Letters to Leonardo

by Dee White

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Logo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Dear Leonardo,

  Truth is important in art, don’t you think?

  Truth is important full stop.

  Matt

  It’s Matt Hudson’s fifteenth birthday and all he wants is some art lessons.

  Instead, he gets a card from his dead mother.

  How can someone who died ten years ago send you a card?

  Simple answer – they can’t.

  This awful truth changes Matt’s life forever.

  1

  To the great Leonardo da Vinci,

  Why am I writing to a dead guy?

  a) My History teacher, Mrs D, says I have to.

  b) Mrs D is dumb enough to think that somebody IMPORTANT and DEAD would want to know about me and my boring life.

  c) Mrs D is a pain.

  d) All of the above.

  If you guessed d), go to the top of the class – but don’t expect to find me there. I don’t have your greatness. Must admit though, when it comes to painting, I sure wish I did.

  Matt, the not so great

  Dear Leonardo,

  I’m on a roll. Two letters in two days! Mrs D will be shocked.

  So why did I choose you, Leo? Apart from the painting connection, there was the fact that you were someone I’d actually heard of – I mean, who hasn’t?

  I’ll tell you about my life – if that’s what Mrs D wants. But they probably won’t be the sort of letters she’s expecting. I don’t do furry pets and family holidays – probably comes from growing up without a mum.

  Tomorrow’s my birthday. I guess I could tell you about that.

  Matt

  My fifteenth birthday doesn’t start out as anything special. Dad has to work. So what’s new?

  “We’ll do something on my day off,” he promises.

  At breakfast, I think about Mum. I guess it’s natural to think of your dead mum on your birthday.

  I try to remember her voice, but I can’t. Was it low and soft, or one of those high-pitched, on-the-edge voices – one that goes up at the end of a sentence? Did she suffer in the accident – or was it quick, like a falling tree?

  Dad’s about to load his mouth with cornflakes.

  “What sort of car was Mum driving?” I ask.

  He just about chokes on his breakfast. After he stops coughing, he puts his spoon down and pastes on a sad, reflective face. “A Cortina – an old white one.”

  Dad lays one hand on my shoulder and uses the other to point out the window. “She’s up there, keeping an eye on us – she’d be really proud of how you’ve grown up.”

  I shove him away. “Come off it. She’s not a star, she’s dead.”

  “You used to like it when I told you she was watching over you.”

  Is he for real?

  “I believed in Santa Claus back then.”

  Dad hands over his present. It’s heavy and square, and it’s wrapped in silver paper with cheery gold “Happy Birthday” all over it.

  It’s a book on motorbikes. Just what I didn’t want! I asked for painting lessons. There’s this guy at the art shop in town – Steve Bridges – man, can he paint. I took one of my pictures to him once. “You’ve got natural talent,” he said. “Just need to learn about technique and composition.”

  “Thanks, Dave.”

  I leave the book on the kitchen table and turn back to my toast.

  Dad shakes his head. He hates me calling him Dave, but I do it to annoy him when I’m mad. It makes the muscle at the corner of his eye twitch and his mouth sets in a hard line, like he’s trying not to react.

  “I know you wanted art lessons,” he says, “but trust me, mate, art will get you nowhere.”

  I take my plate and half-eaten toast to the sink, open the window and hurl my crusts to the birds. I turn to face Dad. “What about Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “He did a lot of other things as well. You can’t make a good living out of painting.”

  “And you can make a good living out of what you do?”

  Dad’s eye muscle twitches. “We manage.”

  I wind my foot around the chair leg and pull at the torn edges of the tablecloth. “You think?”

  “We always have food on the table.”

  “Yeah, well I’d rather paint and starve, than do some lame real estate job.”

  I know I’m going too far but I can’t seem to stop myself. Why won’t he let me paint?

  I grab my present and the pile of birthday cards from relatives we never see, and take off to my room. I always read letters in private – it stops Dad from making his “secret admirer” jokes.

  I toss the book onto my bed. It misses and topples over onto the floor. I leave it there, its pages sprawled out like the wings of a damaged moth, and line the cards up on my desk. There are the usual suspects – Aunt Alexa, Nana Rose et cetera, and an envelope with writing I don’t recognise and no return address.

  Matthew Hudson, my name’s in purple, loopy letters with feathered ends – as if the ink ran. The scent of oversweet perfume drifts out of the envelope. I’m looking through a cloud, seeing a vague outline of a shape that I can almost recognise. My stomach jolts, as if all this means something – something important – but I don’t know what.

  I lay the card on the bed. The pulsing in my stomach won’t go away. I try to absorb myself in what’s on the front of the card: Uluru at dusk, a blast of red and purple light. There’s something about the painting that looks familiar.

  The colours, that’s it – they’re just the sort of colours I would use. I trace my fingers over the brushstrokes, wondering if I’ll ever be that good. Steve Bridges reckons I could be.

  I turn the card over and look inside. That’s when I nearly throw up.

  To my darling Matt,

  I don’t expect you to understand why I’m sending this. I’m not even sure I do. I think about you every day. Not one of your birthdays goes by without me wishing I could see and hold you in my arms.

  It gets harder every year.

  I promised I wouldn’t do this, but you’re fifteen now – old enough to make your way in the world – old enough to know your mother.

  You never stopped being the brightest star in my universe.

  Have a wonderful birthday, darling boy.

  Love Mum

  It can’t be from Mum – she’s dead! Dave told me how she died. Who would play such a sick joke?

  I read the words more carefully, but they don’t change. I shake the envelope and a photo falls out. It’s Mum and me – when I was about five – just before Mum “died”.

  The letter has to be from her. Goose bumps creep up my arms and wash over my neck. Pain stabs my chest. My eyes sting with murky memories, splashed together like a contaminated palette. I can’t stop shivering. Can you have a heart attack and die of shock at fifteen?

>   I stare at the photo for ages, not believing, yet knowing it has to be true. You just have to look at us – we’re exact copies: same dimple on the chin, same questioning brown eyes. Where has she been for most of my life?

  2

  All those lies! I want to confront Dave. I want to throw this in his face, now – trap him in his own lies. But I get to the door of my bedroom and realise, what’s the point? How do I know he’ll tell me the truth this time?

  Right now, I just want to smash something – him!

  “Bye, Matt. Have a good day. I’ll bring home pizza.” The front door slams.

  White-hot anger gouges a hole inside me, burning for answers.

  I fling open the door of Dave’s bedroom. I tear open the top drawer of his old timber chest and rummage through it, scattering neat piles of socks and undies everywhere.

  I don’t really know what I’m looking for but there has to be something here. Something about Mum. I search through each and every drawer.

  He must have loved her once. Why doesn’t he have any of her stuff? I throw open the wardrobe door and ransack Dave’s shelves. I toss neatly folded shirts and tank tops everywhere. I’m frantic, out of control, like a bat searching for a cave exit that’s just been sealed off. I bang my arm on a broken corner of the shelf. Ow. I don’t care. I keep on searching but find nothing.

  Under the shelves is another nest of drawers. I tug the first drawer open, so fiercely that the handle pulls off in my hand. I drop it on the floor and kick it under the bed.

  Finally, in the drawer with the missing handle, I find something: a small ivory bible with Zara Templeton in neat calligraphy on the inside front cover. That must have been who she was before she became a Hudson. Inside the bible is a wedding photo of a much younger Dave with thick, red-blond hair. Mum wears a light purple dress with lipstick to match. Her hair’s as black as a starless sky.

  I hold the bible in my hand, close my eyes and try to remember. But I can’t. What did her feet sound like on the kitchen floor in the morning? Did her clothes rustle when she walked? Was her sneeze soft and quick like a cat or loud and wet like Dave’s? Did she only wear perfume when she went out, or was it the essence of her that lingered wherever she went? Why has Dave done this to me? Why did he keep me from my own mother? Why didn’t she write a return address on the envelope?

  I want to let my shoulders sag, to cry ten years worth of tears.

  But I can’t cry. The anger won’t let me. It flares from every nerve ending. It forces me to keep going – to keep hunting. I have to find out what all this is about. Where can I find Mum? Where is she? Why did she leave?

  I drag out the next drawer. Nothing. And the next. Still nothing.

  I wrench out the bottom drawer. I have just enough control left to stop me from throwing the whole thing through Dave’s window. Savagely, I thrust my hand in amongst the shorts and swimwear. Something pricks my finger. I take it out for a closer look. It’s some sort of pin with two owls at the blunt end. Don’t really know what it’s for, but it says Mayberry Girls’ Grammar across the bottom. Girls’ Grammar, it can’t belong to Dave.

  I’m standing in the middle of the pile of Dave’s clothes. I love that they’re not neatly folded stacks any more. They’re a twisted mess. That’s how my insides feel.

  I’ve got a mum – and she’s not dead! I want to prick every single finger with the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin, wipe the blood on Dave’s white business shirts, then watch him freak. See how he handles shock! I want the sting of ten bleeding fingers to distract me from the pain that’s coming from deep in my chest. Too bad I’m such a wimp.

  I kick the wardrobe where Dave hangs his suits. The door vibrates, but doesn’t show the mark of my anger.

  Each suit hangs next to its matching shirt and tie, all coathangers face the same way. I take every single piece of clothing from its hanger and think about throwing it on the crush at my feet. But I don’t. I put them all back. Put jackets with pants that don’t match, blue shirts with green paisley ties. I arrange them into a confused jumble, then I scoop up the bible, photo and pin. So few things. They fit easily into my back pocket. All that’s left to show my mother even existed. It’s like Dave has tried to erase her from his memory and these are the things he accidentally overlooked.

  Back in my room, I lay Mum’s stuff out on my desk; between the watercolour pencils that were last year’s birthday present from Troy, and a pile of scrap paper sketchpads.

  I take out the photo of Mum to have another look; my hand shakes too much to hold it steady. At first I’m so angry with her, I want to rip it up. But the part of me that always wanted a mother wishes I could use it to bring her back. For ages, I sit on my bed, clutching the photo to my chest, but it doesn’t make the pain go away.

  So much I don’t know. I look like her, but what else connects us? What sort of music does she listen to? Does she go to bed late too? What sort of person is she? Why don’t I know this about my own mother? With each question, the anger pounds harder in my chest, like a heavy clanging church bell. I look out my bedroom window and wonder, can anyone else hear? If I lifted up my shirt, could they see the gaping hole in my heart?

  Of all the things I found that belong to her, the only one that’s any use is the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin. At least that tells me where she went to school.

  I slam myself down on my chair in front of my computer, shove the mouse towards Explorer and click. My fingers stumble on the keys. “Mayberry Girls’ Grammar”. Finally, on the third try, the screen signals “Website found”.

  My stomach churns when the home page comes up. What do I do now? Where do you start searching for someone that you shouldn’t even need to be looking for? Salt stings my eyes. I tap out “Zara Hudson”. The screen taunts “no match”. Thanks for nothing! I’m about to flick the “off” switch, when I realise … she wouldn’t be Zara Hudson. She wasn’t married then!

  “Don’t stop now,” says the white-hot anger.

  She has to be here! I have to find out something about her – there has to be more than what was in Dave’s wardrobe. Who was she friends with? Is there someone who knew her? Someone who can tell me the truth about her – someone who might even know where she is now.

  I type in “Tara Zempleton” – nothing. Oops. I tap the keys hard and retype. Finally, there she is: “Z Templeton”, typed underneath the class photo, “Class of 81”. She’s four years younger than Dave.

  School captain for that year is listed as K Armain. I don’t know if she was friends with Mum or not, but she was in her class. And there’s an email listing – as good as an invitation. Perhaps “K Armain” will have some info on the mysterious, long-lost Miss Templeton – absent mother of Matt Hudson who turned fifteen today.

  “Happy Birthday and have a fun day”. That was the pathetic inscription inside Dave’s card. Are we having fun yet? NO!

  I wish the pounding in my chest would stop – now my head’s thumping as well. What am I going to say to her – to this Armain person? I know I should take time to try and calm myself, think what to do next, but anger is pushing me forward. I can’t stop now. If I stopped, all of this would come down on me like an avalanche, and I’d be left in a snow cave with barely enough air to breathe.

  I key in her address: karmain@motoona.com. My fingers staccato on the keys.

  Hi,

  You don’t know me, but I’m the son of Zara Templeton, who ran out on me when I was five (Delete that last bit.)

  I haven’t seen my mother for ten years and am trying to find her because my lying father isn’t likely to be any help. (Delete that too.)

  I’m hoping that you, or someone else who went to school with her, might know where she is and why she took off. (Delete again.) It’s really important that I contact her.

  “What makes you think she’d want to hear from you?” says a voice in my head.

  (Delete all of that.)

  I start again. I end up with:

  To: karmain@mo
toona.com

  From: MatthewH@stillmail.org

  Subject: Looking for Zara

  Hi,

  I’m Matt Hudson.

  You went to school with my mum, Zara Templeton.

  I haven’t seen her for ten years and am trying to track her down.

  Can you help?

  Thanks,

  Matt Hudson

  After I press “send”, I break into a cold sweat. I just make it to the toilet in time to heave up breakfast.

  I sit on my bed all day. Waiting. Holding the photo to my chest. I don’t go to school. Don’t eat. Don’t think. I just sit, trying to block out the words that keep echoing over and over in my mind as if someone keeps pressing “rewind”: You’re fifteen now … old enough to know your mother. Over and over and over.

  My mother is not dead! The truth of it fries my brain, changes everything – including me.

  Dear Leonardo,

  Parents ride you for every little white lie – then you find out they’ve told you the Whopper of All Whoppers – and kept it up for the last ten years.

  Happy Birthday, Matt, oh and by the way, YOUR MOTHER IS NOT DEAD!

  So, Leo, that’s how my birthday’s gone. Can’t even begin to tell you what’s going on in my head.

  This time, I’m not writing for Mrs D, I’m writing for me. Have to let it out somehow. And it’s not like there’s anyone who’s alive NOW, who I can actually trust – someone who won’t make a joke of the whole thing.

  Maybe writing this down might help me make sense of everything.

  Who knows, you might even write back. Seems like dead people do send letters.

  Matt

  3

  The bedroom door bursts open. Dave stands gaping at me. “Oh my God, Matt. We’ve been robbed. Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  As if anyone could hurt me more than you have! My laugh is dry like the crackle of sunburnt bracken. “I’m fine, Dave. Never been better.” The lie moves up through my body and collects in my throat in bubbles of hysteria. Suddenly, I burst out laughing and can’t stop: loud, high-pitched, hysterical giggles.

  “Matt, are you sure you’re all right?”

  It makes me laugh more. I’m angry and sad, confused and betrayed – and I can’t stop laughing.