25 June 2025
Today marks the seventh decade of my life, a milestone I never imagined reaching alone. I, Arthur Whitaker, have watched three of my children grow from rambunctious boys into respectable men, and my daughter, Eleanor, blossom into a writer of note. Margaret, my beloved wife, left this world three decades ago, and I have never remarried. The reasons are manyperhaps cowardice, perhaps fatebut I seldom dwell on them now.
My two sons, Tom and Edward, were troublemakers in school, always picking fights and causing a stir. I shuffled them from one school to another until they finally landed under the guidance of a remarkable physics teacher, Mr. Hughes, who recognized a genuine talent hidden beneath the chaos. Almost overnight, the quarrels and scuffles ceased.
Eleanor was a different challenge. She struggled to connect with her peers, and the school psychologist once suggested a psychiatric referral. Just then, a new literature teacher, Ms. Bennett, arrived and opened a fledgling writers club. From that moment, Eleanor was glued to her notebook from dawn till dusk. Her short stories first appeared in the school gazette, then in local literary circles.
Both Tom and Edward earned scholarships to a prestigious universitys mathsphysics faculty, while Eleanor secured a place at a renowned English literature college. By the time I realized I was truly alone, the house was quietso quiet you could hear the wind howl over the fields. I turned to fishing, gardening, and rearing a small herd of pigs on the expansive acreage beside the River Medway that has been our familys home for generations.
The farm began to turn a decent profit, enough to outearn the average engineer at the local plant. With the extra money I could finally afford modest cars for my children, help with their living expenses, and buy proper clothing for them. Ironically, this left me with even less time than before; the farm and the small trade I started took up every waking hour. Ten more years slipped by, and my seventieth birthday loomed.
I had resolved to spend it in solitude. My sons were engrossed in a topsecret project for the Ministry of Defence and could not break away for a weekend. Eleanor was constantly travelling to writers symposia and journalism conferences. I thought I would simply tend the pigs, sip a glass of whisky, and reminisce about Margaret, perhaps telling her, through the photograph on the mantel, how our children had turned out.
Morning arrived early, as always, for a check on the pigsspecial feeding was required. I stepped out into the moonlit meadow beyond the house and spotted something odd in the centre of the clearing: a long, tarpaulinwrapped object.
What on earth could that be? I muttered, just as a sudden flash of spotlights bathed the field.
My sons, their wives, grandchildren, and several relatives emerged from the houses side door, each clutching balloons and squeaky noisemakers. Eleanor arrived with a tall, bespectacled gentlemanher fiancé, Richard, a fellow novelist. All of them were shouting, waving, and scrambling toward me.
Happy Birthday, Dad! they chorused.
The strange wrapped thing was quickly forgotten as my family swarmed around me, barring my retreat to the house where the wives were already setting the table.
Hold on, Dad, let me tie something over your eyes, Eleanor whispered, pulling a thick cloth over my head.
She spun me gently, and when the fabric was removed, a loud burst of music erupted from speakers, drums beating in rapid succession.
Before us lay the tarpaulin, now ripped away by three eager hands. In the brilliant beam of the spotlights shone a gleaming 1961 Jaguar EType, its polished chrome reflecting the astonishment on our faces. I almost fainted, my heart pounding as if Id been struck. A younger man supported me onto a nearby stool, and I could only repeat, Oh my God, oh my God
My father, calm down, Eleanor splashed water on my cheek, laughing. Youve always wanted this car.
Its far too expensive, I stammered.
Not more expensive than memories, one of the boys said, smiling.
Richard guided me toward the drivers seat, insisting that we take a few photographs. When I opened the door, a cardboard box sat on the passenger seat.
Whats this? I asked.
Open it, Eleanor urged.
Inside, two tiny eyes stared up at me. I lifted a small, fluffy creaturea Siamese kitteninto my arms.
Its a real little tiger, just like the one we had with Margaret, Eleanor said softly. Remember? We called him Bubbles. You used to dote on him when you were a lad.
Yes, I remember, love, the children replied in unison.
I never managed to sit in the Jaguar. Instead, I retreated upstairs to my modest bedroom, where I held the kitten against my chest, a photograph of Margaret on the nightstand. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
Do you see, Margaret? I did it, I whispered to the picture, my voice trembling. They havent forgotten you.
The afternoon turned into a blur of toasts, laughter, and stories. Eleanor leaned close and confided that she was four months pregnant, and that she and Richard had travelled to my doorstep to celebrate. She would stay here while she finished her new novel, and Richard would soon visit his parents in New England before they held their wedding in the village church.
This feels like a dream, I said, kissing her forehead.
Evening found me at Margarets graveside, speaking to her as the wind rustled through the oaks. Life, I realized, had taken on a fresh purposeperhaps even a chance to drive that magnificent car to the nearby city of Canterbury someday.
On the bed, the kitten, now named Tom, purred contentedly.
Tom, I said, repeating the name. He stretched, his tiny body fully extended. I lay down, his warm belly against my hand, and drifted to sleep.
Morning came early, as always. The pigs needed feeding, the garden required tending, and the river insisted on another fishing expedition. Downstairs, Eleanor and Richard slept still, exhausted from the days celebrations.
When the boys and their families left later that morning, the house fell silent once more. Tom followed me to the pig trough, slipped into a feed bucket, and tangled himself in the netting of the small rowboat we keep by the river. He then tried to nibble at some fish bait, causing me to chuckle.
Looks like youth has returned, I mused, scratching his head.
Tom mewed, clamping his tiny claws onto my wrist.
Ah, you little rogue, I laughed, the sound echoing across the meadow.
This tale may seem insignificant, but I hope it serves as a reminder to those who can still visit their parents: dont wait for tomorrow. Travel now, love now, celebrate now.
Arthur.
