Page 70 of The Good Part
‘Words that sounded funny to us. We were weird kids. I think that’s what a best friend is, someone you can show your inner weirdo to.’
‘I sit next to Molly in Coding Club,’ Felix tells me. ‘She’s way better at it than me. She’s funny too. She made this platform game called “Girls Win, Boys in the Bin”. You have to put all the boys in the bin to win. And Mrs Harris wouldn’t grade it, she said it was sexist, so then Molly changed all the boys to little Mrs Harrises and called it “Kids Win, Teachers in the Bin”.’ Felix laughs and claps a hand against his thigh.
‘I like the sound of Molly.’
As we’re sitting on the bench, looking at my old flat across the street, the front door opens and Mr Finkley appears with a bag of recycling. Seeing me, he raises a hand in greeting, and I take Felix’s hand to cross the road.
‘Felix, this is Mr Finkley, he lived in the flat above me. Mr Finkley, this is my son.’My son. Will I ever get used to saying that?
‘What brings you back here?’ Mr Finkley asks. ‘Still missing a few years, are you?’
‘Afraid so. We were just taking a little trip down memory lane.’
‘Would you like to come up for some ham?’ Mr Finkley asks.
I’m about to politely decline when Felix cries, ‘I love ham!’ and takes a step towards the front door.
‘I thought you were super fussy about food,’ I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
‘I’m not fussy about ham,’ he says, now standing ready and waiting by the front door.
‘I guess we’re coming up then. If you’re sure we wouldn’t be an inconvenience?’
‘No, no,’ says Mr Finkley. ‘I’m not getting my stamps out, though.’
Inside Mr Finkley’s apartment, Felix looks around at the foliage-filled room as though he’s just stepped into a secret subterranean world. ‘Wow, cool house. It’s like living in a jungle.’
Mr Finkley’s mouth twitches, pleased. ‘It was your mother here who got me into horticulture.’
Of all the things that seem unlikely about the years I’ve missed, one is that butter boards weren’t the short-lived Instagram fad everyone expected them to be, and two is that I, apparently, became a gardening guru.
‘Mummy’s good at plants,’ Felix says, puffing out his chest. ‘Would you like to see my logbook?’
‘Felix, I’m sure Mr Finkley doesn’t—’
‘I would be honoured to see your logbook.’
After clearing some space on the sofa for us to sit, then bringing out a plate of assorted hams, Mr Finkley settles down to inspect Felix’s book. He is an excellent audience, asking all the right questions, and even commenting on the thoroughness of the ‘incidents’ column and the excellent sketch Felix has drawn of Arcade Dave.
‘This is the best ham,’ Felix says, as they sit side by side poring over the logbook.
‘Smoked. Always smoked,’ says Mr Finkley.
‘Mummy, can you get smoked next time?’
I nod, making a mental note to ask my car to instruct a flying drone to bring smoked ham to my house, then marvel that this sentence seems entirely normal.
‘I could have used a young man like you on one of my boat trips,’ says Mr Finkley.
‘You had a boat?’ I ask, finding it hard to imagine him anywhere other than this apartment.
‘Used to. I led research expeditions, took divers and scientists out to the central Pacific. My wife was an oceanographer.’
‘You were deep-sea explorers?’ asks Felix, his mouth dropping open in awe.
‘Not me. I stayed on the boat, but yes, Astrid was.’ Mr Finkley nods and sits up a little straighter, his eyes creasing into a smile.
‘I didn’t know you were married,’ I say.
