Acting can be the friendliest most loving job in the world. Also the loneliest. Friendships are made fast and intense while working on the same project. Everyone feels like a sister, a brother, even a lover, but as soon as the play ends and the set dismantled, the family dissolves. People who felt so close suddenly have nothing to say to one another.
Not all families last forever, but shouldn’t they last more than ten weeks? Everything seems to be a stepping stone to the next job, the next connection, the next goodbye.
They say home is where the heart is. Let’s say I’m still looking for my heart.
Let’s say, that fleeting glimpse of an Alpha Romeo emblem is…
A promising start.
Sunday Morning, Kitchen.
When he finally walks into the kitchen, it’s 11.30 in the morning. Everyone has long finished their breakfast and gone off to their various occupations. I alone waited.
William Jones is polite, friendly, even but shows no sign of recognition or even suspicion. He’s in olive-green corduroys, a black rollneck and charcoal cardigan. His hair is a salt and pepper shapeless shortcut. Everything about him says academic who doesn’t pay much attention to fashion.
I wait until he’s made his tea and sat down with a plate of buttered toast.
“My name is Leonie Henderson. My mother is Anabel Henderson.”
“I know,” he says simply. It’s as if he too has been waiting until the kitchen emptied before coming down to breakfast, so he could see me alone..
I’ve been afraid he might have an emotional reaction. But he just gives me all his attention and waits for me to say more.
Everything I rehearsed flies out of my mind in the worst case of stage fright ever. So, I just talk, I start in the middle, go back and forth to the beginning and the end trying to explain my reasons for coming and giving him an overview of my life, the life of a daughter he was prevented from knowing
“So,” I conclude. “I now have a room upstairs, thanks to the generosity of Evan and Haneen.”
He sits back and exhales. Then he gets up to refill the kettle. “Would you like a hot drink? Coffee or tea?” he asks mildly.
“Tea is fine.” Then I add, “thank you.”
Should I get up and offer to help? No. Maybe give him time to assimilate this; it must be a lot to take in.
When he’s made two cups, he comes back to the table and places one in front of me. His hands are clean with short very neat fingernails.
“I’m sorry about your father’s passing. It must have been a very difficult time.” Again, he speaks in that quiet, careful voice. He doesn’t really have a Welsh accent. Not much.
“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t know how else to respond. How do I speak to one father about another. Had he minded that Mum and Dad didn’t tell me the truth?
“You didn’t think of writing to me first.” He sits back down in his chair but seems ill at ease, as if not sure if he should move closer to me.
“Er…no.” I try not to stammer. “It really never even occurred to me. Seems obvious now. The thing is…I was…” I finish lamely.
“I wonder what your mother told you about my lack of involvement in your life.”
This at last gives me the opening I needed. The words I’d rehearsed come back with such clarity.
“I’m really sorry about that, too. Mum made it sound as if you didn’t want to be involved. I don’t believe her.” I rush to assure him. “I wanted to correct the mistake even if it’s twenty-eight-years later. I know it’s too late to fix the past, but I think we can think about the present. And the future.”
“You feel she lied to you?” He confirms so quietly I have trouble hearing him.
“Well, not precisely lied, but maybe misinterpreted. Sometimes people remember things the way that makes them more comfortable.”
He considers me for a moment, then shifts in his seat so he’s not sitting on the edge but all the way against the back.
“No. Your mother didn’t misremember. She told you the truth. I didn’t wish to be involved. I was very young, true, but I had no doubt in my mind that I wasn’t the marrying kind. I never wanted a family.”
“But…” I search for words. For meaning. “You paid for me.”
