Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

with her grandmother. Her parents were good people, ridiculously good people. And yes, they loved her. But they loved everyone else too. She always had the feeling that when they were with her, they would rather be somewhere else. Somewhere they could be helping people on a grander scale than just their daughter.

‘Did I tell you Dad invited me to spend Christmas with him and Roberta?’ asked Tim, all of a sudden.

‘Maybe you should meet her?’ ventured Amy. ‘They are getting married.’

‘I don’t want to,’ replied Tim. ‘Dad might think he can replace Mum, but . . . ’ He stopped and bit his lip. ‘I can’t spend Christmas with them,’ said Tim, finally. ‘With someone else sitting where Mum should be.’

‘Let’s go in the garden,’ said Amy, keen to keep Tim cheerful. ‘We can see if there are any flowers we can pick to go in your vase. And there’s something else I want to show you.’

It was cold outside, and the muddy grass felt soft and squidgy under their feet. The garden was scant compared to how Amy knew it from the spring, but still some flowers braved the cold. ‘Winter honeysuckle!’ exclaimed Amy, and proceeded to cut a couple of stems of the sweetly scented flowers from the bush that grew up around the shed. She hesitated for a moment, her hand on the shed door. ‘Would you like to see inside?’ she asked.

‘I’m not that into lawnmowers,’ said Tim, stamping his feet up and down to keep warm. ‘Let’s get back inside.’

‘It’s not just a shed,’ said Amy, suddenly feeling unsure of herself. ‘My gran cleared it out. It’s where I paint when I come here. There’s something for you in there.’

‘A present?’ asked Tim. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Amy fished a key from her pocket and opened the padlock on the door. ‘It’s not much,’ she said, switching on the light. She was hit by the smells she loved. Oil paint, turps, and the gorgeous scent of pine that emanated from the wooden walls. ‘Just a project I was working on last time I was here, but wasn’t ready to share . . . ’

‘Amy!’ Tim stood motionless in front of a large canvas. ‘I knew you were talented, but . . . ’

Amy looked at the painting. She’d always loved colours and had often been inspired by the sky, but in the past she’d always felt compelled to limit the sky to the background, the top of a more figurative scene of houses, trees, people.

But in this painting she’d let herself go. Giant swathes of vibrant oils travelled confidently across the canvas. Purples and oranges and reds, the paint so thick that sometimes it cast a shadow of its own. In the bottom corner, the purple so dark it was almost black, she’d woven in a coiled guitar string. One of Tim’s, that she’d saved when it snapped at a rehearsal. Above it was a piercing blast of yellow, brighter than a field of sunflowers.

Tim’s eyes didn’t leave the painting, but his hand found her own.

‘I hear the song when I look at this,’ he whispered. ‘But more beautifully than I’ve ever played it.’

Amy squeezed his hand. ‘I didn’t know if I’d managed it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know if you’d understand . . . ’

‘Of course I do,’ said Tim. ‘It’s love and hurt and regret . . . ’

‘And hope,’ said Amy.

‘Yes,’ replied Tim.

‘And hope.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ said Amy.

‘Merry Christmas, Amy Ashton,’ replied Tim. He took his eyes from the painting and directed them towards Amy. ‘And thank you.’

Great fields of yellow stretched out, bright even through the train’s dirty window. Rapeseed wasn’t as dramatic as the fields of sunflowers that she’d remembered from her school trip to France, but it had a magic of its own. And it reminded her of home. Amy shuddered. It was a long time since Amy had been home.

She wasn’t actually going home. Now the weekend had finally arrived, she was going to the old town centre. To the shop where the ring was from.

Amy reached for the ring, now dangling from a silver chain around her neck. She kept it under her shirt. She preferred to wear it on her finger only in private.

So now the ring sat with her, a cold circle near her heart.

The train pulled into her station. Amy sat still, unable to move. An elderly woman made her way to the door, pushed the button and stepped on to the platform. Amy closed her eyes for a moment, unsure what to do. She felt the ring against her chest and, after a moment, jumped up and ran for the door. She bumped into a woman carrying heavy shopping, apologised and then stepped out. The doors slid shut behind her.

She was here.

The platform felt different. The signs were new, the typeface unfamiliar. There were digital posters now, replacing the old paper ones. They advertised blackberry gin and elderflower tonic. Outside the station, everything looked more familiar; cobbled streets, a small river. Even the swans looked the same, gliding along gracefully as if fully aware of their beauty. She’d loved this area when she’d been younger, and had longed to live here instead of the modern little development her parents had chosen.

Amy felt a flutter of excitement as she approached the shop. It was still there. The same white sign with black lettering declaring the shop to be ‘Arnold’s’. The same jangle of a bell as she pushed the door open. Even the same elk’s head, mounted on the wall. Still waiting for a final resting place.

‘Can I help you?’ Amy turned. A young man wearing glasses and a nervous smile looked at her.

‘I’m just browsing,’ she said, casually picking up a china ornament. If the ring had sold recently, this man might remember it. She’d just have a little wander round first. Then she realised what she was holding and gasped.

It was a china sparrow, a plain enough