When I think back to those days, the memory comes to me like an old folk tale told in the hearths glow. My father, John, used to sit opposite me at a little tearoom in a narrow lane of London, stirring a cooling cup of tea with a tiny spoon. The little porcelain cup was almost as small as a thimble, the tea already gone lukewarm.
In front of me lay a bowl of icecream that I could not bring myself to touch. It was an elaborate little masterpiece: bright, round sweets nestled under a green mint leaf and a tiny cherry, all drizzled in chocolate. Any sixyearold would have swooned at the sight, but not I. I, Emily, had decided the previous Friday to have a serious talk with my father.
He kept silent for a long while, then finally asked, What shall we do, my girl? Stop seeing each other altogether? How am I to live then?
I crinkled my little nosejust the way Mums did, a bit turned up like a potatothought a moment, and answered, No, Father. I cant be without you either. Heres what well do. Call Mother and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. When you feel like a cuppa or a scoop of icecream, well sit in this tearoom together. Ill tell you everything about how Mother and I get on.
I paused, then added, If you ever want to see Mother, Ill film her on my phone each week and show you the pictures. Does that sound good?
John gave me a small smile, a nod of his head, and said, All right, lets live that way, then.
A sigh of relief escaped me, and I turned to my icecream. Yet I still had a few crucial words left. As I licked the colourful sprinkles that had gathered like a tiny moustache on my lip, I grew solemn, almost adultlike, as though I were already the one who should look after a manthough that man was already growing old. A week earlier my father had celebrated his birthday; I had drawn him a card in nursery, carefully colouring the large number 28.
My face hardened again, I furrowed my brows, and said, I think you ought to think about marrying. I softened the blow with a generous lie, youre not that old yet, are you?
John chuckled at my kindhearted gesture and replied, Youll say not that old too, I suppose.
Not that old, not that old! I blurted, pointing at the empty chair opposite us. Look, Uncle Arthurhes visited Mother twice now, a bit bald on top. Hes.
I smoothed the soft curls on my forehead with my hand, then stared straight into my fathers eyes, as if I had unintentionally let slip a secret from Mother. My hands went to my mouth, my eyes widened in feigned horror and confusion.
Uncle Arthur? What Uncle Arthur is that, suddenly dropping by? my father shouted, his voice echoing through the tearoom. Is he Mothers boss or what?
I I dont know, I stammered, suddenly shy. Maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets and a cake. And I hesitated, unsure whether to tell Father about the flowers Mother had sent, worried he might find it absurd.
John clasped his fingers together on the table, stared at them for a long moment. I sensed that, in that very minute, he was on the brink of a decision that would shape his life. I, the young woman, waited patiently, not hurrying him to conclusions. I had learned, perhaps too early, that men could be slow to act and needed a gentle nudgeespecially the man who, in his own eyes, was the most precious of all.
Silence stretched, then at last he inhaled deeply, released the tension in his knuckles, tipped his head back and spoke. If I had been a little older, I might have recognised the cadence of his words as the tragic tone Othello once used with Desdemona. Yet I knew nothing of Shakespeare then; I was simply gathering lifes lessons, watching people laugh and fret over trifles.
He finally said, Come along, my girl. Its late; Ill take you home, and Ill speak to Mother while were at it.
I didnt press him for what he intended to say, only felt that it mattered. I hurried to finish my icecream, then, understanding that his forthcoming decision outweighed even the most delicious treat, I flung my spoon onto the table, slid off the chair, wiped the remnants of cream from my lips with the back of my hand, and, looking straight at him, declared, Im ready. Lets go.
We didnt walk home; we almost ran. John led, his arm linked with mine, and I felt like a pennant fluttering in the wind, as if I were a banner carried by a noble knight into battle, reminiscent of the bold charge at Waterloo.
When we burst into the lift shaft, the doors sluggishly closed, whisking a neighbour upward. John glanced bewildered at me; I stared back from bottom to top, decisive, and asked, Well? What now? Who are we waiting for? This is only the seventh floor.
He hoisted me onto his shoulders and rushed up the stairs. When the lift finally jolted open and Mother, Mary, swung the door wide, John launched straight into his heartsqueezing speech: You cant behave like that! Whos this Arthur you speak of? I love you, Mary, and we haveEmily.
He didnt let go of me; he pulled Mother into the same embrace. I clung to both of them by the neck, shut my eyes, and felt the adults tender kiss as a promise that, perhaps, everything would be all right.
