28April2025 Diary
Today marks my seventieth birthday. Ive raised three children, and my dear wife, Margaret, passed away three decades ago. I never remarried I tried, I searched, but nothing ever fell into place. I could list a dozen reasons, yet it matters little now; life moved on before I could even consider it.
My two sons, James and Edward, were perpetual troublemakers, always at each others throats. I shuffled them from one school to the next until they finally landed with a brilliant physics teacher who spotted a genuine talent in both. Overnight the fights and mischief ceased; the laboratory became their sanctuary.
My daughter, Eleanor, struggled to fit in with her peers. The school counsellor suggested a psychiatric referral. Then a new English literature teacher arrived and started a writers club for beginners. Eleanor seized it; she wrote from dawn till dusk, and soon her short stories appeared in the school paper and, later, in several local literary societies.
In short, the boys earned scholarships to a prestigious university in Cambridge to study maths and physics, while Eleanor enrolled in a literature degree at Oxford. I was left alone, and the quiet settled around me like a gentle howl of wind across the fields.
I turned my attention to fishing, gardening and raising a few pigs on the generous plot of land beside the River Wharfe that backs our old cottage in Yorkshire. The work paid surprisingly well I discovered that a plantengineer at the nearby steelworks earned far less than I did from selling produce and pork.
With the extra income I could finally buy my children modest cars, help with pocket money and buy decent clothing. Yet the more I earned, the less time I had for anything else. My days became a blur of farm chores, market stalls and small trades, which I enjoyed nonetheless. Ten more years slipped by and my birthday loomed again.
I planned to spend the day alone. My sons, now married and working on a topsecret defence project, would be unavailable, and Eleanor was constantly travelling to writers conferences. I told myself: Ill have a quiet evening with a dram of whisky, remember Margaret, and think of how the kids have grown.
Morning found me up before sunrise, feeding the sows and checking on the special feed we were giving them. As I stepped out onto the dewcovered meadow, a strange, elongated bundle wrapped in canvas caught my eye.
What on earth is that? I muttered, just as a burst of floodlights snapped on, illuminating the meadow. Out of the houses back garden appeared my sons with their wives and grandchildren, a handful of relatives, and Eleanor, escorted by a tall gentleman with thick glasses.
Every hand clutched balloons, some people squeaked through party horns, others pressed noisy aircompressed toys. In unison they shouted, Happy Birthday, Dad!
The odd canvaswrapped object was forgotten as a chorus of voices and laughter surrounded me. My daughters-inlaw hustled into the cottage to set the table.
Hold still, Father, Eleanor said, May I tie a blindfold on you?
Go on then, I replied, letting her fasten a sturdy cloth over my eyes. She twirled me round a few times before we reached a spot in the garden.
What have you cooked up now? I asked, halfamused.
A little present, one of the boys answered.
Hope its cheap, I joked. I dont need anything.
Its nothing fancy, just a token of thanks, another son said.
They guided me to the centre of the bundle, and Eleanor lifted the blindfold. Music blared from speakers, drums rattled, and a crowd gathered as three children tore the canvas away.
There, gleaming under the spotlights, sat a restored 1938 Jaguar MkII, its polished chrome catching the sun. I staggered, almost fainting from the shock, and was steadied by a grandson who ushered me to a chair.
Good heavens, good heavens, I breathed.
Calm down, Dad, Eleanor sprayed water on my face, laughing. Youve always wanted this car.
Its absurdly expensive, I muttered.
Its priceless to us, a son replied.
Come on, sit in the drivers seat. Well snap a few photos.
I opened the door, only to find a cardboard box inside.
Whats this? I asked.
Open it, Eleanor said.
Inside the box, two bright eyes stared up at me. I lifted a tiny, fluffy kitten, its fur as soft as butter.
Its a proper Thai kitten, just like the one we had with Margaret Bombka. Remember? You used to dote on him when he was a baby.
Of course, Father, the children chorused.
I never got to sit behind the wheel. Instead I carried the kitten upstairs to my bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and held the photo of Margaret close to my chest. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
Do you see, Margaret? Ive managed after all, I whispered to the picture. Nothings been forgotten. Do you see?
The family kept me from lingering too long in solitude. The dining table downstairs was set, and toasts were made. Eleanor leaned in and whispered that she was four months pregnant, and that she and her fiancé, Thomas, would be staying with me for a while. She plans to marry in the village church after a short trip to New England to visit her parents.
Is that all right, Dad? she asked.
It feels like a dream, I answered, kissing her forehead.
The evening passed with chatter, a few glasses of port, and stories of the past. Later, I walked to Margarets grave, sat on the cold stone, and spoke to her as I always had, feeling the weight of years lift a little.
Life has taken on a new direction now. That Jaguar sits in the driveway, waiting for a day when I might drive to the nearby market town of Harrogate. My little Thai kitten, whom Ive named Tommy, curls up on the foot of the bed.
Tommy, I say, and he purrs, stretching his tiny body. I pet his warm belly and drift off to sleep.
Morning will come early again feed the pigs, tend the garden, cast a line into the river. Downstairs, Eleanor and Thomas are still asleep, while the boys have returned to their secret projects. Silence will settle once more, and Tommy will chase after my boots, tumble into the pig trough, and get tangled in the fishing net before trying to nibble at the bait.
I laughed, scratching his head.
Feels like Im young again, I told him, rubbing his soft fur.
He mewed and clamped his tiny teeth onto my hand.
Ah, you little rogue, I chuckled.
This tale is nothing more than a reminder to anyone still waiting for a chance to visit their parents: dont postpone tomorrow. Set off now, while the road is clear.
Lesson learned: cherish the present, for time slips away faster than a river after a storm.
