Footsteps in the frost - 0r, giving myself permission to have a nice Christmas
I woke up this morning with the cold howling around inside my bones. But looking out of the window everything was all white and beautiful and brilliant, the sun like pearl behind white sky, and everything glittered with frost. It looked quite magical. I love mornings like this. Give me this over rain any day. I went to a pantomine the night before last, and the fairy godmother in it was fantastic, really throwing herself into the part, tip-toeing around the cast waving her wand and whispering good into everyones ears. That's what it felt like this morning, waking up to all this whiteness, as if someone had tiptoed through the night - over rooftops and hills, through the trees, up and down streets and alleyways and parks, waving a magic wand, turning the land this clean, silvery-white. I felt happy just laying there thinking it. I turned up the on the music on the CD alarm — the Late String Quartets again! — tugged the duvet around me and lay there staring out of the window, dreaming. One part of my mind though wanted to yank me back to thoughts of Christmas — Christmas that will always and ever be family, no matter how long we have been estranged now, and should I shouldn't I pick up the phone and try to build bridges...at least with Mummy, let know I am still alive...to know that she is...just to hear her voice even. I go through it every year, but I never do it, always knowing that while my uncle is still there, and the new husbands and wives in teh family who know nothng about me or the past, it can never be anythign more than a charade, and me never more than a victim of that. I can't be that anymore.
But this year it feels even more difficult. But every part of me dreads finding out now if she, or anyone else, has come across the book, dreads knowing any upset I've caused by bringing it all out into the open...She knows it all happened, she was there in the police station that day, but the mind has to do funny things to survive and maybe she managed to somehow wipe out the details; maybe she had to, to have him back in her life. Also she knows nothing about living in the car, about all those months out there, none of that. If they do know by now, my getting in touch would just make it worse - I think everday that one of them will find out — everytime the phone rings my blood stops. But if they haven't read it...maybe I could just say hello to her, see how she is? But I couldn't answer even the most basic questions now without lying, I'd have to say I've been working, getting on with life all this time, just doing the ordinary things...I couldn't mention anything about the book or how I ended up in the car, or any of this... But then what if she found out about the book sometime later? Surely that deception would feel worse? I've fallen asleep thinking about it all for weeks now in the run up to Christmas — almost tormenting myself — should I, shouldn't I — at least send her flowers even? Could I, couldn't I ?... But this morning I managed to pull my mind back to the frost, the glittering, hard frost covering everything, and that fairy godmother in the pantomine the other night in her pink, satin high-heel shoes tip toeing through the night spreading magic, until all I sensed were her whispered, positive words, and all I could see were footsteps in the frost going forward.
