by Gill James
Earl Grey tea
The clock on the church tower has just chimed two. She said
she would be here at three. Lunch was over and done with at one. Even the dish
washer was loaded. And now it has run. It's too early to unload it. Yet I can't
settle to anything else. Will she be on time? I don't know. I don't know her at
all. Is she like me? Does she waste a huge portion of her life being much too
early for fear of being late? I don't even know whether I want her to arrive
ahead of time, so that we can get it over with, or late so that I've got more
time to get myself ready.
My stomach churns. Can I keep my
lunch down? Will I be able to offer her tea and will we get round to eating the
cake? Is it stupid to offer tea and cake on an occasion like this? At least the
weather is warm. We can sit in the garden. Being outside always makes things
seem better doesn't it?
She'll be a complete stranger, won't
she? I've not met her before. Just that one time in a dream. When she was six or so and she'd managed to
swim a length of the school swimming pool. I was standing holding a towel for
her. Out of the water she came. Athletic and strong and at the same time so
feminine and completely my little girl.
Now I can feel my own heart beating
wildly and the hall clock ticking. They're in harmony. They are both counting
my life away.
I think of the last time I saw Tony. It was a day just like
this. We walked down to the corner shop to buy some ice cream. His idea and his
treat. As usual I had to trot at his side like a pet dog. He eats well and he's
a good cook. He remains thin because he's he walks everywhere and so fast. It's
hard to keep up with him.
He's always been a bit of an enigma,
my son, my first born. Yes he's tall and strong. Years of dancing, ice-skating
as well as the fast walking have made him muscular and supple. He can be
strong. He's got back up after blow upon blow. Yet he can cry buckets about a
sad film or the death of an animal. He is so talented and creative - and messy.
Out of chaos comes beauty.
He daydreamed as we ate the ice
cream. It was as if he wanted to tell me something but couldn't quite get round
to it. I knew, though, when he left that day we would never see him again. He
confirmed this later by phone. And no, we've not seen him since. Not for over
three months. We mourn him. He is gone from us. Forever.
I decide I must look my best to meet my unknown daughter. I'm
glad I had my hair bleached white. It doesn't make me look old - quite the
opposite. I'm sure Tony would have confirmed this and certainly his younger
sister approves.
"Just, think, Mum, you could
have purple streaks put in. Tony would have loved that," she says.
Yes I'm sure he would. Well at least
I can go for purple eye shadow but I stick to a more conventional lipstick
shade. Who knows what she'll be into?
I decide I can't slop around in my
jeans. I must be smart even if I look casual. I select a top in my best green
and my beige linen trousers. Will it do? If only I could ask Tony. He was
always good at helping me to find the right clothes. I got that promotion when
he chose the bright pink suit for the interview. That white linen skirt he
found the day he got the job at Selfridge's lasted for years. And what about
those high boots he picked out when we went on the day trip to France? I wish I
could ask him now.
I look at the mugs and plates I've
set out and decide they're wrong. I open the china cabinet and get out our best
tea set. This is an occasion. We must treasure it.
Seconds after the church clock chimes quarter to the hour I
hear the clatter of heels on the footpath. I brace myself for the doorbell. I
don't have to wait long. My mouth is dry as I make my way to the door. I see
the silhouette of a very tall person through the frosted glass. It could almost
be Tony. I am trembling so much that I can hardly open the door.
I manage at last and there she is.
Soft blond curls frame her angular face. She is wearing a short shift dress in
my green. What about that then. Size six, I would say. Size six for goodness
sake. Well, at least she won't be stealing my clothes like Tony used to steal
his father's. Her make-up is immaculate. Subtle. You can't really see it's
there. A small patent leather bag hangs from her shoulder. Under her arm she is
carrying what I recognise as a painting. It is wrapped in brown paper. She
hands it to me. "This is for you. You might like to get it framed."
She slips off her jacket and sits
down at the dining table as if she's been coming here for years.
I open the packet. I recognise one of
my book covers.
"Thank you," I say.
She nods and looks down at the table.
"Oh you've got the best china out."
"Well it's a bit of an occasion,
isn't it?"
She shrugs. "What's the
cake?"
"Raisin parkin." I remember
how much Tony used to like it.
She grins. Her face crinkles and her
eyes are just like Tony's.
We chat. It's as if we've known each other for years.
Then though there is an awkward
silence. She puts her hand on my arm. "Should we go round to that
picture-framers you told me about? I could help you chose something."
"That's a nice idea."
It's less than a mile away but it's
too hot to walk. We take the car. We can't stop right outside. The primary
school is emptying and lots of mums have come in cars. We have to park about
four hundred yards away.
We set off.
She strides ahead. The heels don't faze
her. I have to trot along, just like I did with Tony.
She pauses and turns. "Come on,
Mum."
The sun catches her hair. She looks
really pretty. My lovely daughter Toni.
About the author
Gill James writes fiction for all ages. She also works as a publisher and creative writing lecturer.
He latest work 140 x 140, a collection of Flash Fiction is published by Chapeltown.
www.gilljames.co.uk
http://www.gilljameswriter.eu/
http://bridgehousepublishing.co.uk/ http://www.chapeltownpublishing.uk/ http://cafelit.co.uk/ http://trtpublishing.co.uk
http://www.creativecafeproject.org/
http://www.thehouseonschellbergstreet.com/
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