Between the pages

The bench had been designed with a wave of elegance, some architect no doubt commissioned to mimic the ripples in the lake, or the way a leaf falls. They had used a rich acacia to cut slat after slat which slowly undulated from left to right on this box seat. A floating back of more slats rising and falling above it. It was nestled tight within the foliage which looked out across the smooth surface of the lake. Clearly visible from the other side, though careful planting meant that most didn’t find it easy to locate.

She knew where it was, she had been coming to that park for as long as she could remember. It was her wilderness, the only place anywhere near which hadn’t seemed to be bricked or tarmacked. Headphones on, Oyinda lay out the contents of her bag on the bench beside her; a ritual. She also pulled out a plump and wide hand knitted scarf which she used as a blanket over her legs. The trees were in their last throws of autumn. Their splendour at this time of the day was breathtaking and she relaxed into the quiet solitude before the lunchtime flurry.

Opening a Tupperware box, she picked up a spoon, opening the large textbook on her lap, weighing the pages open with bulldog clips she started to tuck into her Jollof Rice, whilst her eyes scanned the words. Such an idyllic way to spend her day. A gust of wind caught a paper towel she had stuffed into the side of her rucksack, catapulting it onto the prickly almost bare branches of the tree behind. Laying everything aside she reached over to disentangle the tissue to put back in her bag.

That was when she saw it.

Lying there forlorn and lost down in the soft earth behind the bench, hidden.

It was an awkward reach. She found herself crouched on the seat, an arm squeezed through the gap below the back, her long fingers stretching as far as they could, she had to keep brushing her heavy braids back away from her face as she tried to peer through the space. She hoped no one was watching. It slipped several times on the retrieval, but finally she had it. This would have been a whole lot easier if the seat hadn’t been boxed at the base.

The black notebook looked ruffled when she lay it down, she dusted some mud of it, the soft outer leather closed around the pages almost with a sigh. Surprisingly it was quite dry.

She rubbed her arm, the white scuff marks showing up against her dark skin.

She picked up the notebook again and let it fall open. It was as if a silence had been shattered. The images all over the pages, these beautiful, spellbinding sketches crammed in. There were parts of faces, hands, buildings, animals, all coursing from the inside. Drawn in ink with some splashes of colour, there was the odd piece of additional media, a leaf slotted here, some material clipped there. She was mindless of the real world, absorbed by this reality created before her. There were words also, scribbled, scrawled, wound into the pictures, placed to the side and over the top; “ebullience”, “fugacious”, “chatoyant”, they went on and on. Hidden, nestled, mixed with the lines.

When she finally looked up, she almost felt her vision coming to a halt after spinning, all around her had seemed to have dulled, and yet as she stared at it and imagined it recreated by the same hand, it was as if the magic was evoked again.

She was cold by the time she packed her bag, sliding the notebook carefully in, she must have been sitting there for the best part of two hours and no studying had been done. She wanted to berate herself, but her mind was lost in thought. How could someone imagine such beauty.

She decided she’d walk back. The journey was long and not the nicest alongside the busy roads, but buses cost and at the moment that wasn’t an option. Like being dragged back into normality, the itching concerns about money had returned. Her course was covered. Her family made sure she had everything she needed for food and clothes, but the books were getting expensive and the library could not be relied upon and now more and more texts were being made for online reading. She needed her own computer, but how? Her job was only getting her enough to contribute to the vital items. She didn’t want to burden those around her more. A computer was too much to ask, she sighed as she approached the front-door of the maisonette.

When her mum went out for work, Oyinda jumped on the computer, though not for study. Whilst it loaded up, she scrolled through the pages of the notebook looking for any indication to whom it might belong. Scratched two pages in were some initials and a possible surname. She started Googling, her fingers deftly running across the keyboard. All of a sudden images on the screen reflected those she had seen in the notebook. She read the headlines “Tate to give a commemorative viewing of late prodigy”. She read on, it seemed apparent that this young vibrant artist had lived every moment of his life through his work and three months earlier at the gentle age of 27 had been involved in a car accident and this beauty, this wondrous talent had been taken. The family were devastated. Looking at other pieces of his work following down the many pages through the rabbit hole of the Internet, she discovered that only the year before one of his notebooks and some of his earlier work had reached a gaspingly high sum at auction. She looked down at the notebook no longer just a notebook but also an unwritten cheque. She ran her hand over the smooth leather cover again such a beautiful notebook, it would almost inspire the kind of work which lay within. Further investigation found an address of the gallery run by the artist’s family. She decided that she would visit the following day.

The moment she walked in she felt “too”. Her hair - too big, her jewellery - too chunky, her shoes - too thick and her clothes - too colourful. Her graceful African frame now didn’t seem so. Everything in the gallery was letterbox thin and minimal. Colours were muted everything linear. The walls were blank beside the small individually discreet canvases. Even the inside noise was hushed, it was as if everything had been suppressed.

“Can I help you? “. The smartly clipped words sounded doubtful. She turned to see a pristine woman approach.

“ Uh.. yes, are you Mrs Trentwood?”

“Yes .” it was the only word she was going to receive. A pause. Oyinda then reached inside her bag, digging deep to find what lay within. She felt watched, uncomfortable, awkward, she could hear the echo of the word ‘yes’ still reverberating down the blank corridor.

“I found this ...” she didn't have time to finish, the lady saw the book and reached forward to take it, immediately assuming ownership.

“How long have you had this? Where did you get it?” then, “Xander!” the latter was a call to another room, where she could hear someone moving.

“I ... As I was saying I found –“

A tall slim lady the same age as herself appeared from another room. She had a gentleness unlike the woman who stood before Oyinda, and who proceeded to cut across her and turn to the new arrival and started a new conversation. “She has just turned up here with one of Tommy’s notebooks! I don’t know what she wants for it. She just walked in off the street!”

‘Off the street’ Oyinda wasn’t keen on the lady’s turn of phrase. She felt her clothes hanging limply around her. The bright colours glaring at their surroundings, making a lot of garish noises.

“I think I’ll go.”

She turned, the woman said, “Well it’s Tommy’s, we’re not going to pay you for it.”

She couldn’t stand this suffocating, sterile environment anymore. “I was just returning it.”

There was a huff from the lady. Oyinda would take no more of this, but the young woman followed her out the door. “Please! Please! My mother shouldn’t have acted that way.”

“No. She shouldn’t.” she kept walking.

“Please! It’s not an excuse, it’s just, well, some of Tommy’s so called “friends”.” She used air quotes “tried to get my mum to pay for some items they had taken from his flat… they said he’d gifted them, but we have proof they had been taken after his accident. Please don’t leave.”

“I’m just not going back in there.”

“How did you find us?” She half reached for Oyinda’s arm.

“His name was in the notebook; I googled him.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Tideford park. It was in the flowerbed down behind one of the benches. You’ll see there’s mud on the back cover.” she added defensively.

The young lady laughed. It was a beautiful sound. Oyinda allowed her own dazzling smile to reply and imagined this very scene sketched inside the notebook. “That's so Tommy, he used to go to that park all the time, he was dreadful about keeping an eye on his possessions. I once found his favourite jumper in a plant pot outside the front door of my uncle’s house. He had no idea how it got there!”

They stood and stared at each other.

“You do realise you could have sold the notebook for a lot of money?”

“Yeah, I saw on the internet, what the last one went for.”

“And yet you brought this one here? ”

“It wasn't mine to sell. I thought you might like it back. Though it’s a nice notebook, if it had been empty, with no name in it, I might have used it myself.” Another deep smile to lighten the mood.

“It’s a moleskine, they are nice, aren’t they? He was addicted. Are you an artist yourself?”

“No, a student.”

“Oh?”

“Optometry.” She answered the unasked question.

“Oh wow! Well good luck.” Oyinda smiled her thanks and turned to go.

“We have to thank you. Listen-“. She retrieved a slim and expensive looking phone from an invisible and almost impossible pocket. “Can I have your name and address, or number, or both? I really am awfully sorry about my mother, but I know when she is thinking sensibly again she will be mortified by her actions and will want to send you an apology. Oyinda thought how the last thing she wanted was an apology from the cactus in the gallery.

“Sure.” She took the proffered phone and keyed in her details.

“Thank you… Oyinda, you can’t imagine how important these things are to us. To see his work again, is like -“ she stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. “I’m just really glad you spotted it!”

“Me too. Well, I’d better go.” Oyinda turned and was gone.

It was a week later that the box arrived. Addressed in perfect script no less, ‘to Ms Oyinda Musa.’

She opened it.

Six brand new moleskin notebooks slid out with a post-it attached. “For your studies.” She lifted the top one and smelt the fresh new pages. Inside there was tucked an envelope made of a thick linen paper, she opened it, her jaw dropped. A cheque for $20,000 and another post-it. “Towards your studies. You know you really could have got a whole lot more if you had sold it online, can’t tell you how grateful I am you didn’t! Good luck with your studies, help people to see the world as Tommy would have.”