The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper (22 page)

“Really? That is so incredible. You must bring her here to see this. Tell her that her painting helped me to paint, and meet lots of lovely young ladies, too. She'll know Sonny, then?”

Arthur stared at him. He was about to say sorry but Miriam had passed on, but then he reconsidered. He didn't want to hear another expression of sorrow for him, for his wife. He didn't know her. She felt like a stranger to him now. “They were friends once, I think,” he said.

He said goodbye to Adam and walked out of the college, shielding his eyes against the bright light of the afternoon and unsure which direction to head in.

Bernadette

WHEN BERNADETTE RANG
his doorbell it didn't seem as loud as usual. It was a subdued
brrriiing
. Arthur was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. He automatically reached to the cupboard and took out another cup. He still hadn't managed to have a conversation with her about Nathan's yearning to bake and about her hospital appointments.

Before he made his way to the front door he stole a look at his Stunning Scarborough calendar. Tomorrow was his birthday. He had seen the date circled for weeks but hadn't taken any real notice. He was going to be seventy. It was no cause for celebration—another year closer to his death.

After his visit to the college he was feeling foolish. He needed his head to be quiet, still. All his thoughts were running riot, like rowdy children, and he wanted them to stop and leave him alone. He had forgotten what it was like to have nothing on his mind other than cleaning and watering Frederica, and he was beginning to miss those days.

He couldn't understand how Miriam could be so close to someone as to pose nude for them, and then to never mention that person to him. He racked his brains for if he had ever met anyone called Sonny. Had Miriam ever written letters to her? But he came to the conclusion that this lady was a stranger to him.

The doorbell rang again. “Yes, yes,” he called out.

It was a lovely sunny day and yellow light flooded the hallway and the dust motes shone like glitter in the air. He thought of how Miriam loved the sunshine, then dismissed it from his mind. Did she love it? How could he be sure what was right or wrong, what he knew and didn't know any longer?

Sonny Yardley was going to be phoning in to work this week to discuss her return and Adam promised to remind her to get in touch with Arthur. He might even find a lead for the last of the charms—the ring and the heart. He just wanted to get this mission over with now, done and dusted.

“Hello, Arthur.” Bernadette stood on the doorstep.

“Hello.” He half expected her to stride inside, to inspect his hallway for dust, but she stood very still. He thought of Nathan's words about the cancer unit appointments. He instinctively avoided eye contact in case she could sense he knew something. “Come on in,” he said.

She shook her head. “You're probably busy. I made you this.” She proffered a pie in a paper bag on the flat of her hand. “It's wimberry.”

He found himself listening to her tone of voice. Did she sound upset or sad? He decided to make an extraspecial effort with her today. “Ooh, wimberry. How lovely. That's one of my favorites.”

“Good. Well, hope you enjoy it.” She made to leave.

Arthur stared after her. If she went, then he would be alone and he couldn't trust himself not to get out the wipes and clean his worktops. He also wanted to know that she was okay. “I'm not very busy at all,” he said. “Will you join me?”

Bernadette remained still but then followed him inside.

Arthur stole a glance at her. Her eyes had dark circles under them. Her hair was a darker shade of red, almost mahogany. He couldn't mention the appointments as it would break Nathan's trust in him. He tried not to think about losing Miriam and how it would feel to lose someone else in his life. He supposed he was at the age now when friends and family started to get older and grow weaker. He felt the same feeling of dread as when Graystock's tiger had stood over him, a dreadful churning of his stomach.

But he told himself he was being overdramatic. This might be just a scare, a routine check. He tried to think of something cheery to say. “Nathan said that he enjoys baking, too,” he said lightly as he looked inside the bag at the pie.

Bernadette gave a distracted, “Yes, he does.”

Arthur slid the pie onto a baking tray and switched on the oven, choosing a lowish temperature so that it wouldn't take off. “You don't need to bring me things any longer, you know. I'm out of the woods now. I'm not going to kill myself or sink into a sea of despair. I'm not a lost cause any longer. I'm doing good.” He turned and beamed, expecting her to do the same, to congratulate him.

“A lost cause? Is that how you see yourself?” she said crossly.

Arthur felt his cheeks grow a little pink. “Well, no. I don't think that. It was something I overheard at the post office. Vera says that you like to look after people who are down on their luck. She calls them your lost causes.”

Bernadette lifted her chin. “Well, that silly woman has nothing else better to do than to gossip about others,” she snapped. “I'd prefer to spend my time being useful and helping others than to stand around being of no use to anyone.”

He could see that he'd offended her. She rarely took the hump at anything. “I'm sorry,” he said, his spirits fading. “I shouldn't have said anything. It was thoughtless of me.”

“I'm glad you did. And I have never seen you as a lost cause. I saw you as a lovely man who'd lost his wife and who could do with a little looking after. Is
that
a crime? Is it a crime when I help other people with a little bit of attention? I will not be using that post office again. That Vera can be a cruel woman sometimes.”

Arthur had never seen Bernadette so flustered. Her smile, which was usually always present, had gone. She was wearing more eyeliner than usual. The thick black lines had cracked and flaked. He didn't want to think of them as bad signs. “The pie smells good,” he said weakly. “We could eat outside. The weather is fine.”

“It's going to break soon.” Bernadette sniffed. “They've forecast storms over the next few days. Black clouds and rain.” She stood up and moved over to the cooker, studied what temperature the knob was turned to, then turned it higher. She took hold of the baking tray and opened the oven door. The pie began to slide off the tray. It glided until it hung precariously, half on and half off. They both watched as it wobbled on the edge. Slowly half began to break away. It creaked to a right angle and then dropped to the floor. The pastry smashed, scattering crumbs over the lino. Purple wimberry filling oozed from the half that remained on the tray. Bernadette's hand trembled. Arthur moved quickly and took the tray from her.

“Whoopsa daisy,” he said. “You sit down and I'll clean up this little mess. I'll get the dustpan and brush.” He fetched it and his back cracked as he bent over. It was then he noticed that Bernadette's eyes were swimming with tears. “Don't worry,” he said. “There's still a good half left. You know, I've never actually known what wimberries are.”

He saw Bernadette bite her cheek. “They're also called blueberries or bilberries.” Her voice shook. “I used to pick them when I was a girl. My mother could always tell what I'd been up to when I went home with a purple tongue and purple fingers. They tasted so good, fresh from the bush. We used to put them in salt water and all these little worms came wriggling out. I used to wonder when I ate the pie if any of them were still left in there.”

“They'd have been in the oven,” Arthur said gently.

“I suppose they'd have burned rather than drowned. Not a good death either way.”

“I don't suppose any death is a good one.” This was not a good conversation to be having.

“No.” She stared out of the window.

Arthur looked outside, too. Frederica was still sitting happily in the rockery. The fences were still too high. He thought that Bernadette might mention the garden or the weather, but she didn't. He racked his brain for something to say, especially as she seemed very upset over a broken pie. The only thing they really had in common was food. “When I was in London,” he said. “I ate a sausage sandwich while I sat on the grass. It was greasy, it was covered in ketchup and it had these stringy, brown onions on it. It was the best thing I'd tasted in ages. Apart from your pies, of course. Miriam thought it was the height of bad manners to eat hot food outside in public, especially walking and eating. I felt guilty but a certain sense of freedom, too.”

Bernadette turned away from the window. “Carl insisted on roast beef every Sunday. He used to have it when he was a kid. I did turkey once and he was so upset. To him I was insulting his family tradition. Beef on a Sunday was a comfort. I was questioning his whole upbringing when I cooked that turkey. When he died I carried on making roast beef in his memory, but I never liked it. Then one day, I couldn't face it. I made myself a cheddar and pickled onion sandwich instead. I could hardly swallow it because it felt like I was betraying his memory. But the next week I made it again. And it was the best sandwich I'd ever tasted. Now I eat what I want whenever I want it. But I'd never have changed all those roast beef lunches because, although the food wasn't what I wanted, Carl was the man I wanted to eat it with.”

They were both silent for a few moments, thinking about their spouses.

“I've got some nice cheddar from the village,” Arthur said. “And I always have pickled onions in. I can make us both a sandwich and we could have your wimberry pie for afters.”

Bernadette stared at him. He couldn't read her expression. “You know, this is the first time you've ever invited me to eat with you?”

“
Is
it?”

“Yes. It's very nice of you, Arthur. But I don't want to take up your time.”

“You're not taking up my time. I thought it would be nice to eat lunch together.”

“It's a breakthrough that you're doing this. That you're thinking about socializing.”

“It isn't a scientific experiment. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Then I shall accept your invitation.”

There was something different about her today. She usually moved quickly and with purpose. Today she seemed slower and reflective, as if she was thinking about everything too much. He had expected a battle for control of the kitchen with her insisting on peering through the oven door every few minutes while he sat and read the paper. But when he got the cheese out of the fridge she said she would look around the garden. She wandered around while he cut a couple of oven bottom muffins in half and applied a thick layer of butter.

It was the first time he had eaten with anyone in the house since Miriam had gone, and it actually felt nice to have company. Bernadette usually stood guard to make sure he ate the sausage rolls and pies she brought. She didn't join him.

He again recalled guiltily the number of times he had hidden from her, cursing as her produce landed on his doormat as he posed like a National Trust statue. She was a saint. How she had put up with his behavior and not given up on him, he didn't know.

“Lunch is ready,” he called from the back door when he had cut the muffins in four and put them on a plate with a few plain crisps. But Bernadette didn't move. She stared out over the fields, her eyes fixed on the spire of York Minster.

He pulled on his slippers and walked out onto the gravel. “Bernadette? Lunch is ready.”

“Lunch?” For a moment she frowned, her thoughts elsewhere. “Oh, yes.”

They sat at the table. Since Miriam had died he didn't usually bother with how food looked—he just tipped it on a plate and ate it—but he was pleased with how the sandwiches had turned out. He had cut them evenly and left a small gap between each quarter. Bernadette sat in the seat that used to be Miriam's. She took up more room than his wife. She was colorful, too, reminding him of a parrot with her red hair and purple blouse. She had green nails today, the color of the emerald in the elephant charm's howdah.

“So, you went to Paris?”

Arthur nodded. He told her about Sylvie and the wedding boutique and how Lucy had met a nice waiter. He had wrapped Bernadette's lavender bag in pink tissue paper and he handed it to her now, before they had finished.

“What is this?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“It's just a small gift, to say thanks.”

“For what?”

Arthur shrugged. “You're always so helpful.”

She opened it, turned it around in her hands and held it to her nose. “It's a lovely gift,” she said.

He had expected her to give him a big smile and squeeze his arm. Something ebbed away inside him when she did not. It was only a small present but a big gesture for him to give it to her. He wanted to show that he appreciated her, that he liked her, that he valued her friendship. He had invested a lot of his feelings into that little bag. But how was she to know that? He wished that he had added a thoughtful note, especially as she might be going through a difficult time. His mouth grew dry as he tried to find the words instead. “You're a very kind person,” he managed.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

They finished their lunch. However, his mind wasn't still. His insides felt churned up and he wasn't sure if the sandwich and pie would stay put in his stomach for long. He found that as well as worrying about Bernadette he was also itching for Sonny to ring him, to answer all his questions.