And those were the words that I kept replaying in my head for the rest of the journey back home.
My father’s eyes lit up with pleasure as I crossed the threshold with the large packing boxes and a suitcase full of my belongings.
‘You don’t mind if I wind up staying here with you for a little bit longer, do you?’ I asked as I entered the house. An unnecessary question really, but even I was surprised to see his eyes glisten unexpectedly at my request.
‘Are you feeling OK, Dad?’
He rubbed his hand roughly over his eyes. ‘Just getting a cold, I think,’ he muttered brusquely, bending to pick up the boxes. ‘I’ll just take these upstairs for you. And of course I don’t mind. You stay here as long as you want.’
I watched his retreating back as he climbed the stairs, suddenly overcome by a wave of love for the only parent I had ever known, mixed with an enormous gratitude that here and now he was so fit and well. Perhaps it had been talking to Joe once more about his wife’s illness that suddenly made me really appreciate that life here was in many ways a great deal better than the one I remembered. Well, aside from the unfortunate incident with Matt. But maybe that too would turn out to be not such a bad thing either. Better to know now that he couldn’t remain faithful and get out while I could, before making the mistake of marrying him.
The following day I finally got around to answering one of his numerous phone calls. I had to really; he’d been continually calling both my mobile and the house phone, so I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation, and I said some things that I’m not particularly proud of. Not that he didn’t deserve it, perhaps, but I had hoped we might at least have been able to remain civil. But any phone conversation that ends with one of you yelling at the other ‘Have a nice life!’ can’t exactly be deemed a success.
The next few days should have been pleasant enough, Christmas was almost upon us and although I didn’t seem to have my normal enthusiasm for the holiday season, I tried to put on a good show for my father’s sake. Not that I think I fooled him much, not when my first question upon returning home from a walk or a visit to the shops was ‘Did anyone drop by or phone while I was out?’
I guess he thought I might be waiting to hear from Matt again, and I didn’t bother correcting that assumption. But it wasn’t the absence of contact from my ex-fiancé that was troubling me, it was not hearing from Jimmy. From the things that had been said recently, I’d thought, well, hoped really, that he was going to be a more frequent visitor to our house, but in reality I hadn’t seen or heard anything at all of him since he’d driven me back from London.
Of course he could just be busy at work, but really, how long does it take to pick up a phone? Could he already be regretting having spent so much of his spare time with me? Or had I once again totally misinterpreted the words and actions of a close friend for something else entirely?
To fill the hours, I made a concerted effort to keep myself really busy each day, finding that physical exhaustion gave me far less thinking and brooding time. So I reorganised my old bedroom. Twice. And even cleaned the house to never-before-seen perfection. I also took up baking – which was a dubious pursuit, given the fact I had scarcely baked anything before in my life. As I produced tray after tray of food in varying degrees of edibility I saw the question in my father’s eyes, even though it was never voiced. And he was right. What was I doing baking enough food to feed an army when it would just be the two of us on Christmas Day?
Each night I fell into bed totally shattered, hoping I would be so worn out that I could ignore both Jimmy’s silence as well as the reoccurrence of the strange dreams and night-time hallucinations that had returned to haunt me.
A few evenings before Christmas Eve my father came into the lounge, dragging behind him an overly large pine tree.
I looked up from my place at the fireside, where I had been making small but steady progress with my father’s aloof cat. At least she now tolerated me touching her for as long as five seconds at a time before bolting away at speed.
‘I thought we weren’t going to bother with a tree this year?’
‘I know,’ he said, struggling to drag the giant redwood wannabe across the carpet. ‘But I thought we could do with a little brightening up in here. Make it nice and festive.’
I hurried to clear a space in the corner, ducking out of the way of the approaching branches that looked sharp enough to take out an eye or two if you weren’t careful. The tree was actually so big its topmost branches bowed over heavily against the ceiling, and it was roughly as wide as it was tall.