“She’s my wife,” Arthur said quietly, thinking how strange this sounded—standing with a young man admiring this naked portrait.
“Really? That is so incredible. You must bring her here to see this. Tell her that her painting helped me to paint, and meet lots of lovely young ladies, too. She’ll know Sonny, then?”
Arthur stared at him. He was about to say sorry but Miriam had passed on, but then he reconsidered. He didn’t want to hear another expression of sorrow for him, for his wife. He didn’t know her. She felt like a stranger to him now. “They were friends once, I think,” he said.
He said goodbye to Adam and walked out of the college, shielding his eyes against the bright light of the afternoon and unsure which direction to head in.
Bernadette
WHEN BERNADETTE RANG his doorbell it didn’t seem as loud as usual. It was a subdued brrriiing. Arthur was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. He automatically reached to the cupboard and took out another cup. He still hadn’t managed to have a conversation with her about Nathan’s yearning to bake and about her hospital appointments.
Before he made his way to the front door he stole a look at his Stunning Scarborough calendar. Tomorrow was his birthday. He had seen the date circled for weeks but hadn’t taken any real notice. He was going to be seventy. It was no cause for celebration—another year closer to his death.
After his visit to the college he was feeling foolish. He needed his head to be quiet, still. All his thoughts were running riot, like rowdy children, and he wanted them to stop and leave him alone. He had forgotten what it was like to have nothing on his mind other than cleaning and watering Frederica, and he was beginning to miss those days.
He couldn’t understand how Miriam could be so close to someone as to pose nude for them, and then to never mention that person to him. He racked his brains for if he had ever met anyone called Sonny. Had Miriam ever written letters to her? But he came to the conclusion that this lady was a stranger to him.
The doorbell rang again. “Yes, yes,” he called out.
It was a lovely sunny day and yellow light flooded the hallway and the dust motes shone like glitter in the air. He thought of how Miriam loved the sunshine, then dismissed it from his mind. Did she love it? How could he be sure what was right or wrong, what he knew and didn’t know any longer?
Sonny Yardley was going to be phoning in to work this week to discuss her return and Adam promised to remind her to get in touch with Arthur. He might even find a lead for the last of the charms—the ring and the heart. He just wanted to get this mission over with now, done and dusted.
“Hello, Arthur.” Bernadette stood on the doorstep.
“Hello.” He half expected her to stride inside, to inspect his hallway for dust, but she stood very still. He thought of Nathan’s words about the cancer unit appointments. He instinctively avoided eye contact in case she could sense he knew something. “Come on in,” he said.
She shook her head. “You’re probably busy. I made you this.” She proffered a pie in a paper bag on the flat of her hand. “It’s wimberry.”
He found himself listening to her tone of voice. Did she sound upset or sad? He decided to make an extraspecial effort with her today. “Ooh, wimberry. How lovely. That’s one of my favorites.”
“Good. Well, hope you enjoy it.” She made to leave.
Arthur stared after her. If she went, then he would be alone and he couldn’t trust himself not to get out the wipes and clean his worktops. He also wanted to know that she was okay. “I’m not very busy at all,” he said. “Will you join me?”
Bernadette remained still but then followed him inside.
Arthur stole a glance at her. Her eyes had dark circles under them. Her hair was a darker shade of red, almost mahogany. He couldn’t mention the appointments as it would break Nathan’s trust in him. He tried not to think about losing Miriam and how it would feel to lose someone else in his life. He supposed he was at the age now when friends and family started to get older and grow weaker. He felt the same feeling of dread as when Graystock’s tiger had stood over him, a dreadful churning of his stomach.
But he told himself he was being overdramatic. This might be just a scare, a routine check. He tried to think of something cheery to say. “Nathan said that he enjoys baking, too,” he said lightly as he looked inside the bag at the pie.
Bernadette gave a distracted, “Yes, he does.”
Arthur slid the pie onto a baking tray and switched on the oven, choosing a lowish temperature so that it wouldn’t take off. “You don’t need to bring me things any longer, you know. I’m out of the woods now. I’m not going to kill myself or sink into a sea of despair. I’m not a lost cause any longer. I’m doing good.” He turned and beamed, expecting her to do the same, to congratulate him.
“A lost cause? Is that how you see yourself?” she said crossly.
Arthur felt his cheeks grow a little pink. “Well, no. I don’t think that. It was something I overheard at the post office. Vera says that you like to look after people who are down on their luck. She calls them your lost causes.”
Bernadette lifted her chin. “Well, that silly woman has nothing else better to do than to gossip about others,” she snapped. “I’d prefer to spend my time being useful and helping others than to stand around being of no use to anyone.”
He could see that he’d offended her. She rarely took the hump at anything. “I’m sorry,” he said, his spirits fading. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was thoughtless of me.”
“I’m glad you did. And I have never seen you as a lost cause. I saw you as a lovely man who’d lost his wife and who could do with a little looking after. Is that a crime? Is it a crime when I help other people with a little bit of attention? I will not be using that post office again. That Vera can be a cruel woman sometimes.”
Arthur had never seen Bernadette so flustered. Her smile, which was usually always present, had gone. She was wearing more eyeliner than usual. The thick black lines had cracked and flaked. He didn’t want to think of them as bad signs. “The pie smells good,” he said weakly. “We could eat outside. The weather is fine.”
“It’s going to break soon.” Bernadette sniffed. “They’ve forecast storms over the next few days. Black clouds and rain.” She stood up and moved over to the cooker, studied what temperature the knob was turned to, then turned it higher. She took hold of the baking tray and opened the oven door. The pie began to slide off the tray. It glided until it hung precariously, half on and half off. They both watched as it wobbled on the edge. Slowly half began to break away. It creaked to a right angle and then dropped to the floor. The pastry smashed, scattering crumbs over the lino. Purple wimberry filling oozed from the half that remained on the tray. Bernadette’s hand trembled. Arthur moved quickly and took the tray from her.
“Whoopsa daisy,” he said. “You sit down and I’ll clean up this little mess. I’ll get the dustpan and brush.” He fetched it and his back cracked as he bent over. It was then he noticed that Bernadette’s eyes were swimming with tears. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s still a good half left. You know, I’ve never actually known what wimberries are.”
He saw Bernadette bite her cheek. “They’re also called blueberries or bilberries.” Her voice shook. “I used to pick them when I was a girl. My mother could always tell what I’d been up to when I went home with a purple tongue and purple fingers. They tasted so good, fresh from the bush. We used to put them in salt water and all these little worms came wriggling out. I used to wonder when I ate the pie if any of them were still left in there.”
“They’d have been in the oven,” Arthur said gently.
“I suppose they’d have burned rather than drowned. Not a good death either way.”
“I don’t suppose any death is a good one.” This was not a good conversation to be having.