Happy birthday, Father!
Hed just reached his seventieth year, having raised three children on his own. His wife, Margaret, had passed away three decades earlier, and he never married againno luck, no suitable match, a string of reasons that mattered little now.
His two sons, Arthur and Edward, were always at odds, quick to quarrel and even quicker to pick fights. He shuffled them from one school to another until one particularly perceptive physics master recognised a spark of talent in them. From that day on the brawls and tantrums vanished.
His daughter, Eleanor, was a different sort of challenge. She struggled to find her place among peers, and the school counsellor was already urging George to see a psychiatrist. Then a new English literature teacher arrived, setting up a club for budding writers. Eleanor threw herself into it, writing from dawn till dusk. Soon her short stories appeared in the school gazette, then in the countys literary circles.
In time, the boys earned scholarships to a prestigious universityCambridges Natural Sciences facultywhile Eleanor headed off to study English literature. George was left alone, and the quiet settled around him like a howling wind in the hills. He turned to fishing on the Thames, tending his garden, and looking after the few pigs that roamed his sprawling Kent farm. The land, the river, and the modest income from his smallholding kept him well enough, though a factory engineer earned far less than his own modest earnings.
He could now afford a few comforts for his children: modest cars, pocket money, decent clothes. Yet the extra responsibilities ate up the time he once had. Ten more years slipped by, and his seventieth birthday loomed, set to be marked in solitude.
His sons had long since started families, but their work on a topsecret Ministry of Defence project kept them away on weekends. Eleanor flitted from literary festivals and press gatherings, never free to return home. He thought it best not to disturb them.
Just on my own, he mused. No need for fanfare. Ill walk the fields and, come evening, sit with a bottle of whisky, remember Margaret, and think of the children Ive raised.
The day arrived. He rose before dawn to check on the pigsspecial feeding, as always. After a darkened rise, he stepped out onto the meadow that still held the faint glow of the stars. In the centre lay a strange, elongated object wrapped in a canvas.
What on earth is that? he muttered, when suddenly a flood of spotlights burst into life, bathing the meadow and the object in bright beams. From the houses shadow emerged his sons with their wives and grandchildren, a handful of relatives, and Eleanor accompanied by a tall gentleman in thick, round spectacles. Each clutched a balloon, squeaked into plastic noisemakers, and pressed the noisy airhorns. They all shouted, waved, and rushed to him.
Happy birthday, Father!
He forgot the mysterious bundle as the crowd swarmed, preventing him from retreating to the house where the ladies were already setting the table.
Hold, Father, hold, Eleanor said, Let me tie a blindfold on you.
Alright then, he agreed. She slipped a sturdy cloth over his eyes and spun him round a few times, leading him somewhere unseen.
What now? he asked, bewildered.
Its a gift, one son replied.
Hope its not too costly, George chuckled, I need nothing.
Dont worry, Father, another son said, Just a little token of gratitude.
They guided him to a spot, and Eleanor untied the cloth. Music roared from speakers, drums pounded, and the canvas covering the object was torn away by the eager grandchildren.
In the glare of the spotlights stood a gleaming Jaguar EType, its chrome gleaming like a sunrise. George staggered, his heart nearly leapt from his chest, and he nearly fell to the ground, but they steadied him and set him on a nearby chair.
Lord above, he whispered, Lord above, Lord above
Father, calm down, Eleanor splashed water on his face, laughing. Youve always dreamed of this car.
Its terribly expensive, he protested.
Its not about the price, a son said. Its the thought.
Come on, Eleanor urged. Sit inside, well take a picture.
He opened the door, only to find a cardboard box inside.
Whats that? he asked.
Open it, she said.
Inside, two bright eyes stared up at him from the bottom of the box. He lifted out a tiny, fluffy creature and pressed it to his chest.
A proper Burmese kitten! Just like the one we had with your dear Margaret. Remember, Bam? Eleanor reminded him.
Of course, Father, they chorused.
He never got into the Jaguar. Instead he climbed the stairs to his secondfloor bedroom, placed the kitten on his lap, and showed a photograph of Margaret to the small creature. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Do you see, Margaret? Do you see? Ive managed it. Nothings been forgotten do you see? he whispered to the picture.
The children refused to let him linger alone. The table below was set, and the evening swelled with toasts. Eleanor leaned close and whispered that she was four months pregnant, that her fiancé would soon visit, and that they planned to settle here, for her writing could be done anywhere. Her fiancé would travel back to his parents in New England, and in a few weeks they would wed in the village church.
Is that all right, Father? she asked.
It feels like a dream, George replied, kissing her forehead.
The night passed in laughter, food, drink, and recollection. Later he walked to Margarets grave, sat for a long while, and spoke to her as the wind whispered through the oaks.
Life seemed to have found a new rhythm, especially with that gleaming Jaguar parked outside. He imagined buying the appropriate attire, taking a spin to the nearby market town of Canterbury.
On his bed lay the tiny Burmese kitten, now christened Tom.
Tom, the old man said, repeating the name.
Tom purred, stretched his little body, and the man, stroking the warm, soft belly, fell asleep.
Morning came early, as alwaysfeeding pigs, tending the garden, casting a line into the river. Downstairs, Eleanor and her fiancé rested. Soon the sons and their families departed, and the house settled into silence. Tom followed his masters steps, tumbled into the pig trough, tangled in the fishing nets, and tried to nibble at a bait bucket. George laughed, patting the mischievous kitten.
Its as if youth has returned, he said, scratching Tom behind the ears.
The kitten mewed, clamped tiny teeth on his hand.
Ah, you little scoundrel! George chuckled.
This tale is nothing more than a reminder to those who still can visit their parents: do not wait for tomorrow. Travel today.
