The following morning Jean woke up, did her ablutions and pottered back to the bedroom.
George was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing the hangdog expression he’d been wearing for the last few days. She did her best to ignore him. If she said anything she was going to lose her temper.
Maybe she was insensitive, maybe she was old-fashioned, but it seemed to her that there was nothing so burdensome you couldn’t put it aside for the day of your daughter’s wedding.
She was stepping into her slip when he said, “I’m sorry,” and she turned round and she could see that he really meant it.
“I’m so sorry, Jean.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. That it was all right? Because it wasn’t all right. She could see that.
She sat down and took his hand and held it. Maybe that was all you could do.
She remembered the children, when they were little, teaching them to say sorry when they’d hit each other or broken something. And it was just a word to them. A way of papering over the cracks. Then you heard someone say sorry properly and you realized how powerful it was. The magic word that opened the door of the cave.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“I don’t think there is anything you can do,” said George.
She sat beside him on the bed and put her arms around him. He didn’t move.
She said, “We’ll get you through this.”
Seconds later Katie was knocking on the door. “Mum…? Any chance of a helping hand?”
“Give me a minute.” She pulled the rest of her clothes on and kissed George and said, “It’s going to be all right. I promise.”
Then she went to look after the rest of her family.