I remember it as if it were a faded photograph, the way the old house behind the garden still smells of rainsoaked bricks.
Father, dont come back to us any more, I whispered, my small voice trembling in the dim hallway. When you leave, Mother starts to weep, and the tears linger until dawn. I lie down, wake up, lie down again, and she is still crying. I ask her, Mum, are you sad because of Father? and she sniffs, saying its only a cold. But Im nine now, and I know a cold never makes a voice sound like a sob.
Years later, I sat across the table from my father, George Whitaker, in a little tea shop on the corner of Baker Street. He stirred his cooling coffee with a dainty silver spoon, the kind youd find in a genteel hotel. In front of me sat a glass bowl holding a miniature work of art: bright sherbet spheres capped with a leaf of mint and a fresh cherry, all glistening beneath a drizzle of chocolate. Any sixyearold girl would have dived for it, but I, Ethel Whitaker, hadnt touched a thing. Last Thursday, long before the frost settled, I had decided it was time for a serious talk with Father.
He sat in silence for a long while, his forehead creasing like a wellcreased shirt, then finally asked, What shall we do, my girl? Stop seeing each other? How am I to go on?
I wrinkled my little nosejust as round as Mothers, a faint hint of a potato shapeand thought before answering, No, Father. I cant be without you either. Heres what well do: call Mother and tell her youll fetch me from the nursery every Friday. Well walk together, and if you fancy a cuppa or a scoop of ice cream, we can sit right here. Ill tell you everything about how Mother and I get on.
I paused, then added, And if you ever want to see Mother, Ill photograph her each week and show you the pictures. Does that sound alright?
George gave me a small smile, nodded, and said, Very well, that shall be our new way, my dear.
A breath of relief escaped me, and I turned my attention back to the sundae. Yet the conversation was not yet finished; I still had something vital to say. As the colourful beads perched on my lip like tiny moustaches, I licked them clean, grew solemn, and, almost as if I were stepping into womanhood, whispered, Fathers birthday was last week. I drew him a card in the nursery, painting the huge number 58 in bright gold.
My face hardened, my brows knit together, and I went on, I think you ought to marry. I added, trying to sound generous, Youre not that old yet, after all.
He chuckled, Youd call me not that old, would you not?
I answered with enthusiasm, Not at all! Look, Uncle Harry, whos visited Mother twice now, even though hes a bit balding I pointed to my own forehead, smoothing my soft curls with my small hand. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing as if I had spilled a secret he never meant to hear.
Uncle Harry? What Uncle Harry? Father raised his voice, startling the whole café. Is he Mothers boss?
I dont know, I stammered, suddenly shy. Maybe he is. He brings us sweets and a cake, and I hesitated, unsure whether to reveal Mothers flowers, which seemed too private for a man who could be rather unreasonable.
George folded his hands on the table, stared at them a long moment, and I sensed he was about to make a weighty decision. A young woman, I thought, ought not to rush a man toward conclusions; she should nudge him gently. After all, men are often slow to act, and it falls to the ladyespecially the one he holds dearestto steer him.
He lingered in silence, then finally breathed heavily, unlocked his fingers, lifted his head, and said, Come along, my girl. Its late; Ill take you home and speak to Mother. I didnt press him for details, but I knew the talk mattered. I hurried my ice cream, then, realizing his resolve outweighed any sweet treat, I flung my spoon onto the table, slipped from my seat, wiped the frosting from my lips with the back of my hand, and, looking straight at him, declared, Im ready. Lets go.
We didnt walk; we almost ran. George led, his arm firm around mine, and I felt like a banner fluttering in the wind, as if I were the standard carried by a nobleman into battle at Waterloo.
When we burst into the lift shaft, the doors closed slowly, carrying a neighbours voice upward. George glanced at me, puzzled, and I, eyes bright, asked, What now? Who are we waiting for? This is only the seventh floor.
He hoisted me onto his shoulders and rushed up the stairs. When the heavy wooden door at the top swung open, MotherMartha Whitfordstood there, eyes wide. George launched straight into his grievances, You cant behave like this! Whos this Harry fellow? I love you, Martha, and we have He held me close, then gathered Mother into the same embrace. I clutched both of them around the neck, closed my eyes, and felt the adults kiss of reconciliation linger in the air.
Thus the memory lingers, a tapestry of whispered tears, chocolatedripping sweets, and the stubborn hope of a little girl who, even then, tried to stitch the fragments of her family back together.
