Portrait of my daughter.

        “Do you want to dance?”
        “You’re old enough to be my father.”
        I laughed. “So you don’t want a drink either?” Wedding receptions were invented for the Anglo-Saxon pursuit of inebriation.
        “Yes, please Dad. WKD, the blue one’s non-alcoholic,” she paused before adding, “I think.”
        How I envy the youth their youthfulness, their inbuilt ability to twist the truth and desire to take advantage. Perhaps it is wrong to generalise and it may not relate to every fifteen year old but these are traits that have been polished and honed by my daughter. Or am I being unfair? I remember a time about eight years ago: sweet, head of loose curls and a Daddy’s girl. My wife (and mother of my daughter), her voice raised then sobs of frustration, slammed doors and small stomping feet echoing through the dining-room, lounge, hall and into my study.
        I waited, pretending to write as the sobs lessened until a deep sigh turned them off. I looked up. “Hello, didn’t see you there. What have you been up to?”
        “Not much. What are you doing? Can I help?” Now the offer of assistance is an interesting and relatively new concept. “I can do some colouring for you.” I rejected her offer and waited.
        “Daaaad.” It was impossible not to notice the elongated stress on the vowel. It turned a pronoun into a plea.
        “Yes, darling?”
        “Daaaaaad.” Even longer the second time, the verbal equivalent of a dagger of dread. “Can Amelia sleep over tonight?” So that was the topic for the argument.
        “That’s really up to Mummy. Have you asked her?” Mr Abdication or what?
        “Sort of.” A slight hesitation before she added, “she said no.”
        “If Mummy says no, then I have to say no.”
        “I know.”
        “So why are you asking me?”
        “Because I always get you to change your mind. Everyone says I have you wrapped around my little finger.” There was a pause, “what does that mean?” What it means is today I will buy a bottle of blue WKD in exchange for a terse email or heated telephone call from my now ex-wife. “She’s only fifteen... at your nephew’s wedding... you’re in Scotland for God’s sake... you’re the adult, she’s the child.” Oh, what the heck, I’ll buy two bottles, but no more and we’ll dance until the band stops playing and the DJ goes home.
       My old study witnessed some interesting exchanges over the years. I remember a particular time when she was four and I heard my name being shouted from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, darling. I’m writing at the moment.” Silence for a while before my name is called from outside the door. “Just a minute, nearly ready.” Another minute of silence and then a click as the door opens. “Two ticks. I’ll soon be with you.” A head appears round the door and seconds later the remainder of the body enters.
        I finished typing. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
        “Daddy, guess what?” An interesting opening gambit that could lead anywhere.
        “I can’t guess. You tell me.”
        “Did you know I can get four Rice Krispies up my nose?” Now I didn’t expect that.
        So, yesterday we’d driven twelve hours from Brighton to Loch Lomond for my nephew’s wedding; a shared journey, shared memory. A marriage that, as most of the family agreed, would not last too long due in no small part to the bride’s temper.
        “There’s the church,” said my daughter. “We’re an hour early.” Better an hour early than five minutes late; especially at a wedding, and that is a philosophy born from experience: the frustration of trying to overtake my cousin’s bridal car along the country lanes of Hampshire (not quite as bad as trying to overtake the hearse on the way to my grand-father’s funeral). “There’s Nanny, Grandad, Jill, Dave, Lewis, Helen...” she trailed off mid-sentence. “How loud is your CD player?”
        “Pretty loud. Why?”
         My daughter rummaged in the glove box. “You’ll see. Open the windows.” Windows opened, CD player volume on 60 and ‘I Don’t Want To Marry’ by the Gothic Death slaughtering the Scottish tranquillity as we drove past all my family, our laughter lost between the angry lyrics and chugging guitars.
         “You realise this is a no-through road. We’ll have to drive back this way.”
         “Good, I’ve just the thing for the return.” She looked in the glove-box. “Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke. Nan will enjoy that.”
         Sweet sixteen, I can’t wait, it might become a quieter time although somehow I doubt it. Rebellious fifteen demonstrates much more promising characteristics. Who wants sweetness in anyone over the age of nine? Sweetness at six is far more acceptable. “Dad, there’s something awesomely important I must tell you.”
        “What is it my little precocious darling?” Is awesomely an adverb? It is when you are six.
        “Annalisa and me dropped your tooth-brush in the toilet. It’s alright though, we managed to get it out again.”
        “Thank you for fishing it out, and for telling me.”
        “That’s OK,” and out she skipped. Something wasn’t right.
        “Darling, come back here for a second.” A mass of curls reappeared. “I didn’t know Annalisa came to play today?”
        “She didn’t. She played yesterday.” What else is there to say?
        It is very easy to embarrass a fifteen year old. I find waving at their friends whilst driving is one way.
        “But I hate her. She’s so up herself.”
        “But that’s Jessica. She’s your best friend.”
       “Not anymore. You should’ve heard what she said about Ryan.” It is so difficult to keep up with who are friends and who are sworn enemies. Transfer between extremes can occur at the drop of a comment. Then again, it has always been like that. My ‘very bestest friend in the whole wide world’ could be person non-gratis by lunch only to regain the best-friend mantle during the walk home from school.
        I remember the day we woke to find her hamster dead; stiff, round and very dead. “I’m sorry darling. What do you think we should do?” The dustbin or the compost heap headed my list, only fair to seek the opinion of the seven year old owner.
        “We should have a funeral. I’ll invite Louisa, Annalisa, George and we can sing a song and bury Chip in the garden. But I’m not telling Amelia. She’s not my friend,” and with that she left for school leaving me to make the arrangements: cardboard shoebox lined with cotton wool made an acceptable coffin, the body carefully inserted with the aid of cooking tongs, lid stuck down with gaffer-tape, kitchen cupboard raided for crisps and cola for the wake. All set to give Chip a wonderful send off.
         I had the spade ready before the children returned from school. I thought about digging the grave but knew it would be in the wrong place, safer to wait until the chief-mourner arrives. I could hear young voices before they came into the back garden. “We’re going to have a funeral, a funeral, a funeral,” they sang in their grief, “We’re here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip. Hurrah.”
        “Amelia is going to carry the coffin around the village before we bury it.”
        “I thought you said Amelia wasn’t invited.”
        “She’s my bestest friend. Of course she’s coming.” That told me. How can I differentiate friend from foe when they wear the same clothes?
        The cortège filed around the garden, through the orchard and out into the village. Amelia at its head, shoe-box held high. My daughter and eleven school friends following with heads solemnly bowed and the occasional giggle breaking the silence. “Shsssh. No crisps for anyone who laughs. We’re here to bury not just a hamster but a friend to us all.” What pretentious twaddle from one so young. “Let’s sing a hymn.” Throughout the remainder of the summer, the talk of the village was of the dozen children reverently following a Clarks shoe-box while singing “Hark the Herald Angels”.
        I had dug the grave by the time they returned to the newly appointed cemetery. One spit deep and a little larger than the coffin. I was pleased to have removed the earth in one giant clod, much easier than shovelling loose soil into the hole. “Now guys,” my usual collective noun for the little darlings, “one quick prayer and then you go and have something to eat. It’s starting to rain.”
        “Our Father who farts in heaven.” Eleven giggles.
        “It’s ‘Art in heaven’, darling."
        “I know that Dad. I thought God might like a laugh. Our Father who Art in heaven please look after Chip. He was a very friendly hamster so I’m sure he won’t bite you, Jesus or the man who sits on your right hand. Amen.”
        “Amen.”.
        “Oh, one other thing God. Could I have a new bike for my birthday? Please. Amen.”
        “ Amen,” eleven voices agreed.
        The rain came and the congregation ran into the house leaving me to inter the coffin. Shoe-box in its final resting place I took the sod and placed it on top. It rose above the ground by the height of the box. “Bugger.”
        Rain soaked through my shirt as I pondered the problem. I could leave it as it was or remove it, shave a lump off and replace the turf. This would look acceptable in the short-term but eventually leave a hollow. I took the logical alternative and stamped on it. It moved an encouraging fraction of an inch. I jumped up and down, both feet stamping with all my weight. Slowly I forced the earth back into the ground, squashing both box and cadaver.
        Flushed with exertion and success I looked towards the house. At the conservatory window children’s faces were contorted in horror, surprise, grief and confusion. My daughter stood to one side and gently shook her head, a mixture of mild rebuke and weary tolerance.
        “Here’s your WKD. “
        “Thanks Dad. I don’t need a glass.”
         “You can’t drink from the bottle. You’ll get Vials Disease.”
        “I’ll take the risk. It’s less dangerous than dancing with you. Come on.” She took a long sip from the bottle, grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the dance-floor. “These are the rules: No Dads’ dancing, no trying to chat up women. And definitely not your Saturday Night Fever dance. Don’t embarrass me. Oh and don’t tell my friends I danced with you.”
        The second we started moving to the music our father/daughter dancing relationship entered its fifth stage. First stage was when I held my baby daughter in my arms and carefully swayed from one foot to the other. Second stage was the toddler clutched to my hip and being spun ‘gigglingly’ fast. Third stage was the infant standing on my feet as I shuffled from foot to foot. Fourth my daughter holding my hands while bouncing out-of-time to the music. Today we were entering the most important and potentially embarrassing stage; stage five: full-on, let’s rip-up the dance floor and show these no-hopers what fantastic dancers we are. And that’s what we did. We danced to every record, some old, some new. Hip-hop, pop, rock, R and B, we respected every genre. I followed my daughter’s lead with the newer numbers; she followed me with the older records. Together we danced, outlasting nieces, nephews, cousins and friends of the couple. We danced to a succession of records while the band packed up their instruments. Eventually the DJ sidled up to us, “I’ve got to go home, it’s nearly three. One last record, any requests?”
        My daughter looked at me, smiled and turned to the DJ. “How loud are your speakers? Crank them up to maximum for Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke.”

Word count 1983



Reflection - Portrait of my daughter. - Gary Phillpott - P0925593X

Portrait of my daughter evolved from a seed that was expected to grow into a memoire of my father. The initial intention was to demonstrate identity by comparing my seventy-nine year old father and his nineteen year old self. This changed before first draft and the subject became my daughter. I recognise the boundaries between genres are blurred and it could be argued I have also produced a memoire. However, Blake Morrison, in the afterword to his widely acclaimed memoire, confirms he cannot classify his own work; “not autobiography...not memoire (traditionally written by someone grand and old)” (Morrison 2006:229). If Morrison is unable to pigeon-hole his own work then I suggest that the genres merge and memoire may sometimes be a portrait and vice versa.

My aim was to write a piece that moved in time but wasn’t linear. I wanted my daughter’s identity, and also an indication of mine, to manifest itself at each age and stage of her development thereby exploring whether identity is inherited or, if not, where it’s obtained. The catalyst being Wordsworth’s statement; “child’s the father of the man” or in my daughter’s case “the child’s the mother of the teenager”.

I wanted to anchor my writing around a wedding attended in December 2009 and jump between my memories of my daughter as a young child; my recollections prompted by a photograph and workshop session . I wanted readers to think about and workout the time-shifts although I did include some helpful clues, most obviously the reference to the WDK drink for her teenage period. My hardest task was to explore the notion of identity and I proposed to do this not by giving readers my daughter’s name or describing her physical appearance but allowing characteristics, action and speech reveal her identity. (The only physical descriptions in the portrait are; “mass of curls” (Final Version:4) and “head of lose curls”(1), both descriptions were prompted by the photograph). I decided to include humour as a way of keeping readers engaged and this occurs with my daughter’s use of loud music(3+7), hiding Rice Krispies(2) and dropping a tooth-brush in the toilet(4).

The creating process was simple, I started with a “spot of time” very much in the same way that Wordsworth searched for lost time and in my case this spot was a family wedding in December 2009. A photograph of my daughter aged about four became the trigger for my memories and recollections. Through these memories I would demonstrate my daughter’s identity. At this time I recalled a line of Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s poem “Identi-kit” ; “likeness is not important provided the traits cohere”. I took this to mean that identity is character and not appearance. Proust implored precision in “A remembrance of things past” and I have been precise with word selection and the way I have told the story. An example of this is the repetition of “Dad” with elongated vowels (Final Version:1-2) and the pauses before “What does that mean?”(2) and “I think”(1) all giving greater texture to her identity.

One skill that De Montfort University first year creative writing students have is that of drafting and re-drafting. My skills in this area have developed and improved with each workshop and this can be demonstrated in the way I edited this assignment. My first big decision was changing the main character from my father to my daughter. The first draft was terminated at 900 words and included reference to the wedding, dancing and Rice Krispies. Although happy with the storyline topics I was less happy with treatment and remembered a recent lecture; “characters make stories and stories make characters” and “plot arises from character” I toyed with the idea of starting again and selecting another subject before deciding to drastically redraft the piece. I changed the sequence of the events and removed all reference to my daughter’s appearance; “4 inch heels...beautiful woman...bemused child” (First Draft) but gave indications of her identity through her speech; “’the blue one’s non-alcoholic’, she paused before adding, ‘I think.’”(Final Version:1) This example demonstrates her immaturity and belief she is able to trick me.

After completing six-hundred words I edited my work down to three-hundred. This was repeated after completing about 1200 words with yet another fierce edit, reducing the word count by a further 25%. This was the first time I’d hard edited as I went along and I found the end result produced a much tighter second draft.

At this point I asked fellow writers Sally Jack, Laura Jones and Kimberley Lieser to look at and edit my work. Of the three, Sally was the most helpful and suggested a few changes. These included removing or altering; “take advantage of me” (Second Draft:1) as she said the line made my daughter appear manipulative. She also suggested I might like to consider changing the line; “I removed the earth as a complete sod” (5). She was kind enough to suggest I may not be a complete one!

In last term’s “reading as a writer” I looked at work by Alan Bennett and his characters’ identities are portrayed mainly through action, dialogue and thought. Bennett relies upon “succinct, precise, sharp and snappy speech” and I have kept the dialogue precise and succinct. Bennett is adamant that writing; “must not be boring... Must be grammatical, succinct, elegant... and humorous.” Recommendations I have adhered to in writing my piece.

I believe my portrait meets and exceeds all my initial objectives in that readers learn about my daughter’s identity from her actions and words in a non-linear and amusing piece. I received the highest accolade a writer could hope for when I read this to my daughter. “Can I have a copy? I’d like to put it in my keepsake drawer.”


Bibiography

King, Graham; (2001) Collins Complete Writing Guide; London, Harper Collins.

McCourt, Frank; (2005) Angela’s Ashes: London, Harper Perennial.

Morrison, Blake; (2006) And when did you last see your father? London, Granta Publications.



Word Count: 1000 words – excluding title and bibliography.