My Life After Robert

The letter lay on the kitchen table. I winced feeling the ache in my wrist under the fresh plaster cast as I got up and flicked the switch on the kettle. I needed time to process this; the words were almost screaming up at me off the page. We had only known each other a few months. We had visited museums together and I loved spending time with him but this? This is too much.

I thought about our last visit to the Victoria and Albert Museum, sitting in the gallery people watching, making up stories about everyone we saw. I thought back to his kind face, his liver spotted hands shaking clutched around the familiar travel mug filled with the dark black coffee he always brought on our outings. The Bright pink unicorn flask absurd against his dapper tweed suit and cravat, always beautifully tied for our adventures together. He had once told me the travel mug was a gift from his great granddaughter. I remember thinking how sweet that was, that this bold, colourful coffee flask would always appear from his suitcase, that he practically always kept it at his side. He had pulled out his worn, black, Moleskine notebook as always, at the same time as retrieving his flask. It was now open on his knee as we chatted, every now and then he or I would say something that he liked and he would note it down. He loved language, words, metaphors and similes of life.

The kettle had boiled now. I reached up and grabbed an Earl Grey tea bag from the jar on the shelf, following the familiar action of pouring the water into my favourite mug and splashing some milk over it all. I moved back to the kitchen table and sat staring at the words in the letter as my tea swirled in the mug in front of me, changing the consistency of the hot water to match the colour of my hands, still shaking in front of me.

Twenty thousand pounds. Twenty. Thousand. Pounds. Surely I am reading this wrong. But I have counted the zeros out loud to make sure. Yes, there are four zeros. The cheque that had been attached to the back of the letter felt wrong in my hands. I returned my gaze back down to the paper in front of me.

Dear Miss Brown,

We are writing to you to inform you of the passing away of our dear grandfather Robert Billingham at the end of last month. He often spoke highly of you, and upon the reading of his Will we have become aware that he has expressed his wishes for you to be taken care of. As such we feel that this money will help you to start your new life. He also requested in his Will that we handover his notebooks to you as inspiration for your characters.

Please also find attached an open train ticket. We would love for you to come visit us at the house in Sussex, we would love to meet you. Our grandfather has spoken many times of you and we know how he appreciated your friendship in his last few months.

Kindest regards

Elizabeth and George Billingham.

I can’t believe he was gone, I had only seen him a few weeks ago. As always, our conversation had moved easily from topic to topic, with his little black notebook open all the while and a pen behind his ear. I didn’t know that would be the last time we would do that.

Robert Billingham was a writer and retired university lecturer who loved to teach. We had met months earlier and he had opened my eyes to the world of writing. Robert bought me my first notebook, we would sit together watching people walk through the museum and scribble away. He always said people watching was his best source of inspiration.

When I met Robert for the first time I had been sitting alone on the cold wooden bench in the vast museum, looking up at the painting of a woman and a song bird. A wave of loneliness had rushed over me completely overwhelming me, my eyes burning, prickling with tears as I tried not to think of what was waiting for me at home. That ‘he’ was waiting, I shivered and wrapped my scarf around myself, trying to work out my next move. I couldn’t stay in the house much longer. I remember adjusting my position on the bench and wincing, a shooting pain across my ribs setting fire to my breath.

There was a movement in the corner of the room that brought my attention. That was when I first noticed the little old man walk into the room, the security guard in the corner tracking his movements lazily. He was wearing a smart tweed suit shoulders hunched, his arthritic fingers struggling with the lid of a jar. Wait was that an urn? The Guard crossed his arms across his chest and started walking towards him. Without thinking I stood up and skipped quickly up to the old man, taking his arm. ‘Grandfather, I told you to wait for me,’ I’d smiled at the guard and turned my back blocking the view of the urn and saying a little loudly ‘Let’s go get a coffee!’. Steering the little, rather confused looking old man by the arm I tucked the urn under my giant scarf and led him out to the café in the centre of the museum.

‘I’m so sorry’ I whispered to him ‘but that guard looked serious’. He looked shaken and a bit teary. I led him over to one of the tables outside by the pond and ordered us a pot of tea. I then sat down and pulled out the urn - and by this point I had established that it was most certainly an urn - out from the wraps of my scarf. I put it in between us and looked at the man across the table. His surprisingly clear blue eyes looked at me and then focused back to the urn, they filled with tears and I felt lost for words. I took a sip of my tea and waited, after a deep breath he looked back at me, seeming to have recovered himself, ‘My name is Robert and this,’ he gestured at the object in front of him ‘this is Anne,’ he had taken a long sip of tea and then started to share with me his tale.

Robert had met his wife Anne 43 years ago in this very gallery. He, a young man, was fully aware of what his life was to look like. It would be the same as his fathers, and his father’s father. He had stood here in this gallery all those years ago, his favourite space in the whole of London, the only place his father could not tell him what to do, to not remind him of his responsibilities to join the family law firm. It was then that he had seen her, across the gallery. She’d had red hair in a bun, but one loose strand had fallen across her face. She had a pencil in her mouth, a sketch book open in front of her as she studied the painting of a beautiful woman and a songbird. He had crossed the room, edging closer, trying to get a glance at the page in front of her. She turned, feeling his gaze on her and their eyes met; it was in that moment that he told me he knew his life would never be the same.

His eyes misted over as he spoke of Anne and their life together. We sat in that cafe and drank tea, we ordered more tea, and drank more tea, as he took me back in time with his words. He absently pulled out an old photo along with a black notebook. He absently clutched the notebook to his chest before putting it back in his briefcase and pushed the photograph across the table towards me. ‘She was the one who encouraged me to write. To put down on paper the words that flew around my head. She gave me the strength to say ‘no’ to my father. ‘No’ to the law firm and the secure and stable income, and become the writer that I am today’ I looked down at the picture then back up to his wrinkled face.

‘But why were you here in the museum with your wife’s ashes Robert?’ I had asked. As I gazed at him, the years appeared to fall away in that moment and a sheepish schoolboy grin emerged from behind the wrinkles. He’d explained that during their last few months together Anne had made him promise to leave her ashes in their favourite museum.

Surely that can’t be what’s happening here I had thought to myself? ‘But Robert, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to drop someone ashes in a public museum?’

He looked at me bashfully and nodded ‘I know, I know but I promised her I would’ I looked at him and saw the determination in his eyes. My lonely heart still missing my mum, and the isolation that filled my daily life made me want to reach out to this man. I felt his aching loss, it felt familiar, like an echo of my own. I had thought about what was waiting for me at home. The pricks of fear, the reminder of his fists against my skin. I knew that staying there would get me in trouble, but I’d then glanced down at the urn on the table and thought of the laughing red haired woman in the photo. I knew I couldn’t leave Robert to do this by himself, I had to help.

I sighed and nodded, ‘OK, if we are going to do this, we need to come up with a plan.’

A smile spread across his face ‘Really? You’ll help me?’

I took a deep breath ‘Well I can’t leave you to do this by yourself Robert’.

And this was how I met Robert Billingham, the man who changed my life, maybe even saved it. Perhaps not the Prince Charming I had dreamed would rescue me, but this vibrant old man became the catalyst to my new world.

I sipped my tea and looked back at the letter. The front door banged loudly and I quickly stuffed the letter away under my jumper, flinching as he threw his bag onto the counter and pulled out a beer from the fridge. ‘Good day?’ I asked tentatively, he grunted and went into the living room. I heard the TV switch on and the sound of cheering and laughing float through to the kitchen.

I crept into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, examining my reflection. I saw the fresh bruises around my neck from last night, the yellow and green still colouring the skin around my right eye and the bandage covering my arm. I thought about Robert and Anne and their life together. I looked again at the letter and took a deep breath. I walked out of the bathroom into the hallway and pulled on my coat. Leaving my phone and keys on the table I opened the front door, train ticket and letter in hand. I closed the door quietly behind me. This was my chance and without looking back I took those first steps into a my new life.