Chapter 10 #2
‘I’m sorry, Beatrice.’ Arthur places his hand on my wrist and I freeze at his touch.
‘I want us to start again. If you’ll have me?
’ My heartbeat quickens until its ticking drowns out the hum of the pub.
In a single moment of courage, I steal a glance at his face.
His dark eyes are bright under the orange glow of the lights, his dimples crease cautiously at his stubbled cheeks, and I am desperate to brush his hair behind his ear as it falls across his forehead.
Only when my drink bubbles over the rim of the glass, soaking both our hands, do I return to the real world and remember to take my finger off the trigger of the tap.
Like a shot, Arthur is beside me, towel in hand, mopping up the puddles across the floor. ‘So?’ he says, still crouched at my feet, looking up at me expectantly through his lashes. I see myself warped in his irises and I have to clear my throat before I can speak again.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I can only grumble and relief crosses his face. He returns his attention to his mopping, though this time he grins at the towel as though the fibres have just complimented him.
‘Where’s the loo, love?’ Jimmy’s voice interrupts the tension that has settled over us, Arthur knelt at my feet, my fingers itching to touch him.
‘Just over in that corner, Jim.’ I point across the room. ‘Want me to show you?’
‘Aye, please, ducky.’ He twitches nervously, as though he knows that after all of these years, he should remember his way to the toilet that’s only six yards away from where he sits each night.
But he doesn’t, no matter how hard he tries.
He can’t will his mind to give him the answers he knows were tucked away in there once.
My heart breaks for him a little more with each frustrated sigh.
‘Are you working here now, Ed?’ He turns to Arthur, happy reminiscence lighting his face. ‘I haven’t seen you in an age, bud.’
‘Not working, just here to give Beatrice a hand tonight,’ he replies without skipping a beat.
Emerging from behind the bar, I take Jimmy’s arm in mine and lead him to his desired destination. When I return, Arthur is perched on a stool, arms folded in front of him, deep in thought.
‘He doesn’t remember where the toilet is, but he remembers my dad, clear as day.’ He sighs.
‘Your dad means a lot to people round here,’ I say softly, though it’s an understatement. ‘He’d have grown up with Jim. And Jim, just like all of us, will have watched all of his successes since.’
Arthur stares at his father’s portrait above the bar but says nothing.
‘He has early-onset Alzheimer’s,’ I begin and he nods as though he already knew.
‘They think it’s caused by something he was exposed to when he was in the army.
I see him every day and he still introduces himself to me each time.
He lives in the sheltered housing just down the road but always remembers to sneak out for a pint.
And still makes sure to ask about your dad. ’
‘It’s cruel isn’t it?’ he states. ‘My dad probably forgot about him long ago.’ Arthur looks introspective, as though something about this situation hits him a little harder than it would first seem.
‘I don’t think anyone here, aside from maybe Barbara, is under any impression that your dad actually gives a shit about us,’ I confess.
‘So why do you all care so much?’ Arthur looks at me with genuine concern.
‘Just because he hasn’t been home in a few years, doesn’t mean he’s not one of us.
’ I turn my back to fetch him a drink from the fridge and I slide the bottle toward him.
‘People here don’t have a lot. One bad harvest and their livelihood is blown.
They earn less, but are expected to pay more.
Jobs are scarce. This isn’t a place filled with dreams. We live with the heavy burden of reality each day.
But your dad is proof that something else is possible.
That underdogs can succeed. One person prospering from this place is good enough for all of us.
Rooting for him gives us all something to get excited about when everything else seems like it’s only growing more difficult. ’
‘He’s really not that special.’ Arthur shakes his head and I feel myself bristle at his words.
Standing up straighter, I suddenly feel protective, defensive.
‘Perhaps not to you. But he gives us hope. I suppose it doesn’t really matter what the reality is, the idea of him is enough for us.
’ I mean every word. Who cares if he’s actually as much of a dick as his son is?
He made something of himself. That’s more than I can say for myself.
He seems to soften, as though my words have finally gotten through to him, and he almost understands.
After a few silent moments of reflection, he speaks again, with eyes full of curiosity and eagerness to learn.
‘Do you have any dreams of your own?’ Arthur swigs from his drink, unaware of the can of worms he’s threatening to open.
Only hours ago, I was wishing to be as far from him as one can possibly get; there’s no way I’m telling him the truth now.
To him, I’m a country bumpkin, wading through cow pats and changing beer barrels.
He’d probably laugh to hear about my stint in London.
He’d mock my desperation to write, my urge to turn the images in my mind into motion pictures and tell the stories of all the people that the city’s executives find too mundane to ever bother with.
‘I’m living the dream right now.’ I grin just as Bill emerges from the disabled toilet and hands me a cardboard tube.
‘Out of bog roll in there, Bea.’ He pinches my cheek softly between his fingers before adding, ‘I’d give it a minute before you go in and change it though.’
‘Can’t you tell?’ I cast a side glace at Arthur who tries to hide his snigger behind his hand and as soon as Bill’s back is turned, I spray Dettol on a fistful of blue roll until it drips.
Arthur gives up trying to hide his amusement when I begin to rub the paper towel across my affected cheek until it breaks apart with the friction, leaving me covered in blue paper twirls like sprinkles on some cheap birthday cake.
‘You have a secret, Miss Norton. I can see it in your eyes.’ He speaks in a low voice and a shiver runs through me. His gaze is so piercing, so disarming that I hesitate for a moment, trying my best to hold it before I combust in front of him and decorate the optics with my insides.
Before I can argue back, Arthur leans across the bar, plucks the balled paper from the corner of my mouth and brushes the rest of my cheek clean with his thumb. My body runs both hot and cold all at once like one touch from him sets off a fever in every pore of me.
After several beats pass between us where not a word is exchanged, I finally find the sense to break away from his touch.
‘Great,’ I mutter. ‘Now I have to disinfect again,’ I joke, threatening to squirt myself directly in the face with the bottle this time.
Arthur only shakes his head, slides off his stool, crosses the room, and disappears into the loos without another word.