Dont come back, Dad, not any more. Every time you leave Mum starts crying, and she cries till dawn. Id fall asleep, wake up, fall asleep again, and shed still be wailing. Id ask her, Mum, why are you crying? Is it because of you? And shed say she wasnt crying at all, just blowing her nose because of a cold. Im old enough to know a cold never makes you sound like a sobbing baby.
I was sitting with my little girl, Blythe, at a small table in a tea room near Covent Garden, stirring the nowlukewarm tea in a dainty white cup with a tiny spoon. Blythe hadnt even touched the sundae in front of heran artful swirl of coloured marshmallows, a leaf of mint and a cherry on top, all drenched in chocolate. Any sixyearold would have swooned, but Blythe had, as far back as last Friday, decided she needed a serious talk with me.
I lingered in silence, then finally said,
So what are we going to do, love? Stop seeing each other altogether? How am I supposed to go on then?
Blythe wrinkled her cute little nosejust like Mums, a bit potatoshapedand thought a moment before answering,
No, Dad. I cant live without you either. How about this: you call Mum and tell her youll collect me from nursery every Friday. If you feel like a coffee or a sundae later, we can sit here in the tea room. Ill fill you in on everything about how Mum and I get on.
She paused, then added,
And if you ever want to check on Mum, Ill snap a photo of her each week and send it to you. Sound good?
I gave her a small smile, nodded and said,
Alright, thatll be how we do it from now on, sweetheart
Blythe let out a relieved sigh and turned back to her sundae. Yet she wasnt finished; she lifted the rainbowcoloured sprinkles that had gathered like a moustache on her lip, licked them off, and straightened up, looking almost grownup, almost a woman who would one day look after a manan older man, mind you. Last week was my twentyeighth birthday, and Blythe had drawn a big 28 on a card in nursery, colouring it carefully.
She set her face serious, furrowed her brows and said,
I think you should get married
And, with a generous dose of imagination, added,
Because youre not that old yet
I chuckled at her wellmeaning push,
Youll call me not that old too, then
Blythe, full of enthusiasm, went on,
Not that old, not that old! Look, Uncle Simon, whos been visiting Mum twice nowhes a bit balding, you see She pointed to the smooth skin on her own forehead, smoothing back a curl.
Then, as I stared at her, the room seemed to hold its breath. I felt as if shed just let slip a secret Mum kept hidden. Blythe pressed both hands to her mouth, widened her eyes in a theatrical display of shock.
Uncle Simon? Which Uncle Simon keeps dropping by? Is he Mums boss? I asked, raising my voice enough for the whole tea room to hear.
I I dont know, Dad, she stammered, suddenly unsure of sharing such a delicate piece of gossip with a father who, in that moment, seemed a little unsteady. Maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone, and She hesitated, wondering whether to mention the flowers Mum had sent him.
I folded my hands on the table, stared at them for a long while, and Blythe sensed that I was about to make a decision that could change things. She waited patiently, not pressing me for answers. She already guessed that men can be slow to act, that they need a gentle nudge from a womanespecially one as precious to them as she was to me.
Silence stretched, then finally I let out a deep breath, released my clenched fists, lifted my head and said If Blythe had been a little older she might have recognised the solemn tone of a Shakespearean confession. She didnt know Shakespeare, nor the tragic lovers of his plays; she was simply gathering life experience, watching people laugh and worry over the smallest things.
So I said,
Come on, love. Its late, Ill take you home and then have a word with Mum.
Blythe didnt ask what I intended to discuss, but she understood it was important. She hurriedly finished her sundae, then flung her spoon onto the table, slid off her chair, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, blew her nose, and, looking straight at me, declared,
Im ready. Lets go
We didnt walk home; we almost ran. I was the one hurrying, but I held Blythes hand so tightly she felt like a flag fluttering from a nobles lance, just as Prince Andrew had once carried a standard into battle at Austerlitz.
When we burst into the lift lobby, the elevator doors creaked shut, taking a neighbour up to the upper floors. I glanced at Blythe, a fraction bewildered, and she, from bottom to top, stared back and asked,
So? What are we waiting for? Were only on the seventh floor
I scooped her up and raced up the stairs. When Mum finally flung the front door open, I launched straight into it,
You cant do that! Whos this Simon? I love you, and we have Blythe
I wrapped both Mum and Blythe in a tight embrace, and Blythe clung to them, closing her eyes. The adults kissed, and for a moment the whole world seemed to pause in a breathless, tender tableau.
