A gurgle caught my ear and I dashed back to the bassinet. Bess had decided that her toes were less interesting than what Mummy was doing, so I scooped her up and carried her with me to watch the Summer King save the day. He did so at warp speed. In less than ten minutes, the reassembled pram was upright and rolling as smoothly as ever.
“There you are,” said Arthur, snapping the bassinet into place. “Your chariot awaits. For safety’s sake, I replaced all three axles. The new ones will stand up to any amount of abuse. I know.” He inclined his head toward the wall. “I’ve tested them.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said, beaming at him. “Thank you very much indeed. If Bess could talk, I’m sure she’d tell you how grateful she is, too.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “It was a very basic repair. Your sons could have managed it, young though they are.”
My smile faded slightly as he placed the toolbox and the defective axles in the trailer and closed the lid.
“How do you know my sons are young, Arthur?” I asked. “You can’t have heard about them in Tillcote. Bill and I have never been to Tillcote, nor have our sons.”
“Another educated guess,” he answered readily. “You’re much too young yourself to have grown children.”
Since I’d spent most of the winter feeling like an elderly hippopotamus, the compliment cheered me immensely. Before I could do more than blush and stutter, however, a new voice joined the conversation.
“Grandad? Sorry to intrude, but you’re needed.”
I looked up to see a boy in torn blue jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and scruffy sneakers straddling the stone wall. He had shaggy blond hair, his blue eyes were framed by round, wire-rimmed spectacles, and he couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old. Bess squirmed in my arms and smacked her lips when she heard him, as if she hoped to catch his eye.
“Why am I needed?” Arthur asked the boy.
“Harriet’s got kite paste in her hair and she wants to cut it out with her pocketknife,” the boy replied. “I’ve told her to rinse the paste out with water, but she claims it’ll take too much time.”
“Please tell Harriet to put her knife away,” Arthur said calmly, “and ask her to meet me at the spigot in the kitchen garden. I’ll be along presently. My grandson Marcus,” he added for my benefit. “Marcus? Allow me to introduce Lori Shepherd and her daughter, Bess.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Marcus. “I’d hurry, if I were you, Grandad. Harriet’s in one of her impetuous moods. She’s not likely to listen to me.”
The boy twisted around like a gymnast, pushed himself off the wall, and landed with an audible thud on the other side.
Arthur turned to me with a wry smile.
“I’m needed,” he said.
“I understand,” I assured him. “Paste emergencies are a regular occurrence in my house. I don’t know how you’ll turn your bike and your trailer around in a hurry, though. The lane’s pretty narrow.”
“I designed the hitch to function in tight spaces,” said Arthur. “It’s a yoke, you see. I simply detach it from the bicycle, swing it over the trailer, move the bicycle to the opposite end of the trailer, reattach the hitch, and voilà!”
He matched his actions to his words and by the time he finished his sentence, he was ready to tow the trailer back to the distant opening in the wall.
“Clever,” I said admiringly.
“Simplicity itself,” he countered, mounting the bicycle. “Good day, Lori. I’ve enjoyed meeting you and Bess. If you’re ever in the neighborhood again, please feel free to pay us a call.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said. “We may take you up on your invitation.” I kissed Bess’s plump cheek. “I think my daughter has a crush on your grandson.”
“What a pity,” said Arthur. He stood on the pedals and, with an almighty effort, forced them to rotate. “Marcus leaves for Santiago tomorrow.”
“Is his father the astrophysicist?” I asked, giving the trailer a shove to help Arthur on his way.
“No,” he called to me as the bicycle picked up speed. “Marcus is.”
My jaw dropped. My sons were as bright as buttons, but with the best will in the world I couldn’t picture either one of them delivering a paper at an academic conference before they were old enough to drive.
“Well, my dear,” I murmured to Bess, “it’s good to know you like ’em smart.”
I watched Arthur until he disappeared from view, then returned Bess to the pram and began to retrace our steps. I tried to avoid the track’s most obvious hazards, but I found it difficult to keep my mind from wandering.
I felt as if I’d stepped through the looking glass into a world where shaggy-haired, kite-flying boys morphed overnight into jet-setting scientists while their grandfathers dissected used prams, invented ingenious trailer hitches, and claimed sovereignty over a season instead of a kingdom.
“Maybe he’s a crackpot,” I said to Bess. “Maybe Grandpa William heard about his wacky ways and decided not to pursue the acquaintance.”
Bess waved her arms in protest.
“You’re right,” I said. “If Arthur Hargreaves is a crackpot, he’s a very nice crackpot. Without him—”