I am reminded of Walter Whitaker, a man who, at fiftytwo, was still in the prime of his life. He was a sturdy, middleaged fellow, his hair just beginning to silver, and he held a respectable post in a London engineering firm. He had a circle of mates, one of whomArthurhad known him since they were schoolboys on the streets of Southwark. Yet a wife and home never materialised for Walter.
In his younger days the man was a serial dater, flitting from one charming lady to the next. He liked the attention, relished the fact that he still turned heads and was sought after at the local dance halls and country clubs.
When he crossed into his forties the swagger faded a little, and a quiet thought settled in: the spring of his life was slipping away. It was then that he met a remarkable woman named Clare. For two years they were inseparable, even sketching plans for a wedding. But, as fate would have it, she left him for another, and Walter blamed his own pasta trail of broken heartsto which he whispered that perhaps karma had finally caught up with him.
After that, no lasting love ever came. Some evenings brought fleeting acquaintances, a few brief romances, but nothing endured. By the time he reached fifty, Walter accepted that marriage and children would probably never be his. He thought modestly that, should an elderly, solitary lady ever appear and want a companion for quiet evenings, perhaps he would not be alone after all. Otherwise, he would simply fade into his own solitude.
His family tree was sparse. His parents had long since departed, and he had no siblings. A thirdcousin, Margaret, and her son James were the only blood relatives left, but they met only on rare occasions. Most of Walters old friends were now married, with grandchildren bustling about, and they preferred family gatherings to the old lads outings. They still invited Walter over, yet he often felt a loneliness that he had never known in his youtha loneliness that grew heavier as the years pressed on.
He dreaded the prospect of becoming that grouchy old man, muttering at the television, strolling the park with a dog while scoffing at the younger generation. Yet the picture of that future crept ever nearer, and he made his peace with it, still keeping an eye out for a chance at love, still meeting his mates when he could, still paying occasional visits to Margaret and James. Nothing in his life seemed likely to change dramatically.
One lazy Saturday, as he was gearing up for a day out in the Cotswolds with a few mates, his telephone rang. Assuming it was one of the gang, he snatched the receiver without glancing at the screen.
Hello, he said, trying to pack his bag with one hand, the phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
A polite voice answered, Good afternoon, Mr. Whitaker?
Walter, thinking it was another sales pitch, almost hung up. He was always late, always making excuses that his friends wives needed help, that he was the lone bachelor of the bunch. But the call persisted.
This is not a sales call, a soft female voice said after a pause.
Walter frowned, still unsure if this was another trick. What do you want?
My name is Eleanor, Im twentytwo, she replied, and I believe I am your daughter.
A laugh escaped him, Sounds like another scam.
He glanced at the clock, saw a few minutes still free, and decided to play along.
Seriously? And how did you arrive at that conclusion?
My mothers name was Irene Whitaker, the girl said, voice trembling slightly.
The name struck a chord. In his mind flickered images of a carefree youth, of a time when he was once sent on a work trip to the nearby town of Reading. The day had been spent at the office, the night was free.
After work, he wandered into a local pub where two young women were gossiping animatedly. Though they were younger than him, it hardly mattered; he still felt spry. He took a seat, struck up conversation, and after a while one of themClares friend, now named Irenestayed while the other left to see her boyfriend. Irene, a graduate of the towns technical college, lingered on, and they soon drifted onto the quiet streets, talking as if theyd known each other for years.
The night slipped by, and before he knew it, Walter found himself at Irenes modest flat, sharing a single room with her friend who had already departed. He spent three days in Reading, three nights with the enchanting Irene, who saw him off at the train station when his assignment ended. He offered his mobile number, but she declined.
There’s no future for us, she said, and he agreed, though he did give her his surname in case she ever wanted to find him. Within a month, his thoughts of Irene faded; a new romance had taken his mind.
Then, the phone rang again, pulling him back to reality.
Yes? he answered.
Why did you think I was your daughter? the voice asked.
My mother told me, the girl replied, She died a month ago.
Lord, Im sorry, Walter said, stunned.
It was cancer, she whispered. We only realised too late. She told me who my father was, gave me your name, showed me a photograph youd taken years ago, which she had kept. I tracked you down through a socialmedia site, then found your number.
Walter fell silent, the weight of the revelation pressing heavily on him.
Why didnt she tell me about a child? he asked quietly.
She said you werent ready for a family, that she didnt want to tie you down, Eleanor answered. Now shes gone, and I have no one. I know you have a life, perhaps a family already. Im not trying to intrude; I just
Eleanor, Walter interjected, lets meet. I want to know you.
She exhaled a breath of relief. Walter cancelled his countryside trip; such news was too jolting to ignore. He struggled to understand his own feelings but was determined to meet his daughter.
When they finally sat together in a tea shop, Eleanor, trembling, produced the photograph of her mother holding Walters arm and a copy of her birth certificate.
I dont want you to think Im a fraud, she said.
Im no billionaire, so Im not expecting a con, Walter chuckled, I believe you; I remember your mother.
They talked for hours. Eleanor recounted her childhood, her mothers brief marriage that never lasted, her stepfather who was now absent, and how she had been left alone, prompting her desperate search for her father.
Im sorry I never knew about you, Walter said, shaking his head. I would have liked to be part of your life. My own marriage never happened, I have no childrenexcept now, I see I do have a daughter.
Three hours later they promised to see each other again.
That night Walter lay awake, grief and anger mingling. He mourned his daughters lonely upbringing, yet also felt a surge of protectiveness. He had missed years of her life, but now a chance to make amends had appeared.
At their next meeting Walter learned that Eleanor and her mother had inherited a flat, which Eleanor now rented out while living in the same town where Walter resided. The cost of living was steep, so she was saving to buy a proper home. Walter offered her a room in his own house, hoping she could accumulate savings and eventually purchase her own place.
He made it his habit to bring her small gifts, organise modest celebrations, introduce her to his mates, and even mention an oddly distant cousin who might be a relative. After six months, Eleanor called him dad for the first time. He stepped onto his balcony, pretending to make a phone call, and let the tears fall.
Two years later Eleanor married, and when her child was born, Walters heart swelled to the point of delirium. He threw himself into catching up on the years he had missed with his daughters family. He also met a gentle woman, Margaret, with whom he planned to grow old together. Yet the most profound joy came from the knowledge that he now had a daughter, soninlaw, and a grandchild.
Looking back, Walter Whitaker sees how narrowly he had brushed past a life of family, and how a twist of fate finally opened the door to the happiness he had long thought beyond his reach.
