“No.” She stared out of the window.
Arthur looked outside, too. Frederica was still sitting happily in the rockery. The fences were still too high. He thought that Bernadette might mention the garden or the weather, but she didn’t. He racked his brain for something to say, especially as she seemed very upset over a broken pie. The only thing they really had in common was food. “When I was in London,” he said. “I ate a sausage sandwich while I sat on the grass. It was greasy, it was covered in ketchup and it had these stringy, brown onions on it. It was the best thing I’d tasted in ages. Apart from your pies, of course. Miriam thought it was the height of bad manners to eat hot food outside in public, especially walking and eating. I felt guilty but a certain sense of freedom, too.”
Bernadette turned away from the window. “Carl insisted on roast beef every Sunday. He used to have it when he was a kid. I did turkey once and he was so upset. To him I was insulting his family tradition. Beef on a Sunday was a comfort. I was questioning his whole upbringing when I cooked that turkey. When he died I carried on making roast beef in his memory, but I never liked it. Then one day, I couldn’t face it. I made myself a cheddar and pickled onion sandwich instead. I could hardly swallow it because it felt like I was betraying his memory. But the next week I made it again. And it was the best sandwich I’d ever tasted. Now I eat what I want whenever I want it. But I’d never have changed all those roast beef lunches because, although the food wasn’t what I wanted, Carl was the man I wanted to eat it with.”
They were both silent for a few moments, thinking about their spouses.
“I’ve got some nice cheddar from the village,” Arthur said. “And I always have pickled onions in. I can make us both a sandwich and we could have your wimberry pie for afters.”
Bernadette stared at him. He couldn’t read her expression. “You know, this is the first time you’ve ever invited me to eat with you?”
“Is it?”
“Yes. It’s very nice of you, Arthur. But I don’t want to take up your time.”
“You’re not taking up my time. I thought it would be nice to eat lunch together.”
“It’s a breakthrough that you’re doing this. That you’re thinking about socializing.”
“It isn’t a scientific experiment. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Then I shall accept your invitation.”
There was something different about her today. She usually moved quickly and with purpose. Today she seemed slower and reflective, as if she was thinking about everything too much. He had expected a battle for control of the kitchen with her insisting on peering through the oven door every few minutes while he sat and read the paper. But when he got the cheese out of the fridge she said she would look around the garden. She wandered around while he cut a couple of oven bottom muffins in half and applied a thick layer of butter.
It was the first time he had eaten with anyone in the house since Miriam had gone, and it actually felt nice to have company. Bernadette usually stood guard to make sure he ate the sausage rolls and pies she brought. She didn’t join him.
He again recalled guiltily the number of times he had hidden from her, cursing as her produce landed on his doormat as he posed like a National Trust statue. She was a saint. How she had put up with his behavior and not given up on him, he didn’t know.
“Lunch is ready,” he called from the back door when he had cut the muffins in four and put them on a plate with a few plain crisps. But Bernadette didn’t move. She stared out over the fields, her eyes fixed on the spire of York Minster.
He pulled on his slippers and walked out onto the gravel. “Bernadette? Lunch is ready.”
“Lunch?” For a moment she frowned, her thoughts elsewhere. “Oh, yes.”
They sat at the table. Since Miriam had died he didn’t usually bother with how food looked—he just tipped it on a plate and ate it—but he was pleased with how the sandwiches had turned out. He had cut them evenly and left a small gap between each quarter. Bernadette sat in the seat that used to be Miriam’s. She took up more room than his wife. She was colorful, too, reminding him of a parrot with her red hair and purple blouse. She had green nails today, the color of the emerald in the elephant charm’s howdah.
“So, you went to Paris?”
Arthur nodded. He told her about Sylvie and the wedding boutique and how Lucy had met a nice waiter. He had wrapped Bernadette’s lavender bag in pink tissue paper and he handed it to her now, before they had finished.
“What is this?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“It’s just a small gift, to say thanks.”
“For what?”
Arthur shrugged. “You’re always so helpful.”
She opened it, turned it around in her hands and held it to her nose. “It’s a lovely gift,” she said.
He had expected her to give him a big smile and squeeze his arm. Something ebbed away inside him when she did not. It was only a small present but a big gesture for him to give it to her. He wanted to show that he appreciated her, that he liked her, that he valued her friendship. He had invested a lot of his feelings into that little bag. But how was she to know that? He wished that he had added a thoughtful note, especially as she might be going through a difficult time. His mouth grew dry as he tried to find the words instead. “You’re a very kind person,” he managed.
“Thank you, Arthur.”
They finished their lunch. However, his mind wasn’t still. His insides felt churned up and he wasn’t sure if the sandwich and pie would stay put in his stomach for long. He found that as well as worrying about Bernadette he was also itching for Sonny to ring him, to answer all his questions.
“Did you ever wonder what Carl’s life was like before you met?” he asked as casually as he could.
Bernadette raised an eyebrow but answered, anyway. “He was thirty-five when we met, so of course there’d been other women. He had been married before, too. I didn’t question him as I didn’t want to know, if that’s what you mean. I don’t suppose it mattered if he’d been with two women before me or twenty. It’s Nathan I feel sorry for. He was so young to lose his father.”
Arthur knew he could confide in this dignified woman—his friend, even if she was a little distant today. It didn’t yet seem the right time to mention her appointments.
“Is there something you want to say to me?” she prompted.
Arthur closed his eyes and saw himself sitting naked on a stool, his body white and crinkled. He saw Miriam smiling seductively for her portrait painter. “I...” he started, then broke off, unable to find the words, unsure if he wanted to speak them. “I just wonder why Miriam stayed with me. I mean, look at me. I’m nothing to look at. I had no ambitions, no drive. I don’t paint or write or create. I was a bloody locksmith. She must have been so bored.”
Bernadette frowned, surprised by his outpour. “Why would she be bored? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He sighed. He was fed up of this now, fed up of this mystery. “She had such an exciting life before she met me. And she didn’t tell me about it. She hid it away from me. All the time we were together I wonder if she was thinking back to her life of India, tigers, artists and novelists and she was stuck with boring old me. She got pregnant and had to settle for the life that I gave her when really she wanted to be doing something else.” Embarrassingly he found tears pricking his eyes.
Bernadette was still, her voice calm. “You’re never boring, Arthur. Having kids and being a grown-up is an adventure in itself. I saw the two of you once at a church fair. I saw the way you looked at each other. She saw you as her protector. I remember thinking that you belonged together.”
“When was that?” he challenged.
“A few years ago.”
“You were probably mistaken.”