Not a Bad Start

One week later. Cathy is arriving today. My dad has gone up to London to pick her up, and I’m left waiting here at home. I’m sitting here, trying to read, and I’m failing. Usually the words just suck me into the story and I just read. Usually there is no question of trying to read. But today is different. The word are just words – they just sit on the page like little black squiggles – dumb, numb, and unresponsive.

I’ve lived alone here with my dad for as long as I can remember. Just the two of us. We’re lucky – we have quite a large house, with a large garden, and there are no other houses nearby – just fields and woods. Very private, very nice.

Now Cathy is coming to stay with us. Permanently.

The train should be in by now, so they’ll be here pretty soon.

I put the book down, and I go and stand by the window.

Nothing – just a low grey sky. No rain though, and it’s quite warm really. The summer holidays started just one week ago.

I think I’ll have a sandwich.

I cut a couple of slices of bread and get the cheese out of the fridge – cut it, thick and chunky, with lots of pickle. It’s good. Then I fill up the kettle for a cup of tea – nothing like tea to cheer you up.

The kettle has just boiled when I hear the car. I don’t know if I should go outside – or wait in here.

I go outside.

Dad gets out. “Hi Sean,” he says. I wave.

Then Cathy gets out on the passenger side. I suppose, because she’s my cousin – Dad’s niece – I thought she’s look like us – sort of mousy haired and vaguely pink. She doesn’t. She’s tall, she’s got long, very wavy, black hair – tied back, and she’s very dark. Cool, I thought. We’re a multi-racial family. I don’t know why I think it’s cool – but it is. It’s different. It’s new. I suddenly feel much better about everything. I smile.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m Sean.”

“Cathy,” she says – and she holds out her hand. I’ve hardly ever shaken hands before – for all that they say it’s a very British thing. But I take her hand and we shake.

I’ve read some stories where people shake hands and they judge the person by the shake, or the grip – firm, weak, aggressive, sweaty – they tell more than your eyes or face – or so they say. Well I don’t know about that – but I like shaking hands with Cathy – it feels – well – friendly I suppose – familiar.

“The kettle’s just boiled,” I say. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please,” she says.

“You bet,” says Dad. And we go through to the kitchen.

Not a bad start.