She had always been there. And as a child and as a woman I loved seeing her. There was always this aura of kindness to her, an openness, an open-eyed, warm-hearted interest in others. Or perhaps I am projecting all this onto her memory. Though I did meet her, several times. She was in one of the plays at the Royal Exchange when I was there working FOH. And she was just as I thought she would be. Lovely. I am sorry she has gone. Rest in peace, Una Stubbs.
She held my hand fast. She has small hands and she clung to mine. I let it be. I like to touch her. And I suspect she is lonely. She talks about low mornings. And I can imagine them. She responds to company. She comes alive. Her eyes though are sad. Deep down they look lost. They are elsewhere. That is her grief. We all have it. Or at least, if not now, we will do. Some sooner than others.
The smell was a shock. I thought it was him. Your cursed sense of smell, he’d say. Yes, I often don’t want it. It’s too intimate. And I pick up those transgressions that even that lovely, feminine gentle tiny woman lets loose.
Drawing today. Are you excited? he asked.
No. Scared. I am not brave.
