All You Need is Love

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Yeah. What wouldn’t I give to get my hands on those thieving little sods.’

  I think my boy’s developed ADHD. Giving him a sharp nudge, I say, ‘Charlie, stop wriggling, will you?’

  My son breaks free. ‘Got to go,’ he says, and shoots off like a scalded cat.

  ‘Don’t you disappear, Charlie Freeman,’ I shout after him. ‘Spencer’s making our tea.’

  ‘Kids,’ Johnny says. ‘Who’d have them?’

  ‘I’m going to start restricting the amount of time he spends with that Kyle. Could you smell ciggy smoke on Charlie?’

  Johnny shakes his head, but I’m sure that they’re up to no good. I’m going to keep a close eye on this.

  ‘I’d better be going,’ Johnny says, and he starts to clear away his brushes.

  ‘Good luck for tomorrow. Hope this guy’s got some good news for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Want me to come with you for moral support?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he says. He stares deeply at me and looks like he’s going to take my hand but thinks better of it. Then he adds, ‘But Dana’s already offered to do that.’

  Oh. I’d like to be there for Johnny. After all, I’ve known him much longer than Dana. Shouldn’t it, by right, be me who goes? But then I rally. ‘That’s good. Very good.’

  ‘I can’t let her down.’

  ‘No, no. Wouldn’t dream of it. Just glad that you’ve got someone to be there with you. Oh, is that the time?’ I make a fuss of leaving. Over my shoulder, I say to Johnny, ‘Make sure that you let me know how you get on. Phone me as soon as you know anything.’

  ‘I will,’ my friend says. ‘Promise.’

  And I walk away thinking that I really want to be with Johnny at the Tate Liverpool Gallery to find out what’s going on, and wondering why I feel quite so much as if my nose has just been pushed out of joint.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  It was Monday – which always seemed quite a depressing way to spend nearly 15 per cent of the week. The sun was playing coy today, hiding behind the burgeoning rain clouds that had seemed so reluctant to appear over the last few weeks – giving rise to myriad newspaper headlines about it being the driest summer in more than a century. People round here were rapidly embracing global warming as a wonderful way of saving money on expensive foreign holidays. Would you ever need to go abroad if it was wall-to-wall sunshine in Britain? Frankly, no.

  Johnny had never felt moved to go abroad or on holiday at all. He liked where he lived – didn’t see the need to escape from it for two weeks of the year. He liked English food. He liked English people. He even liked the English weather – although, as he hurried towards the Tate Liverpool, he hoped the rain would stay away long enough not to dampen the smart suit he’d borrowed from his mate, Carl, for the occasion.

  The bold blue-and-orange frontage of the gallery blazed out in the greyness of the day. Dana was already standing outside waiting for him and he felt his spirits lift. She was there for him as he knew she would be. Already he was so comfortable in her company that it scared him. He felt that he’d never get over Sally, but now – after such a short time – it was frightening and exhilarating at the same time to find himself considering her less and less. He was no longer so worried about what Sally would feel, what she’d think, or whether she would approve. Perhaps her constant discontentment had affected him more than he’d realised.

  Ringo, much to the little dog’s chagrin, had been left behind with Mary. Good job that the little dog didn’t know that Johnny was meeting his new girlfriend, otherwise he would have been even more miffed. Clearly, it wasn’t only humans who could experience love at first sight.

  Dana smiled when she saw him and he dashed forward just as great splots of rain started to drop on the tourists thronging the dock area.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said, and kissed him warmly.

  ‘Let’s go inside before we get wet.’ Johnny took her elbow and steered her through the doors into the foyer. He’d never actually been in here before. It had always seemed too intimidating. Maybe he should have a look round when they’d finished his meeting, see what real artists did. Johnny smoothed down his hair as he approached the receptionist. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Matthew Stokes,’ he said.

  ‘Who shall I say’s calling?’

  ‘Johnny Jones.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Mr Jones. He’s so looking forward to meeting you.’ The receptionist pressed a buzzer and then spoke into her phone. ‘Mr Jones is here.’ She hung up. ‘His assistant will be down to collect you in just a moment.’

  ‘Do I look okay?’ he whispered to Dana as they waited.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said, and kissed him again. Johnny wondered if she’d left lipstick on his cheek.

  A minute later, a well-groomed young lady came out of the lift. ‘Mr Jones?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Come this way, please.’

  He and Dana followed her back into the lift which took them up to the top floor. Then she showed them into a spacious boardroom where Johnny could see his paintings leaning up against the vast expanse of white wall. There were four of them altogether – the ones that were missing from his lock-up. Three were the ones he’d painted the night he’d got drunk and sung along with the Beatles, and which he’d collectively mentally titled She Loves You in honour of his drinking song and the fact that he’d been in mourning for Sally. The fourth was the painting of himself in the Superman pose which Charlie liked so much but which hadn’t got a title at all.

  When Mr Stokes’s assistant led them into the room, the two men waiting there stood up.

  One of them held out his hand and grasped Johnny’s warmly. ‘Matthew Stokes,’ he said. ‘Delighted to meet you. This is my buyer, David Nelmes-Crocker.’

  The latter shook Johnny’s hand too.

  ‘This is my friend, Dana,’ Johnny said, introducing her.

  ‘We’re just thrilled with your paintings,’ Matthew Stokes gushed. ‘To discover such a special local talent – well, we’re both overwhelmed.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Johnny said, wondering if they were sure that they meant him.

  ‘Of course, we’d love to put on an exhibition of your work,’ Matthew Stokes continued. ‘I take it there’s more where this came from?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ve been painting again for a few months now.’

  Both men laughed at that and Johnny wasn’t sure why.

  ‘We’d also like to make a purchase to form part of our permanent exhibits.’

  You could have knocked Johnny over with a feather. He wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. ‘Buy one of my paintings?’

  ‘We particularly like this series.’ Matthew Stokes pointed at the ones he’d done when he was blind drunk, the ones with Ringo’s paw marks adding to the composition. Both men from the gallery admired the splattered canvases with wide smiles. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Johnny said, when he could find his voice again. ‘Can you tell me exactly how you came to get hold of them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Matthew Stokes said. ‘Rather oddly, two little boys brought them in on spec. You didn’t know that?’

  ‘No.’ Johnny couldn’t quite get his head round this. Were these the kids who’d vandalised his lock-up and stolen his paintings? Why would they bring them here? ‘I’ve no idea who they might be.’

  ‘Well, it certainly was most unusual. I have a name here, I think.’ Matthew Stokes rifled through the papers on the boardroom table. ‘Ah, yes.’ He picked up a piece of crumpled paper and peered at it. ‘One of the boys was called Charlie Freeman.’

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Johnny’s hands were shaking as he and Dana went back down to the ground floor in the lift, leaving Mr Stokes and the paintings behind them.

  ‘You okay?’ Dana asked.

  He nodded, speechlessly.

  ‘There’s a café next door,’ Dana continued. ‘I think you could probably do with a cuppa.’


  Johnny felt that he could probably do with a double brandy, but he couldn’t find any words to express that.

  Instead, Dana took his hand and he meekly followed her through to the café, sat at the table she chose and didn’t object when she ordered a pot of tea for two in place of the desired alcohol.

  The Tate Gallery – the world-famous Tate Gallery – wanted to buy one of his paintings. A series of his paintings. Paintings that had been half-done by his dog! A figure of £50,000 had been mentioned and his brain was having a great deal of trouble trying to imagine why anyone would possibly give him that amount of money for his amateur daubings.

  £50,000! Even with his weekly benefit plus an extra bit of carer’s allowance for his mam – and the few bob he managed to earn on the side from his growing decorating business – it would take him years to earn that. The gallery top bods were talking about a full-blown exhibition of his work next year.

  The tea arrived and Dana poured it. He tipped in a couple of spoons of sugar even though he didn’t normally take it. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do for people who were in shock? After a few sips of the hot, sweet brew his heart started to steady, his breathing was returning to normal.

  ‘That’s put a bit of colour back in your cheeks,’ Dana said with a grin. She reached across the table and took his hand. It was still shaking.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me.’

  Dana laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world! Who’d have guessed that I’d be witnessing the birth of Liverpool’s latest talent?’

  ‘Not me.’ Johnny’s voice wasn’t entirely steady either. He let out a wavering puff of breath. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ his companion said. ‘I know that you’re doing the murals at the Community Centre and all that, but you never mentioned that you’d done other paintings. They were brilliant.’

  ‘It’s just a hobby,’ he said. ‘I never knew whether they were any good or not. I took it up again when Sally and I split, just to fill the time.’ The mention of her name made him think of Sal. He had to call her as soon as possible. Or maybe he’d go round there – tell her in person. That would be better. He’d like to see her face when he told her. She’d be thrilled that he’d finally done something with his life, that someone felt he had something worthwhile to offer.

  It also made him wonder what Charlie’s role had been in all this. When had he taken the paintings from the garage? Did he know more about the break-in than he was letting on? If that was the case, he’d forgive him anything now! Wait till the boy heard of the outcome. How on earth was he going to thank Charlie for instigating this fantastic opportunity for him?

  Johnny felt a lump come to his throat and hot tears pricked at the back of his eyes. He wanted to see the boy right now, pick him up in his arms and hug him half to death. A ten-year-old had believed in him more than anyone. However this had been cooked up, it looked as if Charlie had managed to hand him his dreams on a plate.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  I had my computer course this afternoon, so I couldn’t go along to the garden. It made me realise that I’m probably not cut out for nine to five life in an office. To be honest, I really struggled to concentrate on what Spencer was trying to teach me. All I wanted to do was get back into the garden and get digging. I like the feeling of dirt under my fingernails, the smell of grass, the sun on my back.

  It also made me realise that I’ve learned a lot about computers by now. Our course is very soon to come to an end. What will Spencer do when all the courses are finished? Will he stay on and find something else, or is this his time to go back to manage Alderstone? It’s a conversation that we need to have. But not today. I’ve just changed into my scruff and I’m heading right out now to see how my lovely hoodies, Jason, Daniel and Mark, are getting on. I had a quick peep out of the landing window and, sure enough, shortly after school let out they were there digging, weeding, doing good. Bless ’em. I’m really going to miss working with those guys and already, I wish that this project could go on for ever.

  As I’m having this lovely daydream, my doorbell rings. When I open it, Johnny’s standing there. In a suit. With his hair combed. Ringo at his heel. Blimey, even the dog looks spruce.

  ‘Good grief,’ I say. ‘To what do we owe this?’ I cast an eye over his suit. ‘Have you been in court?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Johnny says, as he follows me into the living room, Ringo trotting behind. ‘As it happens, I’ve come to tell you my good news.’

  ‘Good news?’ My interest perks up at that. Then I realise that it might involve Dana and my mouth goes dry. ‘What kind of good news?’

  ‘The Tate Liverpool want to buy some of my paintings to exhibit.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Way,’ Johnny says.

  ‘Ohmigod.’ I jump up, hug him and we dance round the lounge. Him in his borrowed suit and me in my grubby gardening gear, Ringo in a barking frenzy. ‘I knew you could do this. I just knew.’ I squeeze him tighter. ‘Oh, Johnny.’ Tears spring to my eyes. ‘This couldn’t happen to a nicer man.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ he says breathlessly. ‘They’re going to pay me fifty thousand pounds!’

  Now the tears flow and I dab them away with my grass-stained sleeve. Johnny is finally going to get the recognition that he so truly deserves. ‘No way!’

  ‘Way!’ And we do a happy dance again.

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds,’ he repeats in a dazed way. ‘Just think of what I can do for Mam with all that.’

  This kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like us. First, I get an offer to become the Lady of the Manor and now Johnny’s going to be a famous painter. Has someone sprinkled us with fairy dust? Or maybe when you release your dreams into the universe, sometimes they just come true. ‘You need to tell me all the details. I want to know everything. Every single thing. How, why, when, what, where?’

  I sit on the sofa, giddy with excitement, and Johnny flops down next to me. We’re still holding hands and it feels so nice even though mine are callused and rough in his. His eyes meet mine and I can hear both of our hearts thumping in time. Then, slowly, he leans towards me and he kisses me. He kisses me long and hard and my insides turn to water. He kisses me like I haven’t been kissed in a long time, and I’d forgotten how good this could feel. Spencer’s a wonderful kisser, one of the best, but . . . Then Johnny breaks away from me and gives me a self-conscious hug.

  My friend sits back against my cushions and lets out a wobbly sigh.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Johnny says. He laughs in an incredulous way while I sit with bated breath, my lips still tingling from his kiss. ‘Charlie took them down to the gallery.’

  ‘Charlie?’ All lovey-dovey thoughts fly out of the window. ‘My Charlie?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘You didn’t know about this?’

  ‘No,’ Johnny says. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘When, how?’ Now I’m frowning. ‘He wouldn’t have taken them without your permission. Plus Charlie’s not allowed into the city on his own. How would he have got them there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Johnny admits. ‘But that’s what the guy at the gallery said.’

  I shake my head. ‘He must be mistaken.’

  My friend shrugs. ‘He seemed pretty certain and I definitely didn’t take them down there. So who did?’

  Then I hear a key in the lock and the front door swings open. A tuneless voice sings an unrecognisable song. Charlie’s home.

  ‘Well, here he is,’ I say to Johnny. ‘Let’s find out.’

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Charlie looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. And that’s before I’ve had the chance to ask him any questions. Just the sight of Johnny and I sitting on the sofa together has alerted him to the fact that he’s been rumbled. I can’t believe my boy’s behind this. Now it’s just a matter of finding out exactly what he did and didn’t do.

  Johnn
y breaks the impasse by standing up and scooping Charlie into his arms. He hugs Charlie to him. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers into my boy’s hair. ‘Whatever you did, I can’t thank you enough.’

  When he puts Charlie down, my son is still looking terrified. Johnny slings his arm round him and looks at him closely. ‘Did you take my paintings to the art gallery?’

  A big gulp travels down Charlie’s throat and he nods.

  ‘They want to buy them, our kid,’ Johnny tells him. ‘The boss there loves them.’

  Charlie glances anxiously at me and then finds his voice. ‘He does?’

  Johnny can’t keep the grin off his face. ‘He wants to pay me a lot of money for them.’

  My boy’s face also breaks into a grin. ‘Oh, wow!’

  I fold my arms. ‘Want to tell me exactly how this came about?’ I think that Charlie can tell that I’m not yet sharing their joy over this revelation.

  My son shuffles from foot to foot, his eyes shifting between me and Johnny. ‘We just borrowed the paintings,’ he eventually says. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘We being?’

  ‘Me and Kyle,’ Charlie coughs.

  I might have known that boy would have been slap bang in the middle of this somewhere.

  ‘I didn’t think Johnny would mind,’ Charlie continues.

  ‘Or you didn’t think that he’d find out?’

  My son says nothing.

  ‘How did you get into the garage?’ I ask. ‘Did you have a key?’

  Now Charlie flushes to an uncomfortable shade of beetroot. You could fry eggs on his cheeks. ‘We used some bolt cutters on the locks.’

  The smile disappears from Johnny’s face at that.

  ‘Where did you get them from?’

  ‘From Kyle’s mum’s shed.’

  ‘And you broke into Johnny’s garage?’

  Charlie starts to cry. ‘We only borrowed four paintings,’ he sniffs. ‘We didn’t think about leaving the garage open afterwards.We were in a big rush. It wasn’t us who did the other stuff. I don’t know who did that. We didn’t mean for it to happen. All we wanted to do was take Johnny’s paintings to the art gallery. When we went there with Spencer I thought all the things that were supposed to be art were crap . . . rubbish,’ he corrects quickly. ‘I thought Johnny’s stuff was much better. And I was right.’ He turns to Johnny for support. ‘I was right. It is good.’