"Victoria, imagination is not forbidden."
Can you envision hearing that every time you have an idea? Now, put yourself in the age group of 4 to 10. Repeat it out loud. Use a severe voice like only egocentrics have. Adapt the voice to an authority figure—for example, your grandfather.
Henry Clarke is my dream crasher, or pragmatist, as he likes to present himself. He would most commonly be described as a philanderer and a drunk, but let's stick with pragmatist. Henry is also my grandfather.
I grew up hearing stories of his legendary one-month drunken state when I was born. He spent a lot of money going from pub to pub, buying rounds in the name of his firstborn grandchild. Later, he told my mother how her strong female genes had overpowered his son's, and he ended up with two granddaughters. As fate would have it, he later got a grandson, the title carrier. One may say it is a curse on my brother, Ethan Clarke—a younger male version of myself—poor guy.
Back to Henry: nothing could stop me from crying but his voice. The sound of his voice made baby Victoria sleep every time. I wonder if that is why words coming from his mouth somehow scared me the most, even though objectively, they were not the harshest nor the most hurtful; quite the opposite, he was always frank.
Have you heard the story about Bentley and how it was almost impossible to buy one without proof of a sound and extended family line? Well, I did. That brings us to my most comical encounter with Henry. He has been "Henry" to me for a long time. I tried calling him Grandpa, but it somehow lost its purpose. Ah, yes, Bentley. During my teenage days, I heard that crazy story about being able to get new Bentleys only if proven eligible. Never did I check the story; I just blindly believed it, which argues that I was naive and gullible.
A rainy afternoon—as you may have noticed, a theme here, as is expected in the northern parts of England—Henry was busy with his newspapers and afternoon tea; I was approximately 16, inexperienced, and curious.
"Henry, can you show me our family tree? I heard this thing about Bentley and want to ensure we qualify for one."
What came as an answer can be shortly described as a blitzkrieg of sharp comments combined with swear words only mystical languages have, like Hungarian. Henry had a knack for turning a simple chat into a lecture on the failings of modern youth—namely, me.
"Instead of taking pride in the family name, asking about the past and sacrifices, getting to know your cousins, and respecting the fallen victims of the war, you come to mock it..."
His eyes narrowed behind those half-perched spectacles, the lines on his weathered face deepening with disdain. He folded his newspaper deliberately, each crease echoing the tension in the room. "A Bentley? Is that all our lineage means to you? A ticket to luxury?" he scoffed, the aroma of whisky-laced tea wafting between us. The rain tapped against the windowpane, a metronome to his mounting lecture. I knew I would need a bath after this one.
"You walk around with your head in the clouds, Victoria, blinded by frivolities while standing on the shoulders of giants you fail to acknowledge," he continued, his voice a measured growl. "Do you think your great-grandfather faced the trenches so you could prattle on about cars?"
I felt a flush rise in my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and simmering rebellion. "It's not just about the car, Henry," I dared to interject. "I want to understand where we come from, our history."
He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Understanding comes from respect and diligence, not from chasing after material proof of prestige," he retorted. "Perhaps you'd grasp that if you spent less time on your fanciful pursuits and more on honouring the family name."
The weight of his words hung heavy. It wasn't merely a dismissal of my question but a judgement on my very character. I realised then that bridging the gap between us required more than curiosity—it demanded conformity to values I wasn't sure I embraced.
As he returned to his paper, the conversation effectively over, I stood there, the chasm between us wider than ever. The rain outside seemed to echo the steady pattern of my unresolved thoughts. Maybe seeking his approval was futile, and perhaps it was time to chart my own course—Bentleys, family trees, and all. After all, if imagination wasn't forbidden, then neither was forging a new path.
What path did I choose? Well, that's a question whose answer is ever-developing, never-ending. Certainly a family path, even though I am still childless—but hey, I'm well married. That sense of duty is something I later discovered gave me trouble while trying to fit in with the Blackwood family. The strong instilled pride and honour in carrying one's last name, respecting the history, and settling into old ways for sure didn't serve me well. It actually cost me my health and almost my sanity.