Chapter three

I had stopped completely now and found myself approaching the park gates while the rain got heavier and hit me as hard as hailstones. I lost myself in a moment of emotion as I began to cry with hope. I placed my hand on one of the large iron leaves and laughed. I felt as though my heart would burst in the most fantastic way possible. My knees shook as my body’s previous rush of adrenaline wore off. I gathered my thoughts together and forced my legs to jog on past the gate. I wasn’t there yet. I hadn’t reached freedom from the mundane.

I can’t recall the length of time that elapsed between my introduction to Simon and when I saw him next. It couldn’t have been more than a week. I went to the park simply to be alone. I climbed up an old tree that was concealed by the main path by bushes, saplings and a bandstand. The bark was thick with various faces within the muddled pattern of the wood and the branches hung low, strong and twisted. I clambered up onto the nearest branch in my khaki shorts that my father had snidely pointed out to be for boys. A thin, worn red sweater adorned my torso and flapped down over my arms. Pulling a small metal box from my pocket I stood on the branch and searched for signs that my solitude may be disturbed. My paranoia took over and the movement of every leaf made me feel on edge. Feeling that I would be less noticeable higher up I climbed onto the next branch and sat against the tree trunk. Opening my clenched fist I admired the delicate engravings of the box. It was my mother’s. She loved little trinkets of any kind and deep in the bowels of an old wardrobe, banished to the guest room, lay many loose bits and pieces she had aimlessly collected. Mona refused to go near the wardrobe, though she wanted my father to clear it out. My father never did, so I took the liberty of taking what I wanted from the hidden hoard of memories.
The little hinges on the box’s lid were stiff but I pushed it open to find a tin bird. It was pink and blue with carefully painted wings and a swirling pattern engulfing its breast. I caressed and studied it gently and found the absence of paint on the bottom and the rough cut of the metal made it clear it had once been a part of something bigger. I mused over what it may have been soldered to originally. I finally decided it was essentially of no consequence because it was beautiful on its own; perhaps more beautiful that it would have been if overshadowed by an attachment to something else. I threw it in the air and caught it several times, heavy in my hand but it slipped once and fell, obscured by uncut grass. A pale, slender set of fingers scooped the lost article up and held in before the ethereal face of the young homeless man who called himself Simon Graham. I slid clumsily down the branches of the tree and stood in front of him; he was still clothed in ragged and stained formal clothes. Despite this his posture emanated an almost regal quality through the dirt. His balance and grace that had been visibly emaciated by a hangover on our first meeting had returned, and even his slight movements, that he wasted gently on the world as though idly tearing leaves from a full hedge, exuded confidence.
An irreplaceable moment of clarity bloomed and faded as he delicately dropped my mother’s tin bird on my open palm. I didn’t feel awkward as I should have but rather I was in awe of his stature and self-assured presence. His condescending grin retained a sympathetic aspect and his generation being one older than my own and younger than my parents left me with an instinctual respect for him. It seems easy to recognise why such a peculiar young man would interest me even if why I trusted him isn’t, but the mystery as far as I am concerned was how he ever took a liking to me.
Without prompting or explanations I came to the park each day to talk to him after that. I brought a lunch of some kind to share having mentally noted how thin his frame was under the heavy clothes. It all came together so quickly and naturally I can barely remember the beginning of the relationship or a forced, tiring conversation. Within a week I was comfortably resting my head on his shoulder whilst recalling the few broken memories of my mother I could piece together without the tainting influence of dreams or photographs. Simon provided not only a sympathetic ear but an untapped depth of advice. He never patronised me as most would have but treated me as an equal in everything but life experience. I held his tattered hat on my lap and traced the jagged rim with my finger as Simon had his arm around me, his limp, fine mop of gold hair resting on my own head. He mumbled comforting words but not the vague niceties used as slightly altered templates by most adults when dealing with upset children. He told me his opinion freely after substantial consideration and allowed me to accept or reject it as I wished.
The fragrant musk of his heavy coat soothed the surges of nostalgic grief in my chest and the increasingly cool evening air steadied my broken breathing.
“Life doesn’t really end,” he said with a resonating yet soft voice, “You are alive and can both remember and acknowledge the existence of your mother. As long as you are alive and keep her in your mind then there is no reason to question her being, nor her being alive.”
“Not sure what you mean,” I yawned, my eyelids drooping over the image of the top hat.
A chuckle vibrated against my skull. “I’ll explain properly when we are both awake. It is time to get to our beds, milady.”
He stood up and quite ceremoniously pulled me to my feet with a refined bow that made me giggle and a clumsily casual hug that made me glad to have met him. That night we left so late the park gates were already locked. I was forced to scramble up the iron ivy leaves and slither home without the notice of my home’s inhabitants.