The Traveller's Guide to Love

by Helen Nicholl

  Archie was waiting for me. He kissed me on both cheeks and then stood back to study me. ‘My goodness, Johanna – how well you are looking!’

  ‘Thank you, Archie. I’m sorry I can’t say the same for you.’ It was true: he looked awful. There were dark rings under his eyes and his normally rosy skin had a distinctly pasty look. ‘Have you been ill?’

  ‘It’s Morris,’ said Archie, in tragic tones. ‘I took him to the vet yesterday and they’ve kept him in for tests: I’m so worried about him that I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

  ‘Oh, Archie, I’m sorry! Do they have any idea what might be wrong?’

  ‘Diabetes was mentioned, or it could be hyperthyroidism. I knew there was something wrong: he’s been so lethargic lately.’

  In all the time I’d worked for Archie, I had never seen Morris bestir himself at all, except as dinnertime approached: Lethargy could have been his middle name. However, I kept the thought to myself and patted my employer consolingly on his drooping shoulder. ‘Well, we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed, and I’m sure whatever it is, they’ll do the best they can for him.’

  But Archie, as I told Albert over lunch the following day, was not to be cheered. ‘He’s sunk in gloom: he’s not eating – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing given that he could afford to lose a few pounds – but he’s getting under my feet in the shop because he can’t concentrate on anything, not even bridge or his latest book.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be too worried about his writing,’ said Albert. ‘It might be a service to literature if he stopped altogether. But obviously he needs distracting. Why don’t I come back to the shop with you now and invite him over to give his opinion of my disputed Dufy?’

  ‘You’ve got a painting by Dufy?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s very small,’ said Albert modestly, ‘and almost certainly a fake.’

  I felt a strange mixture of emotions: gratitude, primarily, for Albert’s eternal readiness to do someone a kindness if he could, and something less pleasant, which must have shown on my face because he took my hand and leant forward anxiously.

  ‘Is that not a good idea, my darling? I just thought it might be something that would interest him …’

  ‘Of course it would,’ I replied, ‘and it’s a kind thought.’ I took a deep breath. ‘The trouble is, Albert, that I didn’t know you had a Dufy because I’ve only ever been to your house once, and all I saw then was the kitchen. And I don’t want Archie having a guided tour when I haven’t even had one myself.’

  Albert sat back with a look of dismay on his face. Then he nodded. ‘You are quite right, Johanna. Phone Archie and ask him if he can do without you for another hour or two and we’ll go over to Chestnut Avenue now.’

  Twenty minutes later I was standing in Albert’s bedroom looking at the Dufy. It was small, but it was charming: a little impressionistic seascape of a cobalt blue bay with palms and toytown houses, and a sailing boat out on the water.

  ‘I don’t think it matters who painted it,’ I said. ‘It’s delightful. And if you knew for certain it was worth a fortune, you’d have to worry about it. As it is you can just hang it on the wall and enjoy it. I wonder where it was painted?’

  ‘It could be Nice,’ said Albert. ‘My father bought it from a dealer in London when he was a young man. He had an eye for things like that – those pots were his as well.’

  Above the fireplace stood two blue and white Chinese jars, alongside a brass candlestick and assorted photographs of Norah and Rosie. The fireplace itself was full of books, as were the shelves along the walls. By now I had seen Albert’s living room, which was also lined with overflowing bookshelves, his study (ditto) and his two spare bedrooms: there were bookcases everywhere, and where there were no shelves, there were heaps of books and journals stacked against the walls. Anthropology, history, art and philosophy fought for space with literature, politics, film studies and any other subject you might care to name. If ever Good Intentions ran out of stock, I thought, I would know exactly where to come. There was even a pile of books poking out from under his bed.

  The bed itself was old-fashioned, brass, and inviting, but I forced myself to concentrate on the painting. ‘I suppose we ought to be getting back,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure Archie would love to see this. Oh Albert, I wish we were there now, walking along the promenade, arm in arm, in sunny Nice – or wherever it is!’

  ‘We will, my darling, and we’ll go to Paris too, I promise you, just as soon as all this family business has been sorted out.’

  I’d forgotten all about his family, although it occurred to me now that they were almost certainly out at work, which was why the house next door was so silent and Albert had felt it was safe to bring me round.

  ‘I want to walk with you along the Seine, and through the arcades, and take you to all my favourite galleries,’ Albert continued. ‘You have such an eye for art, Johanna, and such an extraordinary feeling for history.’

  I must confess that before meeting Albert I had been unaware of any particular sensitivity towards history, my knowledge of the subject having been confined to the carefully censored version taught at the time in South African schools, and therefore full of holes, but who was I to contradict an expert?

  ‘There is nothing I’d like more,’ I said. ‘What about August? For my birthday?’

  ‘August isn’t a very good month for Paris.’ Albert shook his head. ‘But September would be perfect – would that do, my darling?’

  ‘Paris in September,’ I whispered. ‘Oh yes, Albert, that would do very well indeed.’

  We got back to the shop to find the closed sign up and a note from Archie to say he had gone to collect Morris from the vet’s. I spent an hour polishing a collection of glass bottles and arranging some rather ugly ceramics that Archie had assured me were art deco and well worth the sum he was asking for them. Not a soul came in, apart from Mad Mabel who was convinced that the shop was built directly over a ley line, and had come to check the vibrations. I made a mental note to introduce her to Frederika if I ever got the chance, but otherwise I ignored her. And then, just as I was about to lock up, a taxi drew up outside and Archie emerged with Morris.

  ‘Well?’ I demanded anxiously as I held the front door open for them. ‘How is he?’

  A low yowl informed me that the patient was still alive, but the news was not entirely reassuring. ‘It’s his heart,’ said Archie. ‘Apparently it’s quite common in older cats, but with the right care and medication, and a bit of luck, he should have a few good years yet.’

  ‘Well, let us hope so,’ I said to Albert that weekend. ‘I dread to think what Archie will be like if poor old Morris doesn’t pull through. And that reminds me, I must remember to take Tiger Lily to the vet next week. She’s eating so much, I’m afraid she might have worms. And she’ll need to be spayed before she’s much older.’

  Tiger Lily, who had draped herself adoringly over Albert’s knees, suddenly rolled over, offering him her snow-white tummy to be stroked.

  ‘I think it might be a bit late for that,’ Albert said, probing gently. ‘This cat isn’t fat, she’s pregnant.’

  ‘She can’t be!’ I sat bolt upright in surprise. ‘She’s barely out of kittenhood!’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Albert, ‘some girls are quicker off the mark than others. I’m pretty sure I’m right though – here, feel for yourself.’ And taking my hand he laid it on Tiger Lily’s undeniably swollen belly.

  ‘You shameless hussy!’ I told her, as she stretched and purred voluptuously. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  Albert lifted her gently on to my lap and headed for the kitchen. ‘We’re going to have our coffee,’ he said, ‘and while I make it, you can think about how you are going to break the news to Sticky Wicket.’

  Tiger Lily’s kittens were born at the end of May, with remarkably little fuss, in the cupboard in which their mother elected to give birth – ignoring, in the manner of cats, the comfortable basket I had prepared for
the event. There were three of them. By the time they had made the transition from blind, rather rat-like newborns to fluffy grey and white copies of their mother, both Albert and Sticky Wicket had lost their hearts entirely. And Archie, shown their pictures, pronounced them quite enchanting.

  The same could not be said of Morris. Despite Archie’s tender care, his coat had gradually lost its shine, his appetite had dwindled, and he was spending more and more of his time asleep in a basket under the desk. One morning, when I came back with a cup of tea from the minuscule kitchen at the rear of the shop, I noticed that he seemed unnaturally still – and when I prodded him very gently, there was no response. Further prodding only confirmed my fears: Morris had departed.

  I felt an unexpected wave of sorrow; I stroked his poor old head softly, and drew his blanket gently over him. Then I felt a rush of panic: Archie was out, but he would be back soon and it would be up to me to break the news. In urgent need of moral support, I rang Albert, who was extremely sympathetic, and unusually practical.

  ‘Put the closed sign up,’ he said, ‘as a mark of respect and to make sure there’s no one around when Archie gets back. Then make yourself another cup of tea, and when he does get back, ask him what we can do to help. He may not have anywhere to bury him.’

  So I did all that, and when Archie returned, I broke the news as gently as I could. Then I drew back Morris’s blanket and as Archie began to weep, I put my arms around him and wept too. I helped him carry Morris back upstairs and left him to mourn while I went down to the Good Intentions Bookshop, where, as luck would have it, Agnes, the great animal-lover, was on duty.

  Archie, who had a horror of graves, had already told me that he could not bear to bury Morris: instead, he wanted him cremated – and Agnes, as I had known she would, could tell me exactly how and where it could be done.

  A week or two later, Albert and I drove Archie, clutching a discreet package, up through the north of the city. Our destination was Belfast Castle, a building with a fine outlook over the lough and a formal garden which has greatly appealed to me ever since Albert first took me there, because of its association with cats. There are cats hidden in various places within its walls: mosaic cats, stone ones and others which I shall not describe because I do not want to spoil the surprise for future searchers, but there is one very obvious large stone cat that sits in a bed on the far side of the garden, looking down at its feet with an expression of benign interest. So when Archie finally began to think about where to scatter Morris’s ashes, it was the memory of this cat that flashed into my mind and prompted my suggestion.

  It was a clear, mild, early summer morning when we descended the stairs into the garden. A couple of tourists were photographing each other beside the fountain, but we strolled as nonchalantly as we could towards our chosen spot, and the moment everyone else disappeared from view and the coast was clear, we sprang into action. Archie stepped forward and very gently and carefully emptied the little bag of ashes into the patch of shrubbery watched over by the stone cat. He murmured something that I didn’t catch; then I whispered ‘Goodbye. Morris!’ and Albert said ‘Happy hunting, old fella.’ After which we turned to look at each other, and for the first time since Morris’s death, Archie smiled.

  I have not the slightest idea if what we did was legal – I suspect it was not – but at the time it felt the perfect thing to do. Indeed, Archie’s smile turned into a chuckle; then with one accord, like successful criminals, we high-fived before beating a hasty retreat.

  Chapter 11

  The week after we scattered Morris’s ashes was the week of Rosie’s birthday, and also the first time since Easter that I had been deprived of Albert’s company for more than a couple of days. We had one or two late-night, hurried phone calls, but they were not very satisfactory: Albert’s house was crammed with visiting relatives and he was feeling the strain. I missed him badly; I went to work, I did my best to cheer Archie up, and I spent hours playing with Tiger Lily and her kittens, but time dragged nonetheless.

  It was during these dog days that I went to visit Agnes – and encountered M. Heaney in the flesh. I also rang my old friend Rita, whom I had neglected of late, and arranged to meet her for lunch on Botanic Avenue. There was a restaurant we wanted to try – a new one seemed to spring up every other week in that area and then close down as quickly as it had opened, and this was to be no exception.

  It was called The Courgette and had a vaguely Mediterranean theme. It also had a very sparse menu, so it didn’t take us long to decide what to eat.

  ‘And two large glasses of the house red,’ directed Rita, when we had ordered, adding, ‘at least that will give us some protection against dysentery. I have my doubts about this place.’ Then she leaned forward, folded her arms on the table, and said. ‘Right. Tell me all.’

  Rita is a good listener; she is also a lawyer, and she doesn’t beat about the bush. By the time our food arrived – some sort of aubergine quiche with a wilting salad – Rita had marshalled the salient facts and was ticking them off on her fingers: ‘You are madly in love: he is kind, honourable, funny, and he makes your knees knock. So far so good. He is separated from his wife but not actually divorced, and he still lives next door to her. Less good. Despite knowing each other (in the biblical as well as the literal sense) for six months, you have only been to his house twice and you have not made any progress in getting to know his family or friends. Also less good. He has promised to put his house on the market so that you and he can find somewhere to set up home together, but for one reason or another he has not yet done so. If I may be frank, Johanna, alarm bells are ringing.’

  ‘I can see why you feel like that,’ I said, ‘but you need to remember that Albert, for all his other wonderful qualities, is not exactly decisive. Also, he suffers from guilt.’

  Rita and I both took thoughtful sips of our wine while we considered this foreign condition. ‘Furthermore,’ I continued – consorting with lawyers has this effect on my speech – ‘furthermore, he is concerned that Rosie, his youngest daughter, should have as happy a twenty-first birthday as possible: once that’s out of the way, it will be full speed ahead.’

  ‘Well, I certainly hope so,’ said Rita, ‘but long experience inclines me to a pessimistic outlook. I also have a pessimistic outlook concerning the future of this establishment: that quiche was dire. And put your purse away, Johanna – I probably earn more in a week than you do in a year.’

  She paid the bill, gave me a rib-crushing hug, and tottered off on her six-inch scarlet heels to her next meeting, while I crossed the road to Good Intentions, where I found Dolores and Sybilla on duty.

  ‘Oh Johanna, how nice to see you,’ Dolores said. ‘I was just saying to Sybilla that I hoped you’d be in. Agnes has left a note for you, and Mrs Chung brought in one of her cakes this morning, so if you’ll hold the fort with Sybilla, I’ll go and put the kettle on for tea.’

  A small flurry of customers distracted us for the next few minutes; then a woman staggered in with several bin bags of books, which I offered to unpack. They contained a fairly standard mixture of dog-eared paperbacks, old library books, out-of-date text books, chipped ornaments, some Reader’s Digest magazines and a grubby vest.

  By the time I got round to opening Agnes’s note, Dolores had returned with the tea and Mrs Chung’s cake. Mrs Chung was a great favourite in the bookshop: tiny and smiling, she had come from Hong Kong with her husband some twenty years earlier, and had thrown herself heart and soul into life in Belfast. Whether she could make Peking duck or dim sum I have no idea, but her soda and potato breads were famous, and her cakes were fabulous. She came into the bookshop every week to stock up on reading matter (she favoured crime novels of the more gruesome sort) and every so often she brought the staff a cake. This week’s offering was chocolate, and as the quiche across the road had been less than satisfying, I helped myself to a large slice.

  As for Agnes, the note was typical of her kindness: she was just writing to sa
y that she hoped that all had gone according to plan with the scattering of Morris’s ashes and that she sent her best wishes to Archie and hoped he was bearing up.

  ‘Did Agnes tell you about Archie’s cat?’ I asked Sybilla and Dolores.

  ‘She told us she’d helped you arrange his cremation,’ Sybilla replied. ‘Did it all work out?’

  ‘Better than we could have hoped,’ I said, and I described for them the clandestine scattering of the ashes in the castle gardens.

  They roared with laughter, which caused one of the more foolhardy customers to remark that it was as well for some, sitting there eating chocolate cake with their feet up and not even offering a regular customer so much as a bite.

  ‘The last thing you need is a slice of cake, Big Eddie,’ said Dolores, eyeing him unkindly. ‘Away off and bother them at Oxfam, why don’t you?’ She turned back to the cake and held the knife poised. ‘Another piece, Johanna?’

  ‘Thank you, no. But I was just thinking, perhaps I could take a slice up to Archie? He’s in the shop this afternoon and I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Anyway, I want to show him Agnes’s note.’

  I found Archie sitting behind the desk, staring mournfully into space. There was no one in the shop.

  ‘Archie,’ I said, ‘I’ve brought you some of Mrs Chung’s chocolate cake, and a kind note from Agnes. I’ll just go and put the kettle on and then I want to talk to you about an idea I’ve had.’

  My idea was very simple: it was that Archie should take a little holiday. I knew that his devotion to Morris and his distrust of catteries had prevented him from going away for years. Now was the perfect moment for him to have a change of scene. In another month it might be different, but I reckoned it would take at least that long before he might be ready to consider another feline companion. I had one of Tiger Lily’s kittens in mind as a replacement, of course, but for the time being, I kept that plan to myself.