He had to forgive and forget. There was no other way.
He hugged himself and walked into the wind until he reached a beach café. He saw that the dark clouds were blowing over. The sun peeked through. Raindrops sparkled along the edge of the blue-and-white-striped canopy. Puddles on the pavement shone like mirrors.
A couple opened the door and made their way inside. They had a fox terrier with them, its fur wet and curled. Water dribbled down their waterproof trousers and coats. “I’m just as wet as they are,” he told himself, but thought what Miriam might say. “You can’t go in in that state.” But he could go in. He shivered as a welcome warm jet of air blasted his cheeks as he stepped inside.
“Gosh. Just look at you,” a lady in a cheerful yellow apron said to him. “Let’s dry you off a bit.” She disappeared behind the counter, then brought him a fluffy sky blue towel. “Rub yourself down.” She handed the couple a scruffier towel for their dog. “It’s as miserable as sin out there. Did you get caught out while you were walking? The weather can just turn like that.” She snapped her fingers. “One minute everything is lovely and then it all goes dark and gloomy. The sun always comes out, though, love. I think we’re at that stage now. It will be bright soon.”
Arthur used the towel to blot and wipe and rub himself. He was still soaking wet but his face was dry. He saw a young couple share a hot chocolate. The girl had dark hair like Miriam and the boy was skinny with too much hair. Their drink was in a tall glass and topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. When the lady in the yellow apron came to take his order he asked for one, too. It arrived with a chocolate flake on the side and a long spoon. He sat in the window and watched the raindrops on the glass. He scooped up the cream and savored every mouthful, blowing and sipping at the hot syrupy liquid.
When he was finished, he jumped on the train at the station, and then onto the bus home. His clothes clung to him, swishing as he walked. As he neared the house his mobile vibrated in his pocket. Bernadette had left a text message. Call me, it said.
Memories
ARTHUR’S HALLWAY WAS DARK, CHILLY. He stared at Bernadette’s text message. It was stark and to the point. Oh, God, no, was his first thought. He hoped she was okay. He would strip off his wet clothes and then ring her.
As he had predicted, there were no birthday cards waiting for him. Lucy would be at school marking books. Bernadette might still be at the hospital. He was on his own.
Placing his keys on the shelf near the fabric potpourri leaf, he paused. He thought he heard a rustling sound. Strange. He stood still for a while, listening. After blaming his age for hearing things that weren’t there, he pushed the door to the front room open in small increments. But then something made his heart almost stop.
In silhouette against the window he saw a shape. It was hulky—a man. It didn’t move.
A burglar.
Arthur opened his mouth to shout, to scream, whatever sound he could make, but nothing came out. He had locked the door behind him and didn’t want to turn and fiddle for his keys. Why me? he thought. I don’t have anything. I’m a silly old man.
But then his resilience kicked in. He had been through too much to let a stranger in his house ruin things further. He was glad that Miriam wasn’t there. She would have been scared. He stepped forward and spoke loudly into the darkness. “I have nothing here of value. If you leave now, then I won’t call the police.”
There was a thump from the kitchen. An accomplice. Arthur’s mouth grew dry. He was surely defeated. Two intruders were not going to listen to him, be reasoned with. He felt around for something heavy with which to arm himself. All he could find was an umbrella and he clutched the pointed end ready to thwack the strangers with the handle. He strained forward to peer through the gap in the door and braced himself for a blow to the head.
Behind him, the light in the kitchen flicked on. He blinked, feeling thrown off balance.
“Surprise!” a chorus of voices rang out. There was a group of people in his dining room. He stumbled and tried to focus on their faces, to see who his intruders were. Then he saw Bernadette wearing a white apron. Terry was there, without the tortoise. The two red-haired kids who didn’t wear shoes were there. “Happy birthday, Dad.” Lucy appeared and enveloped him in her arms.
Arthur dropped his weapon. “I thought that you’d forgotten.”
“We’ve been here waiting for ages in the dark. I texted you,” Bernadette said.
“I was just about to ring you. Is everything okay?”
“Let’s talk later,” she said. “It’s your birthday.”
“You’re soaking wet.” Lucy gasped. “Terry said he saw you go out for the day. We thought you’d be home by now...”
“I needed to get out. I...oh, Lucy.” He hugged her again. “I miss your mum...”
“I know, Dad. Me, too.”
Their foreheads touched.
Rings of water had formed around Arthur’s feet on the carpet. His blue trousers were cling-filmed to his legs. His coat was heavy with water. “I went for a walk. I got caught out with the weather.”
“Come on. Get out of those clothes and join us,” Lucy said. “But don’t go into the front room yet.”
“There’s a man in there,” he said. “I thought he was a burglar...”
“That was going to be your big birthday surprise,” Lucy said. She looked over her father’s shoulder. “But I suppose you can have it now.”
“Hello, Dad.”
Arthur couldn’t believe his ears. He turned mechanically to see his son standing with his arms outstretched. “D-Dan...” he stuttered. “Is it really you?”
Dan nodded. “Lucy called me. I wanted to come.”
Time fell away. Arthur just wanted to hold his son again, be close to him. When Dan had left for Australia the two men had only managed to give each other a friendly slap on the back. Now they held each other tightly, there in the hallway. Arthur relished the feel of his son’s bristled chin on top of his head, his strong arms. The guests were quiet, allowing father and son to savor the moment.
Dan broke away and held Arthur at arm’s length. “What the hell are you wearing, Dad?”
Arthur looked down at his blue trousers and laughed. “It’s a long story,” he said.
“I’m here for a week. I wish it could be longer.”
“That should just be about long enough to tell you what I’ve been up to.”
When he went upstairs to change, he could hear chattering and laughter downstairs. He had never really enjoyed parties or family gatherings, feeling uncomfortable that he had nothing amusing or interesting to say. He would stand in the kitchen and top up people’s drinks or attack the nibbles while Miriam did the socializing. But now, he liked the sound of other people in the house. It was friendly, warm. It was what he had been yearning for.
From his wardrobe he instinctively took out his usual slacks and a shirt. He laid them on the bed and peeled off his wet outfit. But then he stared at the clothes on the bed. Those old-man trousers scratched his ankles and cut into his waist when he sat down. The way he dressed was yet another routine, a widower’s uniform. The clothes he had bought in Paris with Lucy were a little formal so he rummaged at the bottom of the wardrobe. There he found an old pair of Dan’s jeans before he grew Popeye legs, and a sweatshirt with Superdry written on the front. He found this amusing because he was actually still superwet. He dried himself off with his towel, rubbed his hair, pulled on the clothes and went downstairs.
In the dining room the farmhouse kitchen table had been laid with a buffet—sausage rolls, crisps, grapes, sandwiches and salad. A shiny seventieth birthday banner was taped across the wall. On his chair sat a small pile of cards and presents.