of days. The hottest May in decades. He thought of Frederica’s soil and hoped it would stay moist.
Nathan took a yellow curl from his packet of crisps. After taking the longest time that Arthur had known anyone eat a crisp, he finally said: ‘So are you and my mum, you know …?’
Arthur waited for the next part of the sentence, which didn’t arrive. ‘I’m sorry, I …’
‘You and Mum. Are you, y’know, getting it on?’ He then affected a posh accent as he turned to face Arthur. ‘Are you dating?’
‘No.’ Arthur tried not to sound aghast. He wondered how Nathan could possibly have got this idea. ‘Definitely not. We’re just friends.’
Nathan nodded sagely. ‘So, you have a separate room at the B and B?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘I was just wondering.’
‘We are definitely just friends.’
‘I’ve noticed that she makes you the savoury stuff, pies and shit. Her others only get sweet things.’
Her other lost causes, Arthur thought. Mad Mr Flowers, housebound Mrs Monton and Co. ‘I really appreciate your mother’s efforts for me. I’ve been going through a tough time and she’s been a great help. I prefer savoury to sweet.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Nathan finished munching his crisps. He folded up the packet, tied it into a knot, then positioned it beneath his nose and wore it as a moustache. ‘My mum gets off on helping people. She’s a real saint.’
Arthur didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or not.
‘Your wife. She died, didn’t she?’ Nathan said.
‘Yes, she did.’
‘That must’ve been pretty shit, huh?’
For a second, Arthur felt like jumping over the seats into the front of the car and ripping the crisp packet out from under Nathan’s nose. How easily young people could dismiss death, as if it was some far-off country that they’d never get to visit. And how dare he talk so casually about Miriam like that. He dug his fingernails into the leather seat. His cheeks burned and he stared out of the window to avoid catching Nathan’s gaze in the vanity mirror.
A woman wearing a black T-shirt printed with a badger was dragging her screaming toddler across the car park. The little girl clutched a Happy Meal bag. An elderly lady stepped out of a red Ford Focus and began to shout too. She pointed at the bag. Three generations of family arguing over a McDonald’s hamburger.
Arthur had to answer Nathan because it would be rude not to, but he couldn’t be bothered to describe how he felt. ‘Yes. Pretty shit,’ he responded, not even realising he had sworn.
‘Here we are then.’ Thankfully, the front door opened and Bernadette manoeuvred a series of stuffed carrier bags into the footwell of the car. She then tried curving into her seat to fit herself around them. ‘Ready for off?’ she asked, fastening her seat belt.
‘What have you got in there, Mum? There’s only a MaccieD.’s and a WHSmith in that place,’ Nathan said.
‘Just some magazines, drinks, chocolatey things for the journey. You and Arthur might get hungry.’
‘I thought you had food in the boot?’
‘I know, but it’s nice to have fresh stuff.’
‘I thought we’d be getting tea at the B and B,’ Nathan said. ‘We’ll be there in an hour.’
Arthur felt uncomfortable. Bernadette was only trying to please. ‘I’m a little peckish actually,’ he said, trying to support her, even though he wasn’t hungry at all. ‘A drink and snack would be just the ticket.’
He was rewarded with a warm smile, a king-size Twix and a two-litre bottle of Coke.
His bedroom at the B and B was tiny with just enough space for a single bed, a rickety wardrobe and a chair. There was the smallest sink he had ever seen in the corner with a wrapped soap the size of a Babybel cheese. The toilet and bath (the landlady informed him) were on the next floor up. No baths after nine at night and you had to give the toilet a firm flush or else it wouldn’t get rid of all the contents.
Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in a single bed. It seemed so narrow and confirmed his status as a widower. The bedding was bright and fresh though and he sat on the side of the bed and looked through the sash window. A seagull strutted along the windowsill and there was a pleasant view of the park across the street.
Usually the first thing he and Miriam would do when they got to a room in a B and B was to have a nice cup of tea and see what type of biscuit graced the courtesy tray. They had devised a rating system together. Obviously, receiving no biscuits at all scored a big fat zero. Digestives scored a two. Custard creams were a little better, coming in at a four. Bourbons, he had originally rated as a five, but had grown to appreciate them, so upgraded them to a six. Any biscuit that tasted of chocolate without containing any had to be admired. Further up the scale were the posh biscuits usually provided by the larger hotel chains—the lemon and ginger or chocolate chip cookies, which came in at an eight. For a ten, the biscuits had to be home-made by the proprietors, and this was very rare.
Here, there was a packet of two ginger nuts. They were perfectly acceptable but the sight of them in their packet made his heart sink. He took one out and munched on it then folded over the packet and put it back on the tray. The remaining ginger nut was Miriam’s biscuit. He couldn’t bring himself to eat it.
There were still two hours before he had arranged to meet Bernadette and Nathan for their evening meal in the restaurant downstairs. He and Miriam would usually put their anoraks on and go for a walk to explore and get their bearings, to plan what they would do the next day. But he didn’t want to go out on his own. There didn’t seem much point in discovering things alone. Out of the window he watched as Nathan sloped out toward the park. He had one hand dug in his pocket and smoked a cigarette. Arthur wondered if Bernadette knew about this bad habit.
He took the box from his pocket and opened it up on the windowsill. Even though he was used to seeing it now, used to handling it, he still couldn’t relate the bracelet to his wife. He couldn’t imagine something so chunky and bold dangling from her slender wrist. She had taken pride in having elegant taste and was often mistaken for being French because of her classic way of dressing. In fact, she often said that she admired the way French ladies dressed and that one day she would like to go to Paris. She said it was chic.
When she began to feel ill, felt her chest growing tight and the shortness of breath, she changed the way she dressed. Her navy blue silk blouses, cream skirts and pearls were replaced by the shapeless cardigans. Her only aim was to keep warm. She even shivered when the sun beat down on her skin. She wore her anorak in the garden, her face bravely tilted toward the sun as if she were confronting it. Ha! I can’t feel you.
‘I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about India, Miriam,’ he said aloud. ‘Mr Mehra’s story was unfortunate, but there was nothing for you to be ashamed of.’
A magpie stood on the other side of the window and stared in at him, and then it seemed to look at the bracelet. Arthur tapped the window. ‘Shoo.’ He held the box to his chest and squinted at the charms. The flower was made of five coloured stones surrounding a tiny pearl. The paint palette had a tiny paintbrush and six enamelled blobs to represent paint. The tiger snarled, baring pointed gold teeth. He looked at his watch again. There was still an hour and forty-five minutes to go before dinner.
If he was at home he would have eaten by now. He and Miriam always dined at five-thirty prompt and he carried on the tradition. He set the table while she cooked. After eating, he washed up and she dried the pots. Their only day off from this routine was Friday—chippy tea day when they sat in front of the TV and ate fish, chips and mushy peas straight from the polystyrene tray. He lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. Food wasn’t the