The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper Page 8

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble...”

  “It’s no trouble at all. I was quite a photographer back in my day, before being Lady Graystock became a full-time role. I’ve not looked at our old photos for quite a while. Your search gives me a good reason to. I like a trip down memory lane.”

  “Thank you. This might help.” Arthur took out his wallet. He handed Kate a black-and-white photo of Miriam. He had taken it on their honeymoon. It was battered around the edges and a diagonal crease ran through Miriam’s hair, but he had always loved that photograph. His wife had one of those unique faces that you could never grow bored of looking at. She had a slight Roman nose and eyes that invited you to talk to her. Her walnut hair was brushed into a small beehive and she wore a smart white sheath dress.

  “I’ll see what I can find. Graystock is a real hoarder. He doesn’t throw anything away, so we might be lucky.”

  Arthur lay awake and thought for a while of how Graystock and Kate had a closer relationship with their feline friends than he had with Dan and Lucy. He had always thought that cats were terribly sneaky, though perhaps that was just the ones who soiled his rockery. He snuggled down in the bed and wondered if Miriam had slept in this room and what had brought her to the manor. What did she do here?

  As he drifted off to sleep he pictured her running around the gardens barefoot, the tigers circling and keeping her safe.

  The Photograph

  THE NEXT MORNING there was a knock on his bedroom door. Arthur was awake but drowsing, wondering if the past twenty-four hours had been a strange dream. The paintings of tigers surrounding him, his orange bedclothes, his throbbing ankle, his scratched arm, all added to the curiousness. He pulled up the blanket to his neck. “Hello,” he called out.

  Kate entered. She passed him a cup of tea. “How is my patient?”

  He pressed his arm. It stung, but it was a dull rather than sharp pain. When he rotated his ankle it felt stiff rather than sore. Kate’s nursing skills had worked. “Not bad,” he said.

  Catching sight of a black lacquered clock topped with a brass tiger on his bedside table, he saw that it was already past ten. The time made him feel disorientated and rather grumpy. His routine had flown out the window again. He couldn’t ever possibly catch up. He liked to plan and know what was lined up for the day, hour by hour, before it started. He was late for his breakfast. He was missing watering Frederica.

  He also realized that he had left his mobile phone in his suitcase. Somewhere in the countryside a bush would play “Greensleeves” if anyone rang him. He reached up and winced as he felt bristles poking through his chin. His teeth felt sticky from alcohol.

  “I have washed most of the grass stains out of your shirt and brought a fresh pair of trousers for you. I couldn’t repair yours. Graystock doesn’t fit into these ones now. Come down to breakfast when you are ready. There is a bathroom next door so feel free to bathe.”

  Arthur preferred a shower, but when he wallowed in the hot water for half an hour his ankle felt even better. He peeked under the bandage on his arm and saw that the stripes had scabbed over.

  After getting dressed, he peered in the full-length bathroom mirror. He looked like a presentable pensioner from the waist up, but from the waist down...well! Graystock’s electric blue harem trousers were remarkably comfy—very soft and roomy—but made him look like a Scandinavian tourist.

  Kate laid the table in the kitchen with fresh crusty bread and butter and a jug of orange juice. Again the walls of the large room were adorned with photos and paintings of her tigers. An open fire flickered but the room was so large that the heat barely reached them. Outside he could see that the sun hadn’t yet warmed up the morning. Kate wore a tartan blanket wrapped over her shoulders and a long white cotton nightie underneath. “We buy very little meat now, except for the tigers to eat. Graystock would prefer to feed the girls than to feed us.” She laughed as she sat on the bench next to him.

  “How on earth did you end up living with the, er, girls?”

  “My father was a showman. He traveled with circuses around Italy, France, America. All around the world. And he took me with him. I used to dress up as a little clown. My job was to run in the ring with a bucket of water to throw over the big clowns. It contained glitter really, but always got a laugh from the audience. My father was a drinker. His temper would turn when he hit the bottle. He used to strike me, too. One day, he was training a new tiger cub to perform. It was too young to learn, to understand properly what he wanted. He took up a crop and was about to strike the poor thing. I ran in and scooped up the cub. My father warned that he would beat me, too, unless I let it go. Or else I was to get out of his sight and never show my face again.

  “Arthur, I hugged that cub to my chest and ran. I knew of Graystock through friends and I turned up on his doorstep. I was only eighteen. Both Graystock and the tigers needed looking after, protecting. The little cub I rescued was like our first child. We had many more after that.”

  “So you didn’t have children of your own?”

  Kate shook her head. “I never felt the need to reproduce. I had many friends with babies and I liked to cuddle and rock them to sleep, but it never happened for Graystock and me. I’ve never regretted it. The tigers are my family, though we just have the three adults now. There’s Elsie, who you had the pleasure of meeting. Then there is Timeous and Theresa. Plus... Come over here, Arthur.”

  He stood and followed her to a corner of the kitchen to the side of a huge black iron range cooker. There was a large, flat wicker basket full of crumpled blankets. In the middle a tiger cub slept.

  Its beauty took his breath away. It didn’t seem real, like a soft toy left there by a child. Except he saw its white chest rise and fall and the corner of its mouth twitch as if jerked by a piece of twine.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “He’s been a little under the weather and Elsie is a bit grumpy at the moment, so I let him stay here last night. I kept a close eye on him while I was looking through the photographs for you.”

  Now, Arthur had never liked cats. To him they were demanding, crapping things that laid in wait, then leaped and took great delight in digging up his rockery. But this little fellow was incredible. “May I touch him?”

  Kate nodded. “Just a little. I don’t want to wake him.”

  Arthur tentatively reached out to touch the little tiger’s chest. “Wow,” he said. “It’s so soft.”

  “He is three months old now. His name is Elijah.”

  Arthur crouched beside the tiger. He could see now why Miriam would be attracted to this place.

  Kate laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Let’s see if we can find anything out about your wife, shall we?” She pointed to several shoeboxes which sat on the table. “I woke up early so started to browse through some old documents, photos and letters,” she said. “I forgot that we had so many. My husband is so untidy but luckily I like to label things. All my photos have dates on the back.”

  “Thank you.” Arthur eyed the pile and wondered where to start. “Is Lord Graystock up yet?”

  Kate shook her head. “He’s a late riser. I won’t see him until past lunch, especially after all the drinking he did last night. He’s not used to it these days.”

  “I enjoyed the evening.”

  “Me, too. After breakfast, and after we’ve looked at the photos, I will give you a lift to where you want to go.” She handed him a handful of photographs. “These are all dated 1963. I also included 1962 and 1964 to be certain. You have a browse and see what you can find.”

  Arthur took the photos. There were lots of images of girls wearing flowing dresses, or with smooth beehives and wide kohl’d eyes, laughing, partying, posing. Part of him didn’t want to discover that his wife had been part of Graystock’s harem—another
number, a gifter of something that had won her a tiger charm. “Why did so many people come here?” he mused aloud.

  “I was the Kate Moss of the day,” Kate said. “Graystock was devastatingly handsome, albeit eccentric. Our house was open for artists, performers, for dreamers, for travelers. Some were attracted by our glamour, others needed a retreat. Some loved the tigers. It went on for many years, until Graystock began to take too many drugs. He became paranoid and aggressive. Slowly, people began to disappear from our lives. I’m the only one who stood by him. I loved him and so did the tigers. We fit together somehow. It works.”

  Arthur almost flicked past the photo of the handsome man wearing a black turtleneck jumper and tight black trousers. His hair was slicked back and he stood with confidence, with one hand on his hip, staring at the camera with smoldering intensity so at first Arthur didn’t notice the petite lady who stood to the side of him. Then he saw that it was Miriam. His wife was standing with this strutting peacock of a man and gazing at him, her eyes full of admiration.

  A wave of nausea flooded over him at the sight of her with another man. He took a gulp of his orange juice to wash it away. He had no idea he was capable of such jealousy, but the thought of Miriam and this man curled up in bed together made him want to clench his hands into fists and punch something hard. He turned the photo to show Kate. “Do you know who this is?”

  Kate gave a short, sharp laugh that didn’t suit her. “That is François De Chauffant aka the most arrogant man who ever lived. Graystock and he were friends in the sixties. He stayed here many times, with many different women. One night he and Graystock sat in the front room drinking too many brandies and Graystock told De Chauffant a family story that had been passed down through generations. A year later De Chauffant published his new book—and it was Graystock’s story. He called it Stories We Tell. It should have been named Lies I Tell. He had the audacity to claim that it was his own family story. Tsk. After that, the men did not speak any longer. In my view, this was no loss.”

  “He was a novelist?” Arthur took the charm bracelet from his pocket.

  “Ha. So he said. He was a stealer of ideas. A pompous Frenchman who broke Graystock’s heart.”

  Arthur had felt uncomfortable yesterday, as he thought of how Miriam had acquired the tiger charm from Graystock. Since then he tried to convince himself the charm was just one of many that Graystock gave away willy-nilly. But now it was leading to his discovery of another chapter of Miriam’s life, to what might be a love affair with this De Chauffant fellow.

  Arthur thought back to the photos of himself at this time. He hadn’t slicked back his hair, or worn tight trousers. He never wore black. It was too rebellious or dark. Just from this photo, François De Chauffant symbolized danger and antiestablishment. He looked exciting and tempestuous. How had Miriam gone from this man to Arthur? Had De Chauffant and his wife been lovers? It was a question that he didn’t want to ask.

  When he’d met Miriam she seemed so pure. They hadn’t made love until their wedding night and he never imagined that there had been anyone else. But now he had to reassess. He tried to remember their dates but nothing had given him the impression that Miriam was experienced, that she’d had a passionate love affair with a French writer. He felt as if someone had tied his intestines in a knot.

  He tried to fathom out where such emotion had come from. He’d never had need to be jealous. His wife didn’t flirt with other men. If he ever did see a man eyeing her with interest, as men did, then he felt rather proud.

  Kate laid her hand on his shoulder.

  “This is Miriam. I’m sure of it,” Arthur said.

  “She is very pretty. I do not remember her, though.”

  They looked at the bracelet together. Kate touched the book charm. “A book. De Chauffant was a writer. It could be...”

  Arthur was thinking the same thing. He pinched the charm between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Have you opened the book?” Kate asked.

  Arthur frowned. “Opened it?”

  “There is a tiny clasp on the side.”

  The more closely Arthur looked at the book, the more blurred it appeared. He wished he had brought his eyeglass. He hadn’t spotted the tiny clasp. Kate bent and rummaged in a kitchen cupboard and produced a large magnifying glass. “This should do the trick.”

  They peered through it together and Kate unfastened the book. It fell open to reveal a single page, in gold not paper. On it was inscribed Ma Chérie.

  “It means my darling,” Kate said.

  Arthur suspected as much. He stared again at the photo of his wife gazing adoringly at this other man.

  “Take the photograph,” Kate insisted. “Graystock wouldn’t be happy that we had a photo of this intolerable man in the house.”

  Arthur nodded. “Do you have an envelope?” He didn’t want the photo to press against his body. He needed some distance from it.

  “Are you going to try and find him?”

  Arthur swallowed. He could just go home. He could sit and watch TV with his leg raised on a pouf, resting his ankle, taking it easy, applying ointment to his arm. Bernadette would be around with pies and savories each day, keeping an eye on him. Terry across the road would mow his lawn and the red-haired kids would pelt past his front door. Life could return to normal. He might even go back to Men in Caves and make something for the house, perhaps a wooden coaster for his mug of tea.

  Except that everything wouldn’t be normal again, because this search had stirred something inside him. This was no longer just about Miriam. It was about himself, too.

  He was experiencing emotions he didn’t know existed. He had begun to discover people and animals that excited him. He wasn’t ready to rot away in his armchair, mourning his wife and waiting for his children to call, and filling his days with plant-watering and TV.

  And so even if the emotion he felt for this De Chauffant bloke was apprehension and jealousy, it made him feel alive. He needed a jolt to his system. Something to shake him out of the cozy prison he had created for himself. In a home where memories of Miriam were still fresh, he needed something else. He would go home to see that Frederica was fine and watered and pick up some more clothes. Then he would continue his journey.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m going to find him.”

  * * *

  In the car Arthur didn’t feel like speaking. Kate said that she had no idea if De Chauffant was even alive, and even if he was, then she didn’t care. She didn’t bat an eyelid as Arthur asked to be dropped off next to a bush on the B road. “I can run you to the station,” she said.

  Arthur shook his head. “This is fine.”

  Really he had no idea how he was going to get back to the station. He could only hobble a short distance and his arm really stung. He was sure that he would get home, though, somehow.

  He stepped out onto the side of the road and said thank you to Kate. He shook her hand and assured her once more that he would not sue the Graystock estate. Pausing for a moment he wondered whether to give her a kiss or to tell her how he was feeling, but instead he said, “Cheerio, then,” and gave her a wave.

  If he concentrated on walking with his toes pointing out like a penguin instead of letting them turn in, as they usually did, then that helped his ankle. He traced his footsteps to the gap in the bush. The wind, which had been absent yesterday, whistled through his blue trousers, giving him a drafty sensation around his nether regions. He tugged at his suitcase and saw that the corner now had a large hole in it. The nylon was torn and frayed. Who on earth would vandalize an old man’s suitcase? He looked out beyond into the field behind the bush. His toiletry bag lay covered in dew on the grass; a tube of toothpaste was trodden into the mud. In the distance a herd of goats stared at him. One of them seemed to be munching on a mustard piece of fabric. His bloody sweater-vest.


  Just then an electronic blast of “Greensleeves” rang out. He stuck his hand into the hole in the suitcase and pulled out his mobile. He had twelve missed calls. Bernadette’s name was listed on-screen for all of them except one from Lucy. In other circumstances, he might have pretended not to hear Bernadette’s call, but his heart leaped as he pressed the green phone button. “Hello, Arthur Pepper speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Arthur. Thank God it’s you. Where are you? You’ve not been answering your phone.”

  He found her concern touching, that anyone could care for him. “I’m fine,” he said. “I lost my case with my phone inside. I’m just picking it up now.”

  Bernadette explained that she and Nathan had stayed another night in the B and B. They were about to set off back home and would he like a lift?

  There was nothing that Arthur had wanted more for a long time. “Yes, please,” he said. “I’m on the B road leading to Graystock Manor. Look out for my electric blue trousers.”

  Lucy and Dan

  THE NEXT LUNCHTIME at school Lucy picked up her voice mail on her mobile and found that her Dad had left a rambling message about his visit to Graystock. She’d been out the day before with her two friends Clara and Annie, who had talked continuously about their kids, so had missed his call. His message broke up constantly, his voice cutting in and out. She could hear road traffic and rock music. Also a woman’s voice asking if anyone wanted to stop for sandwiches. Lucy stuck a finger in one ear and frowned as she tried to make out her father’s words. At one point she thought he said that he’d been attacked by a tiger. She shook her head and tried to call him back but a snooty man told her that the phone was unavailable.

  Attacked by a tiger? Lucy had a vision of her dad slumped on the ground, dead, as a huge cat chewed on his leg. Had she really heard correctly? Was he feeling okay?

  Since they had spoken on the phone, when her dad said he’d gone off with Bernadette, she had been plagued with worries about his health. It was so unlike him to take off like that. And now he was leaving messages about tigers. Perhaps she might have to consider giving up her teaching job at some stage in the future, to spend more time keeping an eye on him. She might have to move back into her old bedroom to care for him full-time.