“Father, would you mind if we stayed with you for a few months?” James asked, his voice wavering.
“Fine,” his father replied tersely.
James’s parents had split a decade ago. His mother remarried two years later, while his father, Edward Whitaker, remained a solitary man in a modest threebedroom flat in Brixton. Edward was a hardnosed, almost unbearable character. Women drifted in and out of his life, never staying long, but his son was never abandoned. Besides paying child support, Edward bought James everything he needed and took an exacting part in his upbringingstern, masculine, devoid of affection, yet undeniably paternal.
James had been on his own since his schooldays. After finishing his Alevels he took a job and moved out of his mother’s house, renting a room in a student hall. A few years later he married Rosamund, a schoolfriend now five months pregnant. They were saving for a mortgage downpayment when the landlord of their rented room announced it was for sale, forcing them to wait out the transaction. With nowhere else to go, James thought of asking his father for a roof over their heads, confident that Edward’s flat had a spare room.
Just as James was about to give up, Edward added, “You can stay. But keep it quiet.”
“Thank you,” James breathed out, relief flooding his chest.
He knew his father was a recluse who prized silence, spoke little, and showed few emotions. The demand for quiet didn’t surprise him. Rosamund, too, understood and accepted the rule without protest. She, heavily pregnant, craved peace as much as James did. She didn’t realise, however, that Edward’s idea of quiet meant only they could be silenthe would make his own racket at home.
At five in the morning Edward rose, his heavy boots slapping floorboards as he stalked through the house performing his ritual: bathroom, kitchen, hallway, back to the bathroom, then kitchen again. The early hush was broken by the relentless clatterclack, clack, clackfollowed by a sudden crash. Bloody hell! he snarled, then the clatter resumed. It mattered little that others were still asleep; this was his domain. If anyone objected, they were free to leavehe never invited anyone in.
Beyond the morning commotion, Edward tried to micromanage every aspect of James and Rosamund’s lives. No television after nine p.m.; the noise annoyed him. No frying food; the smells irked him. Conserve light and waterhe warned, though his pockets weren’t deep.
The tension lasted a week until Rosamund was rushed to the maternity unit. Two days later a solemn Edward appeared at the bedside, a bag of fruit in hand.
“The baby needs vitamins,” he said, thrusting the bag toward her.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitaker,” Rosamund replied.
“Right,” he nodded. “I’m off. Listen to the doctor.”
“Will do,” she smiled weakly. “Goodbye.”
After Rosamund left the hospital, Edward resumed his fivea.m. awakenings, this time trying to keep the clatter lower. He even attempted a kind of care, calling for breakfast in his gruff tone, or silently snatching a rag to mop the floor himself, knowing Rosamund needed rest.
The new flat was finally purchased three months later, but Edward insisted on a full renovation before they could move in. Rosamund gave birth amidst the chaos of construction, and she and the newborn, little Violet, were forced back into Edwards cramped flat. Her parents visited a few times after discharge, but Edward always feigned indifference to guests, though his eyes softened whenever he looked at his granddaughter. A rare smile broke across his severe face; he swore to shield her from any world that threatened his little girl.
Every morning he whisked Violet away, letting Rosamund sleep after sleepless nights. He even learned to change nappies. When it was finally time for James and Rosamund to relocate to their own place, Edward, wiping away a stubborn, masculine tear, said with a hardened stare,
“You’re still young, trying to raise a child on your own. Stay here a while longer. Not for long. Until Violet gets married.”
James and Rosamund stared at each other, stunned. Edward turned away and added, “It’s just oldage sentimentality, useless as it is. Move your stuff, bring Violet in. You’ll manage to relocate, you blithering mortals.”
They had expected Edward to wait until they finally left, but the twist left them speechless. The only thing left was to marvel at the changes in the oncestern, unsociable father. They decided to stay. After all, having a grandfather was better than none.
Edward Whitaker, now cooing tenderly at his granddaughter, felt a warmth hed never known. In that moment, the toughest man alive was blissfully content, cradling the most precious person in his life.
