EARLY JUNE
Arthur
‘Mum!’ a child’s voice said. ‘Is that man in the chalet next door Father Christmas on holiday?’
A boy or a girl? Arthur couldn’t tell. Children’s voices were all the same when they were little and this voice sounded as though it belonged to a little person. Certainly an uninhibited one, Arthur decided.
‘Shush. Come away.’
‘He is! He is!’ the child persisted.
‘I said shush!’ the child’s mother snapped, and the child began to cry.
Oh dear. Arthur didn’t like to think he was responsible for a child’s tears.
He fingered his long white beard, which was almost resting on his chest these days. His hair could do with a cut as well – it was nearly on his shoulders, and if it wasn’t for the fact it curled at the ends, it would have been. No wonder the child thought he looked like Father Christmas. And then there was the size of him. He’d put on at least a stone now his beloved Judith was no longer here to check his diet, to make sure he ate more greens than potatoes. Fewer pies. Arthur had lived on pies since becoming a widower.
Ought he to be eating these Welsh cakes the previous occupant had made for him? What a strange thing to do – leave a present for someone you’ve not met and are hardly likely to. But the cakes were welcome. They brought a lump to Arthur’s throat actually. He missed Judith like one might miss a limb, but her cooking he didn’t miss – cooking and Judith had never gone together. But goodness, what would he give now for a slice of her burnt toast, a poached egg with the yolk like a rubber bullet on top? And the little note with the Welsh cakes – so personal. That had brought a lump to his throat as well. Already he was thinking what he might leave for the next occupant, whoever she or he might be.
Twelve Welsh cakes. There were ten left on the plate now. He would never eat them all and they might be stale by the morning.
‘Excuse me,’ Arthur called out to the young mother of the child – a boy in bright-red shorts and a T-shirt with a dinosaur on it, he noticed – at 22 The Strand who had mistaken him for Father Christmas, ‘would you and your little boy like some of these Welsh cakes? I’ll never eat them all.’
‘I’m not little!’ the boy said, folding his arms across his skinny little body.
Goodness, Arthur thought, that lad could do with a bit of filling up.
‘Your very fine boy, then,’ Arthur said. ‘Would he like some?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Mum! It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas eats wish cakes.’
‘Welsh cakes,’ his mother corrected him. And then she leaned in and whispered, ‘And he’s not Father Christmas.’
But she hadn’t whispered quietly enough. Arthur had always had razor-sharp hearing. A radar, Judith had always called it.
Arthur decided to take the cakes to the little family at 22 The Strand anyway. He walked carefully down the steps and along the prom. He stood at the bottom of the steps of the chalet next door, the plate with the cakes held out before him.
‘Father Christmas is one of life’s great mysteries. I don’t know that anyone knows exactly what he eats, or when,’ Arthur said, tapping the side of his nose. He had reached the bottom of the wooden steps that led up to the chalet next to his and the boy, sitting on one of the deckchairs, was looking down at him, eyes wide with wonder, his mouth open in a perfect ‘O’.
The young woman smiled.
‘Indeed not,’ she said. ‘Hello. I’m Hannah.’
‘Arthur.’
‘Arthur?’ the little boy said. ‘It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas is called Arthur, Mum.’
‘Ah, well,’ Arthur said. ‘I only let special people call me Arthur.’
And that much was true. He was only ever Arthur to his family, and his old school friend, David, with whom he had always kept in touch and exchanged Christmas cards. Arthur and Judith had never encouraged familiarity with neighbours by using Christian names. Mr and Mrs Arthur Beddoes had always had a very nice ring to it and that’s the way he wanted it to stay. Except now there was only a Mr Arthur Beddoes. And his memories of Judith, of course. Arthur swallowed back tears. Grown men weren’t supposed to cry – well, his generation weren’t, although it seemed fine for today’s young men to share their feelings and their world was probably a better place because of it. Sometimes – and especially since Judith’s death – Arthur wished he knew someone well enough to be able to share his feelings, someone who might not be embarrassed or not know what to do if he shed a tear at a song that had been special to him and Judith, or a beautiful sunset he could no longer share the wonder of with his wife.
‘Then I’m very pleased to meet you, Arthur,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s always good to get on with neighbours even if it will only be for a short time. And this bundle of trouble is Archie.’ She ruffled her son’s hair.
‘Ah. Archibald,’ Arthur said. ‘A very fine name indeed. My father was called Archibald.’
‘I’m not bald!’ Archie said. Again that little sulk and this time he drew his feet up onto the chair and hugged his knees. ‘Bald means no hair and I’ve got lots and lots.’
‘Indeed you have,’ Arthur agreed, although personally he thought the boy would look a lot smarter with a short back and sides.
‘And I’m just Archie. And I’m six.’
‘And I don’t suppose you’re a bundle of trouble either, Archie,’ Arthur said. He beamed at Archie’s mum. ‘All little boys have to find their feet in life. It takes some longer than others, that’s all.’
Goodness, what was he saying? Arthur and Judith had never been blessed with children, so what on earth was he thinking insinuating that this very young woman didn’t understand her small son? He should just hand over the cakes and go back to 23 The Strand and mind his own business, shouldn’t he?
‘The cakes,’ Arthur said. ‘Do please help me out with them or I’ll never get in the sleigh come Christmas and Rudolph will have something to say about that.’
Arthur gave a little shiver. What was all this stuff coming out of his mouth? Ought he to be keeping alive the fantasy of Father Christmas that young Archie obviously still believed in?
‘He is! He is!’ Archie yelled. ‘He’s on holiday like us, Mum.’ The delight on his face at the thought that Arthur might indeed be Father Christmas on holiday shone out of his chocolate-button eyes, but he hugged his knees even tighter, as though he wasn’t quite as confident about the idea as his words implied.
Archie’s mum raised her eyebrows at Arthur.
‘Sorry…’ Arthur began, but Hannah held up a hand to stop him.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep your secret, Arthur. Won’t we, Archie?’
Hannah tapped the side of her nose and smiled at Arthur. Archie nodded like crazy. He unclasped his hands from his knees.
‘Yes!’ Archie said, punching the air. ‘When I go back to school they’ll never believe… Oh…’ His little face lost its delighted grin. ‘I won’t be able to tell them, will I?’
Arthur shook his head in what he hoped was a grave and serious sort of way.
‘Then I won’t,’ Archie said. He did a little nose-tapping of his own and Arthur thought he saw tears glistening Hannah’s eyes.
He likes the responsibility of this, doesn’t he? Arthur thought. And there’s a lot going on here, isn’t there? Why wasn’t Archie in school? It wasn’t half-term yet. He’d taken great pains to choose a time when the beach and chalets wouldn’t be overrun with children. Not that Arthur didn’t like children, but this holiday – his first alone without his beloved Judith – was meant to be, he hoped, a quiet time, a time of reflection and remembrance. And then he could move on with life, couldn’t he?
‘Bring the plate back tomorrow, young Archie,’ Arthur said. ‘I must go. I need to check my reindeer are being well cared for.’
‘Reindeer!’ he heard Archie say as he walked back to 23 The Strand.
In the morning it was Hannah alone who stood there when he answered the knock at his door.
‘Your plate,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Those cakes were delicious.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed them. And young Archie.’
‘It’s Archie I want to say something to you about.’ She glanced back at her chalet. ‘He’s still asleep,’ she said, lowering her voice just in case he wasn’t and heard her and came looking for her. ‘He had nightmares again in the night. I hope he didn’t disturb you.’
‘No. And I’m sorry about the nightmares. Horrid things.’
Arthur had had terrible nightmares when he’d moved from junior school to the grammar school and had been badly bullied for a while. Until his schoolmates had discovered he could draw wonderfully sharp caricatures of their teachers, that was.
‘It’s not just the nightmares,’ Hannah said. ‘I know I shouldn’t be drawing you into this, but all that stuff about you being Father Christmas on holiday and you going along with it… well, it’s the first time in a long six months that I’ve seen a smile on Archie’s face.’ Hannah bit her lip.
‘Ah,’ he said. What was he supposed to do if those tears he could see in Hannah’s eyes fell? Ought he to put his arms around her? Hug her? Judith had cried, often, over the fact they couldn’t have children. Arthur too. Judith had always said he was a good hugger. But it wouldn’t be appropriate to hug Hannah, would it? They’d only just met. He gave Hannah an understanding smile. He watched as she swallowed back her tears.
‘As you’ve probably noticed, it’s just me and Archie. I’m a single mum now. And Archie is without his dad. Carl was killed… he was in the Army. Not in combat. A freak accident in training but killed all the same. Archie hasn’t coped well at all and the counsellor he’s been seeing, and his headmaster, both said a couple of weeks away from it all, somewhere Archie had never been before with his dad, might help. So here we are.’
‘Oh, my dear lady, I am so very sorry for your loss.’ Arthur had guessed there was a story behind Hannah and Archie being here on holiday, in the chalet next to his, but he’d never imagined such sadness. ‘The Army, you say?’
‘Yes. A training exercise on Dartmoor. Carl was a major. Live ammunition was involved. I’d really rather not say more. At the moment.’
‘No, no, of course not. But nonetheless it’s a time of huge change for you both.’ Hannah stood there, nodding in agreement at his words. Up and down, up and down, her pretty head bobbed. She was clenching her fists tightly at her sides. Arthur decided he had to say something in case she was afraid she would cry if she spoke herself. ‘During the war,’ he went on, ‘I knew many young children – friends of mine from school or Sunday School – who lost their fathers. Their lives were never quite the same again. Not necessarily worse, you understand, but different in some way.’
‘Did you lose your father to the war, Arthur?’ Hannah asked.
‘No. I was one of the lucky ones. My father came back. He was in the Eighth Army. I don’t think he had too hard a time of it, compared to many, except he always said he’d seen enough sand in North Africa never to want to go on a beach again. And he didn’t.’ Arthur wondered now why he had brought some of his own memories and experiences to the party, as common parlance had it – he’d heard that said on the television, of which he watched far too much now he didn’t have Judith there in the evenings to chat to, to listen to music with. ‘But I shouldn’t be talking about myself. It’s you and Archie whose situation is paramount. How can I help?’
‘By doing just what you’re doing. I asked a question and you answered. For the time you were talking I was able to concentrate on what you were saying instead of having the loss of Carl at the forefront of my mind. People have been afraid to talk to me. I’ve seen people I know – neighbours, acquaintances – dodge behind lampposts and so on to avoid having to speak to me. People don’t seem to know what to say.’
‘No, no,’ Arthur said. ‘Very often they don’t.’ There was no need to elucidate; Hannah would know exactly what he was implying. ‘But I’m very glad to meet you both, albeit in the saddest of circumstances.’
Hannah nodded in agreement.
‘I’d best get back to Archie. He’ll be awake soon. I’ll let you get on with your day.’
‘And if we bump into one another as we go about our business, do I carry on with the Father Christmas illusion, or…’
‘Archie is made up about it,’ Hannah said. ‘A little while longer won’t hurt, will it? If it’s not bothering you too much.’
‘It’s not bothering me at all… ah, I think I hear a little voice calling you. My radar hearing. My dear, late wife always said I had radar hearing.’
And with that Hannah ran down Arthur’s steps and back to 22 The Strand.
Now what to do? Had Judith been here she’d have been poring over the leaflets he’d found on the kitchen counter and deciding what they would do. She would have had the bus timetable downloaded onto Arthur’s iPad and would be planning their journeys. Technology had come into their lives in their twilight years but Judith had embraced it, perhaps more keenly than Arthur. But he was glad of that keenness now because there were more than a couple of hundred photographs they’d taken on trips out – selfies, some of them; goodness, who would have thought such a word would ever exist and that Arthur would know what it meant! If Arthur was feeling particularly sad, missing Judith so much that it was a scab on his heart that wouldn’t heal, he looked at those photographs.
‘So, Judith, where to?’ he said out loud, rifling idly through the brochures. The zoo, a steam railway trip, Torre Abbey and Gardens, Torquay Museum? None of those appealed.
Had Judith been there Arthur would have gone along happily with whatever it was she chose, wherever that might be. But Judith wasn’t there.
Arthur’s old school friend, David, had been full of suggestions. David had been kindness itself after Judith died. He’d come down from Scotland for the funeral and stayed on for almost a month… a very long month for Arthur.
‘What you need to remember, Arthur, is that you are now at a premium, being a widower. There are far more widows out there looking for a new partner – someone to mend a fuse, chop logs, put out the bins – than there are widowers.’ David had guffawed at his wit.
‘I’m sure there are many widows capable of doing all that,’ Arthur said. Judith certainly would have been but somehow he couldn’t find the words to tell David so, because his chest felt tight with emotion, and he felt raw with his grief, as though some unseen hand was taking the skin from his heart with a potato peeler.
‘Don’t be such a stuff-shirt, old boy,’ David had said, wagging a finger at him. ‘You don’t have to rush into anything. I didn’t after my divorce.’
And thereby hung the difference. Arthur hadn’t fallen out of love with Judith, or she with him, the way David and his wife had.
So Arthur wasn’t here for a fortnight at 23 The Strand looking for another woman to fill Judith’s place beside him on the couch watching history and wildlife documentaries, or beside him in the large double bed which made him feel he was adrift in a tiny dinghy in a vast ocean without Judith to reach out to and touch in the night.
Instead, he walked the length of the promenade and back at least twice a day. He strolled up into the town and bought bread and cheese, some tomatoes and a bag of ready-dressed salad leaves for his lunch. In the evenings he found a local pub, bought himself a pint of the local ale and spent quite some while studying the menu before almost always settling on fish and chips. Well, he was at the seaside. And Judith had loved fish and chips.
What he didn’t do was catch the eye of any woman of a certain age who came walking, alone, towards him. Once, he sat down in one of the shelters dotted along the promenade and within seconds a very smart lady who was most certainly in possession of a bus pass came and sat beside him.
‘You don’t mind me sharing your bench, do you?’ she said. ‘It’s such a lovely view from here, isn’t it? Are you on holiday?’
Arthur hadn’t been sure which question to answer first, so he made his excuses about having to get back to take in a parcel delivery – now where had that come from? Same place as Father Christmas and all that nonsense, probably.
‘Oh, that’s such a shame. Maybe I’ll bump into you again.’
Or maybe not, Arthur decided.
He wouldn’t have minded bumping into Hannah and the delightful Archie but, despite hanging around on his deck in case they came out and he could say a cheery good morning or good afternoon, he hadn’t seen them.
Arthur didn’t see Hannah and Archie for another couple of days. He wondered if Hannah was keeping her distance a little, if – after telling Arthur such personal information – she was regretting drawing him into their world. He decided to walk along the promenade for some exercise and sea air. And possibly an ice cream.
He was just handing over his money for a 99 with a chocolate flake in it when he heard a voice. Very close. Very loud.
‘Is there ice cream in the North Pole, Mr Father Christmas?’
Arthur looked down at Archie looking up at him.
‘There most certainly is. All that ice. Perfect for freezing milk. Reindeer milk that is.’
‘Eurgh. I don’t think I’d like that. I don’t think Mummy can get it at Tesco.’
Archie looked around for his mother. So did Arthur. She didn’t seem to be anywhere in any direction Arthur looked.
‘Where’s your mummy?’ Arthur asked. ‘Does she know where you are?’
‘No. I ran away.’
‘Ah. Then I think I’d better take you back to her.’
Arthur could well remember packing a few things – a biscuit, a pen, a jumper if memory served him well – into a paper bag and running away. He’d wanted a kitten and his parents said he couldn’t have one so he’d run away to find a family who would let him have one. He hadn’t gone far and it was no time at all before his parents missed him and came looking for him. Perhaps all little boys had the urge to run away at times.
‘I tried to find Daddy for her.’
Oh, the poor little chap. Arthur reached out a hand and patted Archie on the head in what he hoped was a comforting manner. After all, he’d never had to comfort a child, although he remembered being a child and needing comfort.
‘That was very kind of you. Mummy told me that your daddy… well, he’s not here any more so you won’t be able to find him, will you?’
‘No. Miss Raymont at school said that when I ran off when we were doing football. I ran round and round the field and she couldn’t catch me. I was very sadded.’ He shook his head from side to side as he spoke, rather matter-of-factly, Arthur decided, as though he’d accepted he would be sad.
‘Sad, yes,’ Arthur said, automatically correcting Archie’s grammar. ‘But now I think I’d better help you find your mummy. She’ll be worried when she realises you’re missing.’
His own mother had hugged and hugged him when she’d found him in the back lane behind their house, his parcel on his knees, nibbling on a biscuit. She’d almost hugged the life out of him. He had a feeling Hannah would do the same with Archie once they were reunited. He hoped it would be soon as the ice cream was beginning to drip over his hand. He could have offered it to Archie to eat but you couldn’t be too careful where children were concerned, could you?
‘Archie!’
Ah, there she was now, running along the promenade towards them from the direction of the harbour. Arthur had assumed Archie had merely slipped out of the chalet.
Hannah’s long hair was whipping across her face in the breeze and, when she pushed it back, Arthur could see she was very pink-cheeked indeed. She’d taken off her sandals and was running barefoot.
As she reached Arthur and Archie she opened her mouth to say something but the words wouldn’t come. The shock of losing Archie and then the relief of finding him had almost turned her to a statue.
‘All safe and sound,’ Arthur said. ‘I was just about to ask young Archie here if he could relieve me of this ice cream. I don’t think I want it after all.’
Arthur looked questioningly at Hannah. She nodded. Yes, it was all right to give her son an ice cream.
‘I… I…,’ Hannah began.
Arthur decided to help Archie in his hour of need, prevent him from having a telling off if he could.
‘He has just told me,’ Arthur said, keeping his voice low, ‘that he ran away to try and find his daddy for you.’
‘Oh,’ Hannah sobbed.
And then, in a louder voice, Arthur said, ‘But he’s not going to go anywhere without telling you where he’s going again, are you, Archie?’
A mouth full of ice cream, Archie could only shake his head.
‘Do you think it would be a good idea to sit on the sea wall while Archie finishes his ice cream?’ Arthur went on. He could see it was still very difficult for Hannah to speak, as she struggled to regain her composure. The poor woman must have been terrified Archie might be lost to her too – in the sea perhaps – the way her Carl was lost. ‘Any drips will fall on the wall or down onto the beach.’
‘Thank you,’ Hannah said. She put a hand on Archie’s shoulder and guided him to the low sea wall, and Arthur followed.
What a delightful place this was – Arthur was glad he’d come now. A ferry of some sort was chugging across the bay and a light plane made its way, noisily, from one side of the bay to the other. No one spoke for quite some time but it was a comfortable silence – Archie finishing his ice cream, making the delight of it last, nibbling slowly on the last crumbs of the cornet, and Hannah deep in her thoughts. But Arthur was beginning to get rather stiff. He shifted himself to a more comfortable position on the red stones of the wall.
‘Just going to check on my reindeer,’ Arthur said, taking his iPad from the little rucksack he used to keep all his things – mobile phone, glasses, handkerchief and umbrella as well as the iPad – safely in one place. He padded in his password.
‘Can I look?’ Archie asked, leaning in towards Arthur. His eyes were wide with wonder and Arthur felt a little guilty at telling an outright lie. All he’d done was Google ‘Reindeer/Lapland’ and then click on ‘photos’. ‘Oh! That’s zillions,’ he gasped as Arthur opened up one of the photos.
‘Have to have a few in reserve,’ Arthur said. ‘The world’s a big place to fly around. They can get tired.’
‘Can I go there?’
Arthur looked at Hannah but it was impossible to work out what she might be thinking.
‘There are flights there, yes,’ Arthur said.
Archie licked the last of the crumbs of his ice-cream cone from the palm of his hand. Arthur considered whether to look up flights to Lapland or not, and decided not to. He had no idea of Hannah’s financial circumstances and it would be unkind to suggest she take Archie there if she couldn’t afford it.
Although I can, Arthur thought. And an idea popped into his head. But he wouldn’t mention it to Archie and Hannah just yet.
‘I think we’d better get back to our chalet,’ Hannah said. ‘Thanks, Arthur, for the ice cream. And everything else.’
‘If I can help in any way…’ Arthur began. He didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. He thought he might ask if they could keep in touch. He would have to drop his Father Christmas persona after this little holiday they were both on – both of them wishing they were sharing it with someone else – and Archie would stop believing in Father Christmas sooner or later, but was now the time for that? How lonely he was without his beloved Judith. How much easier this widower business might be if he had children or grandchildren to fill the gap a little. Great-grandchildren by now, given Arthur had been born in 1931. But dear little Archie and his mother were patching over a little hole quite nicely and now he had them in his life he was reluctant to let them go again. But he couldn’t impose himself on them, could he?
‘You already have. Archie doesn’t have grandparents on his father’s side and I only have a mother, and quite a poorly one at that. And now I’d better go.’
Arthur watched mother and son walk away. How dignified Hannah was in her sorrow. No slumped shoulders but head held high, Archie holding her hand and skipping along beside her. An Army wife to the core, Arthur decided.
And then Hannah leaned down to say something closer to Archie’s head and they turned around and came back towards Arthur.
‘Actually, there is something I’ve thought of. Would you like to come to lunch with us tomorrow? At my chalet? Shall we say midday? Please say you will.’ Hannah looked down onto the top of Archie’s head as she spoke, and Arthur got the feeling it was for Archie’s benefit he was being invited to lunch, and also – perhaps – that she was afraid he might reject her offer. ‘Repayment of Archie’s ice cream?’
‘I don’t need repaying for anything, Hannah,’ Arthur said. ‘But yes, I’d love to come. Thank you for asking me.’
‘Well, my goodness,’ Arthur said as Hannah held wide the door of her chalet and ushered Arthur inside. ‘This is all so very different from Number 23.’
‘Is it?’ Hannah said, shutting the door behind Arthur. ‘How?’
‘Well, my chalet is all bleached wood or whatever it is they call it these days – it would have been called weathered or unpainted or somesuch back in the day. And it’s beach-themed, which I suppose isn’t unreasonable, given the location.’
‘What’s “location”?’ Archie piped up.
‘Ssshh, Archie,’ Hannah said. ‘Arthur and I are talking.’
Poor little Archie’s neck sank down between his shoulder blades.
‘We are indeed, Archie,’ Arthur said, ‘but I introduced the word to your vocabulary and I would like to explain if that’s all right with your mummy?’
Arthur raised a quizzical eyebrow at Hannah.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘So, young Archie,’ Arthur said. ‘Location means the place where something is. This is a seaside location because there is sea and sand and cliffs and rocks. I live in a rural location where there are lots of trees and meadows and rivers. And some people live in a city location where there are very tall buildings and lots of shops, and underground railways sometimes. And you and your mummy and I have come here from our separate locations to this one. Sometimes it’s very good indeed to get away from our everyday lives and try something new. Even though we might not think of it that way to begin with.’ Arthur risked a glance at Hannah, knowing she would understand the deeper meaning of what he was saying. She gave him a half-smile of understanding. ‘Do you understand, young Archie?’
Archie nodded vigorously.
‘And taxis. There are taxis in big cities. In London the taxis are big and black and I went in one with my daddy.’
‘And isn’t that a lovely memory to have,’ Arthur said.
More vigorous nodding from Archie. And then he said, ‘We’re having sausages for lunch,’ and Arthur was reminded how quickly children do accept things and what butterfly minds they have at such a young age.
‘And pan-fried potatoes, and ratatouille,’ Hannah said. ‘I hope that’s okay with you. Only it’s Archie’s favourite and he asked if we could have it today.’
‘It’s more than okay,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m sure it will be wonderful.’ In truth he had no idea whatsoever what pan-fried potatoes might be, or ratatouille for that matter, apart from the fact it sounded a bit French. Neither of those things had featured in his beloved Judith’s very limited repertoire of recipes. ‘And anything someone else makes for you because they want to will always taste delicious in my book.’
‘Then I’ll get on,’ Hannah said with a gulp. ‘It won’t take long. Archie’s got out some things to show you.’
‘A jigsaw,’ Archie said. ‘Thomas the Tank Engine. And I’ve got paper and felt-tips. Can you draw Thomas, Father Christmas?’
‘I most certainly can,’ Arthur said. He’d heard of Thomas the Tank Engine but was glad of the picture on the lid of the jigsaw to copy from.
Archie opened his packet of felt-tips and handed Arthur a sheet of paper, and Arthur began to draw. It never leaves you, he thought, the ability to draw, as he selected a black felt-tip and drew the basic outline of the engine, and the wheels. He drew hills and trees in the distance, and cotton-wool clouds. In the foreground he drew three rabbits and a fox. And a little boy standing beside the steps where the driver would get in – a little boy who looked very much like Archie.
‘And now you can colour it in,’ Arthur said.
‘It’s me! It’s me!’ Archie said, stabbing a finger at the outline of the little boy Arthur had drawn.
‘Well, there’s praise indeed,’ Arthur said, ‘if you recognise yourself.’
Archie seemed to have lost his voice then as, with his tongue poking out and held lightly between his teeth, he began to colour in the picture Arthur had drawn.
Archie worked quickly and kept inside the black lines of Arthur’s drawing, more or less, and then Hannah said lunch was ready, and did Arthur want a cup of tea with his lunch or afterwards.
‘Afterwards, please,’ Arthur said.
Hannah had set the table with paper napkins and a little display of stones and shells from the beach on a saucer in the middle. How welcoming it all was; how welcoming Hannah and Archie were.
‘I’m very remiss,’ Arthur said, taking the place Hannah indicated for him to sit in. ‘I’ve not brought a welcome present. Wine or chocolates, or a cake. I used to leave all that side of things to Judith when we ate with friends or family.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ Hannah said with a smile. ‘Carl left all that side of things to me as well, and I was happy to do it.’
Oh dear, here he was again, saying things that perhaps he ought not to have said because they seemed to have brought Hannah’s grief to the fore again. Although Arthur didn’t think it was very far from the fore most of the time.
‘And there was no need to bring anything,’ Hannah went on. ‘This is a thank you for Archie’s ice cream, and your kindness yesterday.’
And very delicious it all was. Archie ate every scrap and carried his empty plate over to the little draining board in the galley kitchen when he’d finished. How lovely to see the little chap being brought up with such good manners. Had Arthur had a son, or a daughter for that matter, good manners would have been the number-one lesson. They cost nothing, but were priceless – that was what his own father used to say.
‘Can I take my drawing to my room?’ Archie asked after they’d all finished the ice cream with a chocolate flake crumbled over it that Hannah served for pudding.
‘Of course you can,’ Hannah said.
Archie gathered up his paper and pens and hugged them to him and off he want. Hannah refilled Arthur’s cup and handed it to him, but he didn’t remember being offered one or saying he’d like one. But the gesture was welcome because it was something Judith had always done – just assumed he would want a second cup.
‘I expect he’ll have a little nap when he’s finished colouring in,’ Hannah said. She pulled the door of the bedroom to a little, not enough to make Archie feel he was being sent to his room, but open enough so she could hear him. ‘All this sea air and the upheaval.’
‘Ah yes, sleep,’ Arthur said. ‘The great healer while you are in its embrace.’
In the first few months after losing Judith he’d slept almost around the clock – an escape from all the thinking about how hard life was going to be now without her.
‘Do you have children?’ Hannah asked. ‘Grandchildren maybe? Or even great-grandchildren? You’re very, very understanding of Archie so I’m guessing you’ve had experience with children.’
‘I’m afraid not. That was our biggest regret, that we weren’t blessed with little ones. These days there are all sort of things like that IVF to help people but in our day it was stiff upper lip, grin and bear it, adopt if you could, and be the best aunt and uncle it was possible to be. Except we only did the first two of those things.’
‘Oh, Arthur,’ Hannah said. ‘That must be so hard to bear. I’m so lucky to have Archie, aren’t I?’
‘You have one another,’ Arthur said.
‘He looks like his daddy,’ Hannah said suddenly. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ As she reached for her smartphone and began scrolling through for the photos she wanted, Arthur got the impression she needed to be doing something, not just talking. ‘Here we are. Boredom alert! Carl in his uniform, Carl with Archie in the garden picking an apple from the tree. Carl, so proud, at Archie’s christening. Last Christmas.’
Picture after picture filled the screen and Arthur did his best – without his glasses – to look at them. He could see that both Archie and his father were very fair-haired and blue-eyed. Tall too. Then there were some of Carl and Hannah on their wedding day. How young, and how filled with love and hope for their future they were in those. How beautiful.
And then Hannah said, ‘How long ago was it you lost your wife?’
‘Two years, four months, and one week,’ Arthur said.
‘They say it takes two years before you begin to feel anything like normal again,’ Hannah said. ‘I mean, this is hardly normal, is it? I’ve invited a man I don’t really know into my home for lunch. I’d never have done that if Carl was alive. That’s not to say I don’t feel safe or regret asking you…’
‘Stop!’ Arthur said. ‘Please don’t feel you have to explain yourself to me. I gatecrashed your first evening here by bringing round Welsh cakes I had no idea you would like or want. And for the record, what they say is very true – it does take a good two years before you start to feel anything like normal. Sometimes, Hannah, even now, I imagine I hear the swish of the hem of Judith’s dress on her calves as she walks past. And sometimes I swear I catch the scent of the perfume she always wore – a French perfume, called L’eau d’Issey.’
‘Oh, Arthur,’ Hannah said. She placed her hands, prayer-fashion, over her lips.
‘And something else I’d like to share with you, seeing as I’ve had no one else to share it with and you and I are here together, in the same boat as it were – I now firmly believe it’s not the length of time we spend with our loved ones before we lose them that counts, be that six months or sixty years, but the depth of that love.’
‘Oh, Arthur,’ Hannah said again. She reached across the table and touched Arthur’s arm, leaving her hand there. ‘That’s a lovely thing to hear.’
Hannah’s hand was still on Arthur’s arm and it struck him then that it had been such a long time now since anyone had touched him. Judith had done it all the time when talking to him, making a point, or just to get his attention. He realised now he’d missed that as much as he missed Judith.
‘I don’t know where all this philosophical stuff is coming from,’ Arthur said, feeling rather embarrassed now that he seemed to be offloading his emotions onto a young woman he’d only just met. But he’d started so he’d finish, as they said on that television programme – Mastermind – he and Judith had loved so much. ‘I’m old enough to have done National Service. Navy. I learned all about discipline, and stiff upper lip, and duty. That sort of thing stays with one. But it’s not always good to keep things inside us.’
‘Perhaps, Arthur,’ Hannah said, ‘it’s precisely because we are generations apart, you and me, that we’re here now, sharing stuff. When Carl was killed, friends and family rallied round but women my age seemed to think a day at a spa, or a night out with the girls, or a day shopping, or a bottle of wine and some chocolates would be what I needed to mend my soul. And none of it was. Or is.’
‘No. I booked this holiday on a whim – it’s somewhere Judith and I had never been together, and I don’t know why I did it apart from that, but now I think, perhaps, it was so I could make new memories. My memories. And there’s something soothing about the sea, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes,’ Hannah said. ‘And now I think I’d better go and check on my little monster in there and see if he wants to go and play on the beach. Will you join us?’
‘Another time,’ Arthur said. ‘I find one needs a snooze in the afternoon as one gets older.’ He stood up, rather stiffly. ‘Thank you for a delicious lunch. You can tell young Archie that his favourite meal is now mine.’
‘I will,’ Hannah said. ‘Thanks for joining us.’
‘The thanks are all mine.’
When Arthur pulled back the bedroom curtains he got a shock. Right there, in front of him, just a few hundred yards out to sea in his estimation, was what at first glance looked like a huge, floating block of flats. The whole thing seemed totally unstable and, in the breeze flapping the flags on the pole that indicated whether it was safe to swim or not, it looked as though the whole thing would topple over at any moment.
A cruise liner, that’s what it was. Full of old people like himself if his pal, David, was right.
‘A cruise, Arthur, that’s what you need,’ David had said in one of his regular phone calls to check Arthur was still living and breathing.
‘I don’t think so,’ Arthur had replied.
Arthur and Judith had taken many a day trip on boats – the Isle of Wight, Lundy Island and a few islands off Scotland – and while he went because Judith loved it so, he wouldn’t mind if he never had to step aboard anything floating ever again.
‘Think about it, old boy,’ David said. ‘You’d live in the lap of luxury for a few weeks. No shopping, no cooking, no clearing up afterwards. All you’d have to do is eat the delicious meals put in front of you.’
‘And get fat,’ Arthur had countered. ‘And then there’s all the cruise gear, I suppose.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that? You’re a fine figure of a man for your age. Fit. You can dance. We got taught to dance in school, didn’t we? And thank goodness for that, I say, although I didn’t appreciate it at the time. Lots of lovely ladies go on cruises – most of them pretty well off now they’re widows – and they would appreciate a turn around the ballroom in your arms.’
‘Really?’ Arthur said with a massive sigh. ‘Then they’ll just have to find someone else to appreciate. But I’m grateful for your concern for me, David.’
The call had ended amicably enough.
And now here he was with a reminder of why he never, ever, wanted to go on a cruise looming in front of him. The damned thing just about filled up the bay. Hideous. It hardly blended into the scenery, did it? Already there were kayaks and pedalos circling it. There were people on each deck leaning over, waving. Full of rich Americans, Arthur decided. Not that he had anything against Americans, but they probably had more cash to splash as the saying went these days.
But at least the weather was being kind with a clear blue sky, and those onboard would be shipped off to shore to get on coaches to go sightseeing for however many, or few, hours they had for this little stopover.
Arthur gave himself a good scrub down at the tiny basin in the bathroom. At first he’d wondered if he’d done the right thing coming here – everything was a bit basic to say the least – but now he had rethought the situation and decided it was perfect for the needs of a single old man who liked the simple life.
Arthur took his bowl of muesli, and a mug of tea, out onto the deck. Ah, Hannah and Archie were just going down the steps to the beach, Hannah holding tightly to Archie’s hand because the steps were very old and uneven, and if the tide had just gone out they were very slippery too.
Arthur watched them for a few moments and then, as though they sensed they were being watched, both Hannah and Archie turned and waved at him. Arthur waved back. Just a little thing to have someone be pleased to see him and wave, but it warmed his heart, made him feel less alone.
Hannah made a beckoning gesture. Come and join us, the gesture said. Should he? Arthur didn’t have the right clothes for sitting on a beach, or paddling. But he could rectify that, couldn’t he? There were plenty of shops on the main street that led up from the seafront to the railway station. He might be able to get something suitable there. And a hat now the sun was warming up a bit.
‘Ah, there you are, Arthur,’ Hannah said when Arthur eventually joined them, clad now in dark-navy shorts that almost reached his knees, and a blue-and-white-checked shirt. ‘And looking very dapper if I may say so.’
‘You may say so,’ Arthur laughed. ‘Thank you. And I know it’s not Christmas yet but I’ve bought a present for young Archie here.’
‘A present?’ Archie said, clapping his hands together excitedly. ‘A surprise?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Are there toys in your chalet?’ Archie asked, little grooves of puzzlement between his eyes.
‘Gosh, no. There’d be no room for me if there were. I found this in a shop in town and thought you might like it.’ Arthur opened a large plastic bag and took out a mould for making sand crabs and starfish and cockleshells, and a packet of flags of the world. He held the presents out to Archie.
‘What is it?’ Archie asked.
‘I’ll show you,’ Arthur said, when it was obvious Archie was puzzled and unsure about taking it. ‘Now if you could lend me your bucket and one of your spades…’
A bucket and spade were thrust into Arthur’s hand before he could finish the sentence, and he set to filling the mould, pressing the dampish sand in firmly to fill each one.
‘Now, first we have to make some sandcastles. I’ll do the first one, shall I?’
‘Then me,’ Archie said.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Arthur said.
Man and boy took turns making sandcastles until there were ten of them in a row.
‘And now we turn out the shapes carefully onto the sand.’ Arthur refilled and patted and turned out the shapes as he spoke until there were enough for all the sandcastles. ‘Then we lift them and place them on top of a castle. Can you do that, Archie?’
‘Yeah!’ Archie said, punching the air.
‘And very good you are at it too,’ Arthur said when all the sandcastles had a shape on top. ‘And now come the flags.’
Arthur split open the plastic packet of flags.
‘I know that one!’ Archie said, immediately pouncing on the Union Flag. ‘Daddy had that on his uniform.’
‘And wore it proudly, I’m sure,’ Arthur said.
He looked up at Hannah and she was nodding, lips pressed together, but with no tears in her eyes this time when her husband was mentioned.
‘But I don’t know the others,’ Archie said.
‘Then I will teach you,’ Arthur told him. ‘If you want to be taught?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ Archie said.
‘Good.’ Arthur held up each flag in turn – United States, Pakistan, France, Germany, Japan and all the others. He said the name of the country and Archie repeated it.
‘He might not be in school but he’s learning,’ Hannah said. ‘Thank you.’
‘No thanks needed. And I suspect that was what his wise counsellor and headmaster thought might happen when you brought him on this little holiday. Now, do you remember what this one is, Archie?’ Arthur asked, waving the flag of Australia at him.
‘I can’t remember,’ Archie said. ‘Is it Austria?’
‘Nearly right, young man. This one is Australia. And do you know that when it’s Christmas here in winter, it’s Christmas in Australia also, but it’s summer there? So packets of flags like this for little children in Australia, so they can decorate their sandcastles on Christmas Day, can be very useful.’
‘Wow!’ Archie said. ‘I don’t know if Mr Mason knows that.’
‘Mr Mason?’ Arthur said.
‘Archie’s headmaster,’ Hannah told him with a smile.
Arthur had a warm feeling run through him, like being wrapped in a cosy towel that had been sitting on the radiator, after a bath. He’d helped put that smile there, hadn’t he?
‘How about we dig a moat around all these fine castles with their flags?’ Arthur asked. ‘What do you say, Archie? I’ll dig and you could go and fetch water in your bucket.’
‘I’ll help with the moat,’ Hannah said.
And off Archie went, his bucket swinging from his hand, to fetch water.
‘Thanks, you know, for doing this for Archie. Carl – that’s my husband – was… always took on this role.’
‘Maybe, in time,’ Arthur said, ‘you’ll find someone else to take that sort of role.’
‘No!’ Hannah said quickly. She dug furiously at the sand, making the moat deeper than it needed to be.
‘I’m sorry. I ought not to have said that,’ Arthur said. What a stupid old fool he was. Didn’t he remember the inappropriate things people had said to him after Judith died. ‘Join the bowls club with me,’ his neighbour Bob had said. ‘Fresh air, exercise, lots of lovely single ladies. Nice teas they put on, I can tell you.’
‘It’s okay,’ Hannah said. ‘Sorry I snapped a bit. It’s all a bit raw.’
‘The rawness goes,’ Arthur said, ‘and then you’re left with a sort of graze. Well, that’s how it is for me.’
Hannah touched his arm, leaving an imprint of a sandy hand on it when she took it away.
‘I haven’t said to Archie that his daddy’s in heaven watching over him, or a star twinkling in the night sky, or anything like that, because I don’t believe he is. I was an Army nurse when I met Carl and I know that, sadly, dead really is dead. I’m sorry if saying this isn’t how you see things.’
It wasn’t how Arthur saw things. He rather liked the notion that Judith was up there, with a smart pair of wings now she was an angel, and that she looked down on him from time to time and sent the thought into his head that he should remember to turn off the gas before going out, and to put out the bins on Mondays or the waste would just pile up.
‘Ah, here’s young Archie back with the first bucketful,’ Arthur said, relieved he didn’t have to get into any sort of discussion about an afterlife – or not. ‘But quickly, do I carry on with the Father Christmas, er, story?’
‘Please,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s not quite the same thing, is it?’
No, no it wasn’t. So why then did Arthur feel something touch his cheek, something like Judith’s fingers? He got the very distinct feeling she was amused at the thought of a little boy, sad and missing his daddy, thinking he was Father Christmas on his holidays. Hmm, he’d thought about going into a barber’s when he was in town and asking for a haircut and beard trim. Perhaps not yet though.
The weather was kind to them all and Hannah and Archie made the most of it in their respective ways. Sometimes Arthur joined the little family, for they were still that – a family. He even went paddling in the sea with Archie, and got splashed in the process. They built sandcastles and forts together, and Arthur told Archie all about the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Arthur had always loved history, and legend, and it seemed Archie liked hearing about it all too. But he didn’t like to encroach on Hannah and Archie too much. Sometimes Arthur sat on his deck and watched them from a distance, and sometimes he took the bus into Torquay and walked back along the coast road, or sauntered down to the harbour to watch the mackerel-fishing boats come in with holidaymakers delighted with their day’s catch. There was a craft shop on the harbour selling things made by local people. Arthur went in and bought a pottery vase in a deep shade of violet with gold threads running through it because he thought Judith would like it. And it was only when the woman running the shop had wrapped it and taken his money that he realised Judith wasn’t with him any more.
On the last full day of their holiday, Hannah knocked on Arthur’s door.
‘Would you like to join Archie and me on a picnic?’
‘A picnic? I’d love to. Where?’
Goodness, how swift and positive that response had been. Judith had loved picnics. They’d gone on them often and, much to his surprise, Arthur didn’t feel the familiar pang of sadness – like a very wet and heavy Army blanket around his heart – at the memory now Hannah had asked him to go on one.
‘Not far,’ she laughed. ‘On the beach. I’ll make some sandwiches. And I looked up Welsh cakes on Google and made some. They were Archie’s idea. They brought us together, didn’t they, those Welsh cakes?’
‘They did indeed.’ Arthur wondered for a moment if there was some magic in the air, put there by the previous occupant, much like the magic of Father Christmas for children, but for adults instead. Would he have taken the trouble to get to know Hannah and Archie without those Welsh cakes as the catalyst? Arthur thought not. But goodness, he was jolly glad he had. Sometimes a whole hour had gone by when he hadn’t thought of his beloved Judith but about a troubled – though delightful – little boy who was missing his daddy. Life had to go on for little Archie – and Hannah too – just as it had to go on for him.
‘Half an hour?’ Hannah asked.
‘Shall I bring wine?’ Arthur asked.
He’d brought a bottle but hadn’t wanted to open it and drink it on his own. Wine was for sharing.
‘Gosh, that would be nice. We could toast the future.’
So, that’s what they did. After lunch – while Archie dug out a moat for yet another castle, and spent rather a long time fetching buckets of water from the sea’s edge to fill it, lugging them a long way because the tide was out – Arthur told Hannah his plan.
‘I’m going to ask at the village school if they need any volunteers. I could listen to the children read. Times are hard, financially, for schools so I thought a bit of free help might be welcome. And I could read to them about history and legends. Young Archie seems to like my stories.’
‘He most certainly does. And he’s clutching his secret to him that you’re Father Christmas on holiday like it’s made of glass and might break. He sort of hunches his shoulders up, and places his hands together as though he’s holding something, and grins with glee when he talks about it.’
‘I hope the shattering isn’t too painful when he, you know, realises we’ve spun him a tale.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s been perfect for him at this time of his life. Thank you.’
‘And you? What will you do?’
‘Go back to nursing,’ Hannah said. ‘Not just yet though. So, back home tomorrow for both of us. Which for you is where?’
‘Gloucestershire,’ Arthur said.
‘Ah, not a million miles from us. We’re in Worcestershire.’
There was an odd sort of expression on Hannah’s face – a sort of mixture of hope and loss, of wishfulness and yet a fear of disappointment – as though she wanted to ask something but was afraid of the response her question would get. So Arthur bit the bullet, so to speak.
‘And Bristol has an airport which isn’t a million miles from either of us. And I happen to know, thanks to the ever-reliable Google, that there are flights to Lapland to see the reindeer. You and Archie have helped heal my heart a little, given it little moments of happiness these past two weeks, although I doubt you realise that. I’d like to repay your kindness if I may. Would you accept my gift of the flights for you and Archie to go there next Christmas?’ Arthur realised how very old-fashioned and formal he must sound but he didn’t know how else to put it. Besides, he was rather old-fashioned and formal and he was hardly likely to change now. ‘I also happen to know that visits include seeing Father Christmas and presents. It means I could be unmasked, I’m afraid, but it’s a risk worth taking. What do you think?’
‘Really?’ Hannah’s eyes were wide with surprise and delight. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Very serious.’
‘Gosh. Archie will love that. But I can only accept on one condition – that you come with us.’
Now, Arthur hadn’t expected that response. But there was only one answer, wasn’t there?
‘I’d be delighted to.’
Dear next occupant,
Life, as I’ve discovered on this short break at the delightful 23 The Strand, is full of surprises. I arrived here a saddened, and quite lonely, man but I’m going home with two new people as part of my world and things to look forward to in the future for us all. The occupant before me left a present of Welsh cakes to welcome me here. I’m no cook, I’m afraid. I’m not much of a present buyer either. So, what I’ve done is pick some flowers from the cliffs and arranged them in a vase I bought from a craft shop on the harbour, which is well worth a visit while you’re here. I shall leave them outside on the little table on the deck, with this note. I realise that picking wild flowers is frowned on these days, but the cliffs won’t miss this little handful, will they? I wish you the happiest of holidays, whatever form that happiness takes for you.
Arthur