Chapter Six
The right answer to a fool is silence.
(Afghan proverb)
To Arnie Garth’s consternation, as he emerges mid-morning from a long but troubled sleep and another head-banging walk down the stairs, the bar is still pretty crowded with drinkers.
They definitely appear to resemble the drinkers of the night before, yet perhaps to the undiscerning eye all Cumbrians, especially the hard-drinking ones, look alike.
The pub’s sole transatlantic guest is less surprised by the rain that he can see and hear battering against the hostelry’s Tudor windows, obscuring what might otherwise be a rather beautiful view.
The very stuff indeed of Ruskinesque watercolours and postcards home.
He wonders for a moment if he will ever again be in a mood to appreciate nature’s glorious, heaven-bestowed bounty but has to remind himself, if truth be told, that he never really got off on scenery and stuff before this, being far more jazzed up by glitz and neon, tacky suburbia and the buzz of traffic.
Our new guy in town would, however, be the first to admit that today he is dressed to kill. Slick Armani suit, open Versace shirt, shinily expensive Gucci loafers. The Arnie Garth woo-pitching outfit número uno. Head-turningly pimp-chic. Looking good, man. No wonder everyone is staring.
Yet, as he ventures into the main bar, with its tarnished horse brasses, old black-and-white photos of local and long-dead cricket, football and darts teams, and seemingly permanent aroma of stale best-bitter, it strikes him that there is something decidedly odd here.
At first, Arnie is at a loss to compute what is so disconcerting about a group of staring, semi-moronic drinkers, until he realises that everyone in this fuggy, fusty Tudor room is absolutely silent.
Not just silent. They are all drinking their pints in a weirdly exaggerated, over-animated way, almost as if they are aliens pretending to be human boozers in order to blend in but not quite managing the rudimentary steps.
It is only after a few moments that he realises that the drinkers’ mouths are actually moving, along with their faces, in that particularly demonstrative manner indicative of lively conversation, yet there is not a single sound emanating from any one of them.
“What the fuck?” he mutters. Which, of course, carries in the deepening silence.
Redbeard the Landlord is at it too. He appears to be shouting at him to come over, but without a single accompanying decibel. When Rosie comes out of the kitchen, carrying three steaming, overcooked English breakfasts on a tray, she immediately understands his bafflement.
“They’re background,” she explains, somewhat dismissively. “It’s what they did in the movie. They’re trying to impress you.”
Arnie, who thought he was either going insane or being offered a preview of his future trip to hell, sighs in relief. “Yeah? Very good. I am so impressed, guys. Leave your names at the bar. Now, Rosie – can you just tell me where I can find Noreen Millburn?”
When everyone in the pub does some massively overemphatic pointing, all in the same direction, towards the open fields beyond, Arnie sighs. Grabbing a lukewarm pork sausage from each of the plates on Rosie’s tray, he makes swiftly for the nearest exit.
The sound of silent laughter appears to be ringing in his ears.
***
Some hours later, Arnie knows why this place is called the Lake District.
He reckons he has sunk into one sodden lake or another every second frigging step of the way.
This was when he wasn’t clambering over stiles – who, in God’s name, ever thought stiles were a great idea?
– crawling through hedges and trudging through bogs.
Of course, he hasn’t been getting totally lost on his own.
He has had inestimable help from farmers, ramblers, marauding bands of urchins and assorted locals mystifyingly out for a stroll.
All of whom, for some inexplicable reason, find the words ‘Noreen’ and ‘Millburn’ absolutely hysterical.
By the time he finally sees a wisp of smoke in the distance, which he prays isn’t Noreen Millburn self-combusting, Arnie Garth’s finest courting outfit is a mud-splattered, shredded mess, and he looks like a dripping Rodeo Drive scarecrow.
“This had better be fucking worth it!” he moans into thin damp air. Because somehow, he just knows that I might be listening.