suppose. He’s very domesticated, isn’t he?’ Sylvia said proudly.
‘I’m not the worst,’ Dylan said at once.
‘I never said you were,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I’m very impressed, actually.’
‘May I call you tomorrow?’ Dylan asked Emily.
‘That would be lovely,’ she smiled, then waved goodbye to her new friends.
On the way back to her car Emily wondered why she’d as good as told Dylan her own mother was mentally ill. Did she really have to mention the cruet sets? she wondered. Or state she was a non-practising Catholic? She must have sounded as if she were giving evidence in a court of law. She was an idiot! Why on earth was she such a rambling fool at times?
‘I must really like him,’ she said to herself. And at least she hadn’t told him about her father, she thought sadly. Not yet, anyway. She drove home to her attic flat, feeling a mixture of euphoria and dread.
‘I’m trying to act like a normal person,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not exactly storming it, but at least I’m trying. He was going to kiss me, remember! He must have liked me!’
That night Emily opened the wardrobe door fully, and carefully took every item pertaining to her childhood out of it. Her tiny baptism gown, her Holy Communion dress and lace veil, her old school blazer and ties, her tennis racket, 7 Barbie dolls, 3 teddy bears, 4 pairs of leather school shoes, 25 storybooks and a plastic carry-case containing 63 pop cassettes. All things her parents had bought for her, yes, but bought very reluctantly. Bless them, but they had found parenthood a bit of an ordeal, she thought sadly. Maybe the vast majority of parents found parenthood a bit of an ordeal, but they were smart enough never to admit it? Well, it was over now and high time she stopped blaming her parents and herself for not being the perfect family. That was all in the past now, and she had to look to the future. She packed all the things into the boot of her car and vowed to deliver them to the shop the following Monday, which was Dylan’s day off. She wanted to help the shop get up and running, but she didn’t want Dylan to think she was a cold person giving away her childhood things. It was just that she needed to give them away so that she could become … well, unstuck.
She got into bed, leaving the curtains wide open, and spent ages just gazing out of the window. It was snowing again and the flakes were big and uneven, scurrying past her bedroom window as if they were all rushing to catch a bus. The wind howled through tiny gaps in the old wooden frames and made eerie moaning noises. Emily thought about Dylan and what he might be doing at that exact moment. She wondered, was he lying awake and thinking about her? She had forgotten to ask him where he lived, she realized. Perhaps he shared a house with some mates? She thought of her parents too, and shed a few guilty tears that she hadn’t gone home for Christmas again this year. She could easily have forced herself to give them a couple of days of her time, just to cook a small turkey and put up a few decorations. It wouldn’t have killed her, would it? No, it wouldn’t have killed her. But she couldn’t risk them pulling her back to Belfast with their hopelessness and their neediness, she told herself firmly. She didn’t want to spend the next thirty years of her life acting as carer, cleaner and referee for the two of them. They didn’t need a carer, but they’d soon get used to having one – that was Emily’s worry. And that’s exactly what might happen if she allowed herself to feel guilty, even for forty-eight hours. They were so useless, the pair of them. Sitting there watching the television for hours every night in the middle of a bizarre little nest of useless things, surrounded by the blue haze of her mother’s cigarette smoke and a general air of under-achievement. Emily felt sick just thinking about the little house in west Belfast – especially when she compared it with all
‘I’m not the worst,’ Dylan said at once.
‘I never said you were,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I’m very impressed, actually.’
‘May I call you tomorrow?’ Dylan asked Emily.
‘That would be lovely,’ she smiled, then waved goodbye to her new friends.
On the way back to her car Emily wondered why she’d as good as told Dylan her own mother was mentally ill. Did she really have to mention the cruet sets? she wondered. Or state she was a non-practising Catholic? She must have sounded as if she were giving evidence in a court of law. She was an idiot! Why on earth was she such a rambling fool at times?
‘I must really like him,’ she said to herself. And at least she hadn’t told him about her father, she thought sadly. Not yet, anyway. She drove home to her attic flat, feeling a mixture of euphoria and dread.
‘I’m trying to act like a normal person,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not exactly storming it, but at least I’m trying. He was going to kiss me, remember! He must have liked me!’
That night Emily opened the wardrobe door fully, and carefully took every item pertaining to her childhood out of it. Her tiny baptism gown, her Holy Communion dress and lace veil, her old school blazer and ties, her tennis racket, 7 Barbie dolls, 3 teddy bears, 4 pairs of leather school shoes, 25 storybooks and a plastic carry-case containing 63 pop cassettes. All things her parents had bought for her, yes, but bought very reluctantly. Bless them, but they had found parenthood a bit of an ordeal, she thought sadly. Maybe the vast majority of parents found parenthood a bit of an ordeal, but they were smart enough never to admit it? Well, it was over now and high time she stopped blaming her parents and herself for not being the perfect family. That was all in the past now, and she had to look to the future. She packed all the things into the boot of her car and vowed to deliver them to the shop the following Monday, which was Dylan’s day off. She wanted to help the shop get up and running, but she didn’t want Dylan to think she was a cold person giving away her childhood things. It was just that she needed to give them away so that she could become … well, unstuck.
She got into bed, leaving the curtains wide open, and spent ages just gazing out of the window. It was snowing again and the flakes were big and uneven, scurrying past her bedroom window as if they were all rushing to catch a bus. The wind howled through tiny gaps in the old wooden frames and made eerie moaning noises. Emily thought about Dylan and what he might be doing at that exact moment. She wondered, was he lying awake and thinking about her? She had forgotten to ask him where he lived, she realized. Perhaps he shared a house with some mates? She thought of her parents too, and shed a few guilty tears that she hadn’t gone home for Christmas again this year. She could easily have forced herself to give them a couple of days of her time, just to cook a small turkey and put up a few decorations. It wouldn’t have killed her, would it? No, it wouldn’t have killed her. But she couldn’t risk them pulling her back to Belfast with their hopelessness and their neediness, she told herself firmly. She didn’t want to spend the next thirty years of her life acting as carer, cleaner and referee for the two of them. They didn’t need a carer, but they’d soon get used to having one – that was Emily’s worry. And that’s exactly what might happen if she allowed herself to feel guilty, even for forty-eight hours. They were so useless, the pair of them. Sitting there watching the television for hours every night in the middle of a bizarre little nest of useless things, surrounded by the blue haze of her mother’s cigarette smoke and a general air of under-achievement. Emily felt sick just thinking about the little house in west Belfast – especially when she compared it with all
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