Without Question

14 December 2024

My Sweet Princess Beatrice,

Firstly, Daddy must apologise if I can’t answer your question about Moana speaking in Tahitian. You know that even if I’m all grown up, have navigated the sometimes-murky crests and troughs of life for longer than you have, there are little mind-bending queries I can’t respond to. As you will know, the more we shoot up towards a clear, cerulean sky, the more we reach our arms only to snag on even more curiosities, more puzzles, more uncertainties. I hope you could forgive me.

All of that’s a long way off for you, as of time writing. Yes, by the time you read this, you will have come of age, a rosebud ready to open itself up and let its intoxicating fragrance into the world. 

Today, though, your glossy chestnut pigtails bounced up and down as you barrelled down the shores of Paignton. Your outstretched mouth was streaked with undeniable, sticky pistachio drips that triggered a giggle in me before I took a washcloth to wipe them off. You’re starting to be bigger and stronger, if the radiating bush fires in my lower back are an indication; I still allowed myself to scoop you up and let your tiny cherry-hued Barbie swimwear-clad body melt into my chest, which you grabbed with two adorably pudgy hands. It was just you, me, the turquoise waves, and the saline air. In this sacred, pelagic space, our most gruelling conundrums were what flavour ice cream to try next, whether to go on the fun rides before or after diving into the sea, and how big the sandcastle we’ll construct will be.

However, I’m fully aware it won’t stay that way for long. Time can sometimes slink its way past the sealed steel gates of our consciousness, cunningly creep to our ears, and whisper an obsidian poison cloud that bleeds us of joy until we’re hollowed out. That’s why I wrote you this letter, actually. My precious Beatrice, I know that you will quiz yourself a million times, try to solve the labyrinthine mysteries that plague you and keep you up with only a tear-splattered cup of tea as company. My only hope is that with this little missive, Daddy can take you by the hand in unknotting the tangled-up ball of strung together words you’d hold your palm. I often wish there was someone to help me sort out my own massive coil, so let me be that for you.

You’re probably asking:

1. What was it about Mummy that made her sparkle for you? – Beatrice, this is like asking why Polaris is what we consider the North Star. You can not deny that the celestial being that shines brightest in the onyx tapestry above us would be the one to guide mankind for generations, can you? Well, in the same manner, your mother scintillates so brightly in the vast expanse of what I know that it has always been her that gives me the direction to step forward, even onto the waters.

When she stepped into the same Exeter lecture theatre as me, my jaw clattered to the floor. How could one mortal being have eyes so blue, they shame the most precious gems; how could a single human smile contain all the light of a galaxy being born? When her friend called after her, I let the sweet flavour coat every single tissue in my mouth until it was all I could taste. Jemima. Pretty name, isn’t it? A thick maple syrup with the bouquet of elderflower. It was that moment I knew I had to talk to her.

You know what’s next. Thank goodness, I did.

2. What’s your favourite memory of Mummy? – I’m very sure that by the time you read this, you may not remember any of what I’ll say, so let me jog your memory.

When you were three, you and I went to the very same coastline you frolicked in earlier. Whilst we were playing around with your rainbow beach ball, we observed a small, crimson-tinted tugboat float its way across a brilliant, crystalline ocean. Apparently, its owner had forgotten to tie the dinky craft to the tall pines dotting the sands, and so, all of us had to watch him flail his arms around as his precious vessel was thrust into the tides.

Well, that’s precisely how Daddy felt the day Mummy took him to that 70s themed party in London.

I must admit, my princess, that had it just been up to me, I’d have preferred being an eternal castaway in the most deserted island than to be in some ear-splitting Shoreditch club. I was ready to dissolve into the floor when your mother came in. All apprehension was washed away with a flip of her gold tresses and in the glimmer of her sapphire blue eyes, the very same ones she gave you. As I stood back with a beer in hand and watched my very own siren twirl across a pulsating dance floor, I could have been lost at sea, and I wouldn’t have cared.

Little did I know that a mischievous thought bubbled beneath the surface, rising until it burst like a geyser. Without even a single ‘Graeme, would you like to dance?’, I felt her lithe arms pull me towards the crowd, as if she were a lifeguard ushering me to safety. Of course, the irony wasn’t lost on me that she brought me over to the shark tank, so to speak, carried me into an undertow of uncertainty…until her marine peepers locked into mine. I had no idea that I was starting to sway along to the music, beginning to move my legs like a babe learning to swim. 

It actually felt…good; your mother’s wry grin at my admittedly paltry attempt was even better

3. Did Mummy really look like an angel when she married you? – I know. I always tell you that she did. Now, I realise, though, that I must rectify that statement. She didn’t look like an angel; she was the queen of them.

You should have seen me at the front, buckets of sweat emanating from every pore. As I waited for the woman whose fingers I’d gleefully slipped a diamond ring on a year before, a torrent of queries sputtered inside of my mind. Did the beautiful, azure-eyed blonde really choose to take my hand in her delicate one in that crowded lecture hall? Did I really end up bobbing my head along to Wings’ ‘Silly Love Songs’ with her in London Town’s hottest dance joint? Did she change her mind about being my wife?

All searching, all doubts sailed away the moment Mummy marched down the aisle in a frothy lace number. She called it a mermaid dress, but I will always call it resplendent. The stained-glass windows of the church let in rays of turquoise, cherry and chartreuse to fall upon your mum, making her look like the ethereal goddess she is, as she joined me at the altar. As I stared at her beaming, gossamer-veiled visage and pronounced my vows, my eyes became wells.

At that moment, my world, all I knew, rivalled Atlantis in its majesty. Of course…

4. Why did Mummy leave us? – Well, Beatrice, just like the one about Moana, this is a question I still can not reply to. 

Perhaps, the signs were as crystal clear as a babbling brook. Perhaps, I should have noted the draw of that city by the Thames, that jolt that flowed in her when she recounted packing for a train ride to Paddington the day we met at our Exeter university. Perhaps, I could have noticed her fizzing over in laughter at that London nightspot whilst with her mates, not so much with me. Perhaps, I should have been warned by her leaving me abandoned like driftwood to greet well-wishers at our wedding as she cut loose with her urban crew.

I tried, Beatrice. I tearfully demanded her why she was filling up her giant red suitcases, all ready to walk out the door for the very last time. I spared no drop in an ocean of thought to try to comprehend her sudden decision to depart. In the end, all I got for a response was silence. Wordlessly, with the same smile that enchanted me all those years ago in uni, she flitted from the harbour of our love….and I was left with a desert of a soul, trying to make sense of it all.

Worry not; I’ll be okay. I’m sure by the time you read this, all will be swept away by the tides of time. I just wanted you to know, my sweet princess, that I loved you mother without hesitation, without a smidgen of a desire to examine myself before diving headfirst. 

More importantly, though, I want you to know that no matter what, I love you and I always will without question. No matter how the waves rise or fall, it’s going to be you that fills me up with so much joy that it overflows.

Loving you vaster than the Pacific,

Daddy

P.S.: Okay, so I may not be able to speak Tahitian like Moana, but can I always speak the language of your heart?