“June and Mr. Wilson”
We sit outside the house watching the policemen drive away, Mrs. Wilson—not the Mrs. Wilson that is my mother but another one—stays inside, in the living room, hovering near the window, staring at us. We sit side by side on the doorstep, gazing out past the rosebushes and the rusted gate to the street lined with dawn redwoods and cherry trees with pink blossoms. He is still very white.
After a heated back-and-forth between the officers and my relatives of 16 Lansdowne Road, it was finally decided that no further actions would be taken with regard to the “train station incident,” the policemen having concluded that it is a “family matter.”
Family.
A word that has always sounded very strange to me. I had looked it up once in a dictionary, which defined it as “descendants of a common ancestor.” I am still unable to ascertain who this common ancestor of ours is.
I wonder how similar we are, being that we’re “family.” Perhaps Mr. Wilson too enjoys gardening, although judging by the front of the house, that’s unlikely. But maybe he likes cheese sandwiches, tea
with no sugar, and television shows about contestants dancing for the chance to win a glitter disco ball trophy.
Mr. Wilson leans back and slumps against the bright red door, which flakes paint onto the shoulders of his tailored suit. I am quite tired from my journey and from the scene on the train, and I’m feeling all sorts of funny sensations through my body after ingesting a cup of tea with half a sugar and a chocolate digestive. So I slump back with him, maintaining as much space between us as possible. Mother is still safely tucked inside my duffel bag, nestled between my clothes and books and gardening socks. I haven’t yet reacquainted her with her relatives.
I’m not sure why Mr. Wilson and I are sitting outside the house instead of inside the house. I’d hoped to have unpacked already, or at the very least been shown to my room. Like I said, I am quite tired.
I have by this point observed some “red flags” with this new living situation. First is the state of the front garden. What kind of people are they to leave rosebushes languishing like this? Thankfully, I can remedy these mistakes, although it will take most of the summer and I haven’t even seen around the back yet. Goodness knows what that looks like. Second, those porcelain houses have to go or be moved to another room. I can’t have strange porcelain houses with strange porcelain children and porcelain birds staring down at me while I watch television. I’m all for a hobby, but collecting small porcelain people is very odd.
The third red flag is the most disappointing. Upon rising from my seat and following the officers and Mr. Wilson out of the house, I found myself to be completely covered in yellow fluffy hairs, which means only one thing—the dog in the photo from the newspaper cutout is still alive. I absolutely cannot live with a dog, or an animal of any kind, and that includes fish. The dog will simply have to be rehomed.
*
It isn’t that I hate animals. In fact, wildlife is intrinsic to our ecosystem. Beavers create dams, which in turn can change the water flow, helping to spread nutrients to surrounding plant systems. Birds control the insect population, which maintains soil health and reduces tree diseases. But, rather simply, animals are not meant to be kept inside. Inside, they’re unpredictable, unclean, unregulated. At my last foster home, before Mother returned from her travels, the dog bit me. The children had been chasing it, teasing it, pulling its tail. I, however, had been sitting on the floor, alone, reading a book. The dog had become restless, unsettled, and had reacted suddenly, snapping at whoever was closest, which happened to be me. I didn’t need stitches in the end, but the incident left me uneasy around animals. Thankfully, Mother was also not a fan of dogs, having been chased one too many times on her postal routes with the Royal Mail, when she wasn’t delegated to the sorting offices.
Humans are quite fond of animals, dogs in particular. I will need to approach the rehoming conversation with caution and discretion.
Mrs. Wilson begins tapping on the living room window, trying desperately to get her husband’s attention. He weakly waves her away and rubs his forehead. “Sorry . . . I, um . . . ,” he says eventually. Then he sighs deeply. “It’s all just such a shock.”
“My name is June Wilson, and I believe we are all related—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts. “You look just like her. Exactly like her. It’s like seeing a ghost.”
I wonder if that’s a figure of speech or whether he does know that Mother is no longer physically with us, her ashes having been squeezed into my “weekend getaway” bag. I don’t like “figures of speech.” Aside from simple comparisons that use “like” or “as,” I find modern expressions quite confusing, especially idioms and metaphors; phrases that have two meanings: a literal one and a figurative one.
It’s raining cats and dogs.
She’s as happy as a clam.
I’ll be as good as gold.
He’s a night owl.
That was a piece of cake.
Why can’t people just say exactly what they mean? Why bundle the meaning into a metaphor or a simile, making it hard for some people, like me, to decipher? Perhaps if we all just spoke clearly and plainly, the world would be a much simpler place.
“You know, I had a feeling you existed,” Mr. Wilson continues. “But your mother was adamant that she wasn’t pregnant and had never been. Then she just disappeared. I didn’t know where she’d gone. Didn’t even know she was still alive after all these years.”
“Jura,” I answer. “She went to Jura.”
“Jura,” he repeats slowly.
Mrs. Wilson taps again.
“Listen, June. My wife and son don’t know I have a daughter—”
“Daughter?” I repeat. It suddenly all makes sense. Mr. Wilson is more than a biological relative. Mr. Wilson is my biological father.
Father. Now, that’s a strange word. Do I call him that now?
And if Robert Wilson is my father, then the child in the photo might very well be my half brother. Half brother. Half of a brother. A brother that’s been halved. Not in the physical sense, of course, because that would hurt.
Mr. Wilson continues, “Actually, they don’t know anything about that part of my life, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. Just for a little bit. Things have been . . . difficult for us recently and this would be tough for my wife to understand. Are you staying in London, or will you be going back to Glasgow?”
“I was planning to stay.”
“And your mother?”
I glance down at my bag. “She’s here with me.”
“Great.” He sighs. “That’s great. I was worried that you were here alone. Well, look, why don’t I flag down a cab for you and you can go back to your mother for now and we can keep chatting over the summer and see where things go.”
The tapping gets louder, more insistent.
“I need to handle this carefully,” he adds.
“Okay.” I stand up and delicately carry my bag to the front gate, not wanting to bump Mother around and upset her. We have a lot to talk about.
“Let’s exchange numbers so we can keep in touch.”
“I don’t have a mobile phone.”
“Oh. Really? I thought everyone did these days,” he says. “Okay, well, here’s my business card. Call me and we’ll arrange something.”
He steps out onto the street and waves furiously at a black cab passing by. It stops abruptly, the light on the top turning off.
“I don’t have money anymore,” I blurt out, staring at the black taxi, with its engine churning and pounding.
“Yes, no problem,” he mutters, pulling out a silver money clip laden with notes.
“Where to, darling?” calls out the cabdriver.
Oh no, he’s also calling me Darling. Will he rob me too?
“Where are you staying?” Mr. Wilson asks me.
“Um . . . I don’t know.” I want to say “Here,” but that doesn’t seem like an option anymore.
“You’ve not booked into a hotel yet?”
I shake my head, my cheeks flushing. Why can’t I stay here?
“I know this great hotel that I think you and your mother will be comfortable at. It’s got a pool.”
“I don’t like water.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a sauna or steam room instead.”
He begins ushering me into the taxi and I stumble, hit my head
on the low roof and fall back into the seat. The cracked leather is warm from the sun.
“The Landmark hotel on Marylebone, please,” he says to the taxi driver. Then he stuffs a bunch of notes into my hands. A couple fall by my feet and as I reach down for them, he slams the car door. The taxi pulls away abruptly, and I fall back against the seat again. With the money squashed in my sweaty palms, I turn and stare at Mr. Wilson waving to me from outside the white-brick townhouse on the street lined with dawn redwoods and cherry trees.
I have a father.
I’ve never had one of those before.
__________________________________
Excerpted from June in the Garden by Eleanor Wilde. Copyright © 2025 by Eleanor Wilde. Published in the United States by Crown Currency, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
