Jules Stanbridge
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Joan says she has things to do. Sand clings to the bottom of her coat. She tiptoes in shoes that were designed for an appearance on Fifth Avenue, NYC, not a beach in Cornwall. A hand emerges from a tunnel of fur and she waves without turning. The sun glints from the large diamond encrusted rings that adorn her fingers. Are they real? It’s not a question I feel I can ask.
‘Joan, are you and your diamonds for real? Not that I want to imply you’re a fake or anything. That would be rude. Incredibly rude.’
Bob has his back to me. He is looking out to sea. I stroke him on the head. It’s warm from the sun. He shifts position so that I cannot reach.
‘You know what?’ I am about to tell him about all those people who have made it hard for me to love them. It’s a boring story; one I’m sick of, so instead I tell him of the fun we will have. We will walk the Great Wall of China, visit the Lake District, and maybe even Paris. We will eat pain au chocolate on the banks of the Seine, and wear matching sunglasses on a road trip across Route 66. He will have his own checked blanket where the sun falls in the kitchen, and I will learn French. He will, I tell him, grow to like me. I’m likeable. I will never leave him. I will have his name tattooed on my right buttock. He is not listening.
Six months previously…
My father’s house is devoid of life; most noticeably his. Mum took it with her. I for one wish she had taken a change of clothing instead.
As I wait for him to come to the door, I indulge in a little fantasy. The story is usually the same, although sometimes, depending on my mood, there are minor variations. In this particular version I am the type of woman who eats champagne truffles for breakfast, and rides around on a scooter without a helmet. I will be wearing a sage green dress with a floral print detail and red shoes. The shoes will be high and I will be equal to my father in height. He will open the door with optimism in his eyes. He will hug me and tell me that he has met someone; that she is caring and lovely; that she can take it from here. He will tell me that I don’t have to worry anymore. We will talk about my mother. After that my fantasy ends. There are too many possibilities and they make me feel dizzy.
How many times have I stood here, in front of the red bricks and green door with hope in one hand, and my handbag in the other? Hope is a strange thing. It’s shiny and bright; silver perhaps. It glows in the dark. Hope is my surname. Eva Adore Hope. My mother gave me my middle name. Adore. Perhaps she hoped that others would, leaving her free not to.
The door opens cautiously.
‘Eva,’ my father announces. His right eyebrow is raised. Surprise, questioning, disapproval. My father’s eyebrows can say many things. My sister gets two raised eyebrow, which is something different altogether.
‘How nice,’ he says it in a way that would suggest this was a rare visit. This is misleading. As primary TV watching companion, occasional driver, supplier of three square meals a week (meat – usually beef or lamb, boiled new potatoes and two types of vegetables – but not courgettes or peppers.) and extra services such as laundry, ironing and collecting prescriptions, I am usually to be relied on.