The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

by Phaedra Patrick

  “It isn’t a scientific experiment. I thought you might be hungry.”

  “Then I shall accept your invitation.”

  There was something different about her today. She usually moved quickly and with purpose. Today she seemed slower and reflective, as if she was thinking about everything too much. He had expected a battle for control of the kitchen with her insisting on peering through the oven door every few minutes while he sat and read the paper. But when he got the cheese out of the fridge she said she would look around the garden. She wandered around while he cut a couple of oven bottom muffins in half and applied a thick layer of butter.

  It was the first time he had eaten with anyone in the house since Miriam had gone, and it actually felt nice to have company. Bernadette usually stood guard to make sure he ate the sausage rolls and pies she brought. She didn’t join him.

  He again recalled guiltily the number of times he had hidden from her, cursing as her produce landed on his doormat as he posed like a National Trust statue. She was a saint. How she had put up with his behavior and not given up on him, he didn’t know.

  “Lunch is ready,” he called from the back door when he had cut the muffins in four and put them on a plate with a few plain crisps. But Bernadette didn’t move. She stared out over the fields, her eyes fixed on the spire of York Minster.

  He pulled on his slippers and walked out onto the gravel. “Bernadette? Lunch is ready.”

  “Lunch?” For a moment she frowned, her thoughts elsewhere. “Oh, yes.”

  They sat at the table. Since Miriam had died he didn’t usually bother with how food looked—he just tipped it on a plate and ate it—but he was pleased with how the sandwiches had turned out. He had cut them evenly and left a small gap between each quarter. Bernadette sat in the seat that used to be Miriam’s. She took up more room than his wife. She was colorful, too, reminding him of a parrot with her red hair and purple blouse. She had green nails today, the color of the emerald in the elephant charm’s howdah.

  “So, you went to Paris?”

  Arthur nodded. He told her about Sylvie and the wedding boutique and how Lucy had met a nice waiter. He had wrapped Bernadette’s lavender bag in pink tissue paper and he handed it to her now, before they had finished.

  “What is this?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “It’s just a small gift, to say thanks.”

  “For what?”

  Arthur shrugged. “You’re always so helpful.”

  She opened it, turned it around in her hands and held it to her nose. “It’s a lovely gift,” she said.

  He had expected her to give him a big smile and squeeze his arm. Something ebbed away inside him when she did not. It was only a small present but a big gesture for him to give it to her. He wanted to show that he appreciated her, that he liked her, that he valued her friendship. He had invested a lot of his feelings into that little bag. But how was she to know that? He wished that he had added a thoughtful note, especially as she might be going through a difficult time. His mouth grew dry as he tried to find the words instead. “You’re a very kind person,” he managed.

  “Thank you, Arthur.”

  They finished their lunch. However, his mind wasn’t still. His insides felt churned up and he wasn’t sure if the sandwich and pie would stay put in his stomach for long. He found that as well as worrying about Bernadette he was also itching for Sonny to ring him, to answer all his questions.

  “Did you ever wonder what Carl’s life was like before you met?” he asked as casually as he could.

  Bernadette raised an eyebrow but answered, anyway. “He was thirty-five when we met, so of course there’d been other women. He had been married before, too. I didn’t question him as I didn’t want to know, if that’s what you mean. I don’t suppose it mattered if he’d been with two women before me or twenty. It’s Nathan I feel sorry for. He was so young to lose his father.”

  Arthur knew he could confide in this dignified woman—his friend, even if she was a little distant today. It didn’t yet seem the right time to mention her appointments.

  “Is there something you want to say to me?” she prompted.

  Arthur closed his eyes and saw himself sitting naked on a stool, his body white and crinkled. He saw Miriam smiling seductively for her portrait painter. “I...” he started, then broke off, unable to find the words, unsure if he wanted to speak them. “I just wonder why Miriam stayed with me. I mean, look at me. I’m nothing to look at. I had no ambitions, no drive. I don’t paint or write or create. I was a bloody locksmith. She must have been so bored.”

  Bernadette frowned, surprised by his outpour. “Why would she be bored? Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He sighed. He was fed up of this now, fed up of this mystery. “She had such an exciting life before she met me. And she didn’t tell me about it. She hid it away from me. All the time we were together I wonder if she was thinking back to her life of India, tigers, artists and novelists and she was stuck with boring old me. She got pregnant and had to settle for the life that I gave her when really she wanted to be doing something else.” Embarrassingly he found tears pricking his eyes.

  Bernadette was still, her voice calm. “You’re never boring, Arthur. Having kids and being a grown-up is an adventure in itself. I saw the two of you once at a church fair. I saw the way you looked at each other. She saw you as her protector. I remember thinking that you belonged together.”

  “When was that?” he challenged.

  “A few years ago.”

  “You were probably mistaken.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I know what I saw.”

  Arthur jerked his head. He knew that nothing she could say would make things better. He would be better keeping his thoughts to himself and his mouth shut, rather than passing on his maudlin mood.

  “You never know what is ’round the corner.” Bernadette stood and carried the plates into the kitchen. She began to rinse them under the tap, even though she hadn’t finished her food.

  “Leave them,” he called after her. “I’ll do them.”

  “It’s fine.” Her voice wobbled.

  Arthur froze. It sounded as if she was crying. He should not have mentioned Carl, or argued with her about the church fair. Now what was he supposed to do? He sat stock-still, his shoulders stiff. Bernadette sniffed. He stared straight ahead, pretending that this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t good at this emotional stuff. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Me? Yes, of course.” She spun on the tap. But as she moved to retrieve the tea towel he saw that her eyes were wet.

  He recalled a conversation with Miriam once. He had asked what she wanted for her birthday and she told him not to bother getting her anything; there was nothing she wanted. So he’d just got her a card and a small bunch of white freesias. That evening she barely spoke to him and when he finally asked why she was so snippy, she told him that she had expected a gift.

  “But you told me not to get you anything,” he protested.

  “Yes, but it’s a figure of speech. Like when you see a woman is upset and you ask her what’s wrong and she says, ‘Nothing.’ She doesn’t mean it. She means that something is wrong and that she wants you to ask her again what it is, and to keep on asking until you get an answer. You should have wanted to buy me a present, even if I told you I didn’t want anything. It was your chance to show you care.”

  So Arthur knew that when women said things it could sometimes mean the opposite. “I don’t think that you are okay,” he said. He stood and walked over to her. He reached out and patted her shoulder.

  Bernadette’s body grew stiff. “I might be. I might not.” She picked up a plate and wiped it with the dishcloth, then set it on the draining board.

  Arthur reached out and took the cloth from her. He wrun
g it out and put it on the worktop. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She looked down, considering whether to tell him anything. “I went to my belly-dancing class last month and as I was changing I found a lump in my...boob. I went to the doctor and he referred me to the hospital to check for breast cancer. I get my results tomorrow.”

  “I see... I, er...” He didn’t know what to say. Nathan was right.

  “The doctor says it’s routine and it’s best to get things checked out. But my mother died from it and my sister had it. In all likelihood, I have it, too.” She began to speak more quickly. “I’m not sure how I’ll cope with Nathan leaving for university and Carl gone. I’ve not told Nathan. I don’t want to worry him...”

  “I could drive you to the appointment...”

  “You’ve not driven for a year.”

  “I used to drive for my job. I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

  Bernadette smiled. “It’s kind of you, but no.”

  “You’ve done a lot for me.”

  “I don’t need repaying.”

  “I’m not trying to repay you. I’m offering you a lift. And my friendship.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “Nathan is only eighteen... Imagine if there was something wrong. First Carl and now me.”

  “Try not to worry. You can’t possibly know until you get the results. All will be clear tomorrow.”

  She took a deep breath and held it in her chest before exhaling through her nose. “You’re right. Thanks, Arthur.”

  “I can pick you up in a taxi. You don’t have to go through this on your own.”

  “You’re very kind. But I want to keep this to myself. I’ll go to the hospital alone.”

  “Nathan is probably very worried.”

  “I’ve kept it from him. He doesn’t know anything.”

  Arthur didn’t know whether to tell her about Nathan’s visit and that he was worried sick. As he mused over what to say, his phone rang.

  “You get your call,” Bernadette said. “I’m going, anyway.”

  “Are you sure? They can phone back.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll let myself out. Thanks for lunch. It was very nice.”

  “What time is your appointment?”

  “It’s in the afternoon sometime. Your phone is ringing. In the kitchen.”

  “Tell me how it goes.”

  “Your phone... You should get it.”

  Arthur reluctantly opened the front door. Bernadette stepped out. He watched her walk along the garden path as he distractedly picked up the receiver.

  The woman’s voice was clear and controlled. Her tone was so cold that it made him shiver. “Arthur Pepper?”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe that you’ve been looking for me. My name is Sonny Yardley.”

  The Ring

  “I AM REALLY not happy that you turned up at my place of work unannounced,” Sonny said. “It is most unprofessional. I might have been in the middle of taking a class. As it was, I was on sick leave so I really do not need this intrusion. It was on my return that Adam informed me that you had turned up in person looking for me.”

  “I’m sorry. I did ring first, and left messages.”

  “And I got them. That does not invite you to stalk me.”

  Arthur reeled at the venom in her voice. He hadn’t realized his actions would cause such offense. “I really didn’t mean any harm, Ms. Yardley.”

  “Well. It is done now. Did you find what you were looking for through Adam?” Her manner was still sharp.

  “I have a piece of jewelry, a charm bracelet. I believe you might have designed a charm in the shape of a paint palette for it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, as I said in the messages I left, I think you knew my wife, Miriam Kempster. I think you may have given her the charm.”

  Sonny didn’t speak. It made him feel uncomfortable. He carried the phone over to the kitchen table and tried to fill the silence. “Sylvie Bourdin gave me your name.”

  “I don’t know of a Sylvie Bourdin.”

  “She was also a friend of my wife’s. Miriam stayed with her in Paris. She suggested I get in touch.”

  “Really,” Sonny said witheringly.

  Arthur began to feel cross that she was being so inhospitable. “Ms. Yardley, my wife died. Twelve months ago now. I don’t know if you’re aware of that. I’ve been trying to find out some things about her past.”

  He kind of expected her to apologize, to say that she was sorry for her manner, but again she didn’t speak. He thought that she must be very angry or was withdrawing her words as some kind of show of power. Perhaps she was still feeling poorly after her illness. So he began to witter again. Words tumbled off his tongue. He told her about the charm bracelet and how tracing the charms had led him to Paris, London and Bath. There were just two charms left for him to discover more about—the ring and the heart.

  He could tell that she was still there from the occasional clicking noise, like earrings clinking against the side of the phone. When he had finished, he added, “So that’s the story.”

  “I don’t know why I shouldn’t hang up on you, Mr. Pepper,” she said frostily.

  “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Did your wife ever mention me to you?”

  “No. I don’t believe she did. My memory can be a bit rusty, though...”

  “I wonder how many other skeletons she kept in her closet. Do you know?”

  “I, er, no.” They seemed to be speaking different languages and he was tired of playing games, following leads and not knowing where they were taking him.

  “No. It doesn’t sound like you do,” Sonny said. “I shall take pity on you, then.”

  “I went to the art college to find you. I saw a painting by your brother while I was there. It was of Miriam. He was a fine artist...”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “He no longer paints?”

  “He is no longer with us. You really don’t know anything, do you?”

  Arthur wasn’t sure what she meant. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a wonderful way to remember him, for his work to be on display.”

  “I hate that painting. It’s far too whimsical for my taste. If I had my way, and if my brother wasn’t the artist, it would be removed. Or even burned.”

  “Oh, I thought it was rather lovely.”

  “Don’t humor me. I really do not have time for this conversation, Mr. Pepper.”

  Arthur stood his ground. “I’m just trying to find out about my wife. I feel that there are things I don’t know, stories I’ve never heard...”

  “It might be best if you don’t know them. We can end this call. Feel free to throw away the paint palette charm. It is a part of history I’d rather forget.”

  Arthur’s mind reeled. His hand holding the phone trembled. It was so tempting to do as she bade him. It was something he’d thought of, too, to get rid of the bracelet and try to return to normal. But he had come so far. “Were you and my wife very good friends once?” he asked gently.

  Sonny hesitated. “Yes. Yes, we were. A long time ago.”

  “And Martin, too, if he painted her...?”

  “It was a long time ago...”

  “I need to know what happened.”

  “No, you don’t. Leave this be...”

  “I can’t, Ms. Yardley. I thought Miriam and I knew everything about each other, but now I feel I don’t know anything. There’s a big hole and I have to find out how to fill it, even if I hear things I don’t like.”

  “I don’t think you will like it.”

  “But I have to know.”

  “Very well, Mr. Pepper. You asked for the truth. Well, here it is. Your wife was a murderess. Ho
w do you like that?”

  Arthur felt as if he was falling down a giant hole. His stomach plunged. His limbs felt as if they were flailing. “Forgive me. I don’t understand,” he gasped.

  “She killed my brother, Martin.”

  “That can’t be.”

  “It is.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Sonny swallowed. “We’d been friends for a long time, Miriam and I. We played together and did our homework together. When she was having trouble at home, it was me she confided in. I’m the one who listened and offered advice. I encouraged her to follow the Mehra family to India. I bought her the bracelet as a good luck present before she left. I was there to support her when she stayed in Paris. This Sylvie Bourdin’s name is vaguely familiar to me. Miriam and I wrote to each other all the time throughout her travels. We were as close as two friends could be.

  “But then, after she’d traveled to Paris and India and London, when she was tired of moving around, she came home. But instead of turning her attention to me, picking up on our friendship, she set her sights on Martin. She batted her eyelashes at him. They started to go out without me. Within a couple of months they were engaged to be married. Did you know that?”

  “No,” Arthur whispered.

  “Martin wanted to buy her a diamond ring, to do things properly. So he began to save every penny that he could. In the meantime he bought her a charm in the shape of a ring to go on her bracelet.”

  “I have it here.” When he spoke, the words did not sound like his own. “And you made the paint palette charm?”

  “Yes. It was a birthday present.”

  “And you say that Miriam and Martin were engaged?” He thought that he had been her first love.

  “For a short while. Until he died. The car he was driving plowed headfirst into a tree.”

  “I am so sorry. But you said my wife was a murd—”

  “They were in my father’s car. Martin hadn’t passed his driving test yet but he wanted to impress Miriam so much that he took the keys without asking when my parents were out for the evening. Miriam goaded him on. I heard her saying that she wanted another adventure. Miriam, with her black-lined eyes and her shiny beehive, her fancy clothes and pearls. A young lad like him didn’t stand a chance when she turned her attention on him. He painted but he really wanted to be a writer, you see, a journalist. When he found out that she had a friendship with that French author De Chauffant, he was smitten. He wanted to impress her.