‘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
