Emily drifted through a slumber of odd visions. In this dream, her earliest memory was hazya memory of her mother taken away by a neighbour’s Morris Minor on the rainy streets of Leeds. She was left, at four years old, amid warped shadows and laughter echoing through terraced houses. Her father, Robert, seemed worn like an old tweed coat, his face lined with years and worry, aging beyond his time, barely scraping by.
Emily never visited her father in those days. After she wed, life seemed to spin around her like a carousel in Hyde Park. She would ring him up now and then, her voice floating across the distance, but her husband, Philip, barked in with complaints about wasting money on a useless old man. Philip saw no reason for charity; after all, Roberts use of his daughter’s aid was, in his eyes, pointless.
Loneliness and breadless days clung to Robert, so much so that a neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, suggested he see a judge and ask for support. Go on, love, the courtsll sort it out, she said while sipping tea in her small parlour. With dreamlike logic, the courthouse became a vast cathedral; Emily met Robert in tears beneath stained glass windows shimmering with impossible colours.
Oh, Dad! Emily sobbed. Have you grown so tired waiting that you dragged me to court?
Emily, love, Robert murmured, Ive not had a penny for a loaf in days. I counted on your wordyoud help me in old age. Maybe I didnt teach you well enough
Emily insisted, I have a job. And Philip used to send you groceries and pounds.
Philips shape appeared, hazy and stretched, intervening with a sharp tone: Stop twisting the truth. I send you money every monthI didnt mean for you to fritter it away on fun.
Emilys tears turned her face haunted. She whispered, I have something important to share. She spun around; the very walls wobbled.
Time slipped sideways. Roberts face became pale and sad as he spoke, When your mother still lived, I came home one evening. She sat in that kitchen, staring into emptiness, with a parcel at her feeta small girl, a box left by the station. We raised that little girl as our own. Emilyit was you. Youre not my blood, but Ive always cherished you. Forgive me, my darling!
He withdrew his claim, the lawsuit dissolving into fog. As the dream drifted, secrets unfolded: Philip had never once visited Robert, preferring his own pleasurespub nights, gambling, fleeting affairs, money swirling down the drains of Soho.
Emily, wounded by wasted years, gathered her things and stepped out into fields of impossible daisies, moving in with her father among echoes and friendly ghosts. There, within an ancient house of mismatched shoes and uneven floors, time circled gently. Together, Emily and Robert found comfort, waking from sorrowhappy at last in the strange logic only dreams can offer.
