Today's Reading
'I made my father cry today,' Stella said. She was glad that she'd caught Michael before he left for the restaurant, but his voice on the telephone seemed dreadfully far away. 'I thought it might be cheerful to have some music in the background, but it reminded him of my mother.'
'Your poor father,' his said. 'He must miss her terribly still. And poor you too! How upsetting for you.'
'I'm trying so hard honestly, I am, Michael but some days I can't seem to get anything right.'
Stella wished that she could put her head on Michael's shoulder and tell him how the slightest thing upset her father now, how fragile he seemed to have become, and how sometimes they sat in long silences because she was frightened of saying the wrong words. There were days when they were irritable with each other and she felt tension knotting in her stomach. She longed to have a conversation that wasn't threaded with tripwires and, just briefly, to be able to tell someone how she was feeling. She wished she could have a face-to-face conversation with Michael, like they used to, both of them pulling their feet up onto his sofa, a direct, candid conversation that didn't have to be curtailed by him running off to his next shift at the restaurant.
'It's still early days, I suppose, isn't it?' he said. 'How long has it been now nearly twelve months? Is he looking after himself?'
'He puts a clean shirt on every day and he's keeping the house tidy, but he seems to be shrinking.' Stella tried to juggle the telephone receiver as she poured herself a brandy. 'When I walked in today it struck me that he looks like he's wearing someone else's clothes now. It's not just that he's lost weight, I'm sure that a couple of inches have disappeared from his height, and there's a gloss that's gone off him too.'
Her mother had given him that, Stella realized, with her top-of-the-head kisses, her rich fruit cakes and her special smiles. Stella supposed that gloss was love. She wished that she could find a way to restore it, but all her well-intentioned gestures had seemed to misfire recently.
'Are you regretting moving out?' Michael asked. 'Are you having second thoughts about taking on the cottage?'
Stella could hear the concern in his voice and was grateful for his understanding. Michael always understood. But with the crackle on the telephone line, her image of him seemed to slip out of focus.
'I had to get back to work and I thought it might do him good to try to establish a new routine. I don't know if it was the right thing to do, though. Every time I walk out of the door I ask myself that and I'm not sure of the answer. I'm only five minutes away, but perhaps it's five minutes too far?'
Did her father sit crying at the kitchen table when he was on his own? Did he often feel hollowed-out, as he'd told her he did today? Left on his own, might he do something foolish?
'I wish I was closer,' said Michael. 'I wish I could come up. I would, if I could.'
'I know how busy you are.'
'If I can get away before Christmas, I will.'
'You'll be working around the clock. I remember what December is like.'
She wasn't looking forward to Christmas, in truth, and wasn't sure that she ever would again. It would be the first Christmas without her mother. She'd been so frail on the last Christmas Day they'd had together. She'd hardly eaten anything, but had sat there in her new blouse with a brave smile on her face. Like a ghost at the table, that memory would always be there at Christmas now, wouldn't it? Stella did understand why her father had cried. On days like today, she found it difficult to come up with words that might make it better. But she had to keep on trying, didn't she?
'If I can, I'll come down to London for a few days in the new year. I'll have to see how my father is doing, but I'd so love to see you.'
'Do. Please. I miss you, darling,' Michael said.
'Let's speak again soon. I miss you too.'
Stella caught her own reflection in the kitchen window as she put the telephone back on its cradle. She saw herself mirrored against the November colours of the garden. Lucien's voice had been there in the background as Michael had rung off and she thought of them stepping out into the early-evening London streets now. She could picture the glimmer of the lights in the shop windows and the bustle of the crowds in their winter coats, all winding their way to theatre seats and cinema screens and restaurant reservations. Stella missed all of that too. But when her father had dried his eyes, he'd kissed her hand and thanked her for being there. As she'd finally seen the corners of his mouth lift, she'd been glad she was there.
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