“And when he went all the way into Westminster on his day off to bring you coffee—two coffees, in fact—that gesture was just an elaborate job application, was it?”
“Well, I don’t think?—”
“Has he actually, at any point, given you any real reason to doubt him? To not trust his motives in befriending you?”
“But Father?—”
“That doesn’t count. That was on your father, not on Sunny. What did you expect Sunny to say when the great Hugo Boche told him he’s wasted at theBulletin? Oughtn’t you be pleased for Sunny that Hugo has recognised his talent? Have you ever known your father to give a job to anyone unless they were supremely well-qualified, whether you were dating them or not?
“But—”
“But? But? But nothing. You listen to your godfather, dear boy. Learn from the wisdom of the ancients. Why are all the men in this family such fools when it comes to love? For all that expensive education, not one of you ever seems to see what’s right in front of your eyes.”
That left me speechless. We paused while Uncle Ben had a coughing fit. He picked up the sherry decanter to top up his glass. His hands were shaking too much to pour, so I jumped up to do the honours. With our glasses refilled, I slipped back into the brown leather of the armchair and asked Uncle Ben what he meant.
“Your father was a blethering idiot when it came to your mother.”
“Really?” This was the first I’d heard of this.
“Oh, yes. All I heard for weeks was Beverley this and Beverley that. She was working down in Hampshire at the time but was often up in London. He wouldn’t shut up about her. He was absolutely devoted. Hopelessly in love with her. Wouldn’t bloody well pluck up the courage to ask her out on a date, though.”
This did not sound like the Hugo Boche I knew. A man so confident he could wear a three-piece suit unironically.
“Why not?”
“Oh, he had a million excuses. She’s too good for me. I’m not good enough for her. She’s all the way down in Southampton. I don’t dress snappily enough for a woman like that. She works for the BBC, and it could get complicated. Her parents are socialists.”
“Granny and Grandad are socialists?”
“They voted Lib Demonce. In a parish council by-election. So, we had months of this mooning. Then one Saturday afternoon, your father was sitting in the very chair you are sitting in now, dear boy, banging on and on about how beautiful Beverley was, how smart she was, how talented she was, and how she’d never go out with him. And your uncle Michael was sick of listening to it. He stormed out the door in a fit. Your father barely noticed, he was so absorbed in his self-pity, until Michael returned forty-five minutes later with a train ticket to Southampton for the following morning and said ‘For Christ’s sake, Hugo, either put up orshut up.’”
My jaw was on the floor. How had I never wheedled this story out of anyone before?
“You make Father out to be a hopeless romantic.”
“He was certainly both of those things, dear boy.”
“But I’ve never so much as heard him tell Mummy he loves her.”
“My darling boy, there are many different ways to express love. You haveno ideawhat happens once they close that bedroom door.”
“Ew.Ewww. Stop.”
Uncle Ben blew smoke theatrically towards the ceiling, once again.
“Will you listen to an old man who knows a thing or two about love and heartache and loss?”
“Of course I will. You know that, Uncle Ben.”
“I think this fight you had with Sunny was rather silly.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Uncle Ben lifted a finger to silence me.
“Listen. You’ve been triggered, as you kids like to say these days, not by something Sunny said or did but by something your father said to him. If you look at what Sunny has done rather than what you’ve imagined he said or thought, he clearly cares for you as much as you care for him.” He paused, letting his words sink in. This man had seen a lot of theatre. He knew how to pause for effect. “You are being, if I might say so, darling boy, a blethering idiot.” He sucked on his cheroot, then blew out the smoke. “It’s time to put up or shut up.”
I put my glass of sherry down on the occasional table and stared blankly at it, processing what Uncle Ben had just said.
“Do you need me to call you a black cab, or…”
