‘It’s pass the parcel for grown-ups. Next clue.’
Again, I carefully open the envelope. ‘The very next day…’ I read aloud. ‘She gave it away,’ I say without thinking
‘That’s not fair, you’re supposed to take longer.’
‘How could I? That song is now etched into my brain.’ I push my hands in the air and start to act out the rave version of ‘Last Christmas’, complete with chugga chugga beat box noises.
‘You’re a fool. Okay, go on then, next clue.’
‘There’s another bloody layer, how many boxes are there? Am I going to go through all this and find something tiny like a pea or something?’
‘Maybe, maybe. But what time is the show starting? Shouldn’t we get in there?’
We wander around the theatre, Belle oohing and ahhing and looking at all the pictures of performances past, chattering about things that are way over my head with a couple of members of staff and occasionally turning around and patting me with a mix of excitement and gratitude. Her happiness bounces from her. Finally, we take to our seats.
‘How well do you know the play?’ she asks.
‘I was going to ask you for a quick précis. I’m a bit rusty and you’re my walking Wikipedia. It’s not one of the more well-known ones.’
‘No, but it’s an absolute beaut.’ She gives me a quick rundown of the plot but refuses to give the end away, smiling enigmatically. ‘The great thing is this play is so full of themes, about recognition, about inequality, country versus city, jealousy, all sorts of things, and I just love it. It’s one of his later plays and is hard to be categorised as anything other than late romance—’
The woman in front turns around to shush her, cutting her off. We have both been so caught up we haven’t noticed the curtain coming up.
‘Oops, sorry,’ Belle says and lowers her head. I scowl. There was no need to be arsey; no one is even on stage yet although there is a huge Christmas tree in the corner.
‘Look.’ I point it out to her. ‘You didn’t mention Christmas in your précis.’
‘Because it’s got bugger all to do with Christmas, that’s just stagecraft and a director trying to find a link to help ticket sales.’
‘But it’sThe Winter’s Tale, I thought it was partly your favourite because of Christmas.’
‘YouknowShakespeare wrote very little about Christmas!’ She gives me her cross face as if I am a naughty pupil who hasn’t paid attention to his lessons. Far too cute and I bow my head in acceptance of the telling off. She’s right, I do know that, she told me back when she was preparing to go into the schools. ‘It’s a winter’s tale because it is a good old tale with lots of morals which is perfect for drawing up around the fire and telling on a winter’s eve, or at least I think that’s why…’
‘Shhhhhh.’ The woman in front turns and hisses at us again, whilst rustling so many sweet wrappers she could be a one-woman orchestra. Belle grimaces an apology, settles back, ready to get caught up in this retelling and I sit back to watch Belle.
Belle.
The time whooshes by and I am so happy. It was magnificent,sucha good production, and I can’t believe that Rory has thought of this as a gift. In the first half I had found myself leaning into him over the seat arm as the play began and couldn’t help but notice how a tear welled up in his eye at the courtroom scene as Leontes’ fury rolled out across his life and caused him to lose everything he had previously held dear. After the interval, I reclaimed my position, as close as can be, and in the final scene – the unveiling of the statue of Hermione as the father is reunited with his daughter – I felt him sit straight, caught up in the anticipation and emotion of the moment. But then as the statue moves and Hermione reveals herself as alive all along he stiffens. Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
Of course, it had never occurred to me that Rory would buy me tickets for this play, let alone sit and watch it with me. And then once he had my joy took over and I forgot to factor this in. I forgot that for a man carrying the burden he does – the loss that is etched into the brow of his face –witnessing a play where a lost love is revealed as living, back from presumed death, would be hard.
The audience stand and clap and clap; the cheering is thunderous as the actors stand and take their bows, blowing kisses to their audience. I stand and clap as Rory does too but the cheers I want to hurl are silenced as I watch another tear trickle down the face of the man I know I have fallen in love with.
I want to wrap him up, make my arms a secure web in which to keep him safe, free from further hurt, tell him it will all be okay. But how can it be? Jessica isn’t coming back.
‘I shall never have the words to thank you for bringing me to this,’ I say as people slowly begin to file out and I gently squeeze his arm, hoping the words I don’t say are conveyed.
‘It was a pleasure. Was it as good as you hoped when we walked in?’ he asks with no mention of his own response to the play, the tears pushed back behind his eyes with iron Walters self-control.
‘Oh my goodness, yes. It was amazing. I really will remember tonight for ever. For ever.’ And I will. He has taught me so much. He has taught me how a man treats a woman he respects. He and his mum have taught me that I am good enough. They showed me what I had suspected was the case all along, that normal parents – good parents – put their children’s needs before their own, that they use their strengths to build their children up, not allow their weaknesses to dictate the constant tearing down of their kids. That maybe, just maybe, it isn’t me that is the only failure in my life, maybe my parents have let me down a little, our failure to have a healthy relationship may not all be on me.
Just because nothing I do is good enough for them doesn’t mean I’m not good enough for me. That lesson had come roaring in full force when I had finally snapped at Dad on Christmas Day and leapt to my mother’s defence but also to my own. I had, quite literally, saved my dad’s life and still he struggles to see any merit in the person I am, so sod him.
