My mother was ravishing, though some said it was her sole advantage. My father, a lecturer in political science at the university in Oxford, would often repeat that line. I, who adored him with a love that made my heart tremble, watched everything through his eyes.
Edward Turner came from an educated, welltodo family that had never quite accepted my mother. I learned the truth of their meeting only many years later. As a freshfaced member of a university workcamp, Edward was sent to a small collective farm in Lincolnshire to build animal pens. My mother, then just seventeen, worked as a milkmaid. She had only the basics of schooling up to the eighth year and even after decades beside Edward she never learned to read fluently; she traced letters with a fingertip and whispered syllables to herself. Yet she possessed a striking beauty: delicate, pale skin, honeygolden hair that fell to her waist, blueviolet eyes and a finely chiseled profile. In the wedding portrait she looked as if she had stepped out of a glossy magazine. Edward was tall, darkhaired, with a thick moustache and a decidedly masculine bearing.
That summer she fell pregnant, and Edward felt obliged to marry her. Whether he ever truly loved her is doubtful; his parents pressed him, accusing my mother of having tricked him, while a swarm of young, clever graduate students perhaps not as pretty but certainly erudite hovered around the department, ready to engage in any intellectual debate. Moreover, on the few occasions Edward invited my mother to social gatherings, she ate clumsily, handled cutlery poorly and laughed so loudly that he was embarrassed. He never shied from pointing this out; she would only shake her head with a sad smile, never daring to argue.
I swore never to become like my mother. I wanted Edward to be proud of me. Before I even started school I mastered the alphabet and read far better than she ever could. I spent whole days with numbers so that when Edward posed a problem I could answer correctly and earn his praise. At the table I watched his manners and imitated them eating with my mouth closed, not licking the plate, using fork and knife unlike my mother. Yet Edward remained distant, his glance fleeting, his hand only ever smoothing my shaggy hair absentmindedly. The rare moments when he spoke to me became a treasured solace, and I replayed his words over and over in my mind.
When I was in second grade, Edward left us. My mother tried to conceal it, but eventually I learned he had taken another woman. The word divorce echoed in my ears, and all I could think was, If only Father would take me with him. Of course I remained with my mother. We were forced to leave the modest flat we had in the village; it had belonged to my grandparents, Ada and Harold, who were merely glad to be rid of us. For a while they sent small money transfers Edward each month, and my grandparents at Christmas and for birthdays in modest pounds. But as the nations economy faltered, Edward lost his job and the payments stopped. Mother took several lowpaying cleaning jobs, scrubbing floors from dawn till dusk; wages were scarce and often delayed, so we lived in poverty. Her onceradiant beauty faded, and I could no longer see any good in her. I silently blamed her for Edwards abandonment.
Edward, meanwhile, turned to entrepreneurship. One crisp winter day he stopped by our door with a new coat for me and a few pounds in a paper envelope. I had just trudged home from school, shivering in my threadbare overcoat whose sleeves no longer reached my wrists. Edward lingered at the entrance Mother was at work and no one opened the door for him, yet he waited. My heart leapt; he had not forgotten me. I brewed him tea with sugar, babbling endlessly about my school achievements, trying to appear clever. He listened halfheartedly but stayed, finishing his tea, unwrapping the coat, placing the money on the table and saying:
Give this to your mother. Ill bring more next month.
Will you come for my birthday? I asked timidly.
He looked at me as if the date had slipped his mind, then answered:
Of course! What would you like?
A doll! I blurted, feeling a blush rise. I was old enough for books, yet the simple symbol of childhood called to me. He usually bought me volumes for my birthday.
Very well, he nodded, a doll it shall be.
When Mother returned, I proudly recounted his visit and his promise of a birthday gift.
On my birthday I raced home, breathless, fearing Edward might not wait. I hoped to find him at the doorstep, but he was nowhere. Mother had baked a cake the night before and given me a fashionable jumper with a pattern Id longed for. I left the cake untouched, waiting, but he never appeared. That evening, when Mother returned from work, we shared the cake together, yet my spirit was crushed; tears finally broke free. Mother understood, though she said nothing about Edward.
The following morning Mother handed me a small parcel.
It arrived by post, delayed, she said. Its from your father.
Inside lay a brandnew doll in a pretty pink box. I cried out, Why didnt he come himself?
He was probably sent on a business trip, Mother replied, averting her gaze.
That doll became my most treasured possession. I took it to school, unafraid of mockery. Edward never returned, and my grandparents never sent another monetary gift. Gradually I accepted that only Mother remained in my life, though each day I yearned for my father, hoping one day he might see the woman I had become and feel pride.
After finishing the eleventh year, I entered medical school. Determined to tell Edward the news, I resolved to find him. I remembered roughly the address of the flat where I had lived eight years, and the house of my grandparents, which I visited only on holidays. Without telling Mother, I set off.
At Edwards former address a woman opened the door, claiming she had lived there for seven years and that no one else had. I pressed for information about previous tenants, but she slammed the door shut.
The grandparents cottage was silent. I was about to leave when a dryvoiced old lady in large spectacles opened the next door and asked:
Who are you looking for?
Im looking for the Turners. Im their granddaughter.
She studied me, then said:
If youre their granddaughter, you should know theyve been in the grave for many years.
Heat rose to my cheeks.
I didnt know My parents divorced and I
Yes, yes, they divorced So youre Emily?
Yes.
You wanted to see your grandparents?
Yes. And my father I managed to say.
The old womans gaze hardened, and she spoke:
All of them met a terrible end. Debt killed them, all in one day, because of your father
The truth crashed over me like a wave, leaving me breathless.
Dont kill yourself, child, she urged. Youre still young, life lies ahead. Is your mother alive?
I nodded.
Ill give you the locations of their graves. Ive the list somewhere. Go, visit them, and youll find some peace.
She rummaged through drawers until she found a small notebook, read out the grave numbers and the name of the cemetery. I thanked her and hurried away, fear gripping me.
The graves were overgrown, neglected. I cleared the weeds enough to read the headstones, all aligned behind a single low wall. The dates showed that they had died two days after my last encounter with Edward.
On the tram ride home, trembling, a thought struck me: Edward could never have sent me that doll on my birthday. The doll I had kept all these years must have come from someone else. A flush rose to my cheeks, a lump rose in my throat. Shame washed over me. My father turned out to be a common crook who had ruined his own parents lives. It was a relief that Mother and I had never lived with him; otherwise we would have been trapped together.
I never told Mother about my journey. I lied, saying Id been out with friends. Later I embraced her, whispered that I loved her, and added another falsehood:
Thank you for everything.
Mothers eyes, once dulled by time but still a clear shade of cornflower blue, widened.
I always knew that you were the one who gave me that doll. Thats why I cherished it.
Large tears streamed down her cheeks. I felt no shame about my lie; I only felt shame for the years Id believed there was nothing good in anyone but fleeting beauty.
