Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Don’t say it again. Anyway, the second round seems to have gone pretty well.’ So far Imogen had avoided talking to her friend about her recent trip to see Dr Hamilton, preferring to keep the details to herself. It was as much about self-preservation in case of failure as anything else.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Jenny sounded sincere.

  ‘Perhaps you should do as Granny Mary says: have a good night out and then a bit of hanky-panky!’ Imogen suggested to her friend.

  ‘Oh, god!’ She shuddered. ‘Actually I think what we might need is some time apart. It’s like he doesn’t see, Imi, takes me for granted. I’d like to go away for a long weekend and let him miss me, then maybe when I get back, who knows?’

  Imogen stopped walking and jumped up and down on the spot, as if she had borrowed Chemist Girl’s springs. ‘Let’s do it! Let’s go away for a weekend! We could go and book it now!’

  ‘Who do you think I am – Kim Kardashian? I can’t just pack up my negligee and waltz away for a weekend. I’ve got work and Shay and I are not exactly flush at the minute.’

  ‘We can do this! I saved up more than I needed for my treatment, but not quite enough for another go, so let’s do it. Let’s go to the travel agent’s and see what they’ve got. I would love to treat you to a weekend away. It would do me good too...’ Imogen gripped her friend’s arm, keen to get going.

  ‘For the love of god, are you serious?’

  ‘Yes! Lead on, Kimmy!’

  The girls fell through the door of the travel agent’s and took up seats in front of a bemused middle-aged man who wasn’t used to this level of commotion.

  ‘Can I help you, ladies?’

  Through their nudges and giggles, they just about managed to say, ‘We want a weekend away, the cheapest you’ve got, as soon as possible!’

  8

  Jenny and Imogen were catching their breath after six hours of wandering around the rain-soaked streets of Amsterdam. Not that the weather could in any way dampen their spirits. They were abroad, having fun, and nothing as insignificant as rain was going to get them down! They had taken in the maze of canals, trodden the cobbled streets, giggled in the red-light district and consumed a gargantuan lunch of pizza – eaten in the street, huddled under a large umbrella, in the drizzle.

  ‘Imi, I’m knackered, I need a kip!’ Jenny leant on a lamppost and flexed one trainer-clad foot.

  ‘You’re such a lightweight. There’s loads more on our list!’ Imogen ribbed.

  ‘I know! And I want to see it all, I do, but can we have a break?’

  ‘Tell you what, you go back and nap and I’ll go see a couple of museums alone and then come and collect you when you’ve had your beauty sleep. Or else meet you somewhere?’

  ‘You’re making me feel bad, but I am seriously wanting ma bed!’

  Imogen laughed. ‘Don’t feel bad, go back and chill out. I’ll call you in a couple of hours and either you can come find me or I’ll come back to the hotel.’

  Jenny didn’t need persuading. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure!’

  ‘Don’t talk to any strangers!’ Jenny yelled as she abandoned her friend and made her way along the crowded street, dodging the cyclists who criss-crossed in front of her.

  *

  Imogen sat at a table in a bay window and felt the glow of winter sunshine warm her skin through the dappled glass. At last the sun had found its way through the clouds. The earlier deluge had left pavements, boat decks and handrails along the canals with an almost phosphorescent glow and there was a clean sparkle to the air. The barista arrived promptly with her hot chocolate and a generous slice of the house speciality: Appeltaart with whipped cream.

  ‘There you go. Enjoy!’ He placed the tall conical glass by her hand and the plate and fork a little further on to the table.

  ‘Thank you. Smells delicious!’ She inhaled the rich scent of buttery pastry, warm, cinnamon-laden apples and the sweetness of scorched powdered sugar. Her mouth watered. Imogen gripped the spoon in her right hand and used her left to feel the edge of the plate. Digging into the tart, she scooped up a large mouthful towards her face and felt the satisfying cloying sensation of cream against the roof of her mouth, as the sweet apple and divine flaky pastry melted on her tongue. She savoured the taste before chewing the tart slowly.

  ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’

  He was American. His voice held the slightest tremor that belied his confident baritone. His coat smelled of wet wool; he must have got caught in the earlier shower.

  ‘No, that’s fine! Help yourself,’ Imogen said without thinking, and had to use her napkin.

  ‘That looks good.’ He slid into the chair opposite her; she heard it scrape along the wooden floor and then listened as he removed his coat. He dropped it in a heap on the floor; she felt the weight of it, as it lay partly on her foot.

  ‘It tastes good, not sure what it looks like!’ Imogen smiled.

  She felt his breath coming in her direction, as if he was studying her.

  ‘Oh! Sorry. I didn’t realise you were blind.’

  ‘That’s okay; it’s not your fault. Nothing to feel sorry about.’ Imogen beamed, delighted that her lack of vision hadn’t been the first thing he had noticed about her.

  ‘Whose fault was it?’ He slurped noisily at his coffee.

  She swallowed the last of her vast mouthful of tart and sipped her hot chocolate before she replied. ‘No one’s, not really. I was very premature.’ She shrugged and placed her drink on the table, raising her hands and letting them fall against her thighs. ‘It just happened.’

  ‘Who are you here with?’ he asked. She heard his thick hair graze his collar, as if he was turning his head to left and then right, possibly to see if anyone was approaching or watching them.

  ‘No one. I mean, not right now. I’m here with my friend Jenny, but she’s buggered off for a nap. Bit of a lightweight.’ Imogen dug in for a second mouthful.

  ‘You’re here on your own?’ He sounded surprised.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s really cool!’

  Imogen could tell he was smiling.

  ‘Yep, it’s actually just my sight that I’m missing. My legs work fine so I can walk from A to B. And I have a tongue in my head so if I get lost...’

  ‘Ouch!’ he laughed. ‘That is me told!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Was that rude?’ Imogen lowered her voice.

  ‘Nah, not really, more... assertive. On the offensive scale it was a paltry three out of ten at most.’

  She liked the way he sounded.

  He reached out and took her hand so that he could shake it. ‘I’m Owen. Owen Jackson from Chicago.’

  She let her hand be waggled up and down. ‘I’m Imogen McGuire, from Pilton, Scotland.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that from your accent. Good to meet you.’

  She removed her hand and folded it into her lap, suddenly too self-conscious to scoff the rest of her cake in front of Owen Jackson from Chicago.

  ‘Are you visiting here?’ He leant forward, placing his forearms on the table. She heard the tap of a ring against the table top.

  ‘Yes.’ Imogen licked her lips, fearing that there might be stray blobs of cream lurking on her face. ‘Just for the weekend.’

  ‘Me too. My last city, a stopover really, and then home. I’ve been away for a couple of weeks, seen lots of Europe, it’s been awesome,’ Owen confirmed brightly, as if this weekend visit was the common ground they had been searching for.

  ‘Did you get to Scotland?’

  ‘No! Sadly not. I was in London and then had a few days on the Sussex coast, which was beautiful. I wanted to get up to Edd-in-borrow but didn’t make it.’

  ‘Oh, Edd-in-borrow? I think that’s near me.’ She laughed.

  ‘Amsterdam’s amazing, right?’ Enthusiasm poured from him.

  Imogen nodded.

  ‘It is. Still quite a lot on my to-do list, but so far, great!
’

  ‘Have you seen the Van Gogh Museum yet?’

  She smiled at his pronunciation, Van Go – making the artist sound more like a commercial vehicle-repair garage. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m heading over there right after this, if you... I don’t know, if maybe you’d like to...’ Owen coughed.

  Imogen heard his feet shuffle under the table and his chair creak as he shifted his body weight. He was nervous.

  ‘Are you asking to come with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He breathed out in relief.

  Imogen felt a swell of happiness in her chest, tinged with nervous anticipation. ‘I just have two questions?’

  ‘Sure, fire away!’

  ‘That ring on your finger... it’s not of the wedding variety, is it?’

  ‘No!’ he laughed. ‘Not at all. My dad bought it for me when I graduated.’

  ‘Just checking! And secondly, how old are you? You might be sixteen or a hundred and four. Usually I’m fairly good with guessing ages from voices but...’

  ‘Oh, this’ll be good, guess then!’

  ‘Oh, god! I am suddenly doubting my ability, but if I had to guess, I’d say you were thirty-four.’

  ‘Thirty-four? No way! I’m twenty-four.’

  ‘You should take it as a compliment! Your voice has gravitas... authority.’ She giggled.

  ‘If you say so.’ Owen was mollified by the compliment of sorts. ‘I guess it’s harder to judge voices you don’t know so good. Strangers, I mean.’

  ‘It is. My friend told me not to talk to strangers, but you don’t seem strange.’

  ‘I’m not!’ he almost pleaded.

  ‘Yes, but even if you are, you’re going to say that, aren’t you?’

  ‘I... I guess,’ he stuttered.

  ‘I’m only teasing you, Owen from Chicago, and besides, we’re not really strangers, I know lots about you already.’

  ‘You do?’ He was curious.

  ‘Yep. I know you have a heavy coat, quite unsuitable for travelling in, especially when it’s wet. I know you have spent longer on the Sussex coast than I have, ’cos I’ve never been, and I know you graduated from college and that your dad was so chuffed, he bought you a ring.’

  ‘All true!’ He let his hands fall on to the table.

  ‘See, we are not strangers at all, and so why not? I’d love to go to the Van Go Museum with you. You can be my guide.’

  ‘Oh, god! I didn’t think... I mean, is there any point in taking you to an art gallery?’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ, sunshine, that’s nearly a nine!’

  ‘I am so sorry! I’m nervous, I guess. I don’t know anyone that’s blind and I swear all the words sitting on my tongue right now are about seeing and sight, like did you see this and look at that, and I’m really conscious of not letting them pop out!’

  ‘That’s funny! It’s okay, I’m messing with you. I love art galleries. Usually I listen to the audio guide and it’s like a good book!’

  ‘Great!’

  Imogen could hear genuine joy in his voice and it gladdened her heart. They finished their drinks in a calmer manner, both thinking about the afternoon that was about to unfold.

  *

  They stood on the pavement facing the canal. ‘How do I...?’ He grabbed her elbow and then felt for her hand.

  ‘Neither!’ Imogen laughed, shrugging herself free. ‘Can I hold your arm like this?’ She placed her hand on the underside of his raised forearm. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes! It’s great. Not great that you have to... or that you can’t...’ he faltered.

  ‘You have to relax, Owen!’ she laughed as they slowly navigated Paulus Potterstraat, he nervous of going too fast and she too shy to ask him to speed up.

  ‘You’re tall,’ commented Imogen as they paused at a pedestrian crossing.

  ‘Yes, talk, dark and handsome, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Well, tall and dark is true.’

  ‘So what do you do in Chicago?’ She was curious to learn.

  ‘I’m an underwriter for an insurance company. Mainly, I just study computer files and pass them on or else refer them. It’s boring, really.’

  ‘Sounds it.’

  ‘What about you, Imogen? Do you do anything?’

  She stopped walking and faced the tall, dark stranger. ‘That is also a nine! Jesus, what do you think I do... sit home all day and get my nails done?’

  ‘I... I don’t... I didn’t mean to...’ Owen stuttered.

  Imogen howled. ‘I’m messing with you again.’ She patted his arm. ‘I actually work for a charity, aimed mainly at teenagers who are blind or visually impaired, making sure they are aware of all there is available to assist them and trying to help with the isolation of blindness.’

  ‘Is it isolating?’ His voice was steady now, serious.

  ‘It can be. In a world that’s always busy, it can sometimes feel as if you are lost. Not only unable to see the world, but like it can’t see you.’

  Owen was silent. ‘I don’t believe that anyone can’t see you.’

  ‘Oh!’ His compliment threw Imogen a little off balance. Her heart hammered in her chest. ‘Thank you. I can hear a tram coming!’

  They both stood listening. ‘I can’t see one.’ Owen looked left and right along the street.

  ‘I felt the rumbling in my feet,’ she explained, ‘just like I can feel the bikes whizzing past me. The way they cut through the air and the vibrations they make are quite particular.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you were right, here comes a tram now!’ Owen sounded surprised, as if she had summoned it, a kind of magic trick.

  ‘Are all your other senses heightened, to compensate for your lack of sight?’

  Despite his sincerity, Imogen doubled over with laughter, recalling her recent conversation with Jenny. ‘Yes, that’s me, a regular superhero, like Spidey Man!’ She batted his arm. ‘No, I just have regular senses like anyone else, though I suppose mine may be a little finer tuned.’

  ‘You’re a funny girl,’ Owen concluded as they crossed the street.

  Imogen wasn’t sure if he meant funny ha-ha or funny weird.

  *

  The Van Gogh Museum was busy. Owen checked his heavy coat and Imogen’s jacket into the cloakroom and then they wandered around the corridors and into the brightly lit galleries where masterpieces hung. Owen gave cursory descriptions of many of the paintings and any sculptures that they came across and was equally keen to tell her about the crowds they navigated, making their way to the Kurokawa wing where a small group stood gathered around the painting they had all come to see.

  ‘There’s a tour group in front of us but I think they’re on the point of leaving, then we can get closer.’

  Imogen gripped the arm of this stranger she trusted. Her heart beat in anticipation, picking up on his sense of excitement. There was a burble of conversation, sighs and exclamations of joy all around her. Slowly, the sound seemed to drift to the right as people made their way into the next room.

  Owen walked forward and the two of them stood in silence for some seconds. Imogen wanted to ask questions but was wary of shattering the peace, destroying the almost reverent atmosphere.

  ‘Wow, Imogen! I’m staring at Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers”! I am actually here, looking at this painting that is smaller than I imagined and worth tens of millions of pounds, can you believe that?’ Owen turned to her to ask.

  ‘It seems a lot. I think IKEA have prints for about a tenner.’

  ‘I bet the ones in IKEA don’t have security guards. This one does: two miserable-looking men in each corner of the room and cameras winking at us from the roof and the wall.’

  ‘Are you saying nicking it’s out of the question?’ Imogen smiled.

  ‘It’s... It’s beautiful,’ he whispered, ignoring the question.

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  Owen Jackson coughed to clear his throat. ‘I hope I can do it j
ustice.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The picture is not perfect, or fragile like real flowers. The ones here are not even delicate... in fact the flowers are clunky, misshapen almost. The paint is thick and you can see the lines where a brush or a knife has been at work. But for those reasons it feels... I don’t know how to describe it, new, fresh, like he’s just finished it and walked out of the room and... even though we are in rainy Amsterdam, the colours are so vivid, so real, that it’s like standing in the South of France in front of this bright burst of yellow and ochre, so real you can feel the heat of the midday sun on your skin. And the vase is simple, as if painted quickly because he had to capture the flowers before they wilted, and that makes me feel unbelievably sad, that something so beautiful is so transient and he’s long dead, not just walked from the room, not at all...’

  Imogen stood deep in concentration, her head turned in his direction. It was a second or two before she spoke. ‘Thank you, Owen. Thank you very much.’ Her voice was small. She knew that she would never forget the magic of this painting and the way her companion had made it real for her, painted the sunflowers in her mind so vividly that she too was lost in the picture.

  Owen turned and bent forward. Without thought or forewarning he grazed Imogen’s cheek with a kiss.

  ‘Oh!’ She was a little taken aback as her tall, dark guide snatched this moment. It was a sweet kiss, firm and full of promise, and while they both recovered from the intensity of the contact, Imogen’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Imi! I’m awake! Where are you? I’ll come and find you and we can tear up the town.’ Jenny whooped with newfound energy.

  ‘Actually, Jen, I won’t be free for a while. I’m just... er...’ She wondered how best to phrase it.

  ‘You just er-what? Is this code? Do you need me to call the Polis?’ Jenny was only half-joking.

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve met a nice guy. He’s stood in front of me now so I can’t say too much, but I thought I might hang out with him for a bit.’ Imogen felt Owen squeeze her arm in approval.

  ‘Are you joshing me? We come all the way to bloody Holland, I turn my back for five minutes and you’ve pulled a bloke?’