Chapter 4 #4
He sighs. I repress a smile and usher him out of the shop.
The urge to smile has deserted me after an hour. We’ve travelled the length and breadth of Penzance and seen three car hire places where the people behaved just as oddly as the first one, and all with the same message of no cars at the inn.
I sigh after we come out of the last shop. “It would be easier to get a donkey, some shepherds, and three wise men than hire a car in Cornwall,” I observe.
“It is very strange,” he says solemnly. “I cannot think of anywhere else to try, Cary.”
We walk past a group of carollers positioned in front of the town’s huge Christmas tree. They’re singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and their voices are sweet and clear.
“I’ll have to get a train,” I say.
His face scrunches. “Why not stay with me?” I stare at him, and he shrugs. “You would be very welcome.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Cary, I have been inside your mouth. I know the face you make when you attain your pleasure. That shows a very intimate knowledge indeed,” he says far too loudly.
A lady passing hisses in outrage, and I fight the urge to laugh. “That’s not quite enough to warrant a house guest.”
“Ah, but you could explore my library more,” he says cunningly.
“Oh my god. You’re like Satan with plaits.”
He cocks his head, his eyes twinkling. “It is as if my books are more of an attraction than me. Cary, tell me it isn’t true.”
“I cannot tell a lie.” He laughs, and I smile at him. “Are you sure?”
The temptation isn’t the books. It’s all him, but I won’t tell him that. Anticipation stirs. I could stay with him for a few days, couldn’t I?
Obviously scenting weakness, he coaxes, “I can show you around Cornwall.”
“I have to be home for Christmas Day. My parents will be back from their cruise and they’re expecting me for dinner.”
“Can they not just buy a turkey and be happy with it like other people?”
I snort, and he takes my hand. “Come,” he says. “Stay with me. I will show you the Cornwall I know, and I will organise a car for when you are ready to leave.”
“Why are you so keen for me to stay? I’m a stranger, and I sort of get the impression that you move men on very quickly.”
He lowers his head, watching where his fingers are tracing over my hand. “I like you,” he says with the air of a proclamation.
“I like you too.” I hesitate for another second, but the thought of spending more time with him is too tempting. “Well, okay if you’re sure.” His grin is wide and immediate. “I would love to stay with you.”
“Ah, Cary, I am very happy.” He pauses. “You may have your own room. Do not fear on that account.”
“It never occurred to me. Do you want me to have my own room?”
“No.” His answer is immediate.
I fight a smile. “Well, it’s getting cold. I suppose we should preserve bodily warmth at night.”
“It is not just a need. It is a duty.”
“Thank you, Winston Churchill.”
He laughs, and we begin to walk towards the car park.
A moment later, an old voice quavers from behind us. “Professor Arvesen!”
I turn and see a lady in a tweed suit pushing a wheelchair. In it is a very old man, stooped and thin, his pink skull gleaming beneath strands of silver hair. “Professor Arvesen,” he says again. “I knew it was you.” He stares at Sigurd.
Sigurd is immobilised, his face as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.
“Sigurd?” I say.
“Sorry,” he says and bends down towards the old man. “I’m afraid that isn’t me,” he says kindly.
The old man stares at him. “It is you,” he insists in a querulous voice. “I’m Beau Brown. You were my professor at Oxford.”
Sigurd shakes his head. “Sorry.”
The lady stirs. “Well, there then, Dad. How can it be? You were at Oxford in the thirties. This young man must only be in his twenties.”
“I thought it was him,” he says hesitantly.
He gazes up at Sigurd again. “It is you.” His eyes run over Sigurd’s face, a fierce incomprehension in them.
“You look exactly the same. I don’t forget a face.
It’s a talent of mine. Best professor I ever had.
So clever and funny. I’ve always remembered you. ” He frowns. “But how can that be?”
Sigurd inclines his head solemnly. “Your professor sounds wonderful. It is a gift to teach.”
My gaze bounces from Sigurd to the old man and back. Sigurd looks almost worried but I can’t work out why. It’s just an old man’s mistake.
“Cold, isn’t it?” the man’s daughter says chattily to me. “You look chilled to the bone, lad.”
I nod and smile, saying something vague.
The old man fiddles with his scarf. It slips from his hands and falls to the ground.
Sigurd stoops quickly to pick it up, but before he returns it, he speaks a few quiet words.
The man’s daughter doesn’t notice. She’s talking about a log fire at the restaurant, but I see the old man’s face light up.
He looks wonderingly at Sigurd and then inclines his head in a courtly gesture.
Sigurd returns the gesture solemnly and steps back. He catches my eye and blanches.
The old man’s daughter says affectionately, “There now, Dad. We must be off. We’ll lose the table at the restaurant.” She smiles at us and wheels him away, but his face remains turned toward Sigurd, and he gives another one of those respectful nods, his eyes awed.
Sigurd watches them leave with a funny expression on his handsome face.
“Wait,” I call after them. “Can I ask you something?”
The lady turns. “Yes, dear?”
“What subject did you learn under that professor?”
“We must be getting on,” Sigurd says quickly.
“Folklore,” the man calls out, winking at me.
“Time to go.” Sigurd turns away and starts to walk briskly in the direction of his car.
I eye his broad shoulders distractedly. That whole encounter was odd.
Obviously, an old man whose memory might be failing could believe he recognises someone from his distant past. But Sigurd seemed oddly taken by surprise and wrong-footed.
Why? And what did he say to the old man to put him at ease?
I climb into my seat after he opens the car door for me, still thinking.
The journey back is filled with conversation, but my end isn’t really focused. I can’t concentrate. Luckily, Sigurd doesn’t seem to notice.
When we enter the house, he holds up my case.
“I will set this in the bedroom. Are you still sharing mine?” Maybe he did notice my abstraction after all.
I consider him for a beat too long, and his smile is crooked.
“I shall put it to one side for you until you make up your mind,” he says kindly. “And then I shall make lunch.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “Is it okay if I use your library? I just want to check my emails,” I lie.
His eyes are busy, but he nods as graciously as ever. “Please help yourself to anything you wish, Cary,” he says earnestly.
I watch him disappear down the corridor and then turn to enter the library.
It’s as warm and welcoming as it was before, but I hardly notice.
I stride over to the desk, open his laptop, and type out the details for my work account.
I work at one of the finest research centres in England, and if I can’t find what I need there, I won’t find it anywhere.
“Come on, come on,” I say agitatedly, tapping my fingers on the desk as the page loads. I type in my access details and release a breath as my account appears on the screen. So, Adrian hasn’t announced my sacking yet. I hesitate. Do I want to do this?
I think of Sigurd’s warm, open nature. He’s been absolutely lovely to me, despite not knowing me, and he doesn’t deserve me spying on him. But then I remember that odd encounter, and my resolve firms. I have to know. Curiosity is my besetting sin.
I type in the Oxford University staff registers and then scroll down the results as they load, one ear listening for the already familiar sound of Sigurd’s footsteps.
It seems to take forever, but finally, I find the folklore department. I locate their historical records and scroll down the lists of past academic staff. My startled intake of breath is loud in the room when my eye catches on it: Sigurd Arvesen, Professor of Folklore and Ethnology.
How can that be? Was it a relative of his?
I breathe out, relaxing. A relative is a feasible explanation.
He said his family collected the books in this library, and many of them seem to be folklore.
Enough to indicate a family collection. But surely, he’d have explained he was a relative of another Professor Arvesen to the old man?
I click on the tab offering photographs and tap through old black-and-white images showing earnest students in caps and gowns riding bikes, punting down the River Cherwell, and sitting at picnics.
It’s fascinating, and my clicks get slower as I look at this long-gone age.
They look so innocent and happy, unaware that war is going to sweep through their worlds soon, leaving no one unscathed.
I click on another image, and suck in a sharp breath.
It’s a photo of what appears to be a graduation.
A large gathering of students tosses their caps as the university’s buildings loom in the background.
And there he is. He’d been caught unaware by the photographer, and he’s watching the caps fly into the air, his face full of an almost childlike enjoyment.
I enlarge the photograph, and the image gets a little blurred, but he still stands out.
His hair is short, and he’s wearing a suit and his own cap and gown.
“It can’t be true,” I breathe. “There must be an explanation for this.”
I jump as I hear a sound at the door. When I turn, Sigurd is leaning against the jamb. His full lips are drawn tight, and an almost sad expression appears in his usually merry eyes.
He doesn’t say anything, and the silence stretches until I say, “Is this…” I clear my throat. “I want to say this is a relative of yours, but it isn’t, is it?”
I’m expecting him to laugh. I’m expecting him to offer an explanation. I’m stunned when he does neither.
He hesitates for a long beat, and then he shakes his head, his face grave. I suck in a breath, feeling the room spin around me.
It doesn’t make sense, and the rational part of my brain is screaming at me that I’m wrong, but some other part of me, something that feels like it's slowly awakening after a long sleep, imbues my next words with surety. “This is actually you, isn’t it? You did teach that old man.”
The silence stretches, and I gasp as he slowly nods.
“Yes. That is me, Cary.”