Mildred Hardy or Mil is a 14 year old girl from a small, medieval village called Twombleigh Town and is also the great granddaughter of the late Clarke Hardy, the famous former town mayor who tragically disappeared back in the 90's and was reported...
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My dad was the best professor at his institution, I couldn't make any sense of why they let him go. Twombleigh University the only university in this ancient little place actually is where he taught and ever since I was little I remember how hard he slaved away trying to prove to my doubtful grandmother that he was capable of a degree and was much more than just,
"The disappointment of the family".
I remember how much qualifying meant to him, passion and dedication running through his veins. I always admired his ability to manifest and achieve and since it ran in my blood, I had hope I could follow in his footsteps.
Philosophy was his niche and teaching was his calling. My dad was a great dad to us, us as in my little sister Imogen and I, he knew how to separate being a professor during the day, a father and husband by night. He made multitasking look easy, juggling and merging his very full on prize profession and family at once, like a very well made smoothie at your favourite café. To me he was a genius, growing up there wasn't one thing he didn't know. The name we called for help with homework, the voice who would read us wacky tales, extraordinary classics and historic books, the family comedian alongside his random fun facts at the dinner table. More or less he was my comfort parent; Not to disregard my mum at all, she was also great in her own little coy way.
A housewife to my dad, an amazing cook too, her Mediterranean breakfasts and pastries were my most favoured. My mother was soft spoken, anxious yet fierce all at once but growing up she wasn't the most maternal, grandmother said it was to do with Postnatal depression but she quickly overcame it by the time I was in preschool and Imogen was born and since has played her role eloquently. Immy was closer to our mum, I feel as if mum lives through her over achieving mind as to be quite frank mum hadn't achieved her career of being a head chef. More like the family chef, she gave her dreams up to be the wife and stay at home mother whilst dad brought in the cheques every month and deep down I always knew she wasn't content but the show went on regardless. Mum was always dad's cheerleader even though she certainly had no interest in the exquisite world of Philosophy but dad needed her encouragement just as much as she needed his so all was fair.
Philosophy was where dad and I connected most, I aspired to be like him a lot. Teaching a balanced yet enriched curriculum that enables a diverse academic, empowering those like me who strive to master and inherit an independent intellect. The art of philosophy made me feel one with this rather peculiar world so his word meant a lot and I think to my dad I was a divine project, a working progress climbing the steps to a familiar success which to me, was absolutely brilliant.
I loved our little family, mum, dad, Imogen and me. Our three bedroom cottage that sat peacefully on the corner of Corby Crescent located in the heart of Twombleigh approximately ten minutes from school, a neat street full of bungalows and cottages filled with mostly elderly folk or university students but most importantly, our home. I'd never lived anywhere else, number nine was our door number which had swiftly become my favourite number due to the brass, once golden now rusted nine that hung on our emerald wooden painted door. Lavender and Ivy covered the majority of Hoskins bricks that were stacked like evenly layered Jenga blocks alongside our double glazed windows that my uncle installed as a late birthday present for dad's fortieth birthday yet still made him pay half price. Our white painted oak wooden gate stood firmly, protecting the front garden filled with Hydrangeas, Roses, Lily's and Peonies planted with love by mum each spring. Our treasured cherry blossom tree, a tad lopsided but even so stood confidently at the side of our house with our childhood swing attached to the strongest branch. This was home, our desired forever home. Dad's intention was to buy the cottage from the landlord Mr Figgins who moved to Somerset. They seemed to have had an understanding as long as he was paid and he was becoming fairly old and miserable so I believed it made sense for him to sell and we'd hoped for this to be our reality one day considering we had lived there for almost two decades, it was undeniably ours anyway.
