By Pamela Marshall
As Stella cleared away the teacups she stood and looked at the fireplace wall and seemed in a daze.
“Mum, mum, are you ok?” asked Emily.
“Oh yes, I was just thinking I’ll paint that wall green, you know that nice forest green, evergreen I think, it’s all a bit too creamy, plain in here but your dad liked it,” Stella said, placing the cups on a tray and handing it to Emily.
She thanked the last of the mourners for coming and saw them to the front door and nodded politely as they said they would call for lunch or coffee in a few weeks. She knew they wouldn’t as they were all Graham’s friends, not really hers. As she closed the door she kicked off her shoes and sighed “thank goodness that’s over” under her breath.
Emily had already loaded the dishwasher and was putting the leftover sandwiches onto one tray when Stella sat at the kitchen table.
“Thanks love, why don’t you head home, it’s been a long day,” Stella smiled at her daughter.
“But I was going to stay with you tonight, John is fine about it,” Emily said.
Stella got up and hugged Emily. “You go home, you’ve got lots to do for Stephen’s birthday tomorrow, I’ll be fine,” she reassured Emily. She just wanted to be on her own.
Emily said about ten times, “if you need me, call me”. Stella knew she meant well, and she was worried about her, but she needn’t be. She knew that she would be ok and promised to help her with the plans for her eldest grandson’s 21st birthday. She poured herself a whisky and plopped in two ice cubes; she couldn’t remember the last time she had drunk whisky as Graham liked red wine or dry white, it always seemed a waste to open a bottle for one glass.
Her thoughts turned to Maggie, her friend from college; she introduced her to whisky and Stella was surprised at how much she missed the golden warmth of the liquid she sipped now. She flicked through her address book for Maggie’s name and number and wondered if she was still at the same address. Only one way to find out. Stella punched the numbers in her phone and sipped her whisky.
“Hello,” the silky voice on the end of the line said.
“Maggie, it’s—”
“Oh my God, Stella,” Maggie interrupted, “how the hell are you?”
Stella told Maggie about Graham’s death and apologised for not being in touch more over the years, the last fifteen years to be exact. They chatted for nearly two hours, and it ended with Stella agreeing to visit Maggie that weekend. When she hung up the phone, she felt tired but happy. She wondered if she should feel guilty about feeling happy on the day of her husband’s funeral.
Stella spent two weeks with Maggie at her cottage by the sea, sipping whisky in the evenings, staring at the setting sun over the water, talking into the night. She met Maggie’s friends, some of them she vaguely remembered from college or Maggie’s art shows, some of them looked like tramps on the street; knowing Maggie they probably were, as she made friends with everyone. Maggie was a good artist and successful too. She not only painted the seascapes but had her interpretations on scarves and crockery sold everywhere. Stella had always known Maggie was a great painter and her first exhibition along with four other artists was where she first met Graham. He was fun then, but then they were all young.
Maggie encouraged Stella to get back to pottery which she had loved at college; it was a welcome relief from her studies then but something she had let go. Maggie promised to come and visit Stella next, which helped to quell the sadness she felt, leaving her and the sea to go back home.
Stella threw herself into remodelling her house, yes, it was now her house, and she could do what she wanted with it. The fireplace wall was painted evergreen and the walls throughout the house now had original Maggie Stone paintings. She sold Graham’s Mercedes and promised his prized MG sports car to Stephen at his 21st birthday; he was picking it up at the weekend. Then she was going to convert the garage into a studio with a potter’s wheel and kiln. Maggie was coming to help her set up the studio and she hadn’t been as excited in years; she felt like a child waiting for Christmas Day.
Emily was coming straight from work for dinner and Stella made her favourite beef wellington with roast potatoes; Graham and Emily both loved it. Emily drove into the driveway and Stella opened the door and hugged her. She wandered round the house noting the changes while Stella checked on the potatoes and poured Emily a glass of red and a whisky for herself.
“You’ve made a lot of changes, mum, every room painted, new furniture and giving Dad’s car to Stephen… do you have anything left belonging to Dad?” Emily asked.
Stella looked surprised. “I don’t need your dad’s things to remind me of him, Emily.”
They ate silently until Stella said, “Is there something wrong, you seem upset.”
“You’re changing everything, and giving stuff away like celebrating he is gone,” Emily said.
“Oh no, Emily, I’m not celebrating that at all. I’d forgotten the Stella I was when I met your dad, the Stella who loved colour and art. I love your dad and I love you too, but I’m celebrating finding and loving the Stella that is still inside me.”
Stella put her hand over her heart. “Your dad is in here and I did everything he wanted. I worked to let your father study and do what he wanted and I don’t regret it at all, but I am living, here and now, and my future will be a celebration of life, love and colour and the things I want, and it will be wonderful.”
Stella raised her glass to “the future”.