfect vase had been a gift his wife had bought for BB. He put the vase down and saw that there was a box on the bed and the large piece of bubble wrap that the vase had been placed in when she’d bought it. There was a piece of sky-blue ribbon too. It was just like Helen to make this gift as beautiful as possible, he thought.

  He sat down on the bed and was just moving the box out of the way when he saw there was a card inside. Picking it up, he saw Helen’s handwriting and his eyes misted with tears. She had such pretty writing and had always written their Christmas cards, and all of his family’s birthday cards too, because Luke’s own writing was so awful. Seeing her writing again now, he remembered how she’d once laughed as he’d attempted to write out a thank you letter to his mother.

  ‘Let me!’ she’d said, taking the notepad away from him. ‘It looks as if a spider’s dipped its legs in ink and crawled all over the page when you write!’

  He smiled as he heard her voice again and then he read the words she’d written to BB.

  I wanted to send you something to thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown in encouraging me in my photography. You’ve made such a difference to my confidence. I feel so much braver in the decisions I make now in taking pictures and in sharing them with the world. I realise that I’ve only been living half my life up until now.

  Luke read the phrase again, feeling increasingly disconcerted. Half my life. Is that how Helen had really felt? How had he not known that Helen was unhappy? Had he been so wrapped up in his own little happy world, building his business and going about his day-to-day activities, that he hadn’t seen her dissatisfaction?

  He read on.

  I only wish there was something I could do to help you as you have helped me. Helen. x

  Tears blurred his vision and he felt that awful sick emptiness in his stomach. He knew what was coming and there was nothing he could do about it. So he gave into it, his body doubling over as he cried, the world shrinking around him so that nothing existed but his all-consuming grief.

  He wasn’t sure how long he sat there for, the sobs wracking his body, but he felt strangely calm afterwards, sitting there on the edge of the bed in the spare room. He picked up Helen’s letter again, able to look at it now without breaking down. How like Helen it had been to want to try and help somebody. But how had she wanted to help BB? What help had she needed? Or what help did she still need?

  Luke put the card down, feeling sad that it would never be sent and that BB would never see the beautiful gift Helen had chosen for her or receive the help that Helen wanted to give.

  Later that day, Luke wandered through to the kitchen, acutely aware that another evening was about to descend. Another evening when Helen wouldn’t be arriving home. He made himself some tea, which consisted of toast and a chunk of rather tough cheese. But it was good enough for him; he wouldn’t taste it anyway. He put the radio on for a bit, welcoming the inane chatter of another human voice and then switching it off when it began to grate on him.

  And then the phone rang.

  He sighed, getting up to answer it.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, knowing it was her without even looking at the caller ID. She always rang the landline because she didn’t trust mobiles. He shook his head. ‘You really don’t need to ring me every day.’

  ‘Well, of course I do. I need to know you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you eating?’

  ‘I’ve just had tea.’ He raked a hand through his hair. Every night, it was the same questions.

  ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Because you’ve got to look after yourself.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But you’re not always answering the phone, are you?’

  ‘What do
you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I had your Aunt Petra on the phone. She called you last night. Several times, she said.’

  Luke took a deep breath. ‘I must have been asleep,’ he lied, remembering the barrage of calls that had assaulted him all evening. He’d pulled the phone cable out of the wall after the third call, but he wasn’t going to tell his mum that.

  ‘Well, she sends her love.’

  ‘Send her mine,’ Luke said, ‘and tell her she doesn’t need to call again. Please.’

  He heard his mother sighing. ‘Shall I come and stay for a while?’

  ‘God, no!’ Luke cried. ‘I mean, you don’t need to, Mum. It’s a long way.’

  ‘We do have trains in Yorkshire, you know. It’s an easy enough journey.’

  ‘Really, I’m better on my own.’ He closed his eyes, wondering if he could make an excuse and end the call.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ his mother said.

  Luke felt a surge of relief as she said goodbye and then immediately felt bad. She was, after all, only worried about him. As was everybody. That was the problem really.

  If only he could talk to Helen. She’d laugh, wouldn’t she? He knew she would. Wherever she was and whatever she was doing, she’d laugh. That much he knew.

  He walked through to the living room and glanced at the table where he’d placed her journal, before making a decision. He just needed to hear her voice and, if he couldn’t do that audibly, he could at least read it. So he opened the journal. It began with a list of things she wanted to photograph, and he smiled as he read them. She wanted to capture her beloved oak tree every week for a complete calendar year. She wanted to visit the great gardens of Kent, photographing them in all their summer splendour. She wanted to spend the night in a wood, waking at dawn to photograph the wildlife there, and she wanted to visit the local old people’s home and photograph the residents.

  Luke read in wonder. How had he not known all this about Helen? Sure, she’d mentioned a little of it to him now and then. He couldn’t not be caught up in her passion for photography. But this little journal proved to him that there was so much about her that he didn’t know. All those hopes and dreams she’d kept locked inside. Luke felt frustrated that he hadn’t known about any of this before, and a heavy sense of guilt weighed upon him as he thought of all the ways it seemed he had failed Helen.

  He flipped through the pages. There were more lists, simple things like the equipment she would buy for her photography if she could afford it. There were other lists too – more mundane things like work targets and everyday shopping. But there were longer passages of writing as well, perhaps written on her train journeys in and out of London, describing the view from her window or funny little character studies of her fellow passengers. Luke smiled as he read them, hearing her voice so clearly in his mind – her brutal honesty and her naughty humour.

  His fingers were almost trembling as he turned the pages, knowing that he would soon come to her final entry. It had been written just two days before the crash. There wasn’t much, but the words touched Luke deeply.

  BB has been so kind helping me to discover what it is I really want. I wish there was something I could do to help her. She sounds so isolated. So alone. And scared too, although she won’t tell me why. That’s no way to live, is it? I wish she’d confide in me. I’d love to help.

  Luke turned the next page and the next in the vain hope that there might be something more, but there were only empty pages. He swallowed hard, feeling again that anger at a life cut short. A life filled with so much potential and passion and care for others.

  He gently placed the journal on the table and looked at where he’d plugged Helen’s mobile in to recharge. Her two phones had been recovered from the scene of the accident. Her work phone, which had been in her handbag, was in perfect condition, but her personal one had two large cracks across the screen. Luke hadn’t dared to switch it on. Until today. It had been recharging for a few hours now and he unplugged it and turned it on. It was still working.

  He watched anxiously as it lit up, his finger hovering over the keypad, entering her code, which he knew was his birthday. He’d warned her that it wasn’t safe or original to have such a predictable code, but she’d merely laughed at him, and he was glad she hadn’t changed it now for he was able to scroll through the last photographs she’d ever taken, seeing the world through her beautiful gaze once again. He smiled sadly at the final image of the oak tree he knew she loved so much. It had been her last post to Galleria too – her last public communication with the world. How could someone who saw so much beauty in the world be taken so brutally he thought for the thousandth time.

  He scrolled through the other photographs. They were mostly little corners of their garden and details in the landscape like an old wooden gate covered in moss, a happy clump of wild garlic, or raindrops sparkling on a tulip. Each image was bewitching in its simple beauty. Helen really had an eye for the beautiful in the everyday. She appreciated the tiny things in life, like the serrated edge of a leaf, the patterns frost made on grass and the swirling shapes in a frozen puddle. And now that view of the world was lost for ever.

  He looked at the photos one last time before visiting her Galleria page and tapping on her final post of the oak tree. There were dozens of comments, some made after the accident. Then something occurred to him. They didn’t know Helen had died. They were still leaving likes and comments. Maybe they were even messaging her and waiting for a reply, he thought. Oh, God! What a mess. Nobody had told him about the ramifications of social media when a person died. What was the etiquette? Should he make some kind of public announcement on the site? The thought horrified him, and yet it seemed so heartless not to let them know what had happened and for them to go on imagining that Helen was still there.

  He switched off her phone and sat in silence for a moment, not knowing what to do. He didn’t have to do anything, really. He could surely choose to ignore it all. After all, it wasn’t the real world, was it? Helen had spoken about a lot of the people she followed on Galleria – the gardeners, the weavers, the potters, all those creative people who added to the world’s sum total of beauty – but these online friends weren’t real friends, were they?

  And yet that wasn’t completely true. There had been that one special friend. BB: Beautifully Broken. Should he let her know about Helen’s death? He felt that he should, and yet wouldn’t it be awful just to message her via the Galleria website? What on earth would he say?

  Hi there. You were online friends with my wife. But I thought you should know that she’s dead.

  It seemed so cold and heartless and he knew right away that he couldn’t do that to someone. He checked Galleria on his own phone, quickly finding Beautifully Broken’s page. He took a look around, hoping there’d be a link to a website or an email address or something, but there was nothing. He didn’t even have a name to go on. Luke wasn’t used to social media. He had a Facebook account, but he only really used it for his business page, which had a modest following. He wasn’t sure how these things worked. Should he message her for contact details? He felt decidedly uncomfortable about doing that. This was the sort of thing one did in person or – at the very least – on the phone.

  Then there was the issue with the unsent gift. Luke put his phone down and returned to the spare room, searching the box and the bubble wrap for BB’s address, but there was nothing there. Had Helen even had it? He returned to the living room and flipped through her journal again, but there was no address written down there. Maybe she’d been about to ask BB for it and, if Luke could find it, he could send Helen’s gift. The idea really appealed to him. He felt it would be something he could do to make up for not always seeing what Helen was thinking or feeling. This, he thought, might go some way towards helping him feel just a little bit better about that.

  Luke picked up his phone again, looking at BB’s page, but there were definitely no contact details there. He could message her, a
sking for her address, but it wouldn’t be easy or honest without him first telling her that Helen had died, and that felt wrong somehow. If only there was a way of finding her and giving her the gift and telling her about Helen. That, he felt, would be the human thing to do – the thing that Helen would want him to do.

  Luke scrolled through BB’s gallery. He couldn’t help feeling a little stalkerish as he looked for clues about her, but there wasn’t really much on her page that gave anything away.

  Ah, wait a minute.

  He scrolled back.

  The sea. That was definitely the sea. But was that where she lived or a day trip or holiday shot?

  Slowly, an idea began to form. If he could find out where she lived, he could visit her, couldn’t he? She was definitely in the UK, judging by the photos of the countryside. It didn’t look hilly so it probably wasn’t the north or anywhere like Devon or the South Downs. He glimpsed a few blurred images of red-bricked cottages and, crucially, flint. And there was a round-towered church. Very idiosyncratic. Drawing on his builder’s knowledge and passion for vernacular architecture, Luke would hazard a guess that those clues led to East Anglia. Not terribly helpful seeing as East Anglia was comprised of several large counties, most of them with a coast, but at least he’d made a promising start.

  He glanced up from the phone and rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t healthy to look at these screens for so long. He never knew how his wife did it – moving from PC to laptop to phone with such ease. It would drive him crazy. But it was the modern world, he realised, and it was one his wife had embraced.

  Sighing, he continued to scroll, ignoring the plethora of teacups and floral displays in chipped vases and focusing on the few interspersed images of landscape. Now that he’d got his eye attuned, he definitely thought it was East Anglia, possibly Norfolk, or Suffolk, which was famous for its brick and flint cottages. If he could find one particularly striking image that he could use to do a reverse image search, that might just help him pinpoint where she was.