Mr. Seward’s Donkeys

For those of you who knew, and who remember my Dad, this story might bring back memories. If not about Mr. Seward’s donkeys, it could one of the many other elaborate stories that he would retell and embellish over the years.

My Dad was a storyteller, and what would always pull you in, was his attention to detail, and his ability to convincingly answer any clarifying questions that you might have, without taking a breath or blinking an eye. Whenever I think about his warm teasing and playfulness, I feel a smile breaking out across my face. I hope that you might feel the same way, as you read this.

Mr. Seward’s Donkeys

I was in the kitchen when my Dad shouted to me to come and see Mr. Seward’s donkeys. I remember rushing into the living room and pressing my face against the glass, straining to see them going past.

“You’ve just missed them” he said. “If you rush outside, you’ll still see them going up the lane”. I did just that, only to be disappointed, yet again. Crestfallen, I went back into the house, where my Dad went on to tell me how impressive the donkeys were, and how Mr. Seward would probably have let me ride one, if only I’d been a bit quicker.

This is one of my earliest memories of my Dad’s mischievous sense of humour , not that I realised then that he was having me on. It wasn’t an isolated incident, either. I must have looked for those bloody donkeys on a weekly basis, from the age of about four until it suddenly clicked when I was about nine years old.

Looking back, what kept up the charade was the way Dad constantly added to and refined the basic story. One week, it would be that the donkeys were on their holidays from Skegness or Bridlington. Another week, it was that Mr. Seward was setting up a business, giving donkey rides from Locko Brook up to Pilsley Wood, and back.

I remember one day, seeing Mr Seward stood at the top of the lane watching the world go by. At the time, he was probably about 80 years old. He was a large man with a ruddy complexion, like something out of a ‘Dig For Victory’ poster from World War II. Anyway, I took it upon myself to befriend him, hoping to get a ride on one of his donkeys. I started to talk about the weather, and then casually dropped the subject of donkeys into the conversation. Well, as casually as you can, when you’re 8 or 9 years old. He just looked at me, and didn’t say a word. I tried again, saying something about it would soon be time for them to return to the beach. He still said nothing. It was as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t know whether to be angry, or to cry. In the end, I just turned and walked away. After about 2 or 3 steps, I started running, and I didn’t stop until I arrived home.

After that, I would never walk up the lane if I saw that Mr. Seward was standing there. I remember being almost relieved when I heard that he’d died, because it meant that I was free to go wherever I wanted, again. I never did tell my Dad about it. I think I somehow thought it was all my fault. I wish I had done, now. I know that he’d have come up with another story to explain it all away.

© Robert Ford 1994