The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

by Phaedra Patrick

  It took him a few seconds to realize 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. Hells 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, hypnotized 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 straightaway. 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, in fifteen years on, say, March 8, 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 among 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. Afterward he had felt around in his pants and decided that testicular 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 farther 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 paralyzed 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 glance and then sauntered off.

  Arthur didn’t like to swear but...shit. He released his breath as a loud whoosh.

  He felt a strong arm push under his back, helping him to sit upright. He tried to assist all he could. His arm hung loosely by his side.

  Beside him, squatting down, was Lord Graystock. He had put on a blue shirt and matching waistcoat adorned with small mirrors that glinted in the sun. It was the same hue as his blue trousers. “What the bloody hell are you doing, man?”

  “I just wanted to...”

  “I should call the police. You’re trespassing on private property. You could have been killed.”

  “I know,” Arthur rasped. He looked down at his arm. It looked like he’d been paintballed with a splat of scarlet.

  “That’s just a scratch.” Graystock huffed. He rolled up his trouser leg to reveal a melted wax patch of skin reaching from his ankle to his knee. “That is a proper injury. You were lucky. Tigers aren’t pets that you can come and stroke, you know.”

  “I didn’t come to see the tigers.”

  “No? Then why were you playing wrestling with Elsie?”

  Arthur opened and closed his mouth. The accusation that he was playing was ridiculous. “I came to see you.”

  “Me? Ha! Can’t you ring the doorbell like a normal person?”

  “I’ve traveled a long way. I couldn’t go without speaking to you.”

  “At first I thought you were one of the local youngsters playing dare. A couple of times I’ve caught a poor teenage lad, hanging by his T-shirt from the railings, terrified and begging for help. You’re lucky that Elsie just wanted to play with you.” He sat back on his heels. “Don’t you think you’re too old for acrobatics?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “You’re not one of those animal rights activists?”

  Arthur shook his head. “I’m a retired locksmith.”

  Graystock grunted. He helped Arthur to his feet. “Let’s get you inside and get you a bandage for your arm.”

  “I think I may have twisted my ankle, too.”

  “Well, don’t even think about trying to sue me. A journalist tried it once, when one of the tigers wanted to play and scratched his shoulder. I’ll warn you now that I don’t have a penny to my name.”

  “I’m not going to sue you,” Arthur said. “This is my own fault. I’ve been an idiot.”

  * * *

  The manor smelled of damp, furniture polish and decay. The entrance hall was all white marble and the walls were lined with portraits of Graystock’s ancestors. The floor was paved with black-and-white-checkered tiles like a huge chessboard. An oak staircase swerved from the center of the hallway. The manor was run-down. Arthur couldn’t imagine paying ten pounds to look around it, but that was the price displayed on a desk opposite the door as they walked in. The house had been grand once. But now paint peeled from the ceiling mural of swooping cherubs and swathes of red curtain.

  Graystock led the way and Arthur limped a few paces behind. He wasn’t sure which part of his body hurt the most.

  “The house has been in my family for years. I only use a few rooms now,” Graystock said. “I can’t afford to live here but I don’t want to move out. Come through.”

  Arthur followed him into a dark room stuffed with leather armchairs and in which roared a real open fire. Over the stone mantelpiece was a Pre-Raphaelite-like painting of a lady in a white flowing dress. She was sitting on the grass with her arms draped around a tiger that nuzzled under her chin. He peered more closely to make sure that it wasn’t Miriam. It wasn’t.

  As he lowered himself into a comfy green leather chair next to the fireplace, Graystock poured brandy into a tumbler. “No, I...” Arthur protested.

  “You’ve stared death in the face, man. You need a drink.�
�

  Arthur accepted it and took a sip.

  Graystock sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. He took a swig from the neck of the brandy bottle. “So why are you here, prowling around my garden and upsetting my girls?”

  “Girls?”

  “My tigers, man. You got Elsie overly excited.”

  “That wasn’t my intention. I’m here to ask you about my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Graystock frowned. “Has she left you?”

  “No.”

  “Was she one of my harem?”

  “You really had a harem?” He thought of Bernadette telling him about Graystock’s lifestyle—of wild parties and orgies.

  “Well, of course. I had money. I had good looks. What man wouldn’t do the same in my circumstances?” He picked up a small brass bell off the hearth and rang it. “Alas, I am a man of considerable age now. I have one woman and she is more than enough.”

  After a few minutes a woman entered the room. She wore a flowing blue robe fastened with a silver chain belt. Her ink-black hair hung down to her waist. Arthur recognized her as the lady from the painting, though older now. She walked over to Graystock, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then the two of them growled at each other.

  Arthur sat in stunned silence. He imagined what Miriam’s response might be if he had ever summoned her by bell. Or if he’d growled at her. He’d have been the recipient of a pair of oven gloves batted around his head.

  “This is Kate. She’s been unfortunate enough to be my wife for thirty years and has lived with me for longer than that. Even when I squandered my fortune on drink and drugs, she stayed with me. She saved me.”

  Kate shook her head. “Silly. I didn’t save you. I loved you.”

  “Then love saved me.”

  Kate turned to Arthur. “Don’t be perturbed by the bell. It’s a simple way for us to communicate in the house. I have one, too.”

  “This man...” Graystock pointed.

  “Arthur.”

  “Yes. Arthur is here to find out more about his wife. He clambered over our railings and I had to save him from Elsie.” He frowned as he tried to remember. “What exactly do you want to find out?”

  “My wife left this address in a letter. In 1963.”

  “Hmm, 1963.” The lord roared with laughter. “I can hardly remember what I had for my tea last night never mind that long ago.”

  Arthur sat more upright in his chair. “Her name was Miriam Pepper.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Miriam Kempster?”

  “No.”

  “I have this.” Arthur took the charm bracelet from his pocket.

  “Aha,” the lord said. He leaned over and took the bracelet. “Now that is something I can help you with.”

  He weighed it in his hand, then stood and walked over to a black-and-gold lacquered cupboard and opened the door. From inside he took out a glass bowl, then handed it to Arthur. In it were a pile of gold charms, maybe fifty in total. All were tigers. All were identical.

  “This is where your charm probably came from. I had a thousand made in the sixties. They were tokens of my...appreciation.”

  “Appreciation?”

  Graystock wagged his finger. “I know what you are thinking, my man. Trinkets in return for sexual favors.” He laughed. “In some instances, yes. But I also gave them to friends and associates, as well as lovers. They were my calling card.”

  “He loves tigers,” Kate said. “We both do. They’re like the children we never had.”

  Lord Graystock gave her a squeeze and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  Arthur stared forlornly at the tigers in the bowl. He poked in his finger and gave them a swirl. He thought that the tiger on Miriam’s charm bracelet might have a hidden relevance, as the elephant did. But the striped beast was just one of a thousand sisters. He wondered which of Graystock’s categories Miriam fell into. Was she a friend, an associate or a lover? He knocked back the rest of his brandy in one. Kate took the bowl from him and placed it back in the cupboard.

  “I’m sorry.” Graystock shrugged. “Lots of people have stayed here over the years and I have the memory of a goldfish. I can’t help you.”

  Arthur nodded. He tried to stand but then a pain jerked in his ankle and he fell back into the chair.

  “Don’t try to move,” Kate said, her voice full of concern.

  “Aarggh.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’ve not made any plans.” He felt tired, shaken now. “I stayed at a B and B last night. I didn’t think it would take me so long to get here and I hadn’t planned to be accosted by a tiger.” He really didn’t want to call Bernadette to collect him. She needed to focus on Nathan.

  “Stay here with us for the night,” Kate urged. “I can dress your wound properly. And you may need a tetanus jab when you get home.”

  “I had one last year.” He thought back to when a snappy terrier had sunk its teeth into his hand as he had reached down for a roll of wrapping paper in the post office. Perhaps he was put on this earth for animals to attack.

  “Even so. You should go to a see a doctor. Now, where are your things?”

  Arthur thought about his suitcase pushed into the bush at the side of the B road. He was too embarrassed to admit to it. “I haven’t got anything,” he said. “I hadn’t planned to stay.”

  “That’s no problem.” She left the room, then returned carrying a small basket full of bandages and ointments. She knelt next to him and dabbed at his arm with an antiseptic-soaked cotton wool ball. She wound a bandage around and secured it with a small safety pin. Then she removed his shoes and socks and rubbed thick white cream into his ankle. “We’ll leave you in these trousers for now and I’ll find some fresh ones in the morning.” She sat back on her heels. “Now, I’ve just made some fresh pea and ham soup. Can I tempt you with a bowl?”

  Arthur’s stomach growled. “Yes, please,” he said.

  * * *

  The Graystocks and Arthur ate the soup in huge bowls on their laps in front of the fire. His hosts sat on the floor on a pile of cushions and Arthur squashed himself into the corner of a large green leather armchair, trying to hide away. Even though the soup was delicious, with huge chunks of ham and served with wedges of bread and butter, he wished he could be at home eating sausage, egg and chips and watching a game show on TV.

  It was the first night he had spent socially since Miriam died. He listened to Lord Graystock’s stories of wild parties and flamboyant friends, and of Kate’s gentle explanations that her husband tended to exaggerate. He wished that Miriam was here with him. She would have amusing anecdotes to tell; she’d know how to respond to the Graystocks’ stories. Arthur didn’t know how to interact, what to say.

  Even though he protested, he was unable to prevent Lord Graystock from topping up his tumbler from an array of different-shaped bottles. He tried to put his hand on top of his glass but Lord Graystock just pushed it out of the way. To appear hospitable, and to numb the pain of his twisted ankle and scratched arm, Arthur drank each offering.

  “This is a fine gin, made from my own juniper berries,” Lord Graystock announced. “This is a vintage cognac given to me by Marlon Brando... You might find that brandy makes your ankle feel more pliant.”

  The alcohol made Arthur’s chest burn and throat wheeze, but it also numbed the disappointment from having reached a dead end with the tiger charm. There was nowhere for him to go next. He would have to go home and try to forget about the charm bracelet. His heart felt heavy from having to abandon his search. He accepted another glass of something golden.

  “Steady on.” Kate laughed at her husband. Her cheeks were red from the drink and the fire. “You’re going to get poor Arthur drunk.”

  “I am feel
ing rather woozy,” Arthur said.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water.” She stood up. “It’s lovely that you found us, Arthur. We don’t have many visitors these days. We tend to enjoy our own company.”

  Lord Graystock nodded. “I’m sure my wife must get fed up of seeing my ugly mug day in and day out.”

  “Never.” Kate laughed. “How could I?”

  She returned a few minutes later with the water and passed it to Arthur. He drank it in one and watched how the Graystocks sat holding hands. Sometimes he and Miriam would hold hands when they walked, but rarely in the house. He suddenly felt the need to tell his hosts something about his wife. He gave a small cough first, to ready himself. “Me and Miriam liked the simple things in life, too. We were rarely apart. We liked visiting stately homes together. She would have loved it here.”

  “I’m just sorry I can’t remember her.” Lord Graystock slurred a little.

  “Yes.” Arthur shut his eyes and the room began to spin. He opened them again.

  “Never mind, let’s open another bottle of something, shall we? Whiskey, perhaps?” Lord Graystock stood and promptly stumbled over a cushion.

  Kate stood up and pulled him close. “I think that’s enough for one night,” she said firmly. “Our guest may want to go to bed.”

  “I rather think I do,” Arthur said. “It’s been a lovely evening but I’m definitely ready to go to sleep.”

  * * *

  Arthur was glad that Kate placed his arm around her shoulders to show him upstairs. The alcohol had gone to his ankle, so he could hardly feel the twist as he made his way to the bedroom. The scratches on his arm stung but not massively so. His bandage looked pristine and so white. Pretty. And strangely he felt like singing.

  His room was painted orange with black stripes. But of course, Arthur thought as he flopped onto the bed. Tiger stripes—what else?

  Kate brought him a mug of hot milk. “I’ll look through some old photos and see if I can find any reference to your wife, though it is such a long time ago.”