reunion, or hugs and tears and love, I’m not at all sure that is what I want either. The only thing I want from you, John, is answers. When you left, you changed my life forever and I want to know why, and I want you to meet your granddaughter, and find out about me, about the life you left behind. You don’t have to care, you don’t have to love me. I just want you to listen and answer my questions. Which, quite honestly, is the very least you can do.”
Rose wondered at her own coolness, her control. Perhaps Richard had taught her this also; when faced with unbearable pain to simply cut off all emotion, to numb every nerve ending so that no matter what might happen next, nothing could hurt her.
After several seconds, during which John did not respond, Rose spoke into the void, emboldened by her self-possession and immunity to his cruelty.
“Do you mind if I make a cup of tea?” she said, crossing to the stove, where a battered old kettle sat squat on the hob. “Do you want one?”
“Rose,” John said quietly, “you can’t just turn up here like this. You can’t just foist yourself on me. I’ve told you, I do not want it.”
“Well, I do.” Rose stopped, clenching the handle of the kettle, forcing herself to keep her voice low and quiet as decades of angry words she had never had a chance to voice began to boil away quietly in the pit of her stomach. “Dad, you left me when I was nine years old and I’ve never asked you for a single thing from that moment until this. All I want is a cup of tea.”
John took the kettle out of her stiff hands, filling it himself from the clanking, creaking tap.
“Why?” he said wearily. “What do you think that talking to me will change?”
“It will help me understand,” she said quietly, firmly. “I don’t think I realized until now that I need to understand everything that’s happened to me since you left. I thought I could perhaps ignore it, sweep it under the carpet, get on with things. But I can’t. My marriage is over, my daughter is . . . unusual. I somehow got this life that doesn’t feel like it’s got anything to do with me and—”
“You blame me,” he said, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact.
“I don’t know,” Rose said. “I don’t think I blame anyone. I just . . . I need to know now, soon, why my life turned out like it did, because I think I only have one chance to change it. I ran away here because . . . I was chasing a silly daydream, and I found you. I have no idea what is going to happen next, but I do know that that has to mean something, or if it doesn’t then I have to make it mean something.”
John shook his head, putting the kettle on the hob and lighting it with a match, the gas flaring in a brief roar before settling into a steady blue flame.
“I live alone, I work alone, I don’t make conversation. I don’t play with small children. I don’t drink anymore. I haven’t had a drop for nearly three years. If I keep myself to myself, then I know I can stay sober and work. And I can’t let anything get in the way of that.”
“Not even me,” Rose said, her voice unintentionally small at the thought of that last kiss that her father had planted on her forehead.
John shook his head. “Not even you.”
Rose drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d slapped her physically in the face with his words. Maybe that touched him,somehow, more than everything she’d said, because there was the smallest shift in his expression, something barely visible, as if in that second he truly recognized her for the first time.
“Very well. Come back tomorrow, then,” he said wearily. “If that’s what it takes to go back to your life and get out of mine, then I will try and answer your questions, but I must warn you, it is very unlikely that you will like what you hear. And now I need to work. Shut the door behind you when you’ve finished your tea.”
Rose stood stock-still in the small, dingy living
Rose wondered at her own coolness, her control. Perhaps Richard had taught her this also; when faced with unbearable pain to simply cut off all emotion, to numb every nerve ending so that no matter what might happen next, nothing could hurt her.
After several seconds, during which John did not respond, Rose spoke into the void, emboldened by her self-possession and immunity to his cruelty.
“Do you mind if I make a cup of tea?” she said, crossing to the stove, where a battered old kettle sat squat on the hob. “Do you want one?”
“Rose,” John said quietly, “you can’t just turn up here like this. You can’t just foist yourself on me. I’ve told you, I do not want it.”
“Well, I do.” Rose stopped, clenching the handle of the kettle, forcing herself to keep her voice low and quiet as decades of angry words she had never had a chance to voice began to boil away quietly in the pit of her stomach. “Dad, you left me when I was nine years old and I’ve never asked you for a single thing from that moment until this. All I want is a cup of tea.”
John took the kettle out of her stiff hands, filling it himself from the clanking, creaking tap.
“Why?” he said wearily. “What do you think that talking to me will change?”
“It will help me understand,” she said quietly, firmly. “I don’t think I realized until now that I need to understand everything that’s happened to me since you left. I thought I could perhaps ignore it, sweep it under the carpet, get on with things. But I can’t. My marriage is over, my daughter is . . . unusual. I somehow got this life that doesn’t feel like it’s got anything to do with me and—”
“You blame me,” he said, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact.
“I don’t know,” Rose said. “I don’t think I blame anyone. I just . . . I need to know now, soon, why my life turned out like it did, because I think I only have one chance to change it. I ran away here because . . . I was chasing a silly daydream, and I found you. I have no idea what is going to happen next, but I do know that that has to mean something, or if it doesn’t then I have to make it mean something.”
John shook his head, putting the kettle on the hob and lighting it with a match, the gas flaring in a brief roar before settling into a steady blue flame.
“I live alone, I work alone, I don’t make conversation. I don’t play with small children. I don’t drink anymore. I haven’t had a drop for nearly three years. If I keep myself to myself, then I know I can stay sober and work. And I can’t let anything get in the way of that.”
“Not even me,” Rose said, her voice unintentionally small at the thought of that last kiss that her father had planted on her forehead.
John shook his head. “Not even you.”
Rose drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d slapped her physically in the face with his words. Maybe that touched him,somehow, more than everything she’d said, because there was the smallest shift in his expression, something barely visible, as if in that second he truly recognized her for the first time.
“Very well. Come back tomorrow, then,” he said wearily. “If that’s what it takes to go back to your life and get out of mine, then I will try and answer your questions, but I must warn you, it is very unlikely that you will like what you hear. And now I need to work. Shut the door behind you when you’ve finished your tea.”
Rose stood stock-still in the small, dingy living
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