The Last of the Stanfields(12)

“Some other time, sweetheart, if you don’t mind. Stirring up all these old memories takes its toll on me, and I prefer to leave tonight on a happy note, such as our little giggle session, rather than open up a can of worms.”

“So, the first time you got together, when you two were teenagers, she was the one who left you?” I insisted.

“He said another time,” Maggie jumped in before our father could respond.

“Yes, exactly,” Michel chimed in. “But it may be . . . more complicated than it seems,” he added, pointing a finger in the air, as though hoping to snag his thoughts out of thin air before they fluttered away—one of his many peculiar habits. Everyone waited quietly, as always, for Michel to complete his thought.

“While Dad did express a preference to say no more on the subject this evening, ‘some other time’ could imply that he might be willing to reconsider, as long as it’s . . . some other time.”

“Yeah, thanks, we got it, Michel,” Maggie said.

With everything crystal clear, Michel rose from his chair and put on his trench coat. He kissed me on the cheek, gave Fred’s hand a flimsy little squeeze, and then pulled Maggie in for a tight hug. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all. Michel whispered his congratulations into her ear.

“Congratulations for what?” my sister whispered back to him.

“For not being engaged to Fred,” Michel replied.



On the way home in the Austin, not a word was exchanged between father and son until they pulled up to the curb outside Michel’s place. Ray reached to open Michel’s door, then stopped to look his son right in the eye and spoke in a voice as gentle as could be.

“You won’t tell them anything, will you? Understand: it should be me who tells them. One day.”

Michel looked right back at his father.

“You can sleep easy, Dad. No need to open up a can of worms. I’m pretty sure fishermen buy them in bags nowadays, anyway. I’ll verify that tomorrow at the library.”

With that, he hugged his father and slipped out of the Austin. Ray hung around a few moments, waiting until his son had safely entered the building, before starting the engine and driving away.





7

ELEANOR-RIGBY

October 2016, Beckenham

I stood up from the table and left the kitchen, opting to give Fred and Maggie their privacy. After the couple had been holed up in there for a solid ten minutes, I decided it was time to leave. I entered to find Fred drying glasses with a tea towel and Maggie sitting on the counter with her legs crossed, puffing at a cigarette near the window. My sister offered to call a taxi for me, but I politely declined, explaining it would cost a small fortune to get home from Beckenham. I’d be better off taking the train home.

“I thought you were going to Dad’s,” Maggie said with a sneer. “Decided not to stay at his place?”

“I thought he might want to be alone tonight. It forces me to revisit my London life, anyway, which has been long overdue.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the right idea,” Fred offered, with a clap of his hands. “Beckenham, Croydon . . . too far out in the sticks.”

“Whereas Primrose Hill is too far from the sticks, not to mention way too posh,” replied Maggie, flicking her cigarette butt right into the dishwater, where it landed with a hiss.

“I think I’ll leave you two to whisper sweet nothings in peace,” I said with a sigh, slipping on my jacket, but my sister stopped me.

“Fred would be delighted to drop you off at the station, what with his awesome car and all. Or, Fred, why not take her all the way to London? Then you could spend the night in your precious little Primrose Hill.”

I flashed my sister an admonishing look. How could she be so nasty and still be the one with the boyfriend, whereas it seemed that I, being nothing less than kindness incarnate, was doomed to be single forever? Just one more mystery to unravel.

“You want a lift, Elby?” Fred offered, but Maggie snagged the tea towel he was folding straight out of his hands and threw it in the washing hamper.

“Insider tip: nobody but Michel is allowed to butcher my sister’s name like that. She hates it. Anyway, I need some air, so I’ll walk her to the train.”

Maggie grabbed a sweater and led me by the arm out into the street. The streetlamps washed the pavement with an orange glow, illuminating row upon row of modest brick-built Victorian houses, mainly two, and never more than three, stories high.

As we crossed the junction into the shopping district, everything became brighter and livelier. Maggie waved to the Syrian owner of the twenty-four-hour corner shop. There was a launderette next to a kebab joint, followed by an Indian restaurant that could seat no more than two at a time. A former video store was entirely boarded up and covered with posters, most of which had been ripped to shreds. Ahead, we plunged back into darkness as we strolled along the gates of a park. Soon after, the air was filled with the metallic, urine-smelling odor of the platform, which cleared as we entered the station.

“Something wrong?” Maggie asked.

“Why do you stay with Fred when you spend all your time pecking away at him? What’s the point?”

“Pecking away. You know, sometimes, I ask myself where it is you get all these expressions from. Anyway, what’s the use in putting up with a man, if you can’t peck away at him from time to time?”