The Last of the Stanfields(30)

Dad went quiet and ran his hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his on the rare occasion he actually let the conversation veer towards anything deep.

“Elby. I’ve told you a hundred times: Don’t be sad when you think of her. Think back to the special moments you two shared together. How much she loved you, how close you were. Close enough to even make your own father jealous at times, I’ll admit. Whether she’s dead or not, they can’t take that away from you.”

Before he even finished his sentence, I had burst into tears and curled up in his arms. Sure, right. You’re not the emotional type, not at all. Just keep telling yourself that.

“Well, safe to say I’ve done a great job of cheering you up. Give me another chance, will you? I know just the remedy for this type of heartache. Come on, now! Let’s go,” my father said, taking me by the hand. “The old Austin is fit as a fiddle once more, so what do you say we splurge on some ice cream, yeah? And I’ve got news for you, little lady: Croydon now has its very own Ben & Jerry’s! If that’s not good news, I don’t know what is. And now that your sister’s wedding is off, to hell with fitting into my dinner jacket!”



“So . . . what newspaper did she work for?” I asked, licking melted chocolate ice cream from my spoon.

“I really don’t feel like talking about all that,” my father replied, without looking up from his own massive portion of ice cream.

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

“If you really think you’re getting off that easily, then you don’t know your own daughter at all.”

“Elby, I have to tell you right off: one word of any of this to your brother or sister, and you and I are going to have some real issues.”

“Hey, when you call me Elby, I know you mean business.”

“Her newspaper was called the Independent.”

I threw my father a dubious look. Knowing him, he could be pulling my leg just to see how far he could take the joke.

“The Independent? The daily paper with some of the most talented voices in journalism today? Which section? Culture? Economy? Hold up, I know . . . the science desk!” I gasped, laughing, emphasizing the ludicrousness of it all.

“It was the Metro section. You know, social issues.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

“She was quite keen on politics, and had an exceptional knack for editorials. And you can wipe that snide look off your face, young lady. It’s the absolute truth.”

“Nice lesson in humility, right? Considering I only write travel chronicles, essentially just hyped-up tourist recommendations.”

“Now, don’t you start! It’s not like any particular subject is more important than another. You transport your readers to distant lands that they’ll never set foot in. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of! And every single one of your articles is a call for tolerance, which is all too rare these days. You need proof your work is important? Flip open the Daily Mail. One glance at that rubbish is all you’ll need. Don’t belittle what you do, my dear.”

“You wouldn’t be trying to say . . . you’re proud of me, would you?”

“Why, because you don’t know that already?”

“You never talk about my work.”

“Well, maybe that’s because . . . because your bloody work keeps you so far away from me! Look, let me buy you another ice cream.”

“Dad’s favorite antidepressant, results guaranteed,” I said with a smile, running my finger along the rim of the bowl and savoring every last drop. “But this stuff has got to be a thousand calories per spoonful, so it might be just a little over-the-top.”

“What’s wrong with a little over-the-top once in a while? You’ve got to live sometimes, take a risk or two. Start with the banana split. It’s over-the-top in all the right ways!”

Dad came back carting two immense glass bowls, overflowing with perfect banana slices held captive in a prison of absurdly rich ice cream, covered in steaming hot caramel. Delicious as it looked, I was busy tapping away on my smartphone in a frenzy.

“Is that the magazine?” he asked.

“No. I’m digging around for articles by Mum, but I can’t find any. It doesn’t make any sense. All the big papers have put their archives online, and the Independent only puts out a digital edition these days, anyway, so you’d think there’d be something.”

My father cleared his throat. “You won’t find a thing written by your mother in there.”

“What, she didn’t use her real name for the byline?”

“No, she did . . . but you’ve got the wrong Independent. The one I mean is from way back when.”

“I don’t understand. There was another Independent?”

“It was a weekly paper. Very short run. See, I might’ve left out . . . The fact is, your mother actually started the paper herself, along with a motley crew of her pals, all mad as hatters, just like her.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Mum . . . started her own newspaper?” I repeated, my voice rising. “And you two never thought to mention it? Not even when your own daughter became a journalist?”

“No, it never really occurred to us,” my father said. “What’s so awful about that? You don’t have to make a fuss about it.”