Chapter 26 #2
Bleak because our father is dying.
And bleak because I may as well be.
Beside me, Benedict elbows me softly, his unspoken way of saying bad fucking luck, mate. But Ma is staring at me as if I’m having a senior moment.
‘I assume you are very much on board with this, Xavier, your admirable concern for the logistics aside? Please, let your bride and your mother be the ones to worry about them. They’re not for you to occupy yourself with.’
She’s confused, of course, because this less-than-zealous reaction of mine is not remotely on brand for me.
Not once have I pushed back against any of this.
Where my upcoming union is concerned, I have conceded on every front thus far.
They say jump, and I ask how high and how far and should I land on my arse?
I have been the epitome of duty. So it’s inevitably bewildering to her that I should look anything less than enthused at this opportunity to advance our intricately drawn road map to my future.
The conflict, of course, is entirely at my end.
Pa’s proposal (for we all know it’s not a request) isn’t just justified; it’s to be expected.
And if I had remained mentally on track these past few weeks, and if I wasn’t currently musing on quite how gratifying it was to see my cum pool in the delicate hollow of Ivy’s collarbone, ooh, two short hours ago, I would not only have seen this coming but would have been on board.
After all, the only appropriate expressions here are those of regret for Pa’s prognosis and readiness to cooperate to the fullest extent possible.
Before Ivy, shifting my wedding date forward would have been a formality.
After Ivy, after yesterday, after this morning, it feels like a summary execution.
‘Of course I’m on board.’ I sound calm, but emotionally I’m stepping off the end of the plank into the shark-infested waters that are a loveless marriage for all eternity.
So that’s that, then.
‘Excellent.’ Ma straightens in her chair and smiles at Pa, unable to hide her triumph. Game, set, and match to my parents, even if Ma seemed worried for a second there that we’d go to a tiebreaker.
Benedict sucks air in noisily through his teeth. ‘You’ll have to get your skates on with the prenuptial glow-up, bro. Get that LED mask out. Go easy on the Quality Street over Christmas. You don’t want to embarrass your beautiful bride.’
I slap him hard enough on his shoulder that he winces. ‘You’re an epic best man. Not sure what I’d do without you.’
‘Always.’
Flora is looking between us. She’s still teary, but her countenance is gradually brightening as the tension around this hospital bed dissipates.
After all, she has no earthly clue I’m sleeping with her new friend, and Selena and I have been engaged since before she was born.
We’re as much of a sure thing as Ma and Pa.
As the sun in the sky. As her guilty favourite, I’m a Celeb, coming back season after season.
My sister has no reason to concern herself on my behalf, and I won’t give her one, either. My obligations are not her problem.
Perhaps, now that Ben has defused the tension further with his trivialities, we can salvage something of this little family reunion.
Perhaps we can leave Pa here for the rest of the day with a tiny gift to ourselves and to him.
A gift that doesn’t have to do with securing our line of succession but is instead a fine thread in the tapestry of memories upon which this family doesn’t gaze much.
Not like my colleague Stephen and his dad.
I clear my throat. ‘Remember Dav’s wedding? I hope you’ll acquit yourself better than that.’
Benedict chuckles, right on cue. ‘You’re a bad, bad man.’
‘What happened?’ Flora pipes up. Our cousin Davina was married before she was born, so she has no memory of this particular anecdote.
Ma purses her lips and shakes her head, but I press on. ‘Benedict and I were ring bearers. I was seven, so he must have been barely six. Anyway’—I cast him a sly sideways glance—‘let’s just say it was a very long ceremony. And some of us had better bladder control than others.’
Flora gasps. ‘He didn’t.’
‘Yup. Pissed his pants at the end of the ceremony. He had to walk back down the aisle soaking wet. I have never’—it’s hard to speak with the marvellous, boyish mirth bubbling up inside me out of nowhere, a veritable hot spring of delight—‘seen such a priceless look on his face. He turned to me and tugged on my jacket sleeve as it was happening. He went bright purple with horror. It was fu—bloody brilliant.’
Flora’s laughing now, in horrified disbelief and outright glee, and Benedict is shaking his head ruefully, and I’m snorting, and this is the kind of thing I mean.
This is, surely, the sort of stuff we should be convening around Pa’s sickbed to do as a family.
To remember. To share. To give thanks, even for the most ridiculous tales.
Ma breaks the moment of levity with a sharp slap of her hand on her chair’s wooden armrest. ‘That’s quite enough of this silliness. You’ll exhaust your poor father. Xavier, stop that nonsense right now and run along and call Selena, if you’re so concerned about her dress.’
It seems, alas, that our tapestry of memories will stay, locked up and slowly decaying, in the de Vere archives, along with the swords and shields and suits of armour.
It’s funny, when you think about it, that a family whose bloodline goes back nine centuries, a family that is obsessed with its name and its legacy, whose triumphs and adversities are kept alive in the history books, doesn’t seem to care much about making actual human memories.