Memories are made of this

She had done it
She had met the costs of self publishing her books, and many she gave to people for free as well as donations to charities close to home, and thousands of miles away, including to a local doctor who was treating children with facial cancers as well as street children, the daylight centre for the homeless where she bought socks and tents etc as well as more money to Orbis, which gives sight to people in other parts of their disadvantaged neglected world. The remainder of the money back into the displays, paying for mounts and other things so that Alan’s pictures presented as well as they ought to in local libraries and community centre, as well as other groups yet to visit. She had also been unwilling to make profits from what she saw as a community project. It had in truth been quiet an interesting hobby, which had taken her six years. Hour after hour, with the help of her friend Peter Inns to insert the photo’s and there were hundreds of those. It was a shame that there was a little sprite out there making life a little more difficult when it came to distribute these books to the relevant recipients, when her car was stolen and burnt out complete with several boxes of books inside all going up into flames, and the car found burnt out later at the bottom of a nearby lane. The indignity of this emphasized when on identifying the same burnt out shell which she had been able to still recognize in the back of the boot very blackened slates which she had been planning to take to her mum’s grave. The indignity somehow increased tenfold when on identifying the same car they had been forced by the police to pay it to be towed to the nearest yard.
Then there came one of those days when Esther again learnt nothing stayed the same forever.
“Anything else we might tempt you with Esther?” The minister asked, with his blue and white striped apron stretching considerably across his waist, splashing coffee again into the once clean white saucer, and then pushed the cup toward the serving hatch where she had been patiently waiting her turn.
“A mince pie would be nice, especially as I hadn’t time for any breakfast in my rush to get my books sorted for book signing here.” She wanted to pinch herself, and also felt awkwardly proud as she walked towards the back of the church rooms, thinking as she walked, just how much the room had changed since their now adult children had gone to Sunday school there. For a few months James had belonged to the Boy’s Brigade there, and Arthur an Officer. The same room where at the last moment one tense Christmas morning, a rapid replacement shepherd sought after James had suddenly dug in his heels and remained in the church pew rather than be seen with a tea-towel wrapped around his head, and he had watched with a triumphant grin as the replacement shepherd strolled by to join the other shepherds there on the stage. The very same room where years since her own mum Laura had been presented with a complete set of leather bound brailed hymn books after months earlier she had shown such enthusiasm and sung with gusto as she stood at the back of their little chapel and found such joy in religious words, in spite of being a atheist. And then they had been returned by her grieving family months after her death, them hoping against hope that another blind person out there would re-open the same books and sing with such joy, no matter what might be happening in the rapidly moving world outside.
Then on that book signing day, Alan joined the queue and she as she sat there pen in hand signing one book after another as the townsfolk stood recalling as she signed how he had said when he had seen her walking months previously, “I want a copy of that there book as soon as they are printed, and for you to sign it also.” Alan had interviewed two of the people within the book and had been a constant source of encouragement asking, “How is the book going Esther?”
Her response and answer always the same, “Very slow!”
“You will have to do it,” he grinned, “as the whole town waits to see their story in print. One day I want to do the same!” She couldn’t, of course, appreciate just how gifted he was at the time, or what he had been creating in his solitary way not just for their town but the surrounding district also. Just as she remembered where she was when President Kennedy assassinated, what she was doing when she heard of the death of The Princess of Wales, she would see Alan forever with his hat and winter coat and bending to put on his cycle clips, before waving and going out of the chapel doors on his way to the next town. What a tragedy it had been an uneventful day at work that following Monday and she had finished work at 4pm as usual, and then on a whim called into the newsagents on the main street for a magazine.
“You must have been one of the last people to see Alan on Saturday. I didn’t know him as well as you, Esther, just really through him interviewing me for your book as well as him coming here most days to get his evening paper.” Esther felt puzzled as she stood there now at the head of the queue, forgetting what she had gone in for and why was he talking in the past tense. It was then that Gordon gestured to the stark headlines, and she learnt how Alan’s journey had tragically ended despite the efforts of the emergency services.
About nine months later Esther was able to appreciate just what a special and skilled artist Alan was when his grieving mum gave over three hundred pictures of not just their town dedicated to everyday ordinary people like Esther and her deceased mum. Esther without hesitation promised to share his love and his gift of the town and who knows; one day there might even be a book so it was that a display was held at local libraries as well as the community centre and the local Woman’s Institute, arranging that any donations were given to a wildlife project.