“Since when are we in a quandary?” he snapped. “We’ve made a decision and we’re sticking to it. But as for Brexit”—he pronounced the pestilent neologism with distaste—“there’s all to play for. The chances of a second referendum are rising by the day. It’s the only way out of this gridlock. And the next time round, the knuckle-dragging Neanderthals won’t bludgeon us civilized Britons with clubs. Polly Toynbee got all that stick for observing the plain demographic facts: any number of addled older voters who opted for Leave in 2016 have now died, whilst more progressive young people have come of age, so in a re-run Remain would win hands down. The ruckus in response to that column was mental. As if she wished those older voters dead, or was happy they were dead—”
“For the sake of both her argument and her electoral convenience, I think she was happy.”
“All that matters is that statistically Toynbee was right. Look at my father. I’m hardly celebrating, but it’s one positive aspect of our loss: he can’t vote for flagrant idiocy a second time.”
Two years earlier, Norman’s death at ninety-nine had doubly saddened Kay. She liked him, and not merely as Exhibit A for cogent, energetic old age. (He’d fallen from a ladder and broken his hip, after which his decline was swift. It was the perfect way to go: pruning an overgrown magnolia.) But she’d also treasured the way his longevity complicated the consummation of that 1991 covenant. If she was right, that Cyril would never bereave his dad, then so long as he survived Norman had provided an insurance policy of sorts. Now the policy had been cancelled.
“I wish you hadn’t squandered your last few months together squabbling about the EU,” she said, signalling a third time for a breadbasket refill. Throughout the last decade or so, in restaurants she and Cyril had seemed invisible. “For that matter, is this really how we’re going to spend my birthday as well? Talking about Brexit? Because in case you need reminding, as of exactly a year from today, we’re not voting in any second referendum, either.”
“The People’s Vote movement best get their act together pronto, then.”
“But doesn’t it . . . mean something to you,” she said cautiously, “how much you still seem to care? As a Remainer, how passionate you still are? This involvement of yours, ever since 2016 . . . I didn’t want to say anything and just make you feel worse, but for a time there you’d got draggy and cranky and cantankerous, like a proper old man. You tried to humour me, but it was obvious from the very start of a holiday that you were counting the days before we’d go home. You seemed to be losing interest in everything. You let that new iPad Simon gave you sit for nearly a year before I bullied you into learning how to use it, and there wasn’t much more to it than turning it on. You even started to leave the Guardian half unread. So you may rail against it, but that referendum gave you a new lease on life. You’ve got back your old energy, as if you’re closer to sixty than eighty. Even your voice sounds stronger. You’ve stayed home from my constitutionals for years, but nothing stopped you joining that massive Remain march to Parliament Square last Saturday. Honestly, with that back of yours, I was worried you might get trampled.”
Cyril ripped the last bread roll savagely. “Fury is a tonic.”
“I’m simply saying . . . You’re so fully engaged now . . . So determined to personally help reverse this thing . . . Whose consequences you’re not even expecting to suffer . . .”
“Out with it, wench.”
“It’s just—you don’t seem like a man who’s anywhere near ready to let life go!”
“Well! I suppose I’m not, quite. As you said, we’ve a whole year left, God willing, and I intend to put it to good use. I aim for us to go to our maker after having helped safely restore this country to the good graces of the European Union—that alliance being one of the greatest historical achievements of the Western world. Speaking of which, I’ve assessed our finances, and we’ve undershot our spending goals a bit. So I made a sizable donation to the People’s Vote campaign. We’ll still have enough left over to cover basic expenses for the next twelve months.”
Finally the waitress arrived—with no bread—and sloshed the whole last half of their cabernet carelessly into their glasses, perhaps in the hopes that the doddering old dears would forgetfully drink up, and order another bottle.
Obligingly, Cyril picked up his glass and toasted. “Happy birthday, bab. Must say, it’s nice to be able to celebrate two cheerful events in one, the birth of your fine self and an extension of Article Fifty.”
“It has been peculiar hearing broadcasters make incessant reference to ‘March twenty-ninth.’ As if Radio Four has been planning my surprise party.”
“Mark my words, this is the beginning of the end for those Leaver louts.” Once again sounding far younger than eighty, Cyril was so lively tonight that maybe they would order that second bottle. Well. Or at least a port.
“Do you ever consider,” Kay inserted slyly, “moving our own Leave date? Perhaps just a smidgeon? By and large, our health seems to be holding, and neither of us has stashed the towels in the oven.”
“Now, that’s dangerous talk, bab. Apostasy!” He was joking, and not.
Cyril was right. It was indeed dangerous talk—just as he was also right that the purportedly hard-and-fast date for Brexit having been deferred at the last minute was prospectively fatal for the whole enterprise. As soon as you put off what is writ in stone, it is writ in water. During the whole post-referendum omnishambles,
