Nikki Logan - It Had To Be You - Man of the Year 2016

But ever since I’ve been in London I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Charlie Cooper. I’d look at things like Nelson’s Column or Marble Arch, or even just an ordinary shop window, and I’d wonder if my dad had ever stood there, looking at the exact same thing. I’d feel as if he was there with me, as if he was glad that I was seeing his home town.

The feeling was even stronger today when I arrived in Clapham. Every lamppost and shopfront felt significant. I found myself asking if the schoolboy Charlie had passed here on his way to school. Did he stop here to buy marbles or there to buy cream buns?

And then I found Rosewater Terrace and my heart started to pound madly.

It’s a long narrow street, and it feels rather crowded in between rows of tall brick houses with tiled roofs and chimney pots, and there are cars parked along both sides of the street, adding to the crowded-in feeling. There are no front yards or gardens. Everyone’s front door opens straight onto the footpath.

When I reached number 16 I felt very strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling inside me. I stood there on the footpath, staring at the house, at windows with sparkling glass and neat white frames, and at the panels on the front door, painted very tastefully in white and two shades of grey.

The doorknob was bright and shiny and very new, and there were fresh white lace curtains in the window and a lovely blue jug filled with pink and white lilies.

It was very inviting, and I longed to take a peek inside. I wondered what would happen if knocked on the door. If someone answered, could I tell them that my father and his family used to live there? How would they react?

I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide what to do, when the door of the next house opened and a little old lady, wearing an apron and carrying a watering can, came shuffling out in her slippers.

‘I was just watering my pot plants and I saw you standing there,’ she said. ‘Are you lost, dearie?’

She looked about a hundred years old, but she was so sweet and concerned I found myself telling her exactly why I was there. As soon as I said the words ‘Charles Cooper’, her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth dropped like a trap door. I thought I’d given her a heart attack.

It seemed to take ages before she got her breath back. ‘So you’re Charlie’s little Australian daughter,’ she said. ‘Well, I never. Oh, my dear, of course. You look just like him.’

Daisy—that’s her name, Daisy Groves—hugged me then, and invited me inside her house, and we had the loveliest nostalgic morning. She told me that she’d lived in Rosewater Terrace ever since she was married, almost sixty years ago, and she’d known my dad from the day he was born. Apparently he was born three days before her daughter Valerie and in the same hospital.

‘Charlie and Valerie were always such great friends,’ Daisy told me. ‘All through their school years. Actually, I always thought—’

She didn’t finish that sentence, just looked away with a wistful smile, but I’m guessing from the way she spoke that she’d had matchmaking dreams for my dad and Valerie. Except Charlie was one for adventure, and as soon as he’d saved enough he set off travelling around the world. Then he met my mum in Australia. End of story. Valerie married an electrician and now lives in Peterborough.

Daisy also told me that number 16 has exactly the same layout as her house, so she let me have a good look around her place, and I saw a little bedroom at the top with a sloping ceiling. My dad’s bedroom was exactly the same.

But there are no Coopers left in Rosewater Terrace. At least three families have lived in number 16 since my grandparents died and the house has been ‘done up’ inside several times.

The best thing was that Daisy showed me photos of Charlie when he was a boy. Admittedly they were mainly photos of Valerie, with Charlie in the background, sometimes pulling silly faces, or sticking up his fingers behind Valerie’s head to give her rabbit’s ears.

But I felt so connected, Patrick, and I felt as if there’d been a reason I’d always wanted to come to London and now I no longer have such a big blank question mark inside me when I think about my father. In fact, I feel happy and content in a whole new way. That’s a totally unexpected bonus.

So thank you, Patrick. Thank you a thousand times.

Oh, and I have to tell you the last thing Daisy said to me when I was leaving.

‘Your father was a naughty little boy, but he grew up to be such a charming gentleman.’ And she pressed her closed fist over her heart and sighed the way my friends sigh over George Clooney.

I floated on happiness all the way back to the Tube station.

Molly xx

To: Patrick Knight

From: Molly Cooper

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

Patrick, it’s only just hit me—as I pressed ‘send’ on that last e-mail to you I had the most awfully revealing, jaw-dropping, lightbulb moment.

I’m in shock.

Because now when I think about my dreams of dating a perfect English gentleman, I have to ask if it’s really some kind of deeply subconscious Freudian search for my father.

I felt quite eeeeuuuwwww when I tried to answer that. But where does my interest in gentlemen come from? I mean, it’s pretty weird. Most girls are interested in dangerous bad boys.

And this leads to another question. Has becoming acquainted with so much about my father totally cured me of my desire for that impossible, unreachable dating dream? Can I strike the English gentleman off my wish list of ‘Things to Do in London’?

I’m not sure. Right now I’m confused. It’s something I’m going to have to think about. Or sleep on.

Molly, feeling muddled …

x

To: Molly Cooper

From: Patrick Knight

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

What fantastic news about your father!

I’m so pleased we found the right address and that you’ve had such a good result. Charles Torrington Cooper sounds as if he was a great guy (a gentleman, no less). Lucky you, Molly. Cherish that image.

I say that selfishly, perhaps, because my own father has caused me huge disappointment and I haven’t forgiven him. It’s not a nice place to be.

Don’t get too hung up on trying to psychoanalyse yourself or your dating goals, Molly. I doubt we can ever understand how our attraction to the opposite sex works. And why would we want to? Wouldn’t that take all the fun out of it?

Besides, you’ve only been in love with the idea of your perfect Englishman. Until you try the real thing you won’t be able to test your true feelings.

Molly, you seem to me to be a woman with high ideals and fine instincts. Forget my warnings. I was being overly protective.

Take London by storm and have fun.

Patrick

To: Patrick Knight

From: Molly Cooper

Subject: Surrender

Thanks for your kind and very supportive words, but I’m afraid they came almost too late. I’ve caved, Patrick. In one fell swoop I’ve wiped two of my goals from the board.

Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies.

Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman.

I’ve been out with an Aussie guy.

I know what I said about not mixing with Australians, but I realise now that I was limiting myself needlessly. It makes sense that I’d get along better with a fellow countryman. And besides, Brad’s kinda cute—a really tall, sunburned Outback Aussie, a sheep farmer from New South Wales.

Brad may not take me to Ascot or to Covent Garden, but who did I think I was anyway—Eliza Doolittle?

When he came into the Empty Bottle the other night it was like something out of a movie. Heads turned to watch him, and he strode straight up to me at the bar with a big broad grin on his suntanned face.