Chapters (23)
Sixty-one is not the worst age to lose your wife, either. Your only child is grown up. You have no need to worry about who will pick up the slack in terms of child-rearing. You are still young enough to meet someone else. (I don’t know if it felt like the worst age.)
“It must be a worrying time for you.”
He brushes the worry away. “It’s fine. I’ll get through it. Just . . . if they phone and ask you about the contents of the house, please say that the furniture was all antique, dating from the days of the Colony.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you. You are a good child.”
I happen to know that some of the furniture was flat-pack modern, dating from the days of the OK Bazaars. But I agree to the venal offence of lying to the insurance company. My father has been through a lot. A little extra insurance money is the least he deserves.
We eat a Sunday lunch of supermarket rotisserie chicken with vegetables and roast potatoes pre-prepared by his housekeeper. It is not a bad meal. There are individual crème caramels in plastic containers for dessert.
After coffee, I wait until a decent interval has passed and then I stand up, saying, “Well, I’d better be going. I want to finish some work this afternoon. Thank you very much for lunch.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
I lean in for him to kiss me on the forehead. We say goodbye and I walk out of his flat, listening for the careful click of the door closing behind me. I try to unclench my stomach muscles as I reach the car. It doesn’t work, so I try abdominal breathing—a relaxation exercise taught me by my therapist. It feels as though I am trying to inflate a balloon against the resistance of an iron band.
I put my key in the ignition and let my head fall back against the headrest. It is better to allow the images to come now rather than tonight when I am asleep.
My father’s eyes jumping away from mine as though my gaze scalded him. Meeting his gaze over the shoulder of one of my attackers that night. His eyes didn’t falter then, but held mine with a steady regard. His hand shaking my shoulder, trying to rouse me, telling me the house was on fire, and we had to go. The Minnie Mouse helium balloon he bought when he came to visit me in hospital. I slept for hours at a time. Every time I opened my eyes, the balloon had sunk a little lower, until one day it lolled drunkenly on the carpet and they told me it was time to go home.