Charles and Dorothy by Jill Ritchie

The doorbell rang at last.
She opened the door with some trepidation.
He stood there in the morning sunlight, older and perhaps a little less self-assured than she remembered.
“So –may I come in?”
Even after their recent phone conversations, his voice still came as a slight shock.
“Yes---yes of course.”
She opened the door wide, as if to make up for her apparent lack of welcome.
He stepped in cautiously, his large frame looking incongruous in her neat, tidy hallway.
She led him through to her living room, where she quickly shooed the cats from the sofa. The daffodils on the table declared bright springtime, optimism even.
“Do sit down”, she said, as if to a stranger. “Would you like a coffee?”
“That would be very welcome,” he said, still in polite mode.
As she made the coffee, (kettle ready boiled, two mugs on the tray), memory flashes arrived unbidden, summoned by the familiar routine: earlier ones of quiet domesticity, later with stress attached.
He stood awkwardly as she entered the room and placed the tray on the table.
“Do you still take sugar?” she asked, amazed that she even remembered.
“Ah. No thank you, my figure you know.” And indeed, she had noticed his increased waistline.
They sat, still rather stiffly, almost like two passengers in a waiting room.
As indeed—they almost were: waiting for a resolution of their situation.
She surveyed him calmly, waiting for him to speak.
“S0”, he said eventually, “So, what kind of man is this prospective… son-in-law….? Is our daughter happy with him? What do they have in common? When you wrote to tell me about this wedding I wondered why she hadn’t told me herself.”
“Well Charles, you have only yourself to blame. When have you ever truly listened to anybody but yourself! I think she simply gave up on you years ago. But in spite of that, it is our daughter’s wedding, and she would like us both to be there.”
“But you say he’s a….gipsy ??”
“Well-not exactly.”
“In what way-‘not exactly’?”
“He does live in a caravan, it’s true, but it is a rather beautiful traditional traveller’s caravan. They’re quite collectable now you know.”
He noticed her change of emphasis.
“Do you think that the collectability of his home is going to endear him more to me?”
Well you have changed, she thought to herself.
“And how does he earn a living? Hawking baskets of primroses from door to door? Or is breaking and entering more his thing?”
“Charles, I appreciate that in your ivory Oxford towers you are somewhat insulated from life, but not all non-academics are criminals or mad.”
Clearly there was room for yet more changes.
©Jill Ritchie2016
She opened the door with some trepidation.
He stood there in the morning sunlight, older and perhaps a little less self-assured than she remembered.
“So –may I come in?”
Even after their recent phone conversations, his voice still came as a slight shock.
“Yes---yes of course.”
She opened the door wide, as if to make up for her apparent lack of welcome.
He stepped in cautiously, his large frame looking incongruous in her neat, tidy hallway.
She led him through to her living room, where she quickly shooed the cats from the sofa. The daffodils on the table declared bright springtime, optimism even.
“Do sit down”, she said, as if to a stranger. “Would you like a coffee?”
“That would be very welcome,” he said, still in polite mode.
As she made the coffee, (kettle ready boiled, two mugs on the tray), memory flashes arrived unbidden, summoned by the familiar routine: earlier ones of quiet domesticity, later with stress attached.
He stood awkwardly as she entered the room and placed the tray on the table.
“Do you still take sugar?” she asked, amazed that she even remembered.
“Ah. No thank you, my figure you know.” And indeed, she had noticed his increased waistline.
They sat, still rather stiffly, almost like two passengers in a waiting room.
As indeed—they almost were: waiting for a resolution of their situation.
She surveyed him calmly, waiting for him to speak.
“S0”, he said eventually, “So, what kind of man is this prospective… son-in-law….? Is our daughter happy with him? What do they have in common? When you wrote to tell me about this wedding I wondered why she hadn’t told me herself.”
“Well Charles, you have only yourself to blame. When have you ever truly listened to anybody but yourself! I think she simply gave up on you years ago. But in spite of that, it is our daughter’s wedding, and she would like us both to be there.”
“But you say he’s a….gipsy ??”
“Well-not exactly.”
“In what way-‘not exactly’?”
“He does live in a caravan, it’s true, but it is a rather beautiful traditional traveller’s caravan. They’re quite collectable now you know.”
He noticed her change of emphasis.
“Do you think that the collectability of his home is going to endear him more to me?”
Well you have changed, she thought to herself.
“And how does he earn a living? Hawking baskets of primroses from door to door? Or is breaking and entering more his thing?”
“Charles, I appreciate that in your ivory Oxford towers you are somewhat insulated from life, but not all non-academics are criminals or mad.”
Clearly there was room for yet more changes.
©Jill Ritchie2016