Arthur thought back to the photos of himself at this time. He hadn’t slicked back his hair, or worn tight trousers. He never wore black. It was too rebellious or dark. Just from this photo, Fran?ois De Chauffant symbolized danger and antiestablishment. He looked exciting and tempestuous. How had Miriam gone from this man to Arthur? Had De Chauffant and his wife been lovers? It was a question that he didn’t want to ask.
When he’d met Miriam she seemed so pure. They hadn’t made love until their wedding night and he never imagined that there had been anyone else. But now he had to reassess. He tried to remember their dates but nothing had given him the impression that Miriam was experienced, that she’d had a passionate love affair with a French writer. He felt as if someone had tied his intestines in a knot.
He tried to fathom out where such emotion had come from. He’d never had need to be jealous. His wife didn’t flirt with other men. If he ever did see a man eyeing her with interest, as men did, then he felt rather proud.
Kate laid her hand on his shoulder.
“This is Miriam. I’m sure of it,” Arthur said.
“She is very pretty. I do not remember her, though.”
They looked at the bracelet together. Kate touched the book charm. “A book. De Chauffant was a writer. It could be...”
Arthur was thinking the same thing. He pinched the charm between his thumb and forefinger.
“Have you opened the book?” Kate asked.
Arthur frowned. “Opened it?”
“There is a tiny clasp on the side.”
The more closely Arthur looked at the book, the more blurred it appeared. He wished he had brought his eyeglass. He hadn’t spotted the tiny clasp. Kate bent and rummaged in a kitchen cupboard and produced a large magnifying glass. “This should do the trick.”
They peered through it together and Kate unfastened the book. It fell open to reveal a single page, in gold not paper. On it was inscribed Ma Chérie.
“It means my darling,” Kate said.
Arthur suspected as much. He stared again at the photo of his wife gazing adoringly at this other man.
“Take the photograph,” Kate insisted. “Graystock wouldn’t be happy that we had a photo of this intolerable man in the house.”
Arthur nodded. “Do you have an envelope?” He didn’t want the photo to press against his body. He needed some distance from it.
“Are you going to try and find him?”
Arthur swallowed. He could just go home. He could sit and watch TV with his leg raised on a pouf, resting his ankle, taking it easy, applying ointment to his arm. Bernadette would be around with pies and savories each day, keeping an eye on him. Terry across the road would mow his lawn and the red-haired kids would pelt past his front door. Life could return to normal. He might even go back to Men in Caves and make something for the house, perhaps a wooden coaster for his mug of tea.
Except that everything wouldn’t be normal again, because this search had stirred something inside him. This was no longer just about Miriam. It was about himself, too.
He was experiencing emotions he didn’t know existed. He had begun to discover people and animals that excited him. He wasn’t ready to rot away in his armchair, mourning his wife and waiting for his children to call, and filling his days with plant-watering and TV.
And so even if the emotion he felt for this De Chauffant bloke was apprehension and jealousy, it made him feel alive. He needed a jolt to his system. Something to shake him out of the cozy prison he had created for himself. In a home where memories of Miriam were still fresh, he needed something else. He would go home to see that Frederica was fine and watered and pick up some more clothes. Then he would continue his journey.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m going to find him.”
*
In the car Arthur didn’t feel like speaking. Kate said that she had no idea if De Chauffant was even alive, and even if he was, then she didn’t care. She didn’t bat an eyelid as Arthur asked to be dropped off next to a bush on the B road. “I can run you to the station,” she said.
Arthur shook his head. “This is fine.”
Really he had no idea how he was going to get back to the station. He could only hobble a short distance and his arm really stung. He was sure that he would get home, though, somehow.
He stepped out onto the side of the road and said thank you to Kate. He shook her hand and assured her once more that he would not sue the Graystock estate. Pausing for a moment he wondered whether to give her a kiss or to tell her how he was feeling, but instead he said, “Cheerio, then,” and gave her a wave.
If he concentrated on walking with his toes pointing out like a penguin instead of letting them turn in, as they usually did, then that helped his ankle. He traced his footsteps to the gap in the bush. The wind, which had been absent yesterday, whistled through his blue trousers, giving him a drafty sensation around his nether regions. He tugged at his suitcase and saw that the corner now had a large hole in it. The nylon was torn and frayed. Who on earth would vandalize an old man’s suitcase? He looked out beyond into the field behind the bush. His toiletry bag lay covered in dew on the grass; a tube of toothpaste was trodden into the mud. In the distance a herd of goats stared at him. One of them seemed to be munching on a mustard piece of fabric. His bloody sweater-vest.
Just then an electronic blast of “Greensleeves” rang out. He stuck his hand into the hole in the suitcase and pulled out his mobile. He had twelve missed calls. Bernadette’s name was listed on-screen for all of them except one from Lucy. In other circumstances, he might have pretended not to hear Bernadette’s call, but his heart leaped as he pressed the green phone button. “Hello, Arthur Pepper speaking. How may I help you?”
“Arthur. Thank God it’s you. Where are you? You’ve not been answering your phone.”
He found her concern touching, that anyone could care for him. “I’m fine,” he said. “I lost my case with my phone inside. I’m just picking it up now.”
Bernadette explained that she and Nathan had stayed another night in the B and B. They were about to set off back home and would he like a lift?
There was nothing that Arthur had wanted more for a long time. “Yes, please,” he said. “I’m on the B road leading to Graystock Manor. Look out for my electric blue trousers.”
Lucy and Dan
THE NEXT LUNCHTIME at school Lucy picked up her voice mail on her mobile and found that her Dad had left a rambling message about his visit to Graystock. She’d been out the day before with her two friends Clara and Annie, who had talked continuously about their kids, so had missed his call. His message broke up constantly, his voice cutting in and out. She could hear road traffic and rock music. Also a woman’s voice asking if anyone wanted to stop for sandwiches. Lucy stuck a finger in one ear and frowned as she tried to make out her father’s words. At one point she thought he said that he’d been attacked by a tiger. She shook her head and tried to call him back but a snooty man told her that the phone was unavailable.
Attacked by a tiger? Lucy had a vision of her dad slumped on the ground, dead, as a huge cat chewed on his leg. Had she really heard correctly? Was he feeling okay?
Since they had spoken on the phone, when her dad said he’d gone off with Bernadette, she had been plagued with worries about his health. It was so unlike him to take off like that. And now he was leaving messages about tigers. Perhaps she might have to consider giving up her teaching job at some stage in the future, to spend more time keeping an eye on him. She might have to move back into her old bedroom to care for him full-time.
Of course she would do it. She loved him. But the more she had to commit to looking after her dad, the further her dreams of starting her own family would fade. A woman who lived with her aging dad would hardly be an attractive proposition if she posted a profile on Match.com.