He pushes my hair from my face, traces one warm finger down my hair-line. ‘It’s just so sweet to have you here, in my bed,’ he goes on. ‘We don’t have to talk about such difficult things.’
‘Tell me. Please.’
‘Well … After what happened with your father, you may have a fear that men will leave you,’ he says.
Even as he tells me that, I have such a strong urge to say, to plead,
Don’t leave
me, you mustn’t ever leave me
. I swallow hard.
‘But it wasn’t my father’s fault that he died. It wasn’t something he
chose
.’
‘No. Of course not. But that’s how it seems to a child. For a child, the actions of others are all deliberate – all chosen. Somewhere deep inside yourself, you would feel that it was his choice – that he chose to leave you … So you may fear it will happen again. You may have a very deep fear of being abandoned,’ he says.
I feel a tremor, when he says that.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe I do.’
He glances at me, then away.
‘You see, Stella – this idea is revolutionary.’ He’s looking up at the night sky now. Talking more generally. Not wanting to talk about me any more, not wanting to upset me. ‘That we see one another always through this filter of past experience. That when we reach for one another, we grope through a thicket of absent others. That we cannot ever see each other as we
are…’
I’m still thinking about my fear that men will leave me. Is this why I’m so jealous? Because I fear loss more than another girl might, because my father has died? But I can’t ask Harri about this. I don’t want him to know how jealous I get – don’t want to show him that ugly side of myself.
‘Anyway – how has Dr Freud learned all these things?’ I say.
My voice sounds petulant. I’m unnerved. Wanting to find a reason not to believe in any of this. Feeling rather cross with Dr Freud – who’s reminded me of a part of myself that I’d prefer to forget.
‘He listens,’ says Harri.
I take a last drag on my cigarette.
‘This idea of transference – it’s rather depressing,’ I tell him.
He smiles his slight, crooked smile.
‘Dr Freud’s ideas aren’t all that cheerful,’ he says.
There are noises from downstairs – a tap turned on; music on the wireless.
‘My mother must have come home,’ he says.
‘Oh my God, Harri.’
Panic surges through me. What on earth will she think – to see us coming down from Harri’s room, me with my hair all messed up?
‘Are you sure she won’t be angry about my being here?’
‘She’ll be so happy to meet you. Don’t worry.’
We pull on our clothes. I powder my face and smooth my hair and try to make myself look respectable. We go downstairs.
There’s a smell of onions frying. An old man is hunched in the chair in the corner, a newspaper spread on his lap. He’s drowsy, his eyelids flickering. A woman is working in the kitchen. She rushes out to greet us, wiping her hands on her apron. She has a vivid, expressive face and restless hands, like Harri’s. There’s a delicate network of worry lines around her mouth and her eyes.
‘Mother – this is Stella, my friend.’
Her smile is warm and generous and softens the lines in her face.
‘Stella, I’m Eva. He’s told me all about you.’ She takes my hand; her skin is a little damp from cooking. ‘Well, how lovely you are – exactly as Harri told us. Just see he treats you right, my dear,’ she says.
‘I’ll try,’ I say lightly.
She goes to the elderly man in the corner, puts a hand on his arm. He opens his eyes; looks up at her, confused.
‘Father, this is Harri’s lovely new friend. She’s English. Stella, this is Benjamin, Harri’s grandfather.’
When I put my hand on his hand, his flesh feels cool and flat, like fabric.
‘Stella.’ His voice rustles like winter leaves. ‘I can’t see you very well, my dear…’
Then he uses a German word I don’t know. He moves his hand to his eyes, which have a misted,
‘Tell me. Please.’
‘Well … After what happened with your father, you may have a fear that men will leave you,’ he says.
Even as he tells me that, I have such a strong urge to say, to plead,
Don’t leave
me, you mustn’t ever leave me
. I swallow hard.
‘But it wasn’t my father’s fault that he died. It wasn’t something he
chose
.’
‘No. Of course not. But that’s how it seems to a child. For a child, the actions of others are all deliberate – all chosen. Somewhere deep inside yourself, you would feel that it was his choice – that he chose to leave you … So you may fear it will happen again. You may have a very deep fear of being abandoned,’ he says.
I feel a tremor, when he says that.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe I do.’
He glances at me, then away.
‘You see, Stella – this idea is revolutionary.’ He’s looking up at the night sky now. Talking more generally. Not wanting to talk about me any more, not wanting to upset me. ‘That we see one another always through this filter of past experience. That when we reach for one another, we grope through a thicket of absent others. That we cannot ever see each other as we
are…’
I’m still thinking about my fear that men will leave me. Is this why I’m so jealous? Because I fear loss more than another girl might, because my father has died? But I can’t ask Harri about this. I don’t want him to know how jealous I get – don’t want to show him that ugly side of myself.
‘Anyway – how has Dr Freud learned all these things?’ I say.
My voice sounds petulant. I’m unnerved. Wanting to find a reason not to believe in any of this. Feeling rather cross with Dr Freud – who’s reminded me of a part of myself that I’d prefer to forget.
‘He listens,’ says Harri.
I take a last drag on my cigarette.
‘This idea of transference – it’s rather depressing,’ I tell him.
He smiles his slight, crooked smile.
‘Dr Freud’s ideas aren’t all that cheerful,’ he says.
There are noises from downstairs – a tap turned on; music on the wireless.
‘My mother must have come home,’ he says.
‘Oh my God, Harri.’
Panic surges through me. What on earth will she think – to see us coming down from Harri’s room, me with my hair all messed up?
‘Are you sure she won’t be angry about my being here?’
‘She’ll be so happy to meet you. Don’t worry.’
We pull on our clothes. I powder my face and smooth my hair and try to make myself look respectable. We go downstairs.
There’s a smell of onions frying. An old man is hunched in the chair in the corner, a newspaper spread on his lap. He’s drowsy, his eyelids flickering. A woman is working in the kitchen. She rushes out to greet us, wiping her hands on her apron. She has a vivid, expressive face and restless hands, like Harri’s. There’s a delicate network of worry lines around her mouth and her eyes.
‘Mother – this is Stella, my friend.’
Her smile is warm and generous and softens the lines in her face.
‘Stella, I’m Eva. He’s told me all about you.’ She takes my hand; her skin is a little damp from cooking. ‘Well, how lovely you are – exactly as Harri told us. Just see he treats you right, my dear,’ she says.
‘I’ll try,’ I say lightly.
She goes to the elderly man in the corner, puts a hand on his arm. He opens his eyes; looks up at her, confused.
‘Father, this is Harri’s lovely new friend. She’s English. Stella, this is Benjamin, Harri’s grandfather.’
When I put my hand on his hand, his flesh feels cool and flat, like fabric.
‘Stella.’ His voice rustles like winter leaves. ‘I can’t see you very well, my dear…’
Then he uses a German word I don’t know. He moves his hand to his eyes, which have a misted,
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