Postcards From a Stranger by Imogen Clark

Author:Imogen Clark [Clark, Imogen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781503902497
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2018-08-06T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

The period between Christmas and New Year is generally a time for contemplation and consolidation and this year is no different, especially with Beth away on her honeymoon. Boxing Day passes in a haze of old films and tray meals concocted with very little effort from the enormous quantities of leftovers that my fantasy Christmas Day produced. If Dad is still aware that it’s Christmas then he shows very little sign of it. He sits silently staring at the lights twinkling on the tree.

‘I love Christmas lights, don’t you?’ I ask him, dropping down to my knees by his chair and pointing towards the tree.

There is no response. It’s as if he hasn’t even heard me speak. He’s no longer engaged with the world around him. I don’t know whether it’s because of my changed attitude towards him or whether he really is deteriorating before my eyes but I fear the latter. I wouldn’t want to leave him in the house on his own anymore, not even for a few minutes. As I watch him sit and stare, this shell that was once my father, the realisation that the time has come for full-time care drenches me like a rainstorm in June. This is a new stage, one that I knew would arrive eventually. But, what with the wedding and Christmas occupying my thoughts recently, I hadn’t noticed that it had crept up on us quite as far as it has done. It’s perfectly obvious that Mrs P can’t do it all by herself. I need a new plan.

I ring the agency, assuming that I’ll speak to an answerphone, but my call is answered on the second ring. By the time I put the phone down, we have agreed around-the-clock help, with Mrs P doing most of the care and other, rota staff filling in when she has time off. It’ll cost a fortune but Dad has the money sitting in the bank just waiting for Michael and me to inherit. We don’t need his money, though. We’ve both made our own way in the world, in spite of everything. I don’t need Dad’s money and I don’t want it.

Later, in some kind of pre-New Year frenzy, I decide to tidy out my workroom and carry out an inventory of what I have and what needs replenishing. I start with gusto, pulling out fabrics and files of patterns to dust behind them, but pretty quickly my motivation begins to wane. I’m hopeless at this stuff. I am tempted to just put everything back the way it was but who am I kidding? The mess is made. I might as well try to do a decent job.

As I flick fabric fluff off the shelves, my mind drifts to my mother. The wedding and then Christmas have given me the excuses that I needed to keep my mind closed to the endless possibilities and when I have had time to think, it has been Dad’s letters that have been troubling me. Mrs P was right in what she said on Christmas Day, though.

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