Eleanor Whitaker stepped into the flat where her son and his family lived, her heart a fluttering mix of excitement and nostalgia. She knew the surprise she carried would bring astonishment and delight: a treasured bead of a doll for her beloved granddaughter. In her hands she cradled a halfmetre wooden box, its pink satin ribbon crossed in an elegant bow.
She had spared no effort, time or penny for this present. It had become a smallscale operation. She travelled to a craftsman in another town who specialised in restoring antique dolls, sewed a delicate blue frock and a little bonnet herself, and added a felt coat, a pair of sheepskin boots, a scarf with matching hat, dainty lace trimmings with a tiny shirt, and another polkadot dress. All of it was her own handiwork. The doll was the very one she had received as a birthday gift at the end of the 1960s, when she was a shy eightyearold from a modest household. It had been the only beautiful toy she ever owned, and the memory of it had filled her childhood with endless joy. She now resolved to give it a second life, for modern dolls seemed lifeless and often had grotesque faces, whereas this one still possessed a soul.
Good heavens, murmured her daughterinlaw, wiping a grin across her face, where did you dig up this relic?
This is my very first and only doll, Eleanor replied, unaware of her daughterinlaws puzzlement. I went to my sisters village to retrieve it; it had been left in the old family house. All our children were boys, so there was no one to carry it for me. It lay in a box for years, its leg broken, and I wept every time I saw the damage. Time has altered it, but look nowlike new, even better! The restorer worked wonders.
The little girl, Mabel, bounced forward, eyes alight. Grandma, give it to me, give it to me!
Do you like it? Eleanor asked.
Its beautiful what a frock I want one just like it!
Should I stitch one for you so well have twins? she teased.
Mother, who wears such obviously oldfashioned clothes now? piped in her son Charles.
Quiet, dear! I want it! exclaimed fiveyearold Mabel, admiring the doll.
It will be yours, my little pearl, everything you wish for, promised Eleanor. By the way, her name is Lydia.
Baaaaa, the child protested, thats a dreadful name! Ill call her Chelsea!
Sweetheart, thats a dogs name! Eleanor chided gently.
No, Chelsea like the cartoon! Look at her eyesso blue, theyve opened and closed again. Wow, did you see that?
Her motherinlaw, Margaret, who had watched the scene with quiet awe, added, I had almost exactly the same when I was a girlonly softer, stuffed. Let me hold her for a moment.
Mabel reluctantly passed the doll to Margaret, who examined it with a reverent smile.
Just look at that rosy cheek and those bright eyes! Such an open, touching gaze! And the dress is stitched so neatlymy own childhood dress was just like this blue frock!
I used Sovietera patterns, Eleanor confessed, blushing.
Yourself? And all the other garments? Remarkable work! My, what a craftswoman you are! Margaret exclaimed.
Indeed, a lovely piece, agreed Edward, the fatherinlaw, twirling his moustache like a ripe barley stalk.
Eleanor, unaccustomed to such attention, flushed a ruby hue on her cheeks, matching the brilliance of LydiaChelseas eyes. Margarets admiration flared again, and she playfully pressed the dolls belly, prompting a childlike electronic voice to croak, Mummum!
The younger generationCharles and his wifeexchanged an ironic glance and a restrained smile. A tear welled in Eleanors eye, stirred by the flood of childhood memories. Margaret let out an uncertain croak, while Eleanors face lit with a childlike grin, as if fresh mischief were bubbling.
Lets see what this doll can do, she said, Come on, Lydiaer, ChelseaLord, forgive me
Margaret pressed the dolls tummy once more and the tiny voice squeaked, Mummum! The parents chuckled, the moment feeling both tender and absurd. Eleanors mind drifted back to a time when a broken leg on a doll could bring a girl to tears, and now the same doll sang again.
What about that broken leg? Charles asked, halfjoking.
Id have given my soul for a doll like that as a child, or at the very least a kilo of boiled swede, Eleanor replied, shaking her head at the memory of that sour taste. Youve done wonderfully, my dear, she added, handing the doll to Mabel. The best present today is yours.
She lingered by the table, watching Mabel peer under the dress for a missing button. Sweetheart, dont pull that button apart to see how it works, alright? We restored it, after all.
Margaret mused quietly, Old folks always pull out something from the attic and then fuss over the junk, nerves on edge.
Did you hear, Mabel? Eleanor asked her granddaughter, feigning concern.
Ah, Mabel replied, eyes wide.
The adults fell into their own conversations, raising the first toasts to the birthday girl. Mabel darted back and forth between the table and a pile of new toys, all while cartoons played on the television. The doll, now stripped of its clothing, lay on the floor beside a purring cat named Mittens, who delicately licked the dolls neatly arranged hair. Eleanor, seated by the window, missed the tiny drama unfolding with her cherished LydiaChelsea. The others had forgotten the doll entirely.
Wheres our older grandson, Andrew? Eleanor suddenly asked.
Hes out with his friends, Charles answered. Hes not interested in us; youngsters have their own amusements.
Did you wish the birthday girl? Eleanor pressed.
Of course. I lifted her ears five timesonce for each year shes turnedand then gave her crayons and a colouring book, Charles said.
Really, you cant pinch a childs ears! Margaret exclaimed.
It was only in jest, the daughterinlaw countered, recalling old grievances. When my older sister tugged my braids, you never seemed to mind.
Edward set his glass down, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered a low laugh. Dont make it up. You fought, you didnt love each other, but I tried to keep the peace. She bears old wounds from childhood Our father never raised a hand, and I could only swat with a towel at most!
Did we ever give you anything? Margaret pressed, her voice rising. We helped Olya get a flat, paid for her institute, supported you until you were twentytwo! She even funded her own flat later, we only nudged her.
The tension hung heavy, until Eleanor brightened the mood with a sudden grin. Guess what? I have a parrot now! Yesterday I stepped out onto the balcony and there he was, perched on the cupboard door, shouting Hello, gorgeous!
Laughter erupted, except from the stillsulky daughterinlaw. Edward guessed it must be a neighbours bird. I asked everyone whod opened the doorno one knows! Aunt Mabel, our neighbour down the lane, gave me her old cage; she once kept a flamboyant cockatoo. We called him Percival. Hes a bright little fellow, redyellow, quite a character.
Suddenly Eleanors face twisted in horror. What are you doing, my little pearl! No, no, you canttake those crayons away this instant!
Mabel clutched the doll in one hand and a red crayon in the other, adding a dab of colour to its cheeks.
Stop that, you little scamp! Charles snatched the crayon from her. Youll make Grandma cry, and Chelsea will be upset too.
Margaret shook her head, eyes wide as if at a funeral, while Eleanor looked on, her expression empty yet haunted by memories.
Mabel burst into tears, flinging the doll aside and running to her mother. Charles lifted the doll, his face full of regret.
Maybe we can wash it? he suggested.
Try it in the sink, but dont wet the hair, Margaret advised, laying a hand on Margarets arm with sympathy. A spoiled child doesnt appreciate anything; theyre all that way now. Dont be upset, Ellie. Its just a toy
Its not just a toy Eleanor whispered softly. Ill step out for a moment and help Charles.
Charles returned first, then Eleanor, looking as if she were cradling a living being. She lifted the blue frock from the floor, settled on the settee and dressed the doll anew. The faint crayon marks remained on its cheeks, but she smoothed its hair and smiled at her granddaughter.
Come here, Mabel. I have something to tell you. Dont be afraid, I wont scold you.
Mabel approached cautiously, and Eleanor seated her on one knee while the blueeyed doll rested on the other.
When I was a little girl, a bit older than you, I had almost no toys and no new clothes. I borrowed outfits from my older sistersthere were three of them. We had an older brother, Colin, who worked on the farm before being called up to the army. We lived poorly; Mother raised us alone after Father died when I was barely a year old. On birthdays, Mother could only afford a bun for six pence. I always got the leftovers, but I never complained. I helped her with chores from the age of five, even tending the geese.
During Colins second year in the army, we fell on hard times. One spring the village shop received a shipment of toys, among them a doll of extraordinary beauty. It sat there untouched, too costly for anyone. We named her Lydia.
She paused, eyes alight. Mabel leaned in, breathless.
Colin came home the day before my birthdayI was eight. Mother baked a cherry cake and a strawberry one, invited my friends. A gaggle of girls burst into the courtyard shouting, Ellie, Ellie, your brother bought you Lydia! Youre so lucky! I thought they were joking. Id never owned a new toy before. Could this be real? The dream of every girl?
Colin arrived, beaming, hiding something behind his back. He kissed me on both cheeks and said, Happy birthday, my dear sister. Heres a gift for you, my lovely little one. May you always be pretty, obedient, and sweet. He handed me a box containing the doll. I could barely believe my luck. He whispered, When I saw her, I knew she was yoursjust like you, Ellie.
The joy that doll brought was immeasurable. I sewed her clothes, fed her, taught her to read, even slept with her. One day a boy broke her leg on the street, but I kept her until I was fourteen. Each night she lay beside me, guarding my sleep, singing soft lullabies, sharing secret jokes. Then we tucked her away in a box, yet Lydia stayed forever in my heart.
A heavy sigh escaped Margaret, tears spilling over Edwards shoulder.
Eleanor looked around at the gathered family, her memories drifting far beyond the present, leaving only the doll and her granddaughter in focus. Even the daughterinlaws lips trembled as a damp napkin brushed her cheek.
Now, my dear, this doll is yoursrestored, renewed, as good as new. You may do with her as you wish; I wont mind. She is yours.
Mabel clutched the doll tightly, rocking gently, then pressed it against Eleanors blouse. Grandma, Ill never hurt Lydia again. Shell be my most beloved, truly. She deserves it.
Lydia? You called her Chelsea, Eleanor asked.
No, shes Lydia. Sweet Lydia Mabel cooed, kissing the dolls crown, Youre beautiful, my little pearl!
The whole family exchanged smiles.
Lets raise a glass once more, Edward announced, his glass brimming, To Mabel and to Lydia! To our little pearls.
