My mother was stunning, but my father always said that was her only virtue. I, who adored him with a feverish devotion, watched the world through his eyes.
James Whitaker taught political science to undergraduates at the University of Kent. He came from an educated, welltodo family that never quite accepted my mother. I learned later how they first met. In his second year, James was part of a university workcamp sent to a collective farm near Canterbury to build animal pens. My mother, Rosamund, was only seventeen then and worked as a milkmaid. She had barely completed the eighth year of school, and even after decades of marriage she still struggled with reading, tracing letters with her fingertips and whispering syllables to herself. Still, she was a striking beautydelicate, with porcelain skin, honeygolden hair that fell to her waist, striking blueviolet eyes, and an elegant profile. In the wedding photograph she looked as though she had stepped out of a magazine. James was tall, darkhaired, with a thick moustache and a distinctly masculine bearing. That summer Rosamund fell pregnant, and James felt obliged to marry her. Whether he ever truly loved her is doubtful; his parents pressed him, accusing Rosamund of having ensnared him by deceit, while a circle of young postgraduate womenperhaps not as pretty but certainly more educated swirled around the university, ready to keep any conversation lively. On the few occasions James tried to bring Rosamund to his colleagues gatherings, she ate clumsily, couldnt use cutlery, and laughed so loudly that he felt embarrassed. He never hesitated to tell her this, and she would only shake her head with a sad smile, unable to argue.
I swore never to become like my mother. I wanted James to be proud of me. Before I even started school I memorised the alphabet and read far better than Rosamund ever could. I spent whole days practising arithmetic so that when James posed a problem I could give a correct answer and win his praise. At the dinner table I watched him intently, mimicking his mannerseating with my mouth closed, not licking my plate, using knife and fork. Despite all this, James never really warmed to me; hed glance over my head and smooth my shaggy hair with an absent hand. On the rare days when we managed a conversation, his words became my solace and I replayed them over and over in my mind.
When I was in Year 2, James left us. Rosamund tried to hide the truth, but eventually I learned he had found another woman. The word divorce struck me like a blow, and all I could think of was, If only Dad would take me with him. Of course I stayed with my mother. We had to move out of the flat wed shared; it belonged to my grandparents, who were only glad to be rid of us. For a while James sent a modest monthly allowance, and my grandparents chipped in a few pounds for Christmas and birthdays. Then the economy collapsed, James lost his job, and the payments stopped. Rosamund took on multiple cleaning jobs, scrubbing floors from dawn till dusk for meagre wages that were often late. We lived in hardship; her onceradiant beauty dulled with time, and I could see nothing good in her any longer. I blamed her in my mind for Jamess abandonment.
James turned to smallscale entrepreneurship. One winter he stopped by our block, handed me a new coat and a few pounds. That day is seared into my memory: Id just trudged home from school, shivering in my threadbare overcoat, sleeves too short for my arms. James stood by the entrancemy mother was at work, no one let him in, yet he waited. My heart lifted; he hadnt forgotten me. I served him tea with sugar, babbling nonstop about my school achievements, trying to prove how clever Id become. He listened halfheartedly, never leaving, finishing his tea. He unfolded the coat, which made me gasp with delight, placed some cash on the table and said:
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 replied, Of course. What would you like?
A doll, I blurted, cheeks flushing. I was already a teenager, but the word escaped me; I wanted that symbol of childhood from his hands. He normally bought me books for my birthdays.
Alright, he nodded, youll have a doll.
When my mother returned, I proudly recounted his visit and his promise to bring a doll for my birthday.
On my birthday I raced home, heart hammering, fearing he wouldnt wait. I hoped hed be at the doorstep, but he never appeared. The night before, Mom had baked a cake and gifted me a fashionable jumper with a pattern Id long admired. I left the cake untouched, waiting for Dad. He never came. When Mom got home, we ate the cake together, but I felt no festive spirit; by the end I was in tears. Mom understood but said nothing about James.
The next morning Mom handed me a small box.
It came by postdelayed, I think. Its from Dad, she said.
Inside lay a brandnew doll in a pretty pink wrapper. I squealed with joy and asked, Why didnt he come himself?
Probably off on a work trip, Mom replied, avoiding my eyes.
That doll became my most treasured possession. I took it to school, unafraid of mockery. James never returned, and my grandparents never sent another allowance. Gradually I accepted that only Mom was in my life, yet each day I longed for my father, hoping one day he might see the person Id become and feel pride.
After finishing my GCSEs I secured a place at StGeorges Medical School in London. I was determined to tell Dad the news, so I set out to find him. I remembered his old address in Ashford and the flat my grandparents owned, which I had only visited on holidays. Without telling Mom, I drove north.
At the Ashford flat a woman answered the door. She told me no one named Whitaker lived there and that shed been the tenant for seven years. I tried to ask about previous occupants, but she slammed the door in my face.
The grandparents house was empty; no one answered. As I turned to leave, a stooped old lady in thick spectacles opened the next door.
Can I help you? she asked.
Im looking for the Whitakers. Im their grandson, I replied.
She examined me, then said, If youre their kin, you ought to know theyve been buried for years.
My face flushed. I didnt know My parents divorced, and I
Ah, yes, the divorce. So youre Lily? she guessed, misreading my name.
Yes.
Wanted to see your grandparents?
I did. And my father as well, I said, the words catching in my throat.
She gave me a weary look, then said, All of them met a grim enddebt, murder, in a single day. All because of your father.
The truth hit me like a hammer, leaving me breathless.
Dont go killing yourself, the old woman urged. Youre still young. Mother alive?
I nodded.
Here, she said, rummaging through a drawer, the graveyard details. Go pay your respects; it might ease your mind.
She handed me a notebook with burial plot numbers and the name of the local cemetery. I thanked her and drove away, fear tightening around me.
The graves were overgrown, neglected. I cleared the weeds enough to read the headstones, all lined up behind a low fence. The dates showed the mens deaths occurred just two days after my last encounter with James.
On the tram ride home, shivering, a thought struck me: James could never have mailed me that doll on my birthday. Id kept the doll all these years, sheltering it from the flood of other gifts Mom gave me. Perhaps the doll had been Rosamunds after all? A blush rose to my cheeks, a lump formed in my throat. Shame washed over me. My father turned out to be nothing more than a petty criminal who had ruined his own parents. I was grateful we never lived together; otherwise we might have both ended up in that grave.
I never told Mom about the visit. I told her Id been out with friends, then hugged her, whispered that I loved her, and added another lie:
Thank you for everything.
Her eyes, once dull with age, brightened with a soft cornflower hue.
I always knew that doll was yours, she said, tears spilling. Thats why I loved it.
Large tears rolled down her cheeks. I felt no shame for my deception any longer. I was only ashamed of the years Id spent believing there was nothing good left in her, aside from a fleeting beauty that had long since faded.
