Читать книгу The Curious Charms Of Arthur Pepper - Phaedra Patrick, Phaedra Patrick - Страница 14

Bernadette and Nathan dropped Arthur off at Cheltenham train station. After arriving in Bath, he decided to walk the two miles to Graystock Manor.

It seemed a good idea at the time. The sun was out and the birds were singing. Arthur started off happily, tugging his case across the station forecourt, past the queue of black cabs. From a map he had sketched on a piece of paper, he headed across a small roundabout then onto a B road that led all the way to the manor house. He felt quite the adventurer, proud with himself that he had taken this decision. He strode forwards purposefully.

The pavement soon ran out and he found himself traversing nettles and thistles that prickled his ankles. The ground underfoot was uneven and he wished that he had worn his sturdy brogues rather than his grey suede moccasins. It was virtually impossible to wheel his suitcase across the stones and gravel that pocked the pathway. He alternated between dragging and carrying it along.

‘Oi, Granddad.’ A shiny red sports car whizzed by and he was sure that someone’s backside hung out of the back window.

After half a mile or so, the pathway narrowed. He found himself wedged between a scratchy hedgerow and a wide, raised kerbstone. Unable to manhandle his case any further, he stopped and stood with his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. The furthest he had walked since Miriam died was to the post office. He was seriously out of condition.

There was a gap in the hedge and he stood and watched a bumble bee. Cows stood, placid and chewing. He admired a red tractor ploughing the field. He set off again but there was a pile of bricks and a wire shopping basket in his way. This was the last straw. He couldn’t stand tugging the suitcase any longer. He picked it up and pushed it into the gap in the hedge then rearranged the foliage back around it.

Looking round, he made a mental note of his location. He was opposite a road sign for a car boot sale this Sunday and there was another sign that said ‘Longsdale Farm 1 mile’. He would carry out his visit to Graystock and then pick up his case on the way back. It was made from sturdy nylon so a stay in the hedge should see it just fine.

He was lighter and quicker now. It was usually Miriam who planned what to take on their trips. The house would become overrun with small piles of things—underwear, his shaving stuff, biscuit two-packs and sun cream in every conceivable SPF. He doubted very much if she would be impressed by his stashing of his suitcase in a bush. However he felt rather pleased with himself. He was being resourceful, making decisions and pushing on.

Graystock was still a way away and he pressed onwards, not stopping to admire the bursts of shepherd’s purse that sprung from beneath the hedges or the fields of yellow rapeseed. He refused a lift from a couple of attractive blonde girls who pulled up alongside him in their silver convertible, and also informed a tractor driver that, thanks for asking, but he wasn’t lost. People really were rather pleasant around here and he could forgive the bum-baring incident by the boys in the red car. The sun must have brought out their high jinks.

When he finally got to the gates of Graystock Manor he was met with a peeling wooden sign. Most of the letters had fallen off. It said: ‘Welcome to Gray_____ Man__’.

They must have known I was coming, Arthur thought. Then he stared with dismay at the lengthy driveway that curved its way to the manor. He could see the building through the trees.

Graystock had once been magnificent. It now had a decayed glamour like it should feature in a moody 1980s pop video. The Doric pillars flanking its huge front doors were crumbling. The stone was the colour of the fluff picked up in Arthur’s Dyson vacuum. A few of the upstairs windows were broken.

He stood with his hands on his hips for a while, aware that he was going to uncover another chapter of Miriam’s life. He didn’t know whether to feel excited or afraid.

By now he really needed to use the loo. He looked around in the vague fantasy that a toilet block might suddenly sprout up from nowhere. His only option was to find a bush. Hoping that no tourists were around to see him, he headed into the undergrowth and did a wee. A grey squirrel bounded over, took a quick glance at him, and then ran up a tree. It sat on a branch, its whiskers twitching as he finished up. Thankfully he had a handy packet of wet wipes in his pocket and he cleaned his hands before carrying on his journey.

His breath came in short wheezes as he trekked toward the hall. Why hadn’t he accepted Bernadette’s offer of a lift? He could be a stubborn old git at times.

The manor was surrounded by tall black iron railings. The double gates were secured by a heavy brass padlock. Arthur pressed his face to the railings and peered through. The doors to the hall were shut. Why he had imagined he could simply stroll up to the manor and ring a doorbell he didn’t know. His feet were sore and the wet wipe had made his hands sticky.

He stood there for at least ten minutes, feeling useless and not sure what his next move might be. But then he saw movement—a flash of blue behind the rose bushes in the gardens. Lord Graystock. Arthur stood on his tiptoes. The shape moved out of the bushes. The lord wore electric blue slacks and was stripped to the waist. His chest was boiled lobster red.

‘Hello,’ Arthur called out. ‘Hello. Lord Graystock.’

The lord didn’t hear, or did and ignored the shout. It was then that Arthur spied a brass bell with a curled iron handle concealed by branches. He tugged on it but the sound was muffled by the trees. He jumped up to tug the branches and twigs away, but they sprang back into place. He gave the bell a final tug and rattled the gates, but it was no use. From a distance, he watched his target for a while. Lord Graystock stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled around his grounds. He stopped to sniff at roses or to pluck out weeds. His rounded red stomach wobbled over his waistband.

Was the man deaf? Arthur thought. How had he ever managed to attract a harem? Surely Miriam couldn’t have been one of his girls.

Frustrated, he started to follow the railings around the grounds, trailing his fingers along them as he went. He stopped sporadically to raise himself onto tiptoes to peer into the gardens. The manor was like a fortress.

Then he discovered that in one place, around the back of the house and shielded by a huge oak tree, the railings no longer stretched to the ground, but instead were embedded in a low brick wall. He had an idea.

First looking around to make sure he was alone, he tried to lift his right leg high enough to climb up onto the wall. He could then peer over the top of the railings for a better view. But his knee locked when he tried to raise it, making a disconcerting crunching sound. He bent over, rubbed it, and then tried again. Cupping his hands behind his knee, he hoisted it up so he could place the sole of his foot flat on the wall. He grabbed hold of the railings and then pulled with all his might to get his other leg off the ground. When he felt his second foot standing firmly on the wall he felt such a feeling of euphoria. Life in the old dog yet. He allowed himself a few deep breaths and pressed his face to the railings again.

There was a scuffling noise and an orange-eyed Jack Russell stared up at him. A lady wearing a silk patterned headscarf and a khaki Barbour jacket looked Arthur up and down. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’ He stood as nonchalantly as he could do with both hands clutching the railings.

The lady stood her ground. ‘What are you trying to do?’

Arthur thought too quickly. ‘I’m trying to find my dog. I think he might have gone over the railings.’

‘Those railings are at least ten foot high.’

‘Yes. Tsk.’ He nodded. If he didn’t speak and didn’t explain then she might move away. He went into his National Trust statue mode.

The lady pursed her lips. ‘I’m going to be ten minutes walking my dog. If you’re here when I’m walking back, I’m going to call the police. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ Arthur shook his leg to release his trousers which had rolled up slightly over his sock during the climb. ‘I assure you that I’m not a burglar.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I hope you find your dog. Ten minutes …’ she warned.

He waited until she had moved away. Today had been a disaster. He should have stayed at home and read the Daily Mail. But then he saw a flash of electric blue trouser. Damn it. He had to get the man’s attention. He stood and rattled the railings but they didn’t budge. So he began to wave. ‘Lord Graystock. Lord Graystock. Lord Graystock,’ he shouted. This felt idiotic, like he was at a rock concert. But it had to work. He had travelled for miles for this. He had gone against the voice in his own head that had told him to stay at home in his daily routine. There was no way he was going back without an answer.

The woman and her dog would return. If he was going to do this then he had to be quick. Without another thought, Arthur spotted a ridge of metal along the top of the railing. He used all his might to lift his leg up and wedge his foot on the ridge. With strength he didn’t know he possessed, he managed to clamber up onto the top of the railing. He hung there for a moment then rallied himself. Come on, Sir Edmund Hillary. Up and over, old son. He steadied himself and flipped his leg over. He jumped. The iron fleur-de-lis on the top of the railing got fastened in the hem of his trouser leg. There was a loud tearing noise as he dropped onto the lawn. Looking down, he saw that his left trouser leg was torn to the thigh so it looked as if he was wearing a strange sarong. No matter. He was over. He stood and strode toward the manor house, his left leg exposed.

The grass was damp and squeaky. The buttery sun made it sparkle. It was a beautiful day. Arthur gave a sigh of relief. Birds twittered and a red admiral butterfly alighted on his shoulder for a few seconds. ‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘I’m here to find out about my wife.’ As he lifted his head to watch as it fluttered away, he didn’t see the brick on the lawn.

He kicked it, then felt his ankle twist. He stumbled sideways, falling to the ground, and then rolled onto his back. Beetle-like, he tried to right himself, but his legs and arms flailed feebly in the air. He tried again and then groaned. The fall had winded him. His ankle throbbed. He had made it over the dizzying heights of the railings and then been foiled by a brick.

He lowered his legs and arms and looked up at the sky. It was Wedgwood blue and a cloud shaped like a pterodactyl drifted by. An aeroplane left a vapour trail. Two cabbage whites flew higher and higher until he could no longer see them. The brick lay beside his ear. It was chipped around the edges as if it had been chewed.

He tried to right himself again by sucking in his stomach and attempting to sit up, but it was no use. Idiot, he sighed. He would have to do his statue thing for a while before he tried to move again. He wondered if he had ever come across a National Trust statue that lay prostrate. Hmmm, probably not. Lifting up his leg, he tried to rotate his twisted ankle. It circled and clicked. It wasn’t as bad as he first thought. The manor was in striding distance. He was nearly there. A few more minutes and he’d roll onto his side and get up. He would crawl there if need be.

It took him a few seconds to realise that he was no longer alone.

First of all he sensed movement beneath his fingertips as the grass rumbled. It was a strange feeling, not a thumping, or a buzzing but more of a padding sensation. Something brushed his right foot. A dog? A squirrel? He tried to move his head, to raise it, but a pain shot down his neck. Hell’s bells. Ouch, that hurt.

The next thing he knew, his view of the sky was obliterated by something big. It was something with fur. It was something orange, black and white.

Oh, good God. No.

The tiger stood over him. Its face was so close that he could feel its meaty breath burning his cheek. There was an unmistakable tang of urine. Something heavy pressed down on his shoulder forcing it into the earth. A paw. A huge paw. Arthur wanted to screw his eyes shut but he couldn’t help but stare, hypnotised by this great beast.

The tiger had black lips and whiskers the thickness of crochet needles. Its lips curled and a string of drool glooped down, down into Arthur’s ear. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but he daren’t move. This was it. He was a dead man. He turned his head slightly so the drool slid out onto the grass.

When he’d imagined his death (and he thought about it often now Miriam was gone) his preferred method was to fall asleep and not wake up—though he would want someone to find him straight away. It would be awful if he began to create a stink. And he wanted to look serene, not have his face screwed up in pain or anything. He supposed Lucy would find him so that wouldn’t be nice for her. It would be most useful if he could have a premonition about his death and be prepared for it. If he could be sure that, say fifteen years on, say 8 March, he would go to sleep and not wake up, he could tip Terry off the day before. ‘If you don’t see me tomorrow morning, then feel free to break in. You’ll find me in bed, dead. Don’t be alarmed. I know it’s going to happen.’

Or, he understood that cancer was very common amongst men his age. He’d seen a feature on daytime TV on how you should cup your testicles to check for lumps. It had been disconcerting seeing a hairy pair of balls on his television screen at that time in the morning. Afterwards he had felt around in his pants and decided that prostate cancer wasn’t going to do him in.

What he hadn’t ever pictured was being eaten by a tiger. He could see the headlines now:

Pensioner Mauled to Death by Tiger. Thigh Bone Found in Grounds of Graystock Manor.

This was not how he wanted to go.

The tiger moved its paw, this time further down his arm. Arthur could only lie there as he felt the dreadful sensation of claws dragging his skin. There was a sharp pain and he flicked his eyes to see four red stripes of blood appear on his forearm. Blood bobbled to the surface. He seemed to float out of his body and watch the scene from above.

There was a painting once that he had seen in a book. It was a lion looming over a man. Was the artist Henri Rousseau? He was that man on the ground now. Did the man in the painting look terrified? Was there blood? As he lay there, paralysed with fear, he lost all sense of time. How long had he even been lying on the ground? He couldn’t say if it was seconds, minutes or hours. The tiger watched him, staring and waiting. Its yellow eyes unblinking, unemotional. Make a move, it willed him. Provoke me and let’s see what happens.

Arthur glanced at the tiger again. It seemed to be looking longingly at his exposed leg. He could hear Bernadette’s voice in his head. ‘You silly old bugger. Why did you climb the bloody fence?’

‘Elsie. No.’ A man’s angry voice suddenly bellowed out. ‘Get off. Bad girl.’

The tiger, or tigress, as Arthur now knew, turned her head to face the shout. Then she glared back at Arthur. They stared at each other and shared a moment. She was undecided. She could tear his head off at any time. Eating this white-haired old man would be a treat. A bit gristly maybe, but she could cope with that.

‘Elsie.’ There was a thud and a thick bloody steak landed on the grass a few inches from his ear. It must have been tastier than his head because the tigress gave him a haughty, I’ll let you go this time