All the time he spoke, Nathan stared at his phone. He wriggled both thumbs on the screen.
Bernadette brought three cups of coffee in. “Are you boys having a nice chat? I’ll make myself scarce, then.”
Arthur stared after her helplessly as she left the room. What could he possibly have in common with this young man? He obviously didn’t want to speak about work or university. In the end he said, “Who on earth is MC Hammer?”
Nathan looked up. “He’s an American rap artist from the eighties. He wore baggy trousers with a low crotch like the ones that you’re wearing. He’s a preacher or holy man now.” He moved his fingers around his phone again, then held up the screen.
Arthur looked at a photo of a black man wearing glasses and voluminous silver trousers. “Ahh,” he said. “So, do you like music?”
Nathan nodded. “Mainly rock. But I like really old stuff, too, like the Beatles.”
“I think I actually have an old Beatles album somewhere. You can have it if you like. It’s a vinyl record, though. You’d need a record player to listen to it.”
“Mum has one in the attic. What is it called?”
“Rubber Soul, I think.”
Nathan nodded. “I have it as a download but it would be good to listen to vinyl. I didn’t think you’d like the Beatles.”
“Miriam liked them more than I did. She was a John Lennon fan. I always appreciated Paul McCartney more.”
“That kind of figures. George Harrison was the coolest, though.”
Arthur edged a couple of inches along the sofa. “Can you look anything up on your phone? Is it like a library?”
“Kind of.”
“Can you look something up for me?”
“Sure.”
“I’m looking for a French novelist. His name is Fran?ois De Chauffant. I want to know where he lives.”
Nathan tapped his phone screen. “Simples,” he said.
Arthur took the phone from him. There was a small, square photo of a white stucco-fronted maisonette. It looked very grand. Underneath there was an address in London. “Is this address current?”
Nathan tapped around a bit more. “It’s the only one for him, unless he’s gone back to France. Well, actually, he’s from Belgium originally. His family moved to Nice when he was a small child.”
“Does it say all that on your phone?”
“I knew some of it. We studied De Chauffant in class. He’s one of the most influential novelists of the sixties. His novel Stories We Tell is a classic. Have you heard of it?”
“I have actually.” Arthur thought of Kate’s tale of how he had stolen it from Graystock and wondered what man would do such a thing.
Nathan took his phone back. “Do you have your own mobile with you? I can Bluetooth you the link.”
“I’ll just write it down,” Arthur said. He found a pen and scrap of paper in his suitcase. “Can you read it out for me? My eyesight isn’t very good.”
Nathan rolled his eyes but he read the address out in a flat voice. “Did you really get attacked by a tiger?” he said as Arthur slipped the address into his back pocket.
Arthur nodded, then unfastened the wrist button on his shirt and rolled up his sleeve. The padding that Kate had taped in place was just about hanging on. Blood had seeped through and dried leaving rust-colored stripes. He saw Nathan’s eyes widen but then the young man seemed to remember that it wasn’t cool to show any interest. He shrugged and slumped back.
Bernadette appeared again, this time holding a plate of jam puffs. “I’ve made these while you were chatting,” she said. “You just roll out the puff pastry, cut it into squares and add a blob of jam in the center of each. Then pop it in the oven and voilà! It’s a very simple recipe. Now, eat them while they are still warm.”
Arthur and Nathan both reached out to take a jam puff at the same time. They sat and blew on them, then ate.
“Nathan and I are thinking of visiting Manchester next week.” Bernadette settled on the sofa beside Arthur. “You are welcome to join us again, if you fancy another outing. I hear it’s a vibrant city. The English course at the university is supposed to be superb.”
Arthur picked up his cup of coffee, which had now gone cold. “Actually, I was thinking of maybe trying London out next,” he said. “There’s a novelist’s house that I’d like to visit. I think that my wife might have been connected to him in some way.”
He wasn’t sure if under his thick black bangs Nathan raised an eyebrow, but Arthur thought that he might have done.
London
LONDON WAS A SURPRISE, a delight even. Arthur expected to find a gray and impersonal city with buildings weighing down on him and blank Munch-like faces of disillusioned office workers. But it was vibrant, how he imagined a foreign land.
The weather was close and hot down here. Everything moved, a kaleidoscope of sounds and colors and shapes. Cabs honked their horns, bicycles whizzed by, pigeons strutted, people shouted. He heard more languages than he knew existed. He felt like he was at the center of a carousel, motionless, unnoticed, as the world whizzed around him.
Surprisingly he wasn’t overwhelmed, even when strangers bumped into him without apologizing. He wasn’t part of this strange world. He was a visitor, transient, and knew he could return to the safety of his home. This made him feel braver, intrepid.
He’d got off the train at King’s Cross and decided to walk as much as he could. The map he bought from the station made everything look close to hand.
He’d decided that his usual trousers were a bit too hot for a train journey and trip around the capital, so he’d washed, ironed and worn the blue trousers given to him by Kate Graystock. Bernadette had given him a voucher for a walking shop in Scarborough and he had ventured beyond the village and paid a visit. There he purchased a navy nylon rucksack with lots of pockets, a flask and a compass, also a pair of walking sandals. They were sturdy but would keep his feet cool.
He strode ahead with his ankle strapped tightly with bandages. His blue trousers weren’t anything out of the ordinary here as he walked alongside a girl with pink hair and a man who had holes in his ears that could fit a Coca-Cola can through. He saw a poodle with a purple pom-pom tail and a man who rode down the pavement on a unicycle while talking on his mobile phone.
The sight of the man reminded him that he hadn’t yet spoken to Lucy since he’d left a garbled message from the back of Bernadette’s car. There had been just twenty-four hours between his return from Graystock Manor and setting off on the trip to London. He had called her twice but got her answer message. He wondered if she was avoiding him or was too busy to speak.
He carried on striding out, taking in the sights and sounds, but he found that the more he walked, the more feelings of embarrassment and regret began to set in.
When Miriam once suggested a week in London for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, catching a show and maybe a lunch in Covent Garden, he had laughed. Laughed. Why did she want to go to London? he said. It was dirty and smelly and too busy and too big. It was just a bigger version of Newcastle or Manchester. There were pickpockets and beggars on every corner. Eating out would cost a fortune.
“It was just a thought,” Miriam said lightly. She hadn’t seemed too bothered that he had dismissed her suggestion out of hand.
He regretted it now. They should have visited new places together, had new experiences when the kids got older. They should have grasped the opportunity to do what they wanted to do and expand their horizons, especially now he knew that Miriam had lived a fuller, more exciting life before they met. He had stifled her. He had been so set in his ways.