Stay Away from Me! I Never Promised to Marry You—And Besides, I Don’t Even Know If That Child Is Min…

Keep away from me! I never promised to marry you! In fact, I dont even know whose child that is!

Maybe its not mine at all?

So, waltz off, will you? I think Ill be on my way, said Victor, who was staying in their village on some strange business, leaving poor bewildered Violet behind.

She just stood there, unable to believe her own ears or eyes. Was this really Victorthe very same Victor who had professed his love to her, carried her in his arms through the garden of memories, spun her around while the roses rained down from nowhere? Was this the Victor who crooned my darling Violet and promised her clouds of blissful pudding? No, this man before her was muddled, cross, and altogether a stranger.

So Violet cried for a week. She waved Victor goodbye with a heavy sigh and, at thirty-five, her youth wilted and her reflection unfamiliar, she decided she would be a mother all the same.

On an oddly silent Thursday, Violet gave birth to a howling baby girl. She named her Maryso quiet and undemanding, it was as if Mary already understood that crying got you no further than silence ever did. Violet cared for her daughter, of coursefed her, dressed her, and even bought the odd dollbut the warmth of true maternal love never quite settled in her heart. She never hugged Mary just because, never stroked her hair, rarely strolled with her through the beech woods behind their home.

Mary often stretched out her arms for her mother, but Violet would merely shift awayshe was busy, shed say, or she had headaches, or an endless list of chores. The motherly instinct never woke.

When Mary turned seven, a marvel befell them. Violet met a manshe even brought him home. The entire village nattered about it: That Violet, finally snapped, has she? The man, they whispered, was a stranger, no local ties, no steady job, drifting like a cloud across the green and grey Shropshire landscape. A conman, perhaps?

You see, Violet worked at the local shop, while he, Edgar by name, had simply turned up to unload lorries of stock. Their romance bloomed among tins of beans and crumbling crates, and soon enough she invited him to stay.

Neighbours shook their heads. Bring some stranger home, never mind the child! And such a quiet one, he barely speakshes hiding something for sure! But Violet didnt listenit was as though shed realised this was her final train to happiness.

Yet, slowly, the villagers grumbling turned. Violets cottage, sinking under the weight of neglect without a mans hand, soon showed signs of magic. First Edgar mended the stoop, then patched the slate roof, set the fence right. Each day he fixed something different, and the cottage transformed before everyones eyes.

When people saw thiswhen they saw that Edgar had hands that worked wondersthey began to ask for his help. Hed say, For pensioners and paupers, Ill do it free. For otherspay in pounds or in jam or eggs, whatevers to hand. Some gave him a fiver, some jars of chutney, some haunches of lamb. Violet, always lacking a mans muscle, soon had a fridge stocked with clotted cream and fresh milk; Mary now tasted homemade custard every other day.

Edgars hands, it seemed, were truly gold. And Violet, whod never been described as lovely, became radiant; she softened, she smiled, dimpled even. She grew gentler towards Mary. For the first time, the girl saw her mother with joy shining on her cheeks.

Mary, by then, was off to school. One dreamy afternoon, she sat on the step, watching Uncle Edgar tinkereverything in his hands seemed to agree with him. Later she went to see her friend next door and played until sun fell behind the hedgerows. Upon returning and opening the gate, Mary frozethere, in the middle of the yard, stood a swing! It swayed, beckoned, inviting her to soar.

For me? Uncle Edgar, did you make this for me? The swing?! gasped Mary, her blue eyes wide with wild disbelief.

For you, dear Mary, of course its for you. Come and try it out! laughed reticent Uncle Edgar, gleeful for once.

Mary threw herself onto the seat, swinging high, the wind piping in her earsthe worlds happiest girl beneath the English sky.

Because Violet left before dawn for work, Edgar became the family cook. He prepared breakfast and lunch, and baked the most irresistible pies and bread puddings. It was he who taught Mary how to set a proper table, how to knead dough and pour tea like a duchess.

As the days shortened and snow skittered across the glassy lanes, Uncle Edgar saw Mary to and from school. He carried her satchel and told talesof caring for his dying mother, how he sold his house for her sake, and how his own brother tricked him out of a home. He even showed her how to fish, and at sunrise theyd walk to the lazy stream, rods in hand, learning patience from the waters slow song.

One hot midsummer, Edgar surprised her with a shiny blue bicycleher first. He patched up her scraped knees with gentian violet whenever she tumbled.

Shell break her neck, Edgar! Violet grumbled.

She wont, he replied, steady as oak. She must learn to pick herself up.

At Christmas, Edgar gifted Mary a pair of real white skates. That night they shared a feast hed cookedroast and trifle and jam tarts, laughing and clinking glasses til the clock struck midnight. In the morning, Marys shrieking joy woke the house.

Skates! Real skates! White and newthank you, thank you! she cried, hugging them tight, tears streaking her rosy cheeks.

Afterwards, they wandered down to the frozen brook. Edgar cleared the snow from the glassy ice, Mary swept up the last powdery bits, and he taught her to skate. She fell, of course, but Edgar never let go; he guided her hand until she found her footing. Soon she was gliding all on her own, triumphant, shrieking with laughter.

When they turned to leave, Mary flung her arms round his neck.

Thank youfor everything. Thank you, Dad

And then Edgar cried too, tears slipping quietly down, light as mist, glad she didnt see.

Later, Mary grew up and left for university in the city. Life was complicated, as it always is, but Edgar was never far off. He was at her graduation. He delivered care parcels bursting with biscuits and cheese, so his girl would never go hungry. He walked her down the aisle on her wedding day, stood waiting outside the hospital when she became a mother. He bounced his grandchildren on his knee, loving them with a ferocity that sometimes skips blood.

One day, Edgar left, as we all do. At the graveside, Mary and her mother stood in sombre silence. Mary tossed a handful of soil, sighed from deepest memory, and whispered:

Goodbye, Daddy. You were the very best father. Ill always remember.

He remainedforevernot as Uncle Edgar, nor as a stepfather, but as Father. For a father isnt always the man who brings you into the world, but the one who stays and shares in your hurts and joys. The one whos always there.

And so unfolds this peculiar patchwork dreamstrange, sad, and lovelylike a song you remember upon waking, but can never quite sing aloud.