“Mamma knew where you were. And I asked at the café if they knew where you
were staying. The woman told me exactly how to get here. Are you glad to see
me?”
“Certainly I am. Come in. You should have given me some warning so I could buy
some good food or something.”
“I stopped on impulse. I wanted to welcome you home from prison, but you never
called.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK. Mamma told me how you’re always getting lost in your own thoughts.”
“Is that what she says about me?”
“More or less. But it doesn’t matter. I still love you.”
“I love you too, but you know...”
“I know. I’m pretty grown-up by now.”
He made tea and put out pastries.
What his daughter had said was true. She was most assuredly no longer a little girl;
she was almost seventeen, practically a grown woman. He had to learn to stop
treating her like a child.
“So, how was it?”
“How was what?”
“Prison.”
He laughed. “Would you believe me if I said that it was like having a paid holiday
with all the time you wanted for thinking and writing?”
“I would. I don’t suppose there’s much difference between a prison and a cloister,
and people have always gone to cloisters for self-reflection.”
“Well, there you go. I hope it hasn’t been a problem for you, your father being a
gaolbird.”