He had reached his seventieth year, three children grown. His wife, Eleanor, had died three decades earlier, and he never married again. He tried, he failed, the reasons could be listed forever, but would anyone care? He was too busy for that. His two sons, James and Edward, were perpetual troublemakers, always squabbling. He shuffled them from one school to another until a brilliant physics teacher finally noticed the boys raw talent. In an instant the fights and scandals vanished.
His daughter, Ethel, struggled to fit in with her peers. The school counsellor suggested a psychiatrist, but then a new English literature teacher arrived and started a writers club. Ethel was seized by the urge to write from dawn until dusk; her stories first appeared in the school paper, then in every literary society in the county.
When the boys finished school they earned scholarships to a prestigious universitys mathsphysics faculty, and Ethel enrolled in a creativewriting degree. He was left alone, and the silence pressed down on him like a wolfs howl. He turned to fishing, gardening and raising pigs on the modest farm that backed onto the River Medway. The land was his, the river his, and he made a decent living. He soon discovered that a plantengineer at the local factory earned far less than he did.
With that knowledge he could finally help his children againbuy them modest cars, fund a few pocketmoney expenses, and clothe them decently. The irony was that his time grew even tighter, now spent on the farm and a small roadside stall. Yet he liked it. Ten more years slipped by until his seventieth birthday loomed. He planned to mark it alone.
His sons had long since started families, but they were locked into a hushhush Ministry of Defence project and could not break away for a weekend. His daughter was forever travelling from one writers symposium to the next. He decided not to bother them with an invitation.
Maybe Ill manage on my own, he thought. Nothing to celebrate here. Just me, the barn, a whisky bottle, and memories of Eleanor to whisper to.
The day arrived. He rose before sunrise to tend the pigs, a special feeding schedule that required an early, dim light. As he stepped out onto the meadow still glittering with the faint stars, something odd lay in the centre of the grass. A long, canvaswrapped object, halfburied in the dewy ground.
What on earth is that? he muttered, just as a burst of bright spotlights snapped on, flooding the clearing. Figures emerged from the shadows of the cottagehis sons with their wives and grandchildren, a scattering of relatives, and Ethel, escorted by a tall man in thicklensed spectacles.
All of them clutched balloons, squeaked through whistles, and some frantically pressed the buttons of noisy airhorns. They shouted, waved, and tried to envelope him in embraces.
Happy birthday, Dad!
He almost forgot the mysterious parcel, wondering what mischief the local ruffians might have dragged in. His family swarmed him, refusing to let him retreat to the house where the women were already setting the table.
Hold on, Father, hold on, Ethel said, pressing a blindfold over his eyes. Let me tie you up?
Fine, he answered, surrendering.
She wrapped a thick cloth around his head, spun him a few times, and led him away.
What are you up to now? he asked, halflaughing.
A present, one son replied.
Hope it isnt expensive, the old man replied, a nervous twitch in his voice. I need nothing.
Dont worry, Dad, another chimed. Just a little trifle, a token of gratitude.
They guided him to the stillcovered object and Ethel tore off the blindfold. A thundering drum roll and blaring music erupted from speakers. Children gathered on three sides and ripped the canvas away in unison.
Bathed in the glare of the spotlights was a gleaming 1965 Aston Martin DB5, its chrome gleaming like a promise. He staggered, halffainting at the sight, nearly collapsing onto the grass before a sturdy hand steadied him and guided him to a chair.
Lord Almighty, he whispered, his voice trembling. Lord Almighty.
Calm down, Father, Ethel splashed water in his face, giggling. Youve wanted this car all your life.
But its absurdly pricey, he stammered.
Its priceless, one son declared.
Come on, Ethel urged. Sit inside, well take some pictures.
He opened the door and tried to climb in, but there sat a plain cardboard box in the passenger seat.
Whats that? he asked.
Open it, Ethel said.
He lifted the lid; two glossy eyes stared up at him from the bottom. He pulled out a tiny, fluffy creature and pressed it to his chest.
A real Thai kitten! Just like the one we had with your mother. Remember? Bimka. You loved him when you were a lad
Of course we remember, Father, the children chorused.
He never got into the car. Instead he trudged up to the secondfloor bedroom, cradling the kitten, and showed a photograph of Eleanor to the little animal. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Do you see, Martha? Do you see? I did it. They havent forgotten Do you see?
The children kept him from lingering too long. The dining table below was already laden, and toasts began. Ethel leaned close and whispered that she was four months pregnant and that her fiancé would soon join them for a visit. She would remain here, her new novel could be written anywhere, and her fiancé would travel back to New England to see his parents before they wed in the village church in a few weeks.
Is that alright, Father? she asked.
This feels like a dream, he answered, planting a kiss on her forehead.
The evening melted into a haze of chatter, snacks, drinks, and nostalgic stories. Everyone was content. Later he walked to Eleanors grave, sat for a long while, and talked to the wind.
Life seemed to acquire a new meaning, especially with that car. He imagined buying periodappropriate clothing, hopping in, and driving to the nearest big town. The small Thai kitten, now named Tom, purred on the bed.
Tom, the old man murmured, repeating the name. Tom stretched, his tiny body fully extended. The man lay down, stroking the warm belly, and drifted to sleep.
Morning came early. Pigs required feeding, the garden needed tending, and fishing still called. Upstairs, Ethel and her fiancé slept soundly. When the boys and their families left for the day, silence settled over the farm. Tom followed his masters footsteps, tumbled into the pig trough, tangled in the boats netting, then tried to nibble fish feed. The old man laughed, patting the mischievous cat.
How youthful you look, he said, scratching Tom behind the ears.
Tom mewed, clamping tiny claws to the mans hand.
You little rogue! the man exclaimed, laughing.
The tale is pointless, a reminder to those who can still visit their parents: dont wait for tomorrow. Drive today.
