Donka: A Tale of Resilience and Destiny

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 9

What a granddaughter you have, William D. Hart, darkeyed and whitetoothed.
Whose child is that? Is she yours?

Of course shes mine, sir. A girl like that comes only once in a generation, and it has been many years since the last one. She is the granddaughter of my son Arthur, and I shall soon have a greatgranddaughter.

But William, all your folk are fairhaired. I know every Evans in the county; your ancestors served my grandfather as retainers, faithful as the day is long.

We did serve, sir, my forefathers were bailiffs, then clerks, then I.

My sons have drifted to the town. Walter works as a coachman for a prosperous lady of the manor, who has already settled down and raised children of her own. Simon the clerk has set up a little shop and is doing well, dreaming of opening a proper business. Arthur, a former sergeant in the regiment, rose to the rank of captain and earned a commendation from the Prince, who praised him highly and kept him close. Arthur lives a solid life, keeps his household in order, and has married a good woman named Eleanor, who bore him a daughter that brought joy to the whole family.

In our line daughters are rare, sir; sons are the norm. Yet when a girl is born, she always turns out like little Eleanorsharpeyed and lively.

Old Everett, the patriarch, sits by the fire mending nets while a darkeyed girl twirls nearby, her slender fingers deft as a sparrows. She is a marvel of beauty, more a vision than a child. Beside her stands the young master, George S. Spencer, who cannot tear his gaze from Eleanors namesake.

Mabel, will you marry me?

Im still a child, sir

Of course youre a child; when you grow up, will you?

By the time Im grown youll be an old man. Ill take a younger fellow.

And who will that be? Have you found someone?

Not yet; Grandmother Doris says Ill know when the right one comes.

Mabels eyes grew solemn, as if an old soul spoke through her.

Grandmother Doris? Im not familiar with her. Who is this Doris? Is she not the wife of Arthur from our village?

Ah, sir, ignore her; she babbles on, a child herself.

Sir, may I play with Scout? the girl suddenly turned into a little child, sprinted along the riverbank, racing a hunting hound named Scout.

How does she know the dogs name?

I think you mentioned it once, sir.

I only brought him here today.

Sir, youre a sensible man; dont invent what isnt there.

The girl darted merrily along the rivers edge, Scout yipping beside her. The scene lodged itself in Georges mind; he was, like many youths of his age, fascinated by mysticism, prone to scribble verses, a dreamer at heart.

The next autumn they met again. Mabel was out with her grandfather gathering mushrooms, while George set off for a walk with Scout. He recited a poem under his breath, and Scout, who had been trotting at his heels, suddenly bolted ahead, ears pressed back.

Scout, Scoutie, heard Georges childlike voice.

He followed the path, saw the dog lying on his back, kicking his legs as a bentover girl giggled.

Good day, Eleanor.

Good day, Sir George

Are you alone?

No, Im with my granddad, hunting for fungi.

They walked together toward the old mans cottage.

So, Eleanor, have you changed your mind about marrying me?

No, sir, you have another destiny. Youll have to live abroad, find your own fate, and youll spend the rest of your life longing for home as for me

With you?

We shall meet again when Im grown, but the meeting will be hard, as will any parting.

You speak with such passion, Eleanor.

Its not me; its Grandmother Doris speaking through me.

Who is this Doris?

My grandmother, thats all, the girl said and ran off to play with Scout again.

William, you never told me the family legend, why you keep producing such spirited girls as Mabel?

Ah, that the old man perched on a stump, smiling at George youre not of our blood, are you? Though

I do not know; the thought circles my mind and gives me no rest. I am eager to understand.

Then listen. Long ago, in neighbouring shires, a travelling troupe of Romani set camp near our land. The lord of the manor adored them, invited them to his hall, and even visited their camp. One of the camps maidens caught his eyea childlike figure of extraordinary beauty, eyes bright with mischief, lips red as cherries, teeth like polished pearls, hair a thick crown under a vivid scarf, her dress a flash of colour. When she danced, the air swirled; when she sang, tears fell from the listeners unbidden. They called her a witch, though she was born that way, a beacon of charm.

The lord, mad with desire, pressed the camps patriarch for the girl, demanding she be given or sold.

How could I give her away? protested the old Romani chief, a man named Zorando. The folk are free; I cannot force a child to stay, nor can I sell her.

She laughed, her voice ringing like bells.

Sir, I am not a granddaughter for you to bargain with

The lord, wild with lust, fell to his knees, seized her skirts, and flung coins about, promising courtly life: introductions to the queen, a place at court, gowns, shoes, a golden carriage.

Why should I? I am already a queen of the plains; I need no palace, no silk, no shoes. My carriage is a humble cart, my feet love the dewy grass, and I will not be caged in a golden cage.

The Romani, seeing his madness, vanished that night, taking their camp with them. The lord, enraged, pursued them with the constable, accusing the camp of horse theft. A shout rose over the fields, and the lord, eyes wild, offered a trade of men for the girl.

The maiden stepped forward, ordered the constable to release the Romani, and walked away, singing as she went. The lord chased after her, but she slipped into the shadows, leaving him to howl at the empty night.

Old men still tell the tale, saying that whenever she passes, birds follow, flitting like a living omen.

So you see, sir, the girl said, eyes glittering, I warned you, and you did not heed. You have lost what was most dear to you.

You have taken everything from me, the lord whispered, his voice broken.

The story lingered in Georges thoughts for years. He fell in love with the idea of a wandering spirit, and his heart forever carried the image of Eleanor.

In the autumn of 1945, when the countrys political winds shifted, George and his comrades were seized at the old manor of his father, Sir Henry, and held under the orders of a highranking officer. Night fell, and a soft voice called from the window:

George Spencer, the girl, now a grown woman, whispered, bathed in moonlight, her beauty unchanged, come, quietly, we have only half an hour before the guards awaken.

George and his fellows slipped out, following her through a hidden tunnel into a cavern they had never known existed.

My people have hidden here for generations, she said, leading them onward, do not fear; I will help you.

Eleanor? Youve grown into a lady now

Sir, I am pleased, she replied with a wry smile.

She remembered the family legend and, with the aid of strangers, secured safe passage for George and his men to the coast, where a ship awaited to take them abroad.

Eleanor, travel with me, you have become more than an acquaintance,

I cannot, sir this is my destiny. Go, may you live long.

Please, dear, just a moment, like a younger sister

No, George I must stay and finish my own road, goodbye, sir.

In exile, George sketched Eleanors likeness from memory and gave the portrait to a local artist, who rendered it with faithful detail. He later married, yet the image of Eleanor remained in his heart, a pure, untarnished love.

Only when George was an old, frail man did the village learn the truth behind that portrait: Eleanor had lived a long life, marrying the very highranking officer whose arrival they had awaited the night she helped George escape. During the wartime purges her husband was taken, later rehabilitated, and she raised three sons and a daughter. She did not see her greatgrandchildren, only her first greatgrandson, whom she met once before her own death. When his daughter was born, the villagers marveled at her resemblance to the old matriarch.

Mr. Nicholas, why does your Angel look so strange, as if she isnt of our stock? asked the neighbour at the village green.

She is ours, through and through, laughed Nicholas, our very own.

Angel, whats her nickname? Is she a Romani? Look at the beads on her neck.

Not beads, a brooch, the girl replied, eyes bright as the morning, and they call her Donny.

Thus the tale of the darkeyed granddaughter, the wandering Romani maid, the restless lord, and the steadfast Eleanor lives on, whispered by the wind over the hedgerows of our English countryside.

One Little Certificate The key to Mum’s flat was tucked in Serge’s jacket pocket, right beside the slip confirming his advance payment. He kept fiddling with the crumpled paper through the fabric, as if he could somehow control the situation by touch. In three days, he’d meet buyers at the solicitor’s to sign the contract for selling the flat—they’d already transferred a hundred grand, and the estate agent kept texting nightly reminders about deadlines. Serge replied briefly, no smiley faces, reading her reminders as threats. He climbed to the fifth floor with no lift, paused at the door, caught his breath, and only then rang the bell. Mum didn’t open straight away; he heard her shuffling behind the door, then the lock clicked. “Serge, is that you? Wait—let me just…” she called out, voice louder than needed and carried a note of tension, like she was apologising in advance. Serge smiled as best he could and held out the carrier bag. “Brought groceries. And we’ll check the contract again.” “The contract…” Mum retreated down the corridor to let him in. “I remember. Just don’t rush me.” The flat was warm, radiators blazing, a tote of medicines sat on the stool by the entrance. On the kitchen table, a plate with half an apple, and Mum’s large-font notepad: “Take tablets,” “Ring maintenance,” “Serge coming.” Serge unpacked the groceries, put the milk in the fridge, checked the seal. Mum watched, as if every movement were part of the transaction. “You bought the wrong bread again,” she said, not cross. “Didn’t have the proper sort,” replied Serge. “Mum, do you remember why we’re selling?” She sat, her hands folded tight on her knees. “So it’s easier for me. No more climbing stairs. And so you…” she hesitated, like the word “you” weighed too much. “So you don’t argue.” Serge felt annoyance rising—not at her, but the phrase itself. They argued quietly, by phone, so Mum wouldn’t hear. “We don’t argue,” he lied. “We’re sorting things out.” Mum nodded, but her look was clear, stubborn. “I want to see the new flat before I sign anything. You promised.” “We’ll go tomorrow,” Serge said. “Ground floor, garden, shop round the corner.” He took out documents from his folder: draft contract, receipt, land registry printout, passport copies. Everything filed, as if order in paperwork could fix the mess in their family. “What’s this?” Mum reached for a sheet Serge barely remembered. Thin paper, surgery stamp, doctor’s signature. Top—“Certificate.” Below—phrases that turned his mouth dry: “signs of cognitive decline,” “recommend considering guardianship,” “capacity may be limited.” “Where’s this from?” he asked, keeping his voice even. Mum peered at it, puzzled. “They gave me it… at the surgery. I thought it was for a care home.” “Who gave you it? When?” She shrugged. “I was with… Pasha. He said my memory should be checked, so no one tricks me. I agreed. Some lady on the desk said sign here, so I did. Didn’t read it, left my glasses at home.” Serge felt the picture forming in his mind, and hated it. His younger brother, Paul, had been repeating himself for months: “Mum can’t be left on her own, she forgets everything, she’ll get conned.” He said it like he cared, but the words carried weariness. “Mum, do you understand what this means?” Serge lifted the certificate. “That I…” Mum lowered her eyes. “That I’m stupid?” “No. It means someone’s started the paperwork so you can’t sign for yourself. So someone else decides for you.” Mum jerked her head up. “I’m not a child.” Serge saw her lips tremble. No tears, just a glistening hurt she wouldn’t show. “I know where my money is,” she said quickly. “I remember taking you to school. I remember this flat’s mine. I don’t want…” She couldn’t say the rest. Serge slipped the certificate back into the folder, handling it like something hot. “I’ll sort it,” he said. “Today.” He went onto the balcony to ring his brother. Out there, Mum’s jars of pickled gherkins stood empty, sparkling, neatly boxed. Lids arranged separately, perfectly stacked. Mum might misplace her glasses but jars and lids were always in order. Paul picked up straight away. “How’s things?” His voice was cheery, as if trying to sound in control. “Did you take Mum to the surgery?” Serge asked. Pause. “Yeah. So? I told you, it was needed. She gets confused, Serge. You know it.” “I know she’s tired. That’s not the same. Did you realise she was given a certificate about guardianship?” “Don’t make a drama. Just a suggestion. Prevents trouble with solicitors. Nowadays everyone’s scared of fraud.” Serge gripped the phone. “Solicitors don’t ‘nitpick,’ they check capacity. If her medical record notes ‘may be limited,’ the sale could be blocked.” “And if it goes through, someone could challenge it. Want us dragged into court? I just wanted everything clean.” “Clean is when Mum knows what she’s signing. Not when someone hands her a form she can’t read.” “So now it’s all on me?” Paul snapped. “I visit more than you. I see her forget to turn off the hob.” Serge recalled Mum calling yesterday to ask the day, but then naming the advance sum exactly and double-checking their receipt for tricks. “I’m going to the surgery today,” Serge told him. “And the solicitor. And you need to come over tonight. We’ll talk with Mum present.” “She’ll get anxious, Serge.” “She deserves to be there. It’s about her.” Serge went back to the kitchen. Mum sat, hands tight, gazing out the window looking for solace. “Don’t be cross with me,” she said, not turning. “Paul’s good. He’s just scared.” Serge felt something shift inside; she defended her younger son even now. “I’m not angry at him,” Serge said. “I’m angry no one asked you.” He packed up the folder, tucked the certificate in a separate sleeve. While leaving, he checked the gas cooker, windows. Mum walked him to the door. “Serge,” she whispered. “Don’t let my flat go to just anyone.” “No one will,” he promised. “And I won’t let anyone take you, either.” Serge spent two hours at the surgery: queue at reception, hunt the right office, then explain his need for information. Receptionist looked worn out. “Medical privacy. Only with a letter of authority.” “She’s my mother,” Serge kept his patience. “She didn’t realise what she signed. I just need to know who started all this.” “She’ll need to come in herself.” Serge stepped into the hallway, called Mum. “Mum, can you come now?” “Now?” Unease in her voice. “I… I’m not ready.” “I’ll come get you,” Serge said. “It matters.” He returned, climbed the fifth floor, found Mum’s coat and her glasses on the windowsill—“so as not to forget.” Mum walked steadily down the stairs. At the surgery, the queue was longer. Mum watched people, notices about health checks, shrinking in her seat. “Feel like a schoolgirl,” she muttered when they reached the window. “You’re a grown-up,” Serge replied. “Just how things work here.” With Mum present, the receptionist softened. Took passport, NHS card, found her record. “You saw the neurologist a fortnight ago,” she said. “And psychiatrist by referral.” Mum flinched. “Psychiatrist?” she repeated. “No one told me.” “It’s standard with memory complaints,” the lady said, though her voice lacked confidence. Serge asked for a printout of visits and the certificate. He was refused, but Mum was allowed a record summary to show the solicitor. This time, in her glasses, Mum read every line before signing. “There,” said the receptionist, handing over the sheet. “See the practice manager if you’ve more questions.” The manager’s office was locked, note on the door: “Open from 2pm.” It was only 12:30. “We won’t manage,” Mum said, relief tinging her voice as if the delay was a rescue. “We will. We’ll wait,” Serge replied. They sat on a hallway bench. Mum clutched the record, like a ticket she feared losing. “Serge,” she said, not looking at him. “I really do get mixed up sometimes. Can forget if I’ve had lunch. But I don’t want to be written off.” Serge glanced at her hands. Skin thin, veins showing, fingers still dexterous. He remembered her tying his scarf as a child—how he hated feeling helpless then too. “No one will write you off unless you choose it,” he said gently. “What if I don’t realise what I’m choosing?” That question hurt more than the certificate. “Then I’ll stay with you,” Serge said. “And we’ll make sure you do know.” The manager saw them at 2:20pm: neat woman in her fifties, spoke calmly. “Your mother’s not subject to a court order for incapacity,” she said, flipping through the notes. “There’s a doctor’s note of possible cognitive decline, recommendation to seek advice about guardianship. That doesn’t stop her signing for a sale.” “But the solicitor will see it and refuse,” Serge said. “A solicitor assesses capacity at the time of signing,” she replied. “If they’re unsure, they’ll ask for a psychiatric assessment or insist on a doctor’s presence. The certificate itself isn’t a ban.” Mum sat, grip tight on her handbag. “Who asked for the note about guardianship?” Serge pressed. She looked closely at him. “In the record: ‘accompanied by son.’ No surname. Doctor might make notes after tests. No one ‘requests’ that kind of entry officially.” Serge realised pushing further wouldn’t help. It would always look like proper care. The grey area began where Mum signed without reading. Back on the bus home, Mum was tired, but steady. As they travelled, she said suddenly: “Paul worries I’ll sell the flat to someone and get left homeless.” “He’s frightened,” Serge said. “What are you frightened of?” Serge hesitated. He feared the sale collapsing, the buyers retrieving their deposit via court, losing the new flat option, Mum trapped in the same block for years. But more deeply, he was afraid Mum would stop being seen as a person by their family—become just a “care subject.” “I’m scared people will stop asking you,” he admitted. That evening Paul came round. Took his shoes off, strode to the kitchen like it was his own. Mum calmly set out plates and salad from the fridge. Serge watched her—a normal family dinner performance. “Mum, you alright?” Paul bent to kiss her cheek. “Fine,” she replied, curtly. “Today I found out I saw a psychiatrist.” Paul froze, shot Serge a look. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Mum. Just a doctor. Everyone’s checked now.” “No one checked me—I was escorted.” Serge laid the record summary out on the table. “Paul, this note could ruin the sale,” he said. “And without it, the sale could be dodgy,” Paul fired back. “The solicitor needs to know it’s all above board. No one should ever say, ‘Little old lady didn’t understand.’” “She does understand,” Serge said. “Today she does, tomorrow…” Paul’s voice sharpened. “You see it! She forgets. She could sign anything.” Mum smacked a palm to the table—not hard, but sharply. “I won’t sign ‘anything,’” she said. “Only what’s explained to me.” Paul dropped his eyes. “I’m really worn out,” he said quietly. “Every day I worry some caller will trick her, make her transfer cash. I watched it happen to a neighbour. Not to Mum.” Serge heard the fear, not greed, in his words—but fear didn’t give the right to choose for Mum. “Let’s do it differently then,” Serge said. “No guardianship. No ‘incapacity.’ We go to the solicitor before the buyers come; Mum wears glasses, takes her time. Solicitor speaks with her. If needed, we get a psychiatrist’s report saying she understands. Any power of attorney is limited, only for essentials—utility bills and banks. The sale money goes into an account needing two signatures: hers and mine. Or hers and yours. As Mum wants.” Paul looked up. “That takes ages. Buyers won’t wait.” “Then let them go,” Serge retorted, words spilling out—and he saw Mum flinch. “I won’t sell the flat at the price of calling Mum ‘incapable.’” Mum stared at him with a new look—a mix of relief and worry. “Serge—what if we lose the money?” He sat near her. “We’ll lose the deposit maybe,” he said honestly. “And time. But if we agree to guardianship for speed, we’ll never get free. You’ll be living under watch, every step ‘for your own good.’” Paul clenched his fists. “You think I want to humiliate her?” he said. “I think you want control because you’re scared,” Serge replied. “And because it’s easier.” Paul jumped up violently. “Easier? You try. You show up weekly, then preach how to care.” Serge stood too, but stopped. He saw Mum shrink, like their clashing was a blow. “Enough,” he said. “Not about who does more. It’s about keeping Mum at the centre. Mum, do you want Paul to be able to sign on your behalf?” A long pause. Then Mum said: “I want both of you with me when I sign. I want truth, even if it’s hard.” Serge nodded. “That’s what we’ll do.” Next day Serge went solo to the solicitor with the record note and certificate. The solicitor’s office was in the old town, wooden stairs polished by decades of feet. The solicitor, a bespectacled man, looked through the papers. “The certificate isn’t enough for refusal,” he said. “But better have the sale signed in the presence of a psychiatrist, or get a report. And absolutely, your mother must be present. No broad powers of attorney.” “The buyers are waiting.” “Buyers always are,” he replied. “Until they aren’t. Your call.” Serge left and rang the estate agent. “We’re delaying the sale,” he said. “For how long?” The agent’s voice chilled. “A fortnight. Need a doctor’s report.” “Buyers may drop out. Deposit must be returned.” “Then we’ll refund it,” Serge replied, surprised by his own calm. He told Mum and Paul that night. Paul ranted about “wrecked chance,” “you ruined it,” then left quietly, the coat stand in the corridor shuddering at his departure. Mum sat at the kitchen table, turning a pen in her hands. “He won’t come back?” she asked. “He will,” Serge said. “He just needs time.” “And me?” Mum asked. Serge realised she meant not waiting, but the time she had left in her life, and how many days she’d spend as a “dependent.” “You need time too,” he said. “And rights.” A week later, Serge and Mum saw a private psychiatrist, no waiting for referrals. Mum was anxious but steady; the doctor chatted, asked about dates, children, the sale’s reason. Mum got the day wrong, but clearly explained she was selling to buy a new place, for her own life. The report arrived: “Capable of understanding and managing her actions.” Serge felt the paper like both a shield and a sorrow—it hurt to see Mum’s right to be herself stamped by someone else. The buyers pulled out. The agent messaged: “They’ve found another place.” Then: “Return deposit by Friday, or there’ll be a claim.” Serge repaid them, dipping into his savings. It stung, but didn’t break him. Paul went silent for three days. Then appeared one evening without warning. Mum opened the door, and Serge overheard their voices. “Mum, I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I pushed too hard.” “You didn’t upset me,” Mum replied. “You frightened me.” Paul joined Serge in the kitchen. “I really thought it was right,” he said. “I didn’t want her…” “I know,” Serge said. “But from now on—all forms only with her and us there. And if you’re scared, just say so—don’t go through certificates.” Paul nodded, though stubbornness lingered in his eyes. “What if she really does start to…?” he didn’t finish. Mum calmly looked at him. “Then you’ll decide together,” she said. “But while I’m alive and understand, I want my say.” Serge saw the family wasn’t healed—resentment settled deep, not gone. The sale failed, deposit refunded, new flat lost. But the folder now held new papers: a tightly limited power of attorney for Serge to pay bills and speak to the bank, Mum’s signed consent for a joint account, and a list of solicitor questions she’d written herself in bold. Late that night, Serge got ready to leave. Mum walked him to the door, as always. “Serge,” she said, handing him a second set of keys. “Take these. Not because I can’t cope. But because it lets me sleep.” He took the keys, cold in his palm, and nodded. “It does,” he agreed. On the landing, Serge paused. He heard Mum’s steps, then the door’s lock click. He stood listening, knowing more truths remained hidden—who’d prompted the certificate at the surgery, why no one explained the forms to Mum, where care slipped into control. All that could still surface. But now, Mum had her own voice—anchored by their actions—and no one could take it away so easily ever again.