who had lost spouses. Only last week in the post office he had witnessed what he would describe as boasting amongst a group of four pensioners.
—‘My wife suffered for ten years before she eventually passed away.’
—‘Really? Well, my Cedric was flattened by a lorry. The paramedics said they’d never seen anything like it. Like a pancake, one said.’
—Then a man’s voice, breaking. ‘It was the drugs, I reckon. Twenty-three tablets a day they gave her. She almost rattled.’
—‘When they cut him open there was nothing left inside. The cancer had eaten him all up.’
They talked about their loved ones as if they were objects. Miriam would always be a real person to him. He wouldn’t trade her memory like that.
‘She likes lost causes,’ Vera, the post office mistress, said to him as he took a pack of small brown manila envelopes to the counter. She always wore a pencil tucked into her round tortoiseshell glasses and made it her business to know everything and everyone in the village. Her mother had owned the post office before her and had been exactly the same.
‘Who does?’
‘Bernadette Patterson. We’ve noticed that she brings you pies.’
‘Who has noticed?’ Arthur said, feeling angry. ‘Is there a club whose role it is to pry into my life?’
‘No, just my customers having a friendly information exchange. That’s what Bernadette does. She’s kind to the hopeless, helpless and useless.’
Arthur paid for his envelopes and marched out.
He stood and switched on the kettle. ‘I’m giving Miriam’s things to Cat Saviours. They sell clothes, ornaments and things to raise money to help mistreated cats.’
‘That’s a nice idea, though I prefer small dogs myself. They’re much more appreciative.’
‘I think Miriam wanted to help cats.’
‘Then that’s what you must do. Shall I pop this pie in the oven for you? We can have lunch together. Unless you have other plans …’
He was about to murmur something about being busy but then remembered Mr Mehra’s story again. He had no plans. ‘No, nothing in the diary,’ he said.
Twenty minutes later as he dug his knife into the pie, he thought about the bracelet again. Bernadette could give him a woman’s perspective. He wanted someone to tell him that it was of no significance and that, although it looked expensive, you could buy good reproductions cheaply these days. But he knew the emerald in the elephant was real. And she might gossip about it to Post Office Vera and to her lost causes.
‘You should get out more,’ she said. ‘You only went to Men in Caves once.’
‘I went twice. I do get out.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Like to where?’
‘Is this Mastermind? I don’t remember applying.’
‘I’m just trying to take care of you.’
She saw him as a lost cause, just as Vera had implied.
He didn’t want to feel like this, be treated like this. An urge swelled in his chest. He needed to say something so she wouldn’t think him helpless, hopeless and useless, like Mrs Monton who hadn’t left her house in five years and who smoked twenty Woodbines a day, or Mr Flowers who thought there was a unicorn living in his greenhouse. Arthur had some pride left. He used to have meaning as a father and a husband. He used to have thoughts and dreams and plans.
Thinking of the forwarding address Miriam had left on her letter to Mr Mehra, he cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you must know,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I’ve been thinking about going to Graystock Manor in Bath.’
‘Oh yes,’ Bernadette mused. ‘That’s where the tigers roam free.’
Bernadette was a one-woman almanac of the UK. She and Carl had toured everywhere together in their luxury campervan. The back of Arthur’s neck bristled as he prepared to hear where he should and shouldn’t go, what he should and shouldn’t do, at Graystock.
As she busied herself in his kitchen, straightening his scales and checking that his knives were clean enough, Bernadette recited what she knew.
No, Arthur didn’t know that five years ago Lord Graystock had been mauled by a tiger, which sank its teeth and claws into his calf, and now he walked with a limp. He also didn’t know that, as a younger man, Graystock kept a harem of women of all nationalities, like a hedonistic Noah’s ark, or that he was renowned for hosting wild orgies at his manor in the sixties. He also didn’t know that the lord only wore the colour electric blue, even his underwear, because he had once been told in a dream that it was lucky. (Arthur wondered if he had been wearing electric blue during the tiger attack.)
He also now knew that Lord Graystock tried to sell his manor to Richard Branson; however the two men had fallen out and refused to speak to each other ever again. The lord was now a recluse and only opened up Graystock Manor on Fridays and Saturdays and the public were no longer allowed to look at the tigers.
After Bernadette’s tales, Arthur now felt well informed about Lord Graystock’s life and times.
‘It’s just the gift shop and gardens that are open now. And they’re a bit tatty.’ Bernadette finished cleaning Arthur’s mixer taps with a flourish. ‘Why are you going there?’
Arthur looked at his watch. He wished he hadn’t said anything now. She had taken twenty-five minutes to regale him. His left leg had grown stiff. ‘I thought it would be a nice change,’ he said.
‘Well, actually, Nathan and I are going to be down in Worcester and Cheltenham next week. We’re looking at universities. Tag along if you like. You could head off to Graystock on the train from there.’
Arthur’s stomach felt fizzy. Going to Graystock had only been a mild consideration for him. He hadn’t actually planned to go there. He only went on outings with Miriam. What was the point of going alone? He had only mentioned going to Graystock to show Bernadette that he wasn’t useless. Now apprehension nagged him. He wished he could turn back the clock and not have pushed his hand into the boot and discovered the bracelet. Then he would never have phoned the number on the elephant. He wouldn’t be sitting here discussing Graystock Manor with Bernadette. ‘I’m not sure about it,’ he said. ‘Another time perhaps …’
‘You should go. Try to move on with your life. Small steps. An outing might do you good.’
Arthur was surprised to feel a tiny kernel of excitement taking root in his stomach. He had found out something about his wife’s past life and his inquisitive nature was compelling him to find out more. The only feelings he experienced these days were sadness, disappointment and melancholy, so this felt new. ‘I like the idea of tigers walking around an English garden,’ he said.
And he did like tigers. They were strong majestic colourful beasts, prowling around with the key purposes in life of hunting, eating and mating. Humans were so different with their lives of meekness and worry.
‘Really? I’d have you
