Sebastian flicked to the page. “It was written in 1963. This was the same year you think Fran?ois and your wife were friends?”
Arthur nodded. He didn’t want to read the words, to see if they uncovered what had gone on between the novelist and his wife, but he knew he had to look, to know.
“Keep it. He has a good ten copies. He always was a fan of his own work. I do not like his work. It is so...overwrought. So dramatic. I love him because I remember what he was, but I hate him because he keeps me here. I am like a bird in a gilded cage.”
“You should contact social services.”
“I am illegal. I do not exist. I cannot give my name. I do not have a number. I am invisible and must remain so. I am a nonperson. I have only two choices in my life—to stay or to go. If I go, where will this be?” He threw up his hands. “I have nowhere. I do not know what I am without him.”
Arthur suddenly felt full of responsibility for this young pink-haired man whose life was on hold because of an old man who had always been selfish. “You must find out. You are young. You have your full life in front of you. You are missing out on adventure and experiences and love. Leave a note, send a letter, make an anonymous phone call, but you must live your own life. You will find someone. Do not settle for anyone who hurts you. Find someone who loves you, who is perhaps your own age.” He wondered where his words came from. The last time he tried to advise Dan on his science homework, his son had snatched the workbook away. (“Don’t tell me what to do. That’s Mum’s job. You’re never around.”)
Arthur had stared at him, stunned at the outburst. He wasn’t around as much as Miriam, but he could still support his children. After that he kept his mouth firmly shut and left homework to the rest of the family. Miriam was the empathetic one, the one who “understood.” He knew his place, which was to go out to work and provide.
“Thank you, Arthur.” Sebastian leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I hope that I have helped you.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Arthur had never been kissed by a man before, except toddler kisses by his son. If felt strange, unwelcome, really. But at least he felt useful.
It had been a long day. He hadn’t found what he expected. He wondered if Miriam had felt trapped in their marriage as Sebastian was here. He took hold of Sebastian’s arm, gently, below the bruising. “If you want to go, go now,” he whispered. “I will stay here. I will make the arrangements for Mr. De Chauffant. He will be fine.”
Sebastian froze, considering Arthur’s offer. He shook his head. “I cannot ask that of you. I can’t leave him. Not yet, anyway. But I will think about your words. You are a kind man. Your wife was lucky, I think.”
“I was the lucky one.”
“I hope you find what you are looking for in the book.”
“I hope that things work out well for you.”
The sky was sapphire blue when Arthur left the house. Lights were on in each of the houses in the crescent, giving a glimpse of the people’s lives inside. As he walked away from De Chauffant’s house, he saw a girl with a black bob taking a piano lesson; two teenage boys stood on the windowsill in the front room flicking the “V” sign at passersby, and a woman with blond hair and black roots wrestled one baby carrier into her house, then another. “Twins,” she shouted to him. “Double the trouble.”
Arthur wondered if the neighbors knew what was going on at Number 56: that a young immigrant boy was looking after his ill, elderly former partner, who was once a prominent writer. He could not tell anyone; he could not compromise Sebastian’s situation. It wasn’t his business.
He found a bench opposite a square where a couple and their English bull terrier were enjoying a picnic in the dark. They drank from the neck of a bottle of Prosecco.
The bench was well illuminated by a streetlamp, and when Arthur sat and opened the book, the pages glowed orange. Running his finger down the index he found the poem “Ma Chérie.”
Ma Chérie
Your laugh tinkles, your eyes twinkle.
How can I ever be alone without you?
You help me live, you hear me cry
Yet your lips do not spill, they do not lie.
A lithe body, chestnut hair
India, and to me.
Yet you say you do not see
And that matters greatly to me.
A brief romance but so vital.
Our fingers touch and you know
Your importance to me, your glow.
Togetherness.
Ma Chérie
Arthur shut the book. He felt sick. There was no doubt the poem was about his wife, even if De Chauffant preferred men. The references to her hair and where she had lived before were obvious.
It was evident to him that this had been a major love affair—one full of passion and which compelled De Chauffant to pen a poem. Arthur had never written letters to his wife, let alone a poem.
If you don’t want to find woodlice, don’t go looking under wood. His mother had said that to him once. The memory flooded back. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to remember when and where, but all other details evaded him. He wished that he could be with her now, a small boy again with no worries or responsibilities. But when he opened his eyes he saw his own wrinkled hands grasping the book.
So, now he knew about the book charm, and the elephant and the tiger. There was still the paint palette, ring, flower, the thimble and the heart.
He was an old man sitting on a bench in London. He had a sore ankle and an aching feeling of emptiness from leaving Sebastian behind in his book-lined prison, but he had to carry on his quest.
He closed the book of poetry and left it on the bench. As he walked away he couldn’t help but wonder which little charm he’d find out about next.
Lucy the Second
ARTHUR DIDN’T HAVE a plan. He hadn’t thought beyond finding De Chauffant. He had a few toiletries in his rucksack but hadn’t booked into a hotel for the night, half expecting to travel back home that evening. It was late now, gone ten. He had handwritten out the train times to return home to York, but he didn’t fancy getting on board a night bus to take him to King’s Cross station, or tackling the tube for the first time.
He walked the streets until he no longer had any inkling where he was, or even who he was. Images and snippets of conversations ran through his head. Sebastian’s eye peeping through the door was juxtaposed with watching Miriam in bed as she slept on their honeymoon. In his mind, he wiped away a tear as he dropped Dan off at school for the first time, but then he saw the man at the Pearly Queen café trying to decide which of his two lovers to marry.
He was once Arthur Pepper, beloved husband of Miriam and devoted dad to Dan and Lucy. It was so simple. But now he said that to himself, it sounded like a bog-standard obituary. What was he now? Miriam’s widower? No. There had to be more to him than that. He couldn’t be defined by his wife’s death. Where would he go to next? What would his next clue be?
He was too tired to think, annoyed at the things whirring around in his mind. Please stop, he thought as he trudged around yet another corner. He found himself on a lively street. A group of kids were hanging around outside a fast-food place, eating stringy pizza from a cardboard box and pushing one another into the road. A black cab slammed on its brakes and honked its horn. The kids jeered. Tables of tourist merchandise still lined the streets. Pashminas two for ￡10, phone chargers, T-shirts, guidebooks.
The sounds and sights filled Arthur’s head even more. He wanted to lie down somewhere quiet and let his brain process the events of the day, to think what to do next.
Along the street there was a small sign on a door. Hostel. Without thinking he walked inside.