Page 22 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘You have a magnificent way with words, Ruth Ryans,’ she tells me, her nose twitching which indicates she really means what she is saying. ‘A magical way with words. You can move people, you can make them think, you can turn their lives around in a heartbeat when you put your mind to it. There are hundreds of Noras and Bobs and Gavins in this company, but there is only one Ruth Ryans. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve gone the extra mile to make everything that you do the best, not only for you, but for others, which is why I gave you the agony aunt column in the first place. I think this will make a remarkable feature. Go for it. I’m right behind you.’
‘Thank you, Margo. The festive season is meant to be about giving, after all, and I was reminded recently that the more you give, sometimes, the better it makes you feel,’ I say, my voice sounding meek and feeble and not like someone who is about to take in several total strangers on Christmas Day in some sort of humanity experiment that could blow up in my face.
‘Just stay safe and be careful who you choose to come into your home,’ says Margo.
‘Careful? What do you mean?’
‘Well, these are strangers, Ruth, and you will have no idea of their background. You might want to think about some backup on this. Is there someone who could come on board with you? You know, like a helper, or like a backup person? Someone who’ll make sure it all passes over safely and help you out if any trouble should arise?’
I bite my lip. I hadn’t really thought of that. I don’t know of any more sad cases like me offhand who would be on their own at Christmas and able to just come along and help out.
‘I’m sure I’ll find someone to help me,’ I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure I won’t. I wouldn’t even know where to start or who to ask. ‘Oh, and needless to say I’m going to have to bow out of any social appearances between now and next week, not that I’ve been going anywhere lately anyhow as I’ve been so bloody down in the dumps. This is going to take up all of my time and energy but I think it will be worth it.’
‘Okay then, go for it and good luck. I look forward to reading all about it,’ says Margo and then she pauses for what seems like ages. I keep waiting for her to continue. She doesn’t.
‘Is there abut?’ I ask her eventually.
‘No, no there is no but,’ she replies. She glances at the floor and then back at me. She takes a deep breath. She looks around her office and then she catches my eye.
‘But?’
‘Look . . . look, Ruth I know you’re struggling right now,’ she says, ‘and I can only imagine the old wounds that must have reopened inside you since your father’s death last year.’
I know exactly what she is getting at of course. The past year has been horrendous. The reminder of my mother’s rejection, of the emptiness afterwards, the years of seeing her for just a little while weekly, then on birthdays and once in a blue moon around that, and then eventually less and less like she didn’t really care about us at all until the contact became too painful and just dwindled away; the wishing it was her who’d died and not my father who was so devoted and dedicated, even through the toughest of times, and then the note from her after the funeral saying she’d like to be part of my life after so long. I may have been functioning for the past twelve months, but inside I’ve been screaming.
‘It is only natural that your father’s loss will bring so many old emotions to the surface and will make you question decisions made within your family that you thought you’d put to bed,’ says Margo. ‘You’re a very brave woman – and a very kind woman – to even think of cooking Christmas dinner for strangers when you’re going through so much inner hell yourself. I’msoproud of you for doing this, Ruth. I really, really am and I’ll be delighted to help you try and encourage others to do similar at other times of the year for your feature.’
Margo takes off her glasses and wipes the side of her eye. Maybe she has somethinginher eye. There’s no way she’s getting emotional. No way.
She clears her throat and then speaks again.
‘Your mother really doesn’t know what she is missing out on, not having a daughter like you in her life,’ she says, raising her chin. ‘She is missing out on so much. I’m sorry . . .’ she whispers. ‘I’m speaking way out of turn by saying that and I know I don’t have a clue of the full story, but, as humans, I think it’s important to say what we feel in our gut sometimes. It’sherloss, Ruth, that’s what I feel in my gut. It’syourpain andyourfeeling of rejection, but it’s all her unbelievable loss.’
I shrug and look at the floor.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, standing up again and fixing my long, pleated satin skirt which I notice has a dropped hem trailing the ground. ‘I try not to think of her a lot but I get what you’re saying – and I’m also not trying to be all saintly, no matter what anyone says, Margo. I’m not trying to be anything at all, ever. I’m doing this for me too, you know. I’m trying my best to help me to get through . . . to get through this Christmas.’
And at that Margo does something that Margo has never done before in all the years that I’ve known her. She comes out from behind her desk and gives me a really tight hug – a really good hug that I needed more than she could ever have known. And at that I burst out crying.
Gloria is on her tea break when I pop into the café on my way home. Like the beach when the sun is going down, there is a different, more peaceful and winding-down feel to the place and the low lighting sets up a very relaxing mood.
‘Here again?’ she says to me. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Ruthie?’
‘Do you have five minutes?’ I ask her, taking a seat across from her in the purple booth again. I feel excitement bubbling through my veins at the thought of telling Gloria my idea and I know by the look on her face that she can tell I’ve something brewing. Suzi is brushing the floor and Michael is enjoying a cuppa over the daily newspaper at the counter.
‘Hi Michael, hi Suzi,’ I say deliberately. Michael makes a face at me as if to say ‘don’t overdo the pleasantries’ and for some reason we both laugh at that.
‘Michael, keep an eye on Table 4 till I’m done here, won’t you?’ whispers Gloria to her nearest staff member.
‘I really won’t keep you long,’ I say to Gloria. ‘I just need to run something past you and . . . well, I suppose I need your reassurance and maybe some advice along the way. And to warn you in advance of any meltdowns I might have over the next while as I set myself the most random, and just maybe, the most rewarding challenge that I’ve ever done in my entire life.’
‘Breathe, Ruth,’ says Gloria and then she lets out a loud, hearty laugh. ‘What on earth are you up to? You really need to slow down and explain what on earth you are talking about.’
I sit back and do as I am told. I slow down and I explain what I’ve signed up to and how I’m going to write a feature for the newspapers, with all names anonymous, in a bid to raise some faith in the human spirit and the true meaning of Christmas. And how, after all that, I’m going to hopefully get an offer on the house and move on once and for all.
‘I’m not one bit surprised at all at your big ambitions,’ says Gloria when I’m done, sitting back and folding her arms under her bosom.
‘You aren’t?’
