The dust jacket

I watched other children with their fathers. Wondered how it must feel to have someone to hang onto. To make you feel safe and secure. Don’t get me wrong I know not every relationship is that easy going, how some fathers hurt the ones they’re meant to defend.

I’m on about the ones that chase you in the park, run with you on their shoulders. Wind you up and laugh with you. You know the ones, the ones that hug you when you fall, listen to your pain. Warn away anyone who has broken your heart. I wanted one like that. My mother’s answers were vague, so vague in fact I wondered if she knew who my father was. Perhaps he was some nameless conquest she was too embarrassed to discuss. I wondered if I had his curly auburn hair, his love of art, his way of letting people feel that they’re not enough.

'I wish you wouldn't ask me about him. He didn't want me, he didn't want us, that should be enough for you. Am I not good enough for you either?' She'd ask. I'd sit silently, unable to answer her. I wanted to tell her she was enough, that it was me who wasn't.

My father broke her heart. I knew that when she looked at me she felt inadequate, but that wasn't my fault? It wasn't my choice. So, I escaped into a world of my own creation. A world where I belonged, where I was more than enough. Where there was no blame. A place where I was an artist, an explorer; somewhere I felt powerful.

      ***

I was three when I first visited the library, its indomitable librarian becoming a comforting presence I learned to rely on. My small neck stretching eagerly to get a view of Mrs. Paige, who was hidden by the huge desk, littered with returned books and leaflets. Quite an apt name for a librarian, my mother joked. I nodded, spellbound by the imposing magnitude of the cavernous building. My tiny, patent black shoes tapping a crescendo as I crossed the parquet flooring. My mother smiled at me as she ushered me forward into the brightly painted children’s section. Images from fairy-tales and classic children’s stories were festooned on every surface, and books of every size fizzled my imagination. A table stood by itself, where several children coloured and painted enthusiastically. This was my first experience of the crèche, my first taste of colour and magic. It was where I fell in love with art and the smell of new books. 

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him, the art teacher who'd been employed to develop our artistic skills.I visited the library everyday after school, signing up to every art and illustrating class available. I’d make the odd friend, those with the same interests as me, however I wasn’t the kind of child who needed friends, I was quite content in my own company. That changed the day I met Mr Dale. He arrived, paint spattered, a harlequin of delight. His glasses sat stationary atop his large nose. His tanned face creased with laughter. He looked at us with large animated eyes and asked us if we were ready to imagine the world; we nodded enthusiastically. I was inspired.

One by one the children found other hobbies but I remained; Mr. Dale’s self-employed apprentice. My mum refused to discuss my twice weekly lessons, feigning an occasional interest. She’d raise her eyebrows when I enthused over Mr. Dale’s artistic brilliance. ‘So, you like him then?’ she scowled. I nodded ardently. ‘I knew you would. I imagine you have a lot in common.' She smiled at me, gently, a look of pain fleeting momentarily, until she shut herself away once more.

It was on a bright warm day, the beginning of the summer holiday when Mr Dale mentioned my mother. We were sat in the walled garden opposite the library, painting the spreading clematis when he asked.

‘How is your mother?’

I thought I’d heard him wrong. ‘My mother?’ I asked.

He nodded, as he continued to add pearlescent oil paint to his canvas, not meeting my eyes. I struggled to explain, she was indescribable. ‘She’s just as she always is,' were the words I settled on. ‘Do you know my mother?’ I asked, surprised at this dawning realisation.

Mr Dale smiled, but not in his usual all-encompassing way, but solemnly, quietly. ‘Yes, and your father? Do you still see him?’

My heart skipped a beat. My father. Father, that word hurt the most. ‘I don’t have a father. I don’t know what you mean.’

The tone of my voice made him look at me closely. He looked at me with such intensity I felt like shrinking away. He became quiet and stood up, and told me that he felt quite unwell and that I should return home…

My heart hurt. I felt that I had learned something monumental. I had no words to express this feeling. Still too young to be able to consciously construct my thoughts into words. I wanted to ask her about him, but even when I faced her at the dining table the words would not form. I was imagining their connection, formed from a childish need to know who I was. I removed these thoughts from my head, glancing at my mother I tried to seek the answers I needed. Could I see into her mind, would our connection be strong enough for me to delve into her thoughts? I lowered my gaze when she caught me staring.

'Has something happened?' she asked. 'You're acting stranger than usual.' She whispered, with no hint of sarcasm or laughter. I shook my head as I averted her eyes, her words like pinpricks, leaving tiny indentations.

It was on this night that my whole world changed, the sound of fire engines signalling the end of something beautiful. I awoke to a glowing inferno warming the panes of my bedroom window. The main library building was on fire, its dense smoke spreading, tainting the neighborhood. A spark from a worn cable had set the children’s section alight and turned my days into nights.

I discovered that this was not to be the end, but the beginning of a new dawn. The library would be resurrected. It would become something new and modern, a spectacle that would celebrate technology and a new age. The neighborhood agreed to plans for a new library to be built, but my library was in the ashes, it was not a magical, life affiming phoenix. I watched as this new dawn grew into a reality. I thought about Mr Dale, I'd discarded my imaginings and ridiculous dreams, brushing them away alongside the ash and devastation that had once been my escape. I hoped he had recovered, I longed for his company and for his ability to make me feel worthwhile.

After months and months of watching the building become something else the day finally arrived when the library was complete. It was on a bitter winter’s day when the library reopened. I was given a special invitation to attend its unveiling. I stood at the entrance of the large grey, glass domed building, I hated how it stood out, alien-like amongst its Edwardian neighbours. It’s once carved polished balustrades, decorated with flora and fairies, a child’s enchanted dream had become innocuous soulless metal bars. Mrs Paige hobbled towards me, her cane making a rhythmic tapping noise on the cobbles.

‘Hello Daisy, I’m so glad you’re here. I knew you’d come. Hideous, isn’t it?’

I nodded my head, my words stuck in my throat.

‘Mr. Dale asked me to give you something.’

‘He did?’ I held back the tears as Mrs Paige held out her hand. I reached out and took the covered book from her.

‘He asked that you open it in private, I have just the place.’

I followed Mrs. Paige through the glass doors milling with people, up the glass stairwell into a small, darkened room. She opened the blinds to allow the winter sun to stream onto an old oak table, my table, the one I had learned to paint on. The tears came, I found myself sobbing. Mrs. Paige rubbed me soothingly on the back and left me to open my gift. I peeled off the paper, carefully, revealing colour and lines that had been lovingly formed some time ago. I gasped as I stared at the image on the cover of a younger Mr. Dale, his auburn hair glinting in the sunlight as he stared adoringly at another face framed with a myriad of meadow flowers. A face, almost unrecognisable, its happiness juxtaposing every emotion I had ever witnessed on my mother’s face. I was shell shocked. How could it be? I turned the image in my hand. It must be someone else, but then why would it be given to me. Beneath the author’s name was the illustrator's name, James Dale. I traced the name gently with my finger, it was then that I noticed the bookmark, I opened the book at the marked page to find an inscription. A simple message.

‘To my daughter Daisy.’

I sat down heavily, replaying the last conversation I had with Mr Dale in my head, when I heard his voice behind me.

‘I think I need to explain…'