by Dawn French
Minnie felt as though Hope had dumped her out to sea and here was a life raft bobbing on the horizon. In a strange way, she wanted to prolong the moment before she opened it, because she wasn’t sure she would cope if whatever it contained was any kind of rejection. Hope had always, until now, given Minnie a bedrock of security with her unflinching love, but Minnie had nevertheless always sought the attention and approval she wasn’t getting. Outwardly, and for her mum’s benefit, she had pretended she couldn’t give two figs about this Isaac bloke – after all, he had abandoned them both. In her true heart, though, Minnie had always longed to know him and to know why he left. Somewhere, in a blameful deep pit inside, she had questioned whether, perhaps, just maybe, it was because of her? Her logic was simple and difficult to refute.
Minnie believed that when a beautiful little new baby is put into your arms, you fell in perfect love entirely, and nothing nothing nothing would ever part you, unless a bus ran you down, or a bomb blew you up. So how could her own father, Isaac, who had made her, how could he have looked at her and then decided to leave? Was she not good enough? Not pretty enough? Did she cry too much? Did she personify everything he feared? Was he ashamed of her? Why didn’t he want her to meet all his family? Why didn’t he take her with him? Why didn’t he want Hope?
If, for some reason, the answers to all of these lifelong questions weren’t in that box, Minnie would have to continue to blame herself, so she was nervous. Now that Hope had finally told her the dreadful truth, she was starting to unpick and gradually understand why Isaac might’ve gone. Minnie wasn’t even his daughter – of course he would go. Perhaps he didn’t know that Minnie wanted a father very much. So much, that the prospect of opening this box, which Hope had said was some kind of contact with him, was making her tremble and gulp.
As Minnie took a deep breath, she closed her eyes and repeated a quiet little mantra of ‘It’s OK, it’s OK’ to reassure herself that whatever was in there would make her happy. She didn’t even want the happiness all for herself. She was aware that if she could be more content, maybe little Bean inside her would catch that. After the earthquake shock she must’ve shared with Bean earlier when Hope first told her the astounding story, surely she owed the baby something? Something calm and lovely? Oh, please let it be lovely.
Minnie lifted the lid off the plain brown box, and held her breath while she looked inside. To her surprise, there was another box, a black one, within. She lifted it out and prepared herself again. She took the lid off that box only to find another, a red one, this time.
‘Oh, come on!’ she whispered to herself. ‘Bloody annoying.’ And then, a bit too quickly, she ripped the lid off that inner, final box to see the treasure within. A small baby’s hospital wristband, with ‘Florence Lindon-Clarke 1–1–2000’ printed on it. It was clear it had been cut off. Underneath that was a pile of airmail letters with African stamps on, all unopened. Seventeen of them. Minnie lifted the letters out very carefully, to see that under them, at the bottom of the box, was a small knitted hat in pink and yellow stripes. It was so teeny, almost as if it were actually for a doll.
Minnie marvelled at how small a baby’s head actually is, and she had a fleeting moment of relief, considering her own imminent future. She put the hat down and gathered up the letters. They were in a stack, bound up with an old piece of red ribbon that Minnie felt she recognized, but wasn’t sure where from. Some distant toy or Christmas wrapping maybe …? She untied it and the letters splayed out on the carpet. They were in order of date, according to the postmarks. The stamps were colourful and not like any stamps she’d ever seen, not that she’d seen many.
The only time Minnie wrote a letter that had a stamp attached and was sent off was when Hope insisted she write proper thank yous for any presents she was given on her birthday or at Christmas. She wrote all the time, in her notebooks and diaries, and she did write letters, but not ones that she actually posted. These stamps appeared exotic. They had images of hornbills and snakes and famous explorers she’d never heard of, mostly dark-skinned ones. There were what looked like chess players and astronauts and trains and boats and even, in 2007, one of Diana, Princess of Wales, to commemorate the tenth anniversary of her death. The envelopes were so definitely not British, the paper was thin and in various pastel colours, with stripes around the edge to indicate they were for airmail. For a different country. Leaving Africa and coming to England. To Bristol. The writing on the address was the same on every envelope:
Miss Minnie Parker, c/o Hope Parker, and then the PO box in Bristol.
So, he had always put Hope in charge of these letters. She was the one who would decide when Minnie should have them, or even if she would EVER have them. Clearly, he respected Hope and, for a moment, in the midst of this awful anger, that chimed with Minnie. Hope was indeed respectworthy. Usually.
Minnie took the first letter in her hand, and laid the others aside temporarily. She was shaky. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed it. The aroma was faint, but undeniably there, a woody, sweetly musky smell. Was it a bit of Africa or Isaac? Or was she imagining it? Wishing it? She looked once again at the handwriting on the envelope. Scrawly blue Biro, old-fashioned slightly curly cursive style. It looked friendly, inviting, not too formal.
She opened it carefully and took out the pages, and two unfamiliar green banknotes dropped out. African money. She opened up the pages to look.
It’s just some writing, she thought, how can writing hurt me? But look at it. My father wrote each of those words himself. Held the pen and wrote those words. To me. Actually … is he my father? Who is he to me? Stepfather? Kidnap dad? Captor? Stop stop stop these horrible thoughts and read the letter.
And so she did. It was two pages. Two very thin pages, and as she read them, Minnie didn’t blink once. She didn’t want to miss a single second of Isaac.
It began ‘Dear Daughter’. Already, she was welling up. Until now, there was only one other person in the whole world who called her this. She read on: ‘I am your father, and I love you.’ It made her gasp, out loud. A tiny sob. It was a bit Star Wars, but it was manna from heaven, and perfectly what Minnie needed to read and know and believe.
She ravenously fed on all of the letters, in order, one after the other, without any hesitation. There was money in every one. He’d written each one on her birthday, and as the seventeen years went by, in the lines of those letters, he drip-fed her both his life and all the support and encouragement she’d longed for. She read fast, and she very quickly adjusted to his handwriting style. She easily scanned the lines, cherry-picking key things to remember, the passages that stuck out.
When she was three:
I hope your birthday was good, and you got to eat too much cake, and maybe then you were a bit sick, so to feel better, you ate a bit more cake …?
When she was five:
I want you to know that this year, I am going to marry Efiba, my girlfriend, because she is going to have our baby. I wish I could ask you to come, I wish I could know that you are OK with this, but I am just going to have to believe that you would understand. She doesn’t know, can’t know, that I already have a daughter. But I know, Minnie, and I never ever forget you. Know that.
When she was eight:
Elijah is very naughty. He could do with his older sis to keep him in check! I think of you every day when I look at him. I missed out on so much of you. I can imagine the lovely young girl you have grown into, because you were the most beautiful baby. I remember every single little thing about you. You are often in my dreams, but you’re still a baby. I’d love to see a photo of you, but until I do, I’ll paint my own pictures, and in all of them, you will be smiling.
When she was ten (with a stamp of Captain Paul Cuffee on the envelope):
This is a difficult thing I have to tell you, because maybe it will come to mean nothing to you, and if that’s true, it’s my fault, but I need to tell you that my mother, your grandmother, died a few weeks ago. You would have lov
ed her and she would for sure have loved you, if life was different and you’d been able to meet her. She was very ill with a serious cancer in her belly, and she asked for the whole family to come to her bedside. Efiba and Elijah and me were all there, but it felt wrong to me. When we were leaving, I knew it was goodbye, so I gave her a kiss, and when I did, I told her about you quietly in her ear. I said, ‘Momma, you need to know your first grandchild lives in England. She’s called Minnie and she’s ten,’ and I said sorry for not telling her before. She was very weak but she squeezed my hand and nodded. So she knew, Minnie. She knew before she left us. I am trying to remember that ‘Those who die in grace go no further from us than God. And God is very near.’
When she was thirteen:
This Christmas, I was talking with friends, and one of the wives said that her father had a big effect on her self-worth. This has worried me, because it’s probably true. Dear Minnie, I pray you don’t suffer anything just because I’m not there. I know your mum will always teach you to walk proud with your head high, like my mum taught me. But what can a dad teach? Maybe this. Be yourself, be kind, be polite, be on time, be brave and fight like a girl because the girls I know are strong! Don’t be grateful for too little, don’t let anyone control you, don’t worry about little things, don’t take drugs, don’t let anger be in charge, don’t let failure stop you from doing anything, because believe me, that’s when you learn the most even though it feels bad at the time. I know that for sure! I have failed in many things, but I try to do better each time. That’s all anyone can do. I hope I haven’t failed you, sweet Minnie. I hope you know I love you and feel proud.
When she was fourteen:
I know you but I don’t know you. All I can say is that I seem to love you more each day, how crazy is that?
When she was sixteen:
I know it’s hard when you are a teenager, I remember that time myself, but something you should always try to be, Minnie, is CHEERFUL. It’s underrated, and it’s a blessing if you can manage it.
The last letter, when she turned seventeen:
I’m beginning to wonder if I should make a trip to England. As each year goes by, my regret gets bigger. What I did, what I felt I had to do, was the right thing back then, but you will be eighteen soon – time is slipping away so fast. Maybe I will keep my promise to Hope and I won’t interfere so that you don’t know anything, then your life can just tick on with peace and calm. Maybe I will just watch you from a distance one day? Even if I see you get on a bus or have a coffee, I will at least know you are OK, and I’ll see what you’ve become. I want that very much.
Minnie put the letters down and allowed the tears to stream out of her. At last, she had a dad, and she knew that he’d always thought about her. She felt buoyed up. Isaac’s letters were the life jacket she needed as she’d started to sink in a choppy sea of shock and confusion.
She gathered up the precious letters and all the creased and worn banknotes and started to put them back in the box to show Lee, when she noticed that, there, lining the bottom of the box, was a piece of paper, folded up. She reached in and pulled it out. As she opened it, she could see that it was something official, formal. She was looking at a medical death certificate. It had her own name on it, ‘Minnie Parker’, and her own date of birth, ‘1–1–2000’.
The box where the ‘Name of Father’ should be written was scored through with just two lines. No mention of Isaac. Two lines right through him.
In the box marked ‘Cause of Death’ were two words: ‘Unknown. Stillborn.’
Minnie was looking at her own death and, for a brief moment, her own heart did indeed stop. This is what everything was really about. Little dead Minnie. The first Minnie.
Minnie felt her heart start again, but now, under the pressure of truth, it was cracked, in sympathy with Hope’s.
Hope and Minnie: Mum and Daughter
Hope wandered around in a daze for a few hours, having coffee in various different nearby cafés as she dodged the autumn rain and cold outside, and agonized over how long to leave it before she ought to return home to the flat and Minnie. It felt so odd to have left her there to read the letters on her own. Hope had been by Minnie’s side through all the difficult, frightening moments in her life until now. Hope hated being separated from her at such a key time, but she knew that Minnie would need to process it all.
What was ‘it all’, actually? Since Hope had resisted all temptation (and it was mighty) to open the letters, she was, in effect, leaving Quiet Isaac and Minnie alone together. She was anxious that the letters might have information that would be difficult for Minnie. What had he told her? What had his life turned out to be?
It didn’t help that Hope drank one large double-shot black coffee in each of the five cafés she went to. She was absolutely buzzing. Not the best way to deal with an already stressful situation. Her head was throbbing whilst her worst thoughts clamoured and clattered about inside it. Her biggest fear was that she might have lost Minnie forever. She wondered whether Minnie would ever forgive her? Hope’s only chance was to step back and trust that her daughter could work it through in her head.
Hope was forgetting that Minnie was in total shock. She’d only just discovered that everything she thought she knew, she didn’t. Her world was topsy-turvy. Hope had had seventeen years of normalizing this utterly strange situation, and it had been Hope’s choice. Minnie was only a few hours into her maelstrom and none of it was her choice. Not in the slightest.
Eventually Hope Parker, an ordinarily confident woman who held her head high and her shoulders back defiantly, stood trembling and hunched with worry outside the door of the flat, afraid for the first time ever to enter her own home. Everything that really mattered was inside, and she wasn’t sure what she would do if she’d lost it. Either way, there were momentous decisions to be made, which would undoubtedly change all of their lives forever. She needed to summon every last iota of courage, and at this very moment, she found it impossible to remember that she’d ever had ANY. She felt full of fear, as if she had no bones in her whatsoever, as if she was only jelly held together with skin.
Shaking, she slipped the key into the lock and walked in.
Ordinarily, she would call out Minnie’s name as she arrived home, but she somehow didn’t feel the right to. Only people with bones should be so bold, and Hope was currently skeletonless.
In a meek, small voice, she quietly asked, ‘Min?’
‘In here,’ came the response from Minnie’s bedroom.
Hope approached and went in, holding her breath. Minnie was sitting on her bed, next to Lee, in the small colourful room full of strings of pom-poms and Day of the Dead graphics and a messy criss-cross of hundreds of festoons of coloured fairy lights. She’d clearly been showing him the letters, and her face was glistening with tears. Under the beautiful twinkly lights, she appeared so vulnerable and so very young.
‘Are you … OK?’ Hope ventured.
Minnie leapt off the bed and straight into Hope’s eager arms.
Lee smiled from ear to ear.
‘Mum! Thank God you’re back. Just for a horrible minute, I thought you might’ve left …’
‘Min. I will never leave you. Not like that. I just wouldn’t. You must know that?’
‘Yeah, but I said some stuff …’
‘You’re very shocked. I understand, darlin’ heart. I really do. It must be awful for you.’
They hugged and hugged, and both of them wept as they didn’t let go. Lee looked on, and wondered what on earth was going to happen next.
Hope said, ‘What are the letters like? I’ve nearly opened them a hundred times.’
‘Oh Mum, look at them! There’s seventeen, one for each year. He’s written them on my birthday to let me know he was thinking about me … Look at this one … and this … Isn’t it lovely? He says, “I am your father, and I love you”; he says that a lot. And he explains why he went, so that you and I could be together and so that no one would
ever know. I think he wished he could stay.’
‘Yes, yes, he did. But he couldn’t. He is too honest for that. He chose you over himself really.’
‘And he’s got a little boy. Elijah. Well, not so little any more – he’s twelve now. My brother. God, I’ve got a brother! Wait a minute, is he my brother?’ asked Minnie. ‘I dunno! It would be so cool to meet him. Meet all of them. He’s married; she sounds nice …’
‘Right,’ said Hope, trying to disguise the antiseptic sting of her hurt.
‘God, Mum, sorry. Did you know he was married?’
‘No, but listen, I don’t have a right to know anything about his life, much less judge it. I’m glad if he … found some happiness. He should. He deserves it. Just like you deserved him, but it was my fault you didn’t have him, and that bit I’m really sorry about. Are you OK, Min?’ Hope clocked Minnie’s anguished face.
‘Have you …’ Minnie looked at Hope, then Lee, then Hope again. ‘Have you been waiting for him all this time? Did you think he might come back? For you? For us? Is that why you don’t try with anyone else?’
Hope had nothing to say. She hadn’t really even admitted it to herself – she was an expert self-deluder – but her insightful, clever daughter worked it out in seconds. Hope had indeed denied so much. She’d denied all the hurt she’d caused. She’d denied that she was in limbo, hoping against hope that she might be with Quiet Isaac again some day. Only now, in the cold light of Isaac’s news, did she realize how much she’d clung to that hopeless hope. He was married, he had a child, he had moved forward and lived his life. Hope had lived Minnie’s life. Only. Minnie was her EVERYTHING, because in Minnie, Hope kept her own dead Minnie AND Florence alive.
