An Unexpected Answer Kate couldn’t stand Stan. Not for a single one of the seven years she’d been m…

An Unexpected Answer

I never could stand Stan. Not for a day in the seven years Id been married to his best mate, Michael.

Stans brash laughter grated on my nerves, his ridiculous leather jacket made him look a right plonker, and his habit of clapping Michael on the shoulder and shouting, Mate, let me guess, your missus is wound up again! that truly wound me up.

Michael just laughed him off. Hes odd, but his hearts in the right place. That used to irritate me even more; having a good heart didnt excuse ruining my evenings.

When Michael died slipped and fell, just like that Stan stood awkwardly at the funeral in that daft old jacket of his, off to the side like he didnt quite belong. He stared over everyones heads, eyes unfocused, as if he could see something the rest of us couldnt.

I remember thinking, Thank God, finally hell leave me alone.

But he didnt. A week later, he knocked at my door. My flat felt hollow and lifeless.

Kate, he mumbled, shuffling his feet, Want me to peel some spuds, or whatever you need?

Dont bother, I said, not opening the door all the way, voice flat and empty.

I should, he insisted, and slipped inside like a draught.

Thats how it all began.

Stan fixed anything that broke. It got so I wondered if things conspired with him, breaking just so hed have an excuse to call round.

Hed lug in shopping with carrier bags stuffed to splitting, as if preparing for a siege.

He took my son, Jamie, out to the park, where hed come back red-cheeked and full of stories which oddly stung, since with Michael, Jamie had always been quiet and thoughtful.

Pain became my constant companion. Sharp when I found an old sock of Michaels. Dull, gnawing in the evenings, brewing tea for two out of habit. And a strange, pinching hurt when Stan set the plates in all the wrong spots at supper as if his sheer presence was a crooked mirror of Michael.

He was a living reminder of my husband, the reflection I didnt want. I ached when he was there, but soon I feared his absence more. Because what then? Just emptiness.

Friends would stroke my arm: Kate, hes been keen on you for ages! Give him a shot! My mum would tut, Hes a good bloke. Be careful not to let him slip away. But their well-meaning advice just made me seethe. It felt like Stan was stealing my grief, smothering it with his relentless concern.

One afternoon, after he carted in another sack of spuds (Half price at Sainsburys!), I snapped.

Stan, enough. Were managing fine. I know I know youre looking out for me, but Im not ready. I never will be. Youre Michaels mate. Please, stay that way.

I braced for his outrage, excuses. But all he did was flush scarlet like a guilty schoolboy and drop his gaze.

Right. Sorry.

He left, and somehow his silence was louder than his presence had ever been.

Jamie asked, Wheres Uncle Stan gone? Why doesnt he come anymore? And as I hugged my boy, it hit me: Id chased off the one person who showed up to give, not to take.

Stan returned two weeks later. He rang the bell late, reeking of rain and whisky. His eyes were red but fierce.

Alright if I come in? Ill only be a minute.

I let him.

He sat on the hallway stool, jacket dripping.

I really shouldnt say this, his voice was rough, but I cant carry it anymore. You were right I have been an idiot. But I made him a promise.

I froze against the wall. What promise? I breathed.

He looked up, and his eyes were haunted; it made my chest ache.

He knew, Kate. Not for certain, but he had an aneurysm in his brain. Docs said it could go any time. Maybe a year, at most two. Michael never told you, didnt want you scared. But he told me, month before he went.

My world collapsed completely. I slid down the wall onto the floor, heart thudding in my throat.

What what did he say? I whispered.

Stan, he says, youre the only bloke Id ever trust. If something happens look out for my two. Jamies little, Kate looks strong, but shell break if shes left alone. Dont let it happen, Stan! I told him, Hell, Mike, youll outlive us all! And he just gave me this calm look and went, Try to make Kate fall for you. Shes not meant to be alone. Youve always treated her right. That would be the proper thing

Stan went quiet.

Thats it? I barely managed to say.

He also told me, Stan swiped his hand across his face, first youd hate me. Because Id remind you of him. But, he said, hold on. Give her time Let her adjust. Then well see what happens.

He heaved himself up.

Thats all. I tried, best I could. Hoped maybe. But when you looked at me I realised, no. Ill only ever be Stan, your husbands mate. I let Michael down. I didnt keep my word. Im sorry.

He reached for the door.

It was then, finally, I accepted the awful truth: that amazing, terrifying love Michael had, thinking of us right up to the end. And Stans own stubborn, ridiculous loyalty, carrying someone elses burden for years, asking nothing in return.

Stan, I called softly.

He turned. There was no hope left in his face, just tiredness.

You fixed the tap Michael always meant to get round to.

I suppose.

You took Jamie out to the countryside on the very day Id been sobbing in the bath, desperate.

Thats right

You remembered Mums birthday, when even I forgot.

He nodded.

And all this, just because he asked you to?

Stan sighed. At first, yeah. Then it just felt right. I couldnt do otherwise.

I got up, walked to him, looked at his battered leather jacket, his weary, older face. And for the first time in two years, I didnt see Michaels shadow. I saw Stan. The man whod been Michaels mate and had chosen to care for us as his own.

Stay, I said quietly but surely. Have a cup of tea youre soaked through.

He stared at me, not daring to believe it.

As a friend, I added. For the first time, there was something warm and real in my words. Michaels best friend. For as long as you want.

Stan grinned that old lopsided grin Id always hated.

Tea, is it? You havent got a beer, have you?

I laughed, the first real laugh in ages. And I understood, or more truthfully, felt: I wouldnt turn away a helping hand again, even one trembling from exhaustion, even if it wore a ludicrous leather glove.

It turns out, sometimes the fiercest loyalty is just a friend who wont give up and that letting people care for you isn’t weakness, but a different kind of strength altogether.