Page 21 of Famous Last

“In which case, we’ll take a family stroll along the seafront after brunch, to make up for the lack of fireworks. And don’tworry, Spencer darling, this weather is just like the coronavirus. It’ll soon blow over.”

* * * *

The weather did not blow over.

Fortunately for Spencer, his parents knew how to pick a restaurant. Hunters turned out to be exceptional and, considering the time of year, only half full, probably due either to the weather or to the health concerns across the nation. Six courses served over three hours complemented by sparkling wine, and Spencer lounged back in a hazy buzz of too much fresh seafood and bubbles.

Sometimes he simply loved to observe his family interacting with one another, surrounding him with warmth like one of his mother’s hugs. His parents might disagree over some things but not very often. In fact, they seemed to appreciate each other more now they’d both retired, appreciated each other’s strengths in their union.

Five of them shared a table overlooking the seafront—Peony gamely agreeing to join them—as the foul-weathered light show playing out over the English Channel occasionally dragged their attention away from conversation. His brother sat with his arm protectively around Peony the whole time as she sipped on her pomegranate mocktail while Garrett followed suit with his father and ordered beer.

“Would you hate me if I said that I’m glad there’s no firework display tonight?” said Spencer. “This is much more fun, all the family together.”

“Oh, Spencer, you are such a sweetie to say that,” said his mother. “But we’ve been to a firework display ever since you were small boys. Such a lovely tradition.”

“Tradition? My arse. More like British sordidness at its worst,” said Garrett. “What other culture celebrates some poor sodgetting hanged, drawn and quartered—cut into four pieces and each part sent to the four corners of the country—for attempting to blow up the Houses of Parliament? You’d get a medal for doing the same thing these days—”

“I don’t think that’s quite right, son,” said their father, ever the policeman. “You’d get banged up for a considerable number of years, in case you’re getting any treasonable ideas.”

“And how do we celebrate?” continued Garrett. “By creating a scarecrow we call a ‘guy’, clothed and stuffed with straw, then sitting the poor sod on a mound of wood piled ten feet high before setting light to the whole bloody thing. More like a horror movie or publicly sanctioned arson.”

“Any public bonfire needs to be authorised, carefully prepared, and managed to meet local fire safety codes,” added their father. Spencer’s family had all learnt to tune him out.

“You know,” continued Garrett, “a lot of historians reckon the introduction of Guy Fawkes Night celebrations was a ploy by the church to erase an old pagan festival.”

“Samhain,” said Spencer. “Or All Hallows’ Eve. You’re right. Probably the former.” One of the magazines Spencer worked on had run an article about the Gaelic celebration that signalled the harvest season coming to an end and the beginning of the darkest, coldest stages of winter. “In times gone by, they constructed huge bonfires not only to keep people warm, but to scare away wild animals and evil spirits.”

Only Peony seemed to be paying any attention to what he was saying.

“And did you know there’s apparently somewhere in the country that refuses to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night?” continued Spencer. “The place where Guy Fawkes went to school. They don’t allow his image to be burnt out of respect for their former pupil.”

“God, no wonder you’re single,” said Garrett. “Spouting crap like that.”

“Don’t say that about your brother, Garrett,” said their mother, before turning to Spencer, her cheeks rouged from one too many glasses of bubbly. Spencer, who shared his mother’s complexion, imagined that he looked similarly flushed. “When are you going to bring someone home, Spencer? You know your father and I will be fine.”

“We’ve had that conversation, dear,” said their father.

“As I told Dad, it’s not exactly the best time to meet new people, Mum. The atmosphere out there isn’t exactly conducive to dating right now.”

“Is anyone having dessert?” asked their father.

“And anyway,” said Garrett, after downing his pint and thumping his glass down on the table. “Mum’s going to have her hands full soon. Being a grandmother, and all.”

“Do you think we could order two?” asked his mother, to the menu. “There are so many. And I can’t decide between the chocolate soufflé and the Eton mess.”

“Have both, love,” said their father, also staring at the menu but absently reaching across to pat her hand. “I can share with you.”

Spencer stared between Garett and Peony—both looking down at the menu Garrett held—the sudden realisation of what had been said washing over him as though he stood outside in the pouring rain. Had Garrett spoken the words he’d thought he’d heard? Did his parents already know and had taken the news in their stride? But surely they would never have kept something like that from him. He tilted his head to one side and looked quizzically at Peony. Eventually she looked up, giggled, and nodded.

“Mum! Dad!” said Spencer loudly. “Are you paying attention? Your son, Garrett, has just made a monumental announcement.”

Peony laughed aloud now and Garrett pulled her across and kissed the top of her head.

“Peony and I are having a baby,” he said.

Finally, he managed to get their parents’ attention.

“What? How did that happen?” Spencer’s mother’s features had frozen in shock, the dessert menu dropping from her fingers.

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