The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper (12 page)

Sebastian pushed the door open. He stepped inside first. “He is awake,” he said. “Do not stay long, though. He tires easily and I will be the first in the firing line.” He made a gun with his finger and then fired it at his own temple.

Arthur nodded. He hesitated outside the room for a moment and then walked inside.

Although he knew about De Chauffant's illness, it hadn't prepared him for the sight of the man who sat hunched in an armchair in the corner of the room. He was small with white straggly hair and overlong eyebrows. His hands were clawed, his face distorted. His eyes were staring and hollow—a mere echo of the swaggering young man in the photograph given to him by Kate Graystock. He didn't acknowledge Arthur's or Sebastian's presence.

The room smelled of piss and disinfectant, poorly masked by rose air freshener. There was a single bed with gray woolen blankets and a used ceramic chamber pot at the side. A bedside table was piled with books and a baby monitor. The red light was on. He can still read, Arthur thought, relieved that this poor creature had at least this pleasure left.

He stepped forward and Sebastian backed away and out of the room. “I will return in five minutes.”

Arthur nodded then turned back. “Mr. De Chauffant. I am Arthur Pepper. I believe that you knew my wife.” His hand shook as he presented the photograph. “I'm afraid this is from rather a long time ago—1963. She is standing here with you. Can you see? When I saw this I grew rather jealous at how intently she is looking at you.” He gently tapped the top of Miriam's head in the photograph. He waited to see if De Chauffant responded. Arthur studied his wizened face for the flicker of a smile or the widening of his pupils. There was nothing.

He took the bracelet from his pocket. “I'm here to see if you gave her this charm on her bracelet. It's a book. Inside is an inscription. It says
Ma Chérie
.” All the time he spoke he knew that his words were lost. The old man didn't show any realization that someone was there talking to him. Arthur stood there for a while but then sighed and turned away.

Sebastian stood in the doorway, his arms folded. For the first time Arthur saw the bluey-gray bruises that punctuated his arms. He walked over. “Did
he
do this to you?” he whispered.

“A few, when I have to move him around and he gets confused. Last night, though, I was lonely. I called an old...friend. He came over. Things got out of hand. He shook me.”

“Did you call the police?”

Sebastian shook his head. “It is my own fault. I know what he is like. But still. I needed someone to hold. Do you understand what it is like, to be so lonely, Arthur?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Sebastian made his way downstairs and Arthur followed.

“I will have to move him downstairs soon. I am not strong, though.”

“You need help. You shouldn't be doing this alone.”

“I will work things out for myself.”

In the hallway Arthur held out the charm bracelet. He could not let his journey here end with the sight of De Chauffant curled like a dead leaf in his chair. “Inside this book charm, it says
Ma Chérie
. Can you tell me anything about it?”

Sebastian touched the charm, and then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” In the front room he bent down and opened up a cupboard. Then he handed a book to Arthur. “I know François's work inside out. I've read all his novels and poems and musings, in between cleaning and changing his clothes. There is a poem in here. It's called ‘Ma Chérie.' It is a coincidence, yes?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

Sebastian flicked to the page. “It was written in 1963. This was the same year you think François and your wife were friends?”

Arthur nodded. He didn't want to read the words, to see if they uncovered what had gone on between the novelist and his wife, but he knew he had to look, to know.

“Keep it. He has a good ten copies. He always was a fan of his own work. I do not like his work. It is so...overwrought. So dramatic. I love him because I remember what he was, but I hate him because he keeps me here. I am like a bird in a gilded cage.”

“You should contact social services.”

“I am illegal. I do not exist. I cannot give my name. I do not have a number. I am invisible and must remain so. I am a nonperson. I have only two choices in my life—to stay or to go. If I go, where will this be?” He threw up his hands. “I have nowhere. I do not know what I am without him.”

Arthur suddenly felt full of responsibility for this young pink-haired man whose life was on hold because of an old man who had always been selfish. “You must find out. You are young. You have your full life in front of you. You are missing out on adventure and experiences and love. Leave a note, send a letter, make an anonymous phone call, but you must live your own life. You will find someone. Do not settle for anyone who hurts you. Find someone who loves you, who is perhaps your own age.” He wondered where his words came from. The last time he tried to advise Dan on his science homework, his son had snatched the workbook away. (“Don't tell me what to do. That's Mum's job. You're never around.”)

Arthur had stared at him, stunned at the outburst. He wasn't around as much as Miriam, but he could still support his children. After that he kept his mouth firmly shut and left homework to the rest of the family. Miriam was the empathetic one, the one who “understood.” He knew his place, which was to go out to work and provide.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Sebastian leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I hope that I have helped you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Arthur had never been kissed by a man before, except toddler kisses by his son. If felt strange, unwelcome, really. But at least he felt useful.

It had been a long day. He hadn't found what he expected. He wondered if Miriam had felt trapped in their marriage as Sebastian was here. He took hold of Sebastian's arm, gently, below the bruising. “If you want to go, go now,” he whispered. “I will stay here. I will make the arrangements for Mr. De Chauffant. He will be fine.”

Sebastian froze, considering Arthur's offer. He shook his head. “I cannot ask that of you. I can't leave him. Not yet, anyway. But I will think about your words. You are a kind man. Your wife was lucky, I think.”

“I was the lucky one.”

“I hope you find what you are looking for in the book.”

“I hope that things work out well for you.”

The sky was sapphire blue when Arthur left the house. Lights were on in each of the houses in the crescent, giving a glimpse of the people's lives inside. As he walked away from De Chauffant's house, he saw a girl with a black bob taking a piano lesson; two teenage boys stood on the windowsill in the front room flicking the “V” sign at passersby, and a woman with blond hair and black roots wrestled one baby carrier into her house, then another. “Twins,” she shouted to him. “Double the trouble.”

Arthur wondered if the neighbors knew what was going on at Number 56: that a young immigrant boy was looking after his ill, elderly former partner, who was once a prominent writer. He could not tell anyone; he could not compromise Sebastian's situation. It wasn't his business.

He found a bench opposite a square where a couple and their English bull terrier were enjoying a picnic in the dark. They drank from the neck of a bottle of Prosecco.

The bench was well illuminated by a streetlamp, and when Arthur sat and opened the book, the pages glowed orange. Running his finger down the index he found the poem “Ma Chérie.”

Ma Chérie

Your laugh tinkles, your eyes twinkle.

How can I ever be alone without you?

You help me live, you hear me cry

Yet your lips do not spill, they do not lie.

A lithe body, chestnut hair

India, and to me.

Yet you say you do not see

And that matters greatly to me.

A brief romance but so vital.

Our fingers touch and you know

Your importance to me, your glow.

Togetherness.

Ma Chérie

Arthur shut the book. He felt sick. There was no doubt the poem was about his wife, even if De Chauffant preferred men. The references to her hair and where she had lived before were obvious.

It was evident to him that this had been a major love affair—one full of passion and which compelled De Chauffant to pen a poem. Arthur had never written letters to his wife, let alone a poem.

If you don't want to find woodlice, don't go looking under wood
. His mother had said that to him once. The memory flooded back. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to remember when and where, but all other details evaded him. He wished that he could be with her now, a small boy again with no worries or responsibilities. But when he opened his eyes he saw his own wrinkled hands grasping the book.

So, now he knew about the book charm, and the elephant and the tiger. There was still the paint palette, ring, flower, the thimble and the heart.

He was an old man sitting on a bench in London. He had a sore ankle and an aching feeling of emptiness from leaving Sebastian behind in his book-lined prison, but he had to carry on his quest.

He closed the book of poetry and left it on the bench. As he walked away he couldn't help but wonder which little charm he'd find out about next.

Lucy the Second

ARTHUR DIDN'T HAVE
a plan. He hadn't thought beyond finding De Chauffant. He had a few toiletries in his rucksack but hadn't booked into a hotel for the night, half expecting to travel back home that evening. It was late now, gone ten. He had handwritten out the train times to return home to York, but he didn't fancy getting on board a night bus to take him to King's Cross station, or tackling the tube for the first time.

He walked the streets until he no longer had any inkling where he was, or even
who
he was. Images and snippets of conversations ran through his head. Sebastian's eye peeping through the door was juxtaposed with watching Miriam in bed as she slept on their honeymoon. In his mind, he wiped away a tear as he dropped Dan off at school for the first time, but then he saw the man at the Pearly Queen café trying to decide which of his two lovers to marry.

He was once Arthur Pepper, beloved husband of Miriam and devoted dad to Dan and Lucy. It was so simple. But now he said that to himself, it sounded like a bog-standard obituary. What was he now? Miriam's widower? No. There had to be more to him than that. He couldn't be defined by his wife's death. Where would he go to next? What would his next clue be?

He was too tired to think, annoyed at the things whirring around in his mind.
Please stop
, he thought as he trudged around yet another corner. He found himself on a lively street. A group of kids were hanging around outside a fast-food place, eating stringy pizza from a cardboard box and pushing one another into the road. A black cab slammed on its brakes and honked its horn. The kids jeered. Tables of tourist merchandise still lined the streets. Pashminas two for £10, phone chargers, T-shirts, guidebooks.

The sounds and sights filled Arthur's head even more. He wanted to lie down somewhere quiet and let his brain process the events of the day, to think what to do next.

Along the street there was a small sign on a door. Hostel. Without thinking he walked inside.

A young Australian woman on reception wore a white vest, which showed off the blue tribal tattoo that covered her right shoulder. She informed him that it was thirty-five pounds for a room for the night and there was only one bed left. She gave Arthur a rolled-up gray blanket and floppy pillow and directed him down a corridor to the room at the end.

Arthur had expected that he might have to share a twin room, but he stepped inside the room to find three bunk beds and five German girls sitting on the floor. They all wore denim shorts and too-tight checked shirts over colored bras. They were sharing a crusty loaf, slab of Edam cheese and cans of cider.

Masking his surprise Arthur bid them a cheery hello, then located the bed in the room that wasn't piled high with clothes and rucksacks. He didn't want to make a fool of himself by climbing into his bunk and finding that his knees seized halfway up, so he excused himself to reception where he read a three-day-old newspaper until the girls filed out of the room. He watched as they gave one another donkey rides as they headed out for the night.

He thought about how exuberant he himself used to feel as he got ready to meet Miriam when they first started courting. Butterflies flew in his stomach as he washed, shaved, slicked back his hair with a comb and smear of Brylcreem. He made sure that his suit and shirt were pressed, his shoes were buffed. He would put his comb in his pocket and whistle as he walked to meet her. There was an ice cream parlor where they would sit in the window and drink lemonade with a blob of vanilla floating on top, or they sometimes went to the cinema. At that time a trainee, he didn't have much money so he would save up all week just in case Miriam wanted to go for a nice meal, but she was happy to go for a walk with him and with their simple dates. He didn't know at that time that she'd lived with tigers, and had a poem written about her by a famous French writer.

A group of girls passed by the hostel window. One wore a bridal veil and an L sign; the others sported red devil horns, red tutus and fishnet stockings. They sang a song at the top of their voices. “Like a virgin,” were the words he heard.

They waved to him and he waved back. For Miriam's hen night she had gone for a meal with her mother and two friends to a Berni Inn. It had been the height of sophistication. The night before his wedding, Arthur and his friend Bill (now deceased) had been to a football match and enjoyed two pints of shandy afterward. All his senses had been heightened by the excitement of marrying Miriam the next day. The lemonade in the shandy had been sweet; the football chants made his ears throb. He could feel the label in his shirt rubbing his neck. Every inch of him had been ready to make Miriam his wife.

Their wedding day had whirled by like the confetti that swirled down on them as they left the church. The reception was for thirty people in a community hall. Miriam's stern-faced mother made the sandwiches and pork pies as their wedding present. Arthur's parents paid for them to go on honeymoon for two nights to a farm. They set off that night with tin cans jangling and a cardboard Just Married sign taped to the back of Arthur's Morris Minor.

The farmhouse had been teeth-chatteringly cold. The sheep bayed all night and the landlady looked as if she had swallowed a wasp. But Arthur loved it. Miriam got ready for bed behind a wooden screen in the bedroom and Arthur in the toilet shed outside. He had to tuck his pajamas into his boots and carry his clothes across a muddy field.

Miriam looked beautiful in her floor-length cotton nightdress with pink embroidered roses around the neck. He had tried not to groan with desire as he touched her waist and she shuffled toward him. They had got into bed and made love for the first time. It was his first time. And afterward they had lain in each other's arms and talked about where they were going to live and the children they were going to have. And even now, that day was the best of his life because it was so full of tenderness and relief and desire. Even though they had many wonderful days after that—the births of Dan and Lucy, family holidays—that time with Miriam, when they were spending their first hours as husband and wife, were the greatest. He hoped that the girl with the L sign would experience the same feelings on her wedding day.

The thing was, when you got to his age, it was unlikely that there would be more wonderful days to come. Ones where you stopped and thought,
I will remember this day forever.
He had held Kyle and Marina when they were babies and smelled their sweet baby-milk breath and wriggly bodies. He wondered what there was now to look forward to.

He wished that he was no longer in London but tucked up in bed with his customary hot chocolate and newspaper. Instead, he was here, alone, perturbed.

Recognizing his melancholic mood, he told himself that the best thing he could do was to go to bed. He returned to his room and climbed into his bunk at just gone midnight with his ankle throbbing. He snuggled under his blankets fully clothed and tried to think about his honeymoon. Buses rumbled past the window and there was a lot of shouting and he finally drifted to sleep to an ambulance siren.

He was awoken at three in the morning when the girls returned. They were drunk and singing in German. One had brought a man back to the room. He climbed with her into the bunk below Arthur. There was giggling and much swishing of bedclothes.

Luckily the creaking and rocking of the bed that ensued only lasted a few minutes. The other girls giggled and whispered. Arthur tugged his own itchy blankets over his head, though his eyes were wide. At first he told himself that they couldn't possibly be having sex. Who would go out, meet someone and then fornicate in a room full of others? But it was obvious from the panting and sighing that this was the type of activity going on beneath him. He thought about how much things had changed and that he sometimes didn't like this new modern world very much.

The chattering slowly died out and the couple in the bottom bunk kissed noisily for a while. He heard the zip of a bag, a packet of tissues being opened and then there was quiet.

Lying there, he thought about how this was the first night in a year that he hadn't been alone. He hadn't imagined that he would ever spend a night sleeping in the company of others. Strangely, he found that the gentle breathing and snores that began to ripple around the room comforted him as he went back to sleep.

In the morning he climbed down out of bed while the girls were all still asleep. As he slipped on his sandals, the man from the bunk below sat on the floor fastening his trainers. He wore dusky pink jeans rolled up at the ankle. They clashed with his wiry copper hair. “Shh.” He held his finger up to his lips. “Let's sneak out of here, man,” he said in an American accent, as if Arthur was part of his plan.

Arthur wanted to explain that he was a lone traveler, that he hadn't been part of last night's antics. He wasn't with the German girls in any respect, but he just nodded.

“Do you know which way it is to King's Cross?” he asked as they stood on the doorstep blinking at the early-morning light. The hostel breakfast was a brown paper bag left at reception with his name on it. Someone had written “Arthur Peeper.” The American man had helped himself to a bag with the name “Anna” written on it.

“Er, head left and you'll come to a tube station. You can get to King's Cross from there.” The man looked in his bag and wrinkled his nose. “An apple, flapjack and carton of orange. Jeez...is that it?”

Arthur thought that he was being rather ungrateful, seeing as he had enjoyed sex, got a bed for the night and stolen himself a free breakfast.

The man put the flapjack into one pocket and the orange juice carton into the other. Then he jammed the apple between his teeth, crumpled up the paper bag and threw it onto the floor in the doorway of the hostel. “See ya,” he said, and then broke into a sprint as if he had to be somewhere else.

Arthur walked to the tube station and down into the underpass. There was music from a man playing the flute and, farther along, a woman strummed a guitar with an upturned trilby hat at her feet. He dropped a fifty pence in front of each of them and followed the stream of people heading into the depths of the station.

He fed coins into a shiny machine, which spat out a ticket. He felt lost, not just because he had never been on an underground tube train before. He thought that he'd find clear answers in London, but there were yet more layers. Did he want to keep peeling them away, like a giant onion, or should he leave them alone?

The map on the tiled wall in front of him couldn't have been any bigger. It was clear with strong black letters, but he just couldn't fathom it out. He'd watched an engineer once open up a telephone box on the street. Inside was an inexplicable (to Arthur, anyway) tangle of colored wires. This map looked similar, though even more complicated. He wanted to reach out and trace his finger around the lines to find where he was going because his eye kept following a line and then getting lost. Everyone around him seemed to know what they were doing and where they were going. They glanced at the map, nodded and then strode off with purpose and confidence. He in turn felt very small and insignificant.

He tried to follow the route to King's Cross again, but he couldn't work out where to change. By now he wondered if he should just jump on some random tube train and see where he ended up, or go back outside and wait at a bus stop.

But then, “Hello,” a friendly voice said in his left ear. “Having a bit of trouble?”

He turned to find a young man standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He had his hands dug deep into the pockets of his low-slung baggy jeans. A good few inches of his red underpants were on display over his waistband. His T-shirt might've been black and white and had The Killers emblazoned on it, but his smile was wide and friendly.

“Ah, yes. I'm afraid I've never been on the underground before.”

“First time in London, then?”

“Yes. I'm not used to finding my way around. I need to get to King's Cross to get a train home.”

“Do you live far?”

“Near York.”

“Lovely. Well, King's Cross? It's not a difficult journey—just a couple of changes from here. Do you have a tube ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have a look, then.”

Grateful for the young man's kindness, Arthur took his wallet from his back pocket. He was about to flip it open to retrieve his ticket when it vanished from his hands. Poof. The man was running away at full pelt and was immediately swallowed up by a sea of people.

In what seemed like slow motion, Arthur stared at his empty hands, then after the man in disbelief. He had been robbed. He was a bloody idiot. Newspapers reveled telling stories about the type of person he was—a gullible pensioner. His shoulders drooped involuntarily, defeated.

However, his sense of foolishness was soon overtaken by a surge of anger. There was a photograph of Miriam in his wallet. She was smiling and had her arms wrapped around the kids when they were little. He didn't have a copy. How dare this man take advantage of him? The anger rumbled in his stomach and then careered up his chest and burst out of his mouth as words.
“Stop. Thief!”
he yelled as mightily as he could, surprised by how loud it was. He shouted again.