“Even so. You should go to a see a doctor. Now, where are your things?”
Arthur thought about his suitcase pushed into the bush at the side of the B road. He was too embarrassed to admit to it. “I haven’t got anything,” he said. “I hadn’t planned to stay.”
“That’s no problem.” She left the room, then returned carrying a small basket full of bandages and ointments. She knelt next to him and dabbed at his arm with an antiseptic-soaked cotton wool ball. She wound a bandage around and secured it with a small safety pin. Then she removed his shoes and socks and rubbed thick white cream into his ankle. “We’ll leave you in these trousers for now and I’ll find some fresh ones in the morning.” She sat back on her heels. “Now, I’ve just made some fresh pea and ham soup. Can I tempt you with a bowl?”
Arthur’s stomach growled. “Yes, please,” he said.
*
The Graystocks and Arthur ate the soup in huge bowls on their laps in front of the fire. His hosts sat on the floor on a pile of cushions and Arthur squashed himself into the corner of a large green leather armchair, trying to hide away. Even though the soup was delicious, with huge chunks of ham and served with wedges of bread and butter, he wished he could be at home eating sausage, egg and chips and watching a game show on TV.
It was the first night he had spent socially since Miriam died. He listened to Lord Graystock’s stories of wild parties and flamboyant friends, and of Kate’s gentle explanations that her husband tended to exaggerate. He wished that Miriam was here with him. She would have amusing anecdotes to tell; she’d know how to respond to the Graystocks’ stories. Arthur didn’t know how to interact, what to say.
Even though he protested, he was unable to prevent Lord Graystock from topping up his tumbler from an array of different-shaped bottles. He tried to put his hand on top of his glass but Lord Graystock just pushed it out of the way. To appear hospitable, and to numb the pain of his twisted ankle and scratched arm, Arthur drank each offering.
“This is a fine gin, made from my own juniper berries,” Lord Graystock announced. “This is a vintage cognac given to me by Marlon Brando... You might find that brandy makes your ankle feel more pliant.”
The alcohol made Arthur’s chest burn and throat wheeze, but it also numbed the disappointment from having reached a dead end with the tiger charm. There was nowhere for him to go next. He would have to go home and try to forget about the charm bracelet. His heart felt heavy from having to abandon his search. He accepted another glass of something golden.
“Steady on.” Kate laughed at her husband. Her cheeks were red from the drink and the fire. “You’re going to get poor Arthur drunk.”
“I am feeling rather woozy,” Arthur said.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” She stood up. “It’s lovely that you found us, Arthur. We don’t have many visitors these days. We tend to enjoy our own company.”
Lord Graystock nodded. “I’m sure my wife must get fed up of seeing my ugly mug day in and day out.”
“Never.” Kate laughed. “How could I?”
She returned a few minutes later with the water and passed it to Arthur. He drank it in one and watched how the Graystocks sat holding hands. Sometimes he and Miriam would hold hands when they walked, but rarely in the house. He suddenly felt the need to tell his hosts something about his wife. He gave a small cough first, to ready himself. “Me and Miriam liked the simple things in life, too. We were rarely apart. We liked visiting stately homes together. She would have loved it here.”
“I’m just sorry I can’t remember her.” Lord Graystock slurred a little.
“Yes.” Arthur shut his eyes and the room began to spin. He opened them again.
“Never mind, let’s open another bottle of something, shall we? Whiskey, perhaps?” Lord Graystock stood and promptly stumbled over a cushion.
Kate stood up and pulled him close. “I think that’s enough for one night,” she said firmly. “Our guest may want to go to bed.”
“I rather think I do,” Arthur said. “It’s been a lovely evening but I’m definitely ready to go to sleep.”
*
Arthur was glad that Kate placed his arm around her shoulders to show him upstairs. The alcohol had gone to his ankle, so he could hardly feel the twist as he made his way to the bedroom. The scratches on his arm stung but not massively so. His bandage looked pristine and so white. Pretty. And strangely he felt like singing.
His room was painted orange with black stripes. But of course, Arthur thought as he flopped onto the bed. Tiger stripes—what else?
Kate brought him a mug of hot milk. “I’ll look through some old photos and see if I can find any reference to your wife, though it is such a long time ago.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble...”
“It’s no trouble at all. I was quite a photographer back in my day, before being Lady Graystock became a full-time role. I’ve not looked at our old photos for quite a while. Your search gives me a good reason to. I like a trip down memory lane.”
“Thank you. This might help.” Arthur took out his wallet. He handed Kate a black-and-white photo of Miriam. He had taken it on their honeymoon. It was battered around the edges and a diagonal crease ran through Miriam’s hair, but he had always loved that photograph. His wife had one of those unique faces that you could never grow bored of looking at. She had a slight Roman nose and eyes that invited you to talk to her. Her walnut hair was brushed into a small beehive and she wore a smart white sheath dress.
“I’ll see what I can find. Graystock is a real hoarder. He doesn’t throw anything away, so we might be lucky.”
Arthur lay awake and thought for a while of how Graystock and Kate had a closer relationship with their feline friends than he had with Dan and Lucy. He had always thought that cats were terribly sneaky, though perhaps that was just the ones who soiled his rockery. He snuggled down in the bed and wondered if Miriam had slept in this room and what had brought her to the manor. What did she do here?
As he drifted off to sleep he pictured her running around the gardens barefoot, the tigers circling and keeping her safe.
The Photograph
THE NEXT MORNING there was a knock on his bedroom door. Arthur was awake but drowsing, wondering if the past twenty-four hours had been a strange dream. The paintings of tigers surrounding him, his orange bedclothes, his throbbing ankle, his scratched arm, all added to the curiousness. He pulled up the blanket to his neck. “Hello,” he called out.
Kate entered. She passed him a cup of tea. “How is my patient?”
He pressed his arm. It stung, but it was a dull rather than sharp pain. When he rotated his ankle it felt stiff rather than sore. Kate’s nursing skills had worked. “Not bad,” he said.
Catching sight of a black lacquered clock topped with a brass tiger on his bedside table, he saw that it was already past ten. The time made him feel disorientated and rather grumpy. His routine had flown out the window again. He couldn’t ever possibly catch up. He liked to plan and know what was lined up for the day, hour by hour, before it started. He was late for his breakfast. He was missing watering Frederica.
He also realized that he had left his mobile phone in his suitcase. Somewhere in the countryside a bush would play “Greensleeves” if anyone rang him. He reached up and winced as he felt bristles poking through his chin. His teeth felt sticky from alcohol.
“I have washed most of the grass stains out of your shirt and brought a fresh pair of trousers for you. I couldn’t repair yours. Graystock doesn’t fit into these ones now. Come down to breakfast when you are ready. There is a bathroom next door so feel free to bathe.”