WEDNESDAYS

John Thornton sat at his desk, his hands resting on the knobbly surface of the wood, the texture familiar beneath his fingers, since this desk had been his faithful assistant now for fifteen years. With a cloth dabbed in polish, he traced the grain with a subtle, absent-minded motion, a calm, invisible rope that linked him to the world he had so carefully built. The office around him, bathed in the tender, ochre light of late morning, breathed in harmony with him. It was like his own little sphere, one which was structured, logical, productive, and anything else he cared for. It had been his war room during the many years of labour, where countless hours had been spent in the construction of the future he now inhabited. The shelves and drawers were laden with ledgers and papers that held meaning known only to him—an organised record of a life shaped by triumph, misfortune, and ultimately, triumph again.

He had long been seen as a creature of habit, and while others might have said it with a chuckle, there was always a twinge of exasperation in their tones. He ate the same breakfast every day without fail. He bought the same brand of shoes whenever his old ones wore out. Every evening, he allowed himself exactly forty minutes of reading—thirty was too short, an hour too self-indulgent. His hair was trimmed to a precise length, never a fraction longer or shorter than the last cut. And when it came to his tea, just a splash of lemon—nothing more. People often smirked at his quirks, but John had grown to wear his reputation for fastidiousness with pride.

For a man who had weathered so much upheaval in his life, he had come to find relief in his rituals. Outside of these four walls, the world was unpredictable, volatile—a place of constant demands and endless pressure. But within the comfort of his routines, there was a steadiness. Whether it was the route he walked to his club, or the hat he wore to church, these small, seemingly insignificant acts gave him a sense of control. In a world that often seemed intent on pulling him in a thousand different directions, these habits supported and sustained him. They became his refuge, a way to reconnect with himself when everything else felt uncertain.

Time, to him, was the rarest and most precious currency—more valuable than gold or diamonds—and he spent it with the care of a man drawing the last of his savings. Thoughtful, cautious, never wasting a second on the frivolous or fleeting. Yes, certain habits had inevitably slipped away with the years—marriage, children, the ever-growing demands of life had a way of reshaping even the most steadfast routines—but at the core of him, that need for consistency, and through it, dependability, which had made him who he was, remained unchanged.

And that brings us to the heart of it: at six minutes to twelve, true to his nature, John Thornton was, as always, about to take lunch.

Lunch had become a consecrated ritual for John in this new chapter of his life, one where he actually cared to enjoy it. It was an unassuming gesture, yet one that encapsulated all he held dear. Six days a week, the working hours blurred together, the hum of the mill surrounding him like a distant, monotonous burr, a siren song that called out to the tradesman and businessman inside him.

Despite the long hours, he made it a priority to carve out an hour each day for his loved ones. Mondays were sacred to Margaret—precious moments when they could briefly escape the pressures of their lives. If the weather was fine and his schedule allowed, they would often take a walk to the town green or along the river. On rainy days, they would spread a blanket on his office floor and have an indoor picnic. And when she was pregnant and confined to bed, he would always be there, even if she was asleep, savouring the company of his wife and their soon-to-arrive bundle of joy.

Tuesdays were far less agreeable, for he was obliged to endure the bustling and frequently rowdy meetings at the gentlemen's club. It was a den of immorality, a smoke-filled chamber were he was forced to listen to the incessant grumbles and gripes of self-important, self-interested men, each more concerned with advancing their own fortunes than any notion of common good. Their greed, insufferable arrogance, and endless posturing had grown as distasteful to him as the bitter brew of burnt coffee the club served—its acrid taste lingering long after the meeting had adjourned, much like the men themselves.

Thursdays were reserved for his mother, a time spent in her wise and calming presence, much like his bachelor days. They would converse softly while she sewed, and he would share the happenings at the mill. She, ever the attentive listener, would occasionally offer her advice, for though Margaret was now his chief confidant and counsellor, John remained profoundly grateful for all his mother had done for him, her love and guidance shaping him into the man he had become.

Fridays were dedicated to his sons—Richard, Daniel, Nicholas, Frederick, and George—a day when the house buzzed with the lively noise of their play, their energy spilling into every nook and cranny of Marlborough House. Though he was meant to join them for lunch, he often found they had finished their meals in record time, eager to dive into their favourite games—whether it was chasing him through the halls, with them as valiant knights and him as the fearsome dragon, or a boisterous round of "king of the castle," where they scrambled over him in an attempt to claim the throne. His hearty laughter mingled with theirs, creating a joyful uproar. His boys were a handful, but he would not change a hair on their heads. At times they would work together to overpower him, sending their giant father crashing to the ground as they climbed on his back and pulled at his legs, and while he once feigned defeat, it was becoming harder to keep up, as they were truly gaining the upper hand, since his lads were growing in both number and strength. Even little George, who had just turned one, would totter over on his pudgy legs and arms, tickling his father as he lay sprawled on the floor, the young boy gurgling and giggling with delight at being part of his brothers' mischief. Yes, John cherished his boys. They filled him with boundless pride, and he could only hope they felt the same about him.

Ah, but Wednesday—

The door opened abruptly and Williams, his foreman, stood in the doorway, his face drawn with a fractious frown which twitched the corners of his moustache, a facial feature his children often surmised must be a mouse that slept atop his lip.

'Master,' he said, 'those new customers have been in touch, the ones coming from Bournemouth, the ones who want us to provide all the cotton for their seaside hotels. They wish to lunch in town before the meeting this afternoon. They insist upon your company.'

The master sighed softly, the sound apologetic but resigned. 'Ah, but it is Wednesday,' he replied, as if this fact should have been obvious, his voice steady, carrying the unruffled authority of a man who understood the value of his time and the importance of his commitments.

Williams blinked, taken aback. 'What does that matter, sir? Surely, you can miss it just once?'

John's gaze was unwavering, his eyes dark and unyielding. There was no trace of doubt in them, no hesitation. 'It matters, as well you know. Today is a standing appointment,' he reminded him sharply. 'And I shan't miss it, not if Marlborough Mills were to supply cotton for all the hotels in Britain.'

Williams faltered and murmured his understanding and backed away, closing the door gently behind him in resignation. John allowed himself a tranquil smile, a small flicker of satisfaction warming his chest. 'And I would not miss it for the world,' he whispered to himself.

Straightening his cravat and dusting off his jacket, John stepped into the mill, a tall, dark figure moving through the swirling clouds of white. John navigated the maze of whirring gears and burring spindles with practiced ease, a path he could walk blindfolded if need be, for he knew it better than the lines that traced the back of his hand. The trickling, splintering light from the windows framed him sharply against the hustle and bustle of the mill, a steady, stoic presence amidst the bustle that exists in the belly of an industrial beast. This was truly his world, and he would not change it for all the fortune known to man. However, right now, for the next hour, he would gladly leave it all behind and enter another world, one much lovelier than this.

Upon arriving home, John was met by the comforting rhythm of life in the Thornton household. He entered the parlour, pressing a brief kiss to Margaret's hand and another to his mother's cheek. Then, as if summoned by the very sound of his footsteps, his young sons came rushing in like a whirlwind. They dashed around him, and he gave each of them a pat on the head or shoulder, promising he would play lions and tigers with them later. But, after a moment, he bid them farewell and left the parlour. As much as he cherished encounters, during this hour, his time was not theirs.

After all, this was Wednesday. Wednesdays were different. Wednesdays were special. Wednesdays were dedicated to something and someone else.

Today, as he made his way upstairs, John's feet carried him instinctively towards his destination, and finally, he found himself before a slanted door at the end of a corridor at the back of the house. Smiling, he knocked, patiently awaited permission to enter, and quietly opened the door.

The nursery door creaked open, and there they were—a picture of warmth and tenderness, like something out of a dream. Three little girls, their brown and golden curls tumbling around round, angelic faces, sat at a small wooden table, pretending to pour tea from a tiny pot into dainty porcelain cups.

Upon spotting him, the girls looked up, their messy hair tied in crooked bows, patches of dirt dotting their dresses from hours spent playing outdoors. Missing teeth peeked through their wide, beaming grins as they squealed in unison, 'Papa! You're here! You've come for our dolly's tea party!'

Yes, thought he, Wednesdays were special.

It was the one day he prized above all others. Yes, he loved to spend time with all his family, but with his little girls, he felt all the sweetness in the world was before him. The one hour when the world could wait, when papers could remain unsigned, when meetings could be postponed, and the business of life could wait, if only for a brief hour. For on Wednesdays, his daughters—Maria, Elizabeth, and Hannie—awaited him in the nursery, arms laden with scones, jam, and porcelain cups, their faces radiant with the thrill of a ritual that belonged solely to them.

To an outsider, it might have seemed a trivial thing, a minor pleasure in a life already brimming with responsibility. But to John, it was indispensable—a respite in time, a peaceful oasis amidst the demands that tugged him in every direction. A rare chance to revel in the simple, untainted affection of his daughters, a reminder of what truly mattered. Indeed, Wednesday was the crown jewel in his week, the day that no outside obligation could pry him from.

As he joined the party, he carefully lowered himself into a tiny chair beside the even tinier table, his long legs stretching out awkwardly beneath him. The chair creaked in protest, groaning under his weight, its spindly arms too lithe to accommodate him. But he paid it no mind, adjusting his posture with a small chuckle, content to be part of their little world, no matter the discomfort.

Looking around him, he was met by three pairs of big blue eyes that regarded him with awe, as if he was the most wonderful thing they had ever beheld. Their faces were sweet reflections of their mother, Margaret—each one bearing a sentimental copy of her smile and eyes. Maria, the eldest, had long brown curls, keen eyes, a straight nose, a rounded face, and she held herself with the dignity of someone much older than her years, just like her mother. Elizabeth, next in line, had her grandmother's sharper features—a firm jawline, eyes that seemed to take everything in, thoughtful and full of questions. Her gaze was so intense at times it seemed she understood the world in a way only the very old or very wise could. And then there was Hannie, the youngest, who was only four. She went about the place busily, as industrious as her parents. With golden hair, she had a cherubic face, curious eyes, and that irresistible, innocent joy of a child discovering the world for the first time.

The light filtered through the windows, dancing across their faces and casting delicate shadows that made the entire scene shimmer with an ethereal beauty. The nursery, bathed in the warm glow of midday sun, felt like a sanctuary of childhood dreams. In the corners, wooden rocking horses stood proudly, their edges worn from years of eager play. The varnish, though faded by time, still caught the light, gleaming as though they had just been crafted. Neatly arranged in rows, the dolls sat with an almost regal air, their meticulously hand-sewn dresses pristine, the fine lace and ribbon work bore witness to the care of their makers. Their faces, painted with gentle brushstrokes, wore serene expressions, the rosy cheeks and dark, soulful eyes lending them a lifelike quality. On shelves, robust tin soldiers stood at attention, and beside them, a wooden train set sprawled across the floor, its cars lined up as if waiting for an adventure. A small set of brass animals, polished to a gleam, rested on a nearby shelf, their forms frozen, as if ready to pounce. Looking about him, John nodded. Yes, the room felt alive with the history of toys that had been played with, loved, and carefully preserved through the years. It was a haven of childhood, something he had never known.

Maria then cleared her throat. 'Would you care for some tea, Pa?' she asked, holding up a cracked teapot.

'And something for your rumbling tum, Father?' Elizabeth added, gesturing to a plate with a rainbow of fruits and hot crumpets, the butter dribbling into its pores.

John assented, and with the poise of experienced hostesses, the girls set to work, their movements measured and suffused with an innocent pride, as if they were bestowing upon him a treasure of the rarest kind. The cups in their tiny hands appeared fragile, so delicate it seemed they might break with the faintest tremor, yet they held them with unwavering steadiness, each pour and motion performed as though they were offering not merely tea, but a part of their very hearts. The invisible tea flowed in arcs of grace, and every gesture, no matter how small, was carried out with the utmost care, as if each was a small act of devotion.

Maria's eyes sparkled as she handed him his cup, her fingers light as though she were passing him something of immeasurable value, and as her small bracelet shifted on her arm, he was reminded of the first time he had taken tea with her mother, many moons ago.

Elizabeth's laughter was like music—light and lively, the sound of childhood glee spilling freely from her rosy lips, her voice ringing with an infectious energy. Along with her sisters, she sat a doll on her knee and tended it to it with all the natural care of their own dear mother as she straightened its dress, brushed its hair, and whispered comforting words to her baby.

Even Hannie, the youngest, stirred her invisible tea with intense concentration, her tiny face scrunched in solemn thought as if she were performing some serious undertaking. She held her cup with both hands, her little brow furrowed in the seriousness of the task at hand, and yet when she looked up at her father, her face broke into a smile so wholesome, John had no choice but to lean over and kiss her dimpled cheek.

For the next hour, John sat amongst them, his heart swelling with an emotion so overpowering, that it caught him off guard. How simple, how utterly pure their love was—untouched by the world outside, unburdened by anything other than this perfect moment. The dolls, the rocking horses, the soft murmur of their voices—they all spoke of a love so honest and unassuming, a love that was entirely theirs to give. He longed to stay here, in this world of childhood simplicity, where nothing but joy and laughter seemed to matter, and time moved at a different pace, more patient, more kind. He realised then that this, this was the truest form of happiness—the kind felt by children who had not yet learned the ways of the world, whose love was untouched by the complexities of life, and while he knew his girls would grow to be wise, capable women, he hoped they would always retain their artlessness.

Once their imaginary tea party had come to an end, along with the more tangible refreshments, the girls huddled together, their voices dropping to hushed whispers as they cast furtive glances toward him, stifling giggles.

'What's this?' he asked, his tone mockingly stern. 'Don't tell me you're plotting against your old Dada?' he asked, smiling to remember what they called him when they were babes learning to talk.

The girls shook their heads, their curls bouncing merrily with the movement, and then, with a burst of energy, they raced to a cupboard on the far side of the room. Moving with exaggerated secrecy, they retrieved something from within, though they kept it hidden behind their backs. When they returned, forming a tight circle around him, Hannie, ever the boldest, was the first to speak.

'We have a present for you, Mr Pa!' she declared, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight.

John could not guess what it was, but then Hannie handed him a small doll. John thought nothing of it at first, but then something caught his attention and he stared at it. Oh! It was a tiny, almost perfect replica of himself. The small yet tall figure, dressed in a woollen suit with a little cravat, had dark, almost black hair—pieces of Thornton's own hair, carefully saved after his last trim, sewn into the doll's head. The craftsmanship was simple but unmistakably tender, a humble creation that testified to the depth of his daughters' love. The doll's button eyes gleamed, and for a fleeting moment, John saw his own reflection in them, as if the eyes were windows to his soul. In that moment, he thanked God for the thousandth time for the precious gift of fatherhood.

'For me?' he asked, his voice softer than he intended, a touch of wonder in it that even surprised him.

'Yes, we made it for you, Pa,' Maria explained, 'so you can have your own doll at our Wednesday tea parties.'

John continued to look at it, his eyes pricking with tears, and for a moment, his daughters thought they had done wrong.

'Do you like it, Pa?' Elizabeth asked hesitantly.

Sniffling, John dropped to his knees, his arms opening wide. With gentle hands, he pulled his three girls close, kissing each of them in turn, his heart full to bursting.

'I love it,' he said, 'and I love you,'

'And we love you! Our great, big brown bear!' they sang in unison, their faces alight with the joy of giving. Their laughter, bright and unburdened, was a gift in itself—refreshing, unclouded, and full of a mirth that only children could offer.

Leaning back, John's chest tightened as he cradled the tiny figure in his hands. The doll's stitched features were unsophisticated, yet infused with an undeniable tenderness—a delicate mirror of their love. The suit was slightly misaligned at the seams, the cravat askew, and one of the button eyes was slightly larger than the other, giving the doll a charmingly flawed, endearing appearance. A small patch on the back, where the fabric had been hastily stitched, lent the doll a sense of authenticity. Its hair, though thoroughly procured for accuracy, had a slight unevenness, some strands longer than others, but that only added to its unique character, as though it had been cherished long before it was ever gifted. In every little imperfection, John saw not flaw, but evidence of the pure, unguarded affection his daughters had poured into it. To him, the doll was flawless.

'Thank you,' he whispered, his deep voice trembling with a love so vast it felt impossible to contain, yet he had no desire to do so. He kissed each of their foreheads, his lips lingering on their soft skin, feeling the warmth of their love and the pulse of their beautiful little lives against the weathered touch of his own. 'I must go now, little ones,' he murmured reluctantly, since he hated leaving them. 'But I will be back soon.'

Maria, clutching his hand with all the fervour of her small heart, looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. Her little lips trembled with the effort of holding back all the feelings too large for her tiny chest to express. Her voice, soft and plaintive, held a yearning that only a child could feel for the one they loved most, the kind of longing that made her words seem to float on the air, full of a love that had yet to be fully understood. 'Don't go, Papa,' she whispered, her voice catching just enough to reveal the depth of her wish.

'Yes, don't go. Please,' Elizabeth begged, her words shuddering, for they contained all the sorrow of a child who could not quite grasp the passage of time or that grown-ups had the tragic fate of leading dull lives outside of the nursery.

John chuckled. What in God's name had he done to deserve such treasures? It was all Margaret's doing, he was sure of it. They took after her entirely when it came to their natures, even if they did look half like him.

'I have to, my loves,' he said sadly, 'but I'll be back before the stars are high in the sky.'

'And will you tell us stories?' Elizabeth asked. 'Ones with castles made of cotton and horses with wings?'

'And the princesses?' Hannie pleaded, tugging at his trouser leg. 'The princesses who are just like us.'

John smiled. 'Aye, my lovely doves, I promise I shall,' he vowed, shaking their hands one-by-one, binding himself in a gentleman's agreement. He kissed each of them gently again, feeling the glossy brush of their hair against his lips, the familiar and comforting warmth of their love enveloping him.

As he stepped away, a pang of longing thudded in his chest. He could feel the tug of duty pulling him back to his office, but in his heart, he knew that everything he worked for—everything he had ever strived for—was right here, in this room, in these moments, with them. His family, his home, his heart—they were the centre of his world, the compass by which he navigated all else.

For the rest of the day, the hours slipped away in the usual whirl of contracts, decisions, and appointments. But as the sun yawned and settled down to slumber, John finally returned home. He found the parlour empty, so with hands in his pockets, he padded up the stairs, Ruff, the faithful family dog, following at his heels.

As for Margaret, she had already tucked their sons into bed, the five of them sprawled in a tangle of limbs and blankets, worn out from a day full of mischief and adventure. She sighed and smiled as she closed the door, the tenderness of maternal love filling her soul. Her boys—how she adored them, each one so full of life and laughter. Hearing the tall-case clock at the bottom of the stairs chime the hour, she wrinkled her nose. Where was John? Her husband was usually home long before now, but never mind, perhaps he had pressing matters to attend to, and had not been at liberty to inform her. However, she did not fret too much over this. He would come home soon, by and by.

Margaret then made her way down the corridor to check on the girls, but as she approached, her footsteps slowed and eventually halted, her hand resting on the doorframe. There, in the dim light, she paused, her gaze drawn to the sight before her. There, nestled between Maria, Elizabeth, and Hannie, was John—fast asleep, his arms wrapped around them all, their shared breathing gentle and steady in the stillness of the room. Books and dolls lay scattered about them, some clutched tightly, others left forgotten in their hands. As for her husband, he too had a doll nestled in his arms, one that looked just like him, and he embraced it with the same tenderness he held for his daughters.

Margaret pressed a hand to her heart. John, the man who had once faced the world with relentless drive and determination of a businessman had become something far more important. He had become a father, a man whose love now eclipsed all his former desires.

She bent down gently, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow, her touch tender with affection. The man who had once pursued wealth and recognition with such relentless fervour had long since abandoned those pursuits. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every hour spent chasing those fleeting goals—he had given them all up for this: for them. For this family. For the love that bound them all so closely together.

Lying carefully beside him, being mindful not to disturb Ruff, who slept soundly at the foot of the bed, Margaret was touched by a sense of gladness and gratitude. How fortunate she was to have married a man who, despite his many accomplishments, treasured the joy of fatherhood above all else. A man who, though he had fathered sons, cherished his daughters with a depth of devotion she had never once doubted. She had always known he took his roles seriously. As a master, as a son, as a brother, as a pupil. And now, he was the proudest of papas.

And in that moment, as she lay there, looking over the sleeping scene before her, Margaret realised with a serene smile that the simple Wednesday ritual of scones and tea, shared among them in their warm, loving home, was the truest, most enduring entry John Thornton had ever made in his master's diary. It was an hour spent with his beloved children, enjoying their childhood and reliving the one he never had. Indeed, that hour once a week, may have seemed worthless to some, but to John, it was far more profitable than any worldly success, for tea and scones shared with dolls were worth infinitely more than dining with the richest of kings.

The End