Why is he involving himself like this? Is it some kind of power trip for him, or does he just have nothing better to do with his time? I need to stay on his good side, since he’s the only person who’s had any useful information so far, and going with him will at least save me getting the bus. So as much as it’s not what I want, I agree.
I decide to go for my walk, clear my head. I’ll get the last bit of daylight. I wrap myself up as if I’m going on an Arctic mission, but when I get outside I realise it’s milder than I expected. The wind must have dropped since this morning. It’s just grey and a bit damp.
I’m passing the little playground near the graveyard when I hear my name. When I turn, there’s Patricia, pushing one of her granddaughters on a swing while the other one sits on one end of the seesaw, trying to push up off the ground. I go over to the green metal fence.
‘Long time no see,’ she says, cheerily. ‘It’s been so crazy ever since these two descended.’
She looks tired, and I hope her daughter isn’t taking advantage of her good nature.
‘You mustn’t do too much,’ I say.
She looks puzzled. ‘Oh, you know me. I like keeping busy. And my girls certainly keep me busy, don’t you?’
The littlest one, the one on the swing, breaks into a grin as Patricia grabs the swing, holds it for a few seconds and then lets it go again.
‘Nanny’s happy, but Mummy’s sad.’
I’m not sure, at first, who said that, but then I see that the other girl has got off the seesaw and ambled over.
‘Why is Mummy sad?’ I ask.
‘Because of Geoff. He calls her every day to say sorry.’
I look from the girl’s solemn face to Patricia’s flushed one.
‘I’m not entirely sure what went on between them,’ Patricia says, looking at me. ‘They’re on the phone now. That’s why we came out for a bit of fresh air.’
‘And because I needed to show you that I can do the monkey bars,’ the older girl says.
She goes over to the climbing frame, clambers up some steps and then she’s hanging from a set of shiny metal bars, swinging from one to the next with ease, her stripy leggings bright against the lifeless day. One of her shoes falls off and her sister, still on the swing, starts laughing uncontrollably, and the older girl drops down and hops around a bit before picking the shoe up and hopping over to the bench to put it back on. All the time, Patricia is beaming, and I try to put myself in her shoes. A grandmother. Full of love for these small, irrepressible people, proud of their achievements and delighted to spend time with them. I can see it, of course I can. I’m not heartless, not a monster. I only hoped she might still have some time for me.
‘Would you like to come for a cup of tea one afternoon?’ I ask. ‘Perhaps when Julie’s there?’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she says, but she doesn’t suggest a day and I feel like it wouldn’t be right to push, so I say goodbye and walk away, and when I’m almost out of earshot I hear her laugh and even though I know it’s probably a result of something one of the girls has said or done, I can’t help but feel like maybe she’s laughing at me. Old, and alone, and thinking we were friends.
The final stretch before home is like walking into the sunset and it hits me that I haven’t gone outside to see it for weeks. And that realisation makes me feel removed from Arthur. He rarely missed one, liked to see the colours in the sky and say goodbye to the day. It was something we did together, when we could. He’d take hold of my hand and we’d watch it in silence.
Once, a couple of years ago in spring, when we’d seen the most spectacular display of pinks and reds and it had seemed ridiculous that there were people inside their houses, not watching, he’d said this: ‘I wouldn’t choose any other life, Mabel. You and me, and Olly, and the sunset. That’s me content.’
It’s later, after I’ve eaten my tea, when I remember another one, a sunset that looked like someone had painted it. Dot and Bill were walking ahead, on the way to the dance hall, and I saw him reach for her hand. Arthur was beside me, mostly quiet. And then he spoke.
‘Who could ever be fed up of a world like this one?’
I turned to look at him, and a few strands of hair got caught in my lipstick, obscuring my view. He gestured at the sky, swept his arm from side to side.
‘That view,’ he said. ‘I could look at it forever.’
I thought it was romantic. I put it in the mental list I was keeping, of reasons to be with Arthur Beaumont, if he asked me. And something came over me, something that was almost certainly affection but felt more like love.
‘Let’s,’ I said. It was quiet, but he heard it.
26
I’m ready half an hour before Reg is due to come, and by the time he knocks his sharp rat-a-tat on the door, I’ve packed and unpacked my handbag three times. I’ve got everything I need. All the usual things like my purse and keys, plus my spiral notebook and pen in case Cathy has information I need to write down. I open the door with my coat on and buttoned up, hoping that will make it clear I’m not inviting him to come inside.
‘Ah, Mabel, you’re all ready. Shall we, then?’
He holds out an arm and gestures to the shiny red Honda parked on the street. It’s one of those cars with ideas above its station, high up so it’s hard to get into and space in the back for lots of kids or sports equipment or suitcases. What’s Reg Bishop doing with a car like that? I don’t need his arm to guide me the ten or so steps to the car, so I don’t take it.
‘Where does she live?’ I ask when we’re both seated, seatbelt clicked into place. The car smells of synthetic air freshener, and I spot one of those tree things hanging from the rear-view mirror. Like his house, Reg’s car is unbearably warm, and I immediately wish I’d carried my coat rather than putting it on.
‘You know those old terraced houses behind the Red Lion?’ he asks. ‘She’s in one of them.’
‘On her own, or…’
‘Widowed,’ he says.
I can’t imagine Cathy Milton as an adult, let alone one old enough to be widowed. It’s funny, how you age and watch those around you aging, but if you come across someone you haven’t seen for decades, you struggle to imagine them having done the same.
It only takes us ten minutes or so to get to Overbury but I’m desperate to get out of the stuffy car, and it almost kills me to stay quiet through Reg’s three attempts to do a parallel park outside her house.
Cathy Milton is expecting us. I see her curtain twitch while the parking business is going on, and she opens the door before we’ve even had a chance to knock.
‘Catherine!’ Reg Bishop greets her like they’re old friends, rushing up the path to kiss her on both cheeks. She looks a little alarmed and I warm to her immediately.
‘Hello, Cathy,’ I say.