Flowers

She came into the room and disarmed me with flowers. Her instant, constant chatter was verging on nervousness and had I not known her grief that's what I would have mistaken it for. The photographer arrived early again. She was anxious to accommodate him and generously offered to buy him a drink even though the newspaper was footing the lunch bill. Her answers to the quick fire questions hinted at an inability to make decisions and my shorthand spread down the page like ancient Egyptian script. It was a simple question about her favourite clothes shop which drew a sad response. “Since Helen died I haven't really enjoyed shopping. She was a really good shopper. That's been a big loss. Going back to clothes shopping has been hard and does not seem very important any more – and it's not after the loss of a family member.” A promising young actress Helen died in a Boxing Day car crash. When her brothers and father went to see the mangled vehicle they decided to turn their heart-breaking loss into something positive and the foundation was born. The arrival of food allowed for a brief breath of air and my thoughts momentarily wondered to another family and another painful loss. Prescription drugs attempted to numb his mother's pain and she wandered soullessly into each subsequent hour. For a second she looked up at this stranger in her living room, just a few days after the death of her youngest child. “I don't mean to be rude, but why are you here?” I regret not being honest. Instead of saying, “I don't know, I find this intrusive and difficult and I'm sorry your son has died.” I told her it was to write a tribute to her son because friends, teachers and past acquaintances had called the paper with the news. The truth was I had searched the archives, phoned friends and teachers and past acquaintances. I had accessed the electoral role and I knew where they lived and what their jobs were before I arrived. With Helen's mum time had healed some of the wounds like a scar you gradually get used to or a limb you learn to live without. When the plates had been cleared away and the bill paid she put the flowers into a wet tissue and wrapped them in a plastic bag, “Helen would never go to lunch without bringing flowers,” she said.

Embrace

I'm sharing my living room with a 94 year old. I spent hundreds of pounds for the privilege. She sits on a white wicker chair with red rose heads tumbling down her black skirt. In her gnarled hands she embraces an alabaster plaster cast of Ione Rucquoi's head. Her name is Joan. Until tonight she didn't have a name. Now she's a sculptor's grandmother. "Careful it's heavy," Ione says, tired and at the point in her pregnancy where she's close to bursting. I carry the bubble-wrapped image inside and set it down by the table. Ione follows me in and as we take off the cloudy covering we chat again about the picture, who the lady is and the shoot. The background to the image replays in my head - the untimely death of Ione's sister, the old lady she never became, her youth captured in the cast. It's a striking image but one you can live with. PJ's image of two sisters picking over an ox heart, blood smeared around their mouths, is still wrapped up and hidden behind the sideboard banned from causing offence. The women in the house don't like it. Some of Ione's images are stronger and uncomfortable, but Embrace has a sadness to it and a complex beauty. "Oh my god that scared the hell out of me," my housmate exclaims when he walks though the door and is faced with Joan.