Free The Tail of Emily Windsnap by Liz Kessler Page A

together, too.”
    Imagining Mr. Beeston chasing girls, I shuddered.
    He cleared his throat. “Then, of course, he met your mother and things changed.”
    “Changed? How?”
    “Well, one might say they fell in love. At least, she did. Very much so.”
    “And what about my dad?”
    “He did a very good impression of love, for a while. He certainly didn’t want to fool around with cars anymore.”
    “I thought you said he liked bikes.”
    “Cars, bikes — whatever. He wasn’t interested. They spent all their time together.”
    Mr. Beeston stared into the distance, his hands in his pockets. He looked as though he was struggling with something. Then he jingled his coins and said, “But of course it didn’t last. Your father turned out not to be the gentleman we all had believed he was.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “This is rather a delicate matter. But I shall tell you. Let us say he wasn’t the most responsible person. He was happy enough to lead your mother up the garden path, but not prepared to stay by her side when they got to the gate.”
    “Huh?”
    His face reddened. “He was content to sow but not reap.”
    “Mr. Beeston, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Good grief, child. I’m talking about responsibility,” he snapped. “Where do you think you came from?”
    “Do you mean he got my mom pregnant with me and then ran off?”
    “Yes, yes, that is what I mean.”
    Why didn’t you say so, then? I wanted to say — but didn’t dare. Mr. Beeston looked so angry. “So he left her?” I asked, just to make sure I’d got it right.
    “Yes, he left her,” he replied through tight lips.
    “Where did he go?”
    “That’s just it. No one ever heard from him again. The strain was obviously too much for him,” he said sarcastically.
    “What strain?”
    “Fatherhood. Good-for-nothing slacker. Never willing to grow up and take responsibility.” Mr. Beeston looked away. “What he did — it was despicable,” he said, his voice becoming raspy. “I will never forgive him.” He got up from the bench, his face hard and set. “Never,” he repeated. Something about the way he said it made me hope I’d never get on his wrong side.
    I followed him as we carried on along the boardwalk. “Didn’t anybody try to find him?”
    “Find him?” Mr. Beeston looked at me, but it was as though he were seeing right through me. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Find him?” he repeated. “Yes — of course we tried. No one could have done more than I did. I traveled around for weeks, put up posters. We even had a message on the radio, begging him to come home and meet his — well, his . . .”
    “His daughter?”
    Mr. Beeston didn’t reply.
    “So he never even saw me?”
    “We did everything we could.”
    I looked down the wide boards of the promenade, trying to take in what I’d heard. It couldn’t be true. Could it? A young couple ambled toward us, the man holding a baby up in the air, the woman laughing, a spaniel jumping up between them. Farther down, an elderly couple were walking slowly against the wind, arms linked.
    “I think I need to go now,” I said. We’d walked all the way around to the lighthouse.
    Mr. Beeston pulled me back by my arm. “You’re not to talk to your mother about this, do you hear me?”
    “Why not?”
    “You saw what happened. It’s far too painful for her.” He tightened his grip, his fingers biting into my arm. “Promise me you won’t mention it.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    Mr. Beeston looked hard into my eyes. “People can block things out completely if the memory is too much to cope with. That’s a scientific fact. There’ll be all sorts of trouble if you try to make her talk about this.” He pulled on my arm, his face inches from mine. “And you don’t want trouble — do you?” he said in a whisper.
    I shook my head.
    “ Do you?” he repeated with another yank on my arm.
    “No — of course not,” my voice wobbled.
    He smiled his