“Of course.” His eyebrows rise and the blue eyes come back to focus on me. “Just because I didn’t want a family doesn't mean I eschewed my responsibility. If I fathered a child, then I would provide for that child’s upbringing even if I didn’t want to be with the mother.”
“But you loved her. You were living together.” Even as I argue, I know the words are so wrong. They don’t even fit the story she told me about their time together in his student accommodation.
He sighs, a long, long sigh.
“It’s not easy to explain. Try to imagine a nineteen-year-old, a studious introvert who’d seen nothing of life. Anabel…” He pauses as if to visualise her. “She was beautiful. Older. Experienced. She came into my world like an explosion. Having a girlfriend like her made me a stud. I went from being a drip to a lothario. My friends envied me. It rather went to my head.”
His expression is not nostalgic, not even thoughtful, just…apologetic.
“That’s how I saw it. I didn’t really see your mother for who she actually was. It’s clear that I let her down very badly. I wasn’t the right man for her, and the relationship was already fading when she told me about the pregnancy.”
Now it’s my turn to be silent. I stare at him, at the table, at the cup, at my own hands, then at the ceiling.
“I’m very sorry if I’m not what you expected.”
“I didn’t expect much. Just … I mean you are … my father.”
“Miss Henderson,” he starts. But his use of my surname is cold, cold and dry; it makes me flinch.
He notices because he tries again less formally. “Leonie, you had a father. From your description, a wonderful father. I’m not that man. I’ve never been father material or husband material.”
Why wouldn’t he want a family? “Are you gay?” stupid words, I know but it’s what comes out of my mouth.
It surprises a laugh out of him. He coughs. “I can see why you’d ask that. Unfortunately, the truth is much less interesting. I’m an academic who enjoys his own company. While I’ve had various liaisons with women, some of them very enjoyable. I never wanted to settle down with the proverbial two point four, chaotic family holidays or marriage counselling.”
Something about his wording, the clear distaste he seems to have for a home life, for the life Dad had given me, makes my hackles rise. Does he think it’s more noble to be an intellectual than a family man?
What have I done. Dad’s loving face, swims into my mind’s eye. His usual smile is sad and my heart turns over with grief and guilt. Perhaps that’s why my words to Willaim Jones come out so sharp.
“It’s not how I see things. Anyone can be an academic. All you need is books. The real challenge is to show up for your family every day, every single day, for years. To put up with a bad marriage for the sake of a child that needs to be loved. A child who might have been rejected by her biological father. And if you think flitting round the world researching God knows what deserves more respect than holding down a badly paid job so you can make it home in time to cook dinner, then you’re very mistaken.”
He doesn’t get angry. Or upset. Or ashamed. He just gives me a sympathetic nod. “You are most probably right. I never claimed to be better. The only credit I claim for myself is that of knowing my own limitations. Yes, fatherhood is a difficult and honourable duty. My own father tells me this at regular intervals.”
The mention of his own father is like a cold hand on a feverish head. A safer topic to talk about. “I have grandparents?”
“Not grandparents, just grandfather. My mother passed away when I was sixteen.”
“Where is he?”
“In a care home.”
The surprises keep coming from this man. “In a care home? Why? Is he disabled? Alzheimer’s?”
“Neither.”
“They why…” I want to ask why his father is in a care home instead of living with his son, but I’m starting to get the measure of William Jones. When our eyes meet, he gives me a level look and clearly can read my thoughts.
“I suspect you think it’s shameful of me.” He gets up. “I will at least be honest with you. And if you want a friend, an educator, an advisor, then I will do my best. But if what you want is family, I can only disappoint you.”
He leaves me in the kitchen. The professor – how interesting that no one calls him Will, or William or anything – just the professor. AS if he doesn’t get close to anyone.
When Haneen comes back a little later, I quickly pretend to get busy washing my tea cup. It’s only then I discover that he, the professor who seemed so cool and uninvolved, has barely touched his breakfast. Two slices of toast lie abandoned on the little plate and his teacup is still full.
Chapter Nine
“Are you okay?” Haneen asks softly.
I wipe my tears with impatient fingers, getting soapy water on my face instead. Haneen turns off the tap and gently tugs me away from the sink and into her arms.
