The Curious Charms Of Arthur Pepper. Phaedra Patrick

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      Perhaps he should be getting over it by now.

      His recollections of those dark early days were foggy. What he did recall was like seeing it on a black-and-white TV set with a crackly picture. He saw himself shuffling around the house.

      If he was honest, then Bernadette had been a great help.

      She had turned up on his doorstep like an unwelcome genie and insisted that he bathed while she cooked lunch. Arthur hadn’t wanted to eat. Food held no taste or pleasure for him.

      ‘Your body is like a steam train that needs coal,’ Bernadette said as he protested against the pies, soups and stews she carried over his threshold, heated and then placed in front of him. ‘How are you going to carry on your journey without fuel?’

      Arthur wasn’t planning any journey. He didn’t want to leave the house. The only trip he made was upstairs to use the bathroom or go to bed. He had no desire to do anything more than that. For a quiet life he ate her food, blocked out her chatter, read her leaflets. He really would prefer to be left alone.

      But she persisted. Sometimes he answered the door to her, other times he wriggled down in the bed and pulled the blankets over his head or thrust himself into National Trust statue mode. But she never gave up on him.

      Later that morning, as if she knew he was thinking of her, Bernadette rang his doorbell. Arthur stood in the dining room, still for a few moments, wondering whether to go to the door. The air smelled of bacon and eggs and fresh toast as the other residents of Bank Avenue enjoyed their breakfasts. The doorbell rang again.

      ‘Her husband Carl died recently,’ Miriam had told him, a few years ago, as she spied Bernadette on a stall at a local church fete, selling butterfly buns and chocolate cake. ‘I think that bereaved people act in one of two ways. There are those who cling with their fingertips to the past, and those who brush their hands together and get on with their lives. That lady with the red hair is the latter. She keeps herself busy.’

      ‘Do you know her?’

      ‘She works at LadyBLovely, the boutique in the village. I bought a navy dress from there. It has tiny pearl buttons. She told me that, in her husband’s memory, she was going to help others through her baking. She said that if people are tired, lonely, heartbroken, or have simply run out of steam, then they need food. I think it’s very courageous of her to make it her mission to help others.’

      From then on Arthur noticed Bernadette more—at the local school summer fair, in the post office, in her dressing gown tending roses in her garden. They said hello to each other and not much else. Sometimes he saw Bernadette and Miriam chatting on the street corner. They would laugh and talk about the weather and how strawberries were sweet this year. Bernadette’s voice was so loud that he could hear the conversation from inside the house.

      Bernadette had attended Miriam’s funeral. He had a hazy memory of her appearing beside him and patting his arm. ‘If you ever need anything, just ask,’ she said and Arthur wondered what he might possibly ever ask her for. Then she had started to turn up announced on his doorstep.

      At first he felt irritated by her presence, then he began to worry that she had set her sights on him, perhaps as a potential second husband. He wasn’t looking for anything like that. He never could do after Miriam. But in all the months she had been knocking on his door, Bernadette hadn’t ever given him cause to think her attention was anything more than platonic. She had a full roster of widows and widowers to call upon.

      ‘Mince and onion pie,’ she greeted him as he opened up. ‘Freshly made.’ She let herself into the hallway, pie-first. There, she ran her finger along the shelf over the radiator and nodded with satisfaction that it was dust free. She sniffed the air. ‘It’s a bit musty in here. Do you have air freshener?’

      Arthur marvelled at how impolite she could be without realising and dutifully fetched one. A few seconds later and the cloying smell of Mountain Lavender filled the air.

      She bustled into the kitchen and put the pie down on the worktop. ‘This is a mighty fine kitchen,’ she said.

      ‘I know.’

      ‘The cooker is wondrous.’

      ‘I know.’

      Bernadette was the polar opposite to Miriam. His wife had sparrow bones. Bernadette was fleshy, cushioned. Her hair was dyed post-box red and she wore diamanté studs on the tips of her nails. One of her front teeth was stained yellow. Her voice was big, cutting through the quiet of his home like a machete. He jangled the bracelet nervously in his pocket. Since speaking to Mr Mehra last night, he had kept it with him. He had studied each charm in turn several times.

      India. It was so far away. It must have been such an adventure for Miriam. Why had she not wanted him to know? Surely Mr Mehra’s story wasn’t enough for her to keep it secret.

      ‘Are you okay, Arthur? You’re in a dream world.’ Bernadette’s words broke his thoughts.

      ‘Me? Yes, of course.’

      ‘I called yesterday morning but you weren’t in. Did you go to Men in Caves?’

      Men in Caves was a community group for single men. Arthur had been twice to find a group of men with gloomy expressions handling chunks of wood and tools. The man who ran it, Bobby, was shaped like a skittle with a tiny head and large body. ‘Men need caves,’ he trilled. ‘They need somewhere to retreat to and be at one with themselves.’

      Arthur’s neighbour with the dreadlocks had been there. Terry. He was busy filing a piece of wood. ‘I like your car,’ Arthur said to be polite.

      ‘It’s actually a tortoise.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘I saw one last week when I was mowing my lawn.’

      ‘A wild one?’

      ‘It belongs to the red-haired kids who wear nothing on their feet. It escaped.’

      Arthur didn’t know what to say. He had enough trouble with cats on his rockery without a tortoise being on the loose too. Returning to his own work, he made a wooden plaque with the number of his house on it—37. The 3 was much bigger than the 7 but he hung it on his back door anyway.

      It would have been easy to say yes, he was at Men in Caves, even though it had been too early in the morning. But Bernadette was standing and smiling at him. The pie smelled delicious. He didn’t want to lie to her, especially after hearing Mr Mehra’s regret over telling lies about Miriam. He would do the same and try not to lie again. ‘I hid from you yesterday,’ he said.

      ‘You hid?’

      ‘I didn’t want to see anyone. I’d set myself the task to clear out Miriam’s wardrobe and so when you rang the doorbell, I stood very still in the hallway and pretended not to be at home.’ The words tumbled off his tongue and it felt surprisingly good to be this honest. ‘Yesterday was the first anniversary of her death.’

      ‘That’s very truthful of you, Arthur. I appreciate your honesty. I can see how that would be upsetting. When Carl died … well, it was a hard thing to let him go. I gave his tools to Men in Caves.’

      Arthur СКАЧАТЬ