Things the Eye Can't See. Penny Joelson

Things the Eye Can't See

life without being able to see at all.’

‘It isn’t easy,’ I tell her, ‘and you’ll have to adjust. It’s different for me because I’ve never known anything else. But you can still have friends, go out, study, get a job. My mum always tells me the only thing that will limit me is my self-belief. If I really want to do something, then I’ll find a way.’

‘You’re so upbeat,’ says Josie. ‘I’m glad you came in here. I’ve been feeling really down.’

‘Well, if you ever want to talk, just ask me,’ I tell her. ‘And maybe think about getting a guide dog. I highly recommend it. Samson’s brilliant company as well as my guide. Some people prefer a cane. It’s less work, but you can’t cuddle a cane when you feel low.’

‘Thanks Libby,’ says Josie.

After I’ve eaten my lunch and all eight people in the room have stroked Samson, I get up to leave.

‘Thank you,’ Jenny says quietly, as I reach the door. ‘I think you were just what Josie needed today.’

I feel happy to have been of help to someone else for a change, and I’m glad I came in. Now it’s time to help Charlie. And to do that, I have to find Kyle.

‘You’re really OK about me and Ollie?’ Madz asks as we walk to art. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet all day.’

‘Just thinking about my project.’ I’m keeping Charlie’s note a secret for now, like I promised. I do trust Madz, but she might accidentally let something slip to Ollie, and I hate the idea of that.

Madz is doing pottery for her art project so she’s in the room next door. I arrange my half-completed painting on the table near the window with the best natural light, along with the flower photo I am painting from and my magnifier. Miss Afia helps me with the paints. I love the smell of the art room – oil paints and turps. Kyle, who is also doing a painting project, usually sits at the back. I look around, trying to place him, but can only see blurred shapes moving around the room.

‘There’s a space here,’ Miss Afia calls to someone. ‘Next to Libby. Do try to be on time!’

‘D’you need any colours, Libby? I’m just getting some for myself,’ comes a voice. It sounds like Kyle. I turn to see the tall blur of him standing by the next table. I nearly fall off my stool. The tables at the back must already be taken because he’s late.

This is my moment. I should give him the note. The art room is big – everyone is spread out. No one will notice. But I feel weird: panicky, frozen to the spot.

‘I like what you’ve done there,’ Kyle says.

He’s come nearer without me realising. He’s looking over my shoulder at my painting.

‘Kyle, wait,’ I say, sensing him taking a step away.

‘What?’ he asks. ‘What can I get you?’

I pull the envelope out and hold it, my hand closed around it. ‘This is for you,’ I tell him quietly. ‘Just take it and put it in your pocket. Look at it later. OK?’ As I hand it over, I am still full of curiosity about what’s in it. I wonder whether Kyle will tell me, or whether I’ll never know now that I’ve handed it over.

I feel him take it. ‘Put it away,’ I repeat.

‘OK – but . . .’

‘Don’t ask, please! I could do with some brown paint if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure. Mid brown?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

He’s gone. I pick up my brush and dip it in the yellow. As I hold it over the paper, I realise my hand is actually shaking. This is ridiculous. It was just a note. It probably said, Can you lend me twenty quid? or something like that. But Charlie was so secretive about it, and he made it seem so important . . . Anyway, I’ve done it now. My role is over. I feel a little deflated.

‘Here’s the brown. Shall I squeeze some out?’ Kyle’s back.

‘Thanks – just here.’

He squeezes it on to my palette. I keep all the colours in the same order so I can find the one I want. ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he tells me.

He’s being very attentive. Is he being kind, or is it because he’s curious about the note? Maybe he thinks I wrote it. I hope he doesn’t think it’s a love note or something.

I hold the photograph I’m painting from close to my eyes. It’s a yellow rose, but it’s amazing how many colours there are in it: shades of yellow, but also greens, whites, creams, browns. I look through the magnifier at what I’ve painted so far.

I love painting. It takes my full focus and there’s something so relaxing about it. I love photography even more – macro photography, because I can look through the lens and see so clearly, every tiny detail. It’s so different from just looking around me at vague blurred shapes. I’m sure people give me funny looks when they see me out with my camera and a guide dog. Sometimes I hear comments, but I don’t let it bother me. So many people think ‘blind’ just means you can’t see. They don’t realise how many variations of visual impairment there are.

I need clean water, and pass Kyle’s table as I go to get it. I realise I have no idea what his project is. I’m suddenly curious about what he’s painting.

‘Can I look?’ I ask him. ‘With my magnifier?’

‘Yes, if you want.’ He sounds surprised – but pleased too. ‘It’s not a patch on yours though.’

‘I’ll just get my water first,’ I tell him.

‘Shall I do it?’ he asks.

‘No – it’s OK.’ I’m touched he is being so sweet, but I like to do things for myself. I keep on a straight path towards the side of the classroom where the sinks are, feel for the edge of the sink and then find the tap. I turn it, listen to water splashing and check with a finger that the pot is not getting too full. I need to be able to carry it back without spilling it.

Kyle’s height is a useful landmark as I work my way back to my table. I’m determined not to make a fool of myself by spilling water everywhere now. I feel for the table edge and put the water down carefully, then find and lift my magnifier, taking it back towards Kyle.

‘Let me help,’ he says, taking it from me and positioning it over his picture.

I look down. Kyle is painting what looks like a fantasy battle scene from a film – monsters with weapons raised, mouths bared with teeth showing.

‘Wow! That’s intense!’ I say, hoping he doesn’t take it as an insult. ‘I mean – the detail is incredible.’

‘I love creating monsters,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve not got the perspective right though.’

‘I can’t tell,’ I say honestly. ‘Thanks for showing me. I’d better get back to mine.’

After art I have French. Madz is doing German, so at the end of the day I walk with Samson towards the cloakrooms where we usually meet.

‘Hey, Libby!’ Someone touches the top of my arm gently. ‘Libby, it’s Kyle.’

‘Samson, stand,’ I tell him. He stops.

‘Listen – that note . . .’ says Kyle. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’