Page 110 of Tears of Gold

Just in case you want it.

E.

Below his words is an address. Nothing else. He must have put it in there before he left.

A burning ache centres itself in my chest and I fling the rest of the covers off and jump out of the bed. Without much thought, I leave the bedroom that used to be ours and pace up to the attic. Upstairs, I slam the door shut and glare with burning hatred at everything I see. Swiping out with my fists I knock the papers and drawing off the desk. I push at packs of paint and shelves of equipment until they land at my feet, shattering and rolling across the floorboards. Lastly, I turn for the painting on the easel, the picture of Charlotte I painted the other week. I don’t want the memory of that evening here; that single slice of perfection Eli and I managed before once again destruction and despair chased me down. It’s not there. The easel is empty.

Folding myself to the floor I let my tears roll, not even bothering to wipe them. They slip and slide, but they don’t erase my anguish the way I want them to.

When I’m done and my tears are sticky on my cheeks, I look at the mess I’ve made. It’s impressive. What would Miss Beesley say? I want to apologise to her. She’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve the way I spoke to her. She cares. But I hate being cared for. I hate the pity and the looks that comes with caring. Now everyone knows.

No, those looks will be with me wherever I go. I could never see Eli again and those looks would still follow me.

I pick up a pack of moulding clay from where it’s rolled next to me and pick at the cellophane. It feels warm beneath my touch. Pliable, like it wants me to turn it into something.

“I can’t.” I whisper at the inanimate lump in my palms. “How can I when everyone is watching, waiting, looking to see what I will do next, what mess I will create. What glass I will smash…

My fingers don’t listen. They keep kneading and moulding, pushing and prodding. Then I get another pack and another and I sit in the dark of the attic and let my hands lead my heart.

Dawn is peeking along the horizon at Chesham Place when I walk back down the stairs. In my hands I hold the sculpted head of a young girl, her eyes covered with her fingers.

“Holy fuck!” I almost drop the damn thing when I walk into the kitchen and find Miss Beesley already sat at the table.

“And a good morning to you, too.”

“You literally just took years off my life. What are you doing here so early?”

“I didn’t go home.” She raises a defiant glare in my direction.

"Why on earth not?”

For a moment she looks at me like I’m utterly stupid. “I’m beginning to realise a few things with you, young missy.” She sighs and pours a cup of tea from a pot on the table and pushes it towards me. “I didn’t go home because I care. About you, about Eli, but mostly about you.”

Her admission takes the wind out of my already deflated sails. I sit on the chair opposite her and pull the cup of tea across the table. “I’m sorry.”

We sit in silence for a while. The tea warms me up and my stomach grumbles.

“What can I make you?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to eat. Instead, I want to be hungry and smoke cigarettes, but I can’t. I need to look after the person inside of me, too.

“I’d like some toast. Can you show me how to make it on the Aga?”

“I can."

“Look, I made this.”

Miss Beesley stares at the girl in clay. “Who is it?”

“I think it’s me?”

She looks between me and the clay with that sharp and shrewd gaze of hers. “And what’s going to make you see, Faith?”

I shrug, but my heart is already whispering, telling me what I need. “We’ve got to bake that, and I don’t have a kiln yet. Reckon the Aga will do it?”

“My baby cooks most things.”

“Your baby?”