The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper(68)

“It’s going to break soon.” Bernadette sniffed. “They’ve forecast storms over the next few days. Black clouds and rain.” She stood up and moved over to the cooker, studied what temperature the knob was turned to, then turned it higher. She took hold of the baking tray and opened the oven door. The pie began to slide off the tray. It glided until it hung precariously, half on and half off. They both watched as it wobbled on the edge. Slowly half began to break away. It creaked to a right angle and then dropped to the floor. The pastry smashed, scattering crumbs over the lino. Purple wimberry filling oozed from the half that remained on the tray. Bernadette’s hand trembled. Arthur moved quickly and took the tray from her.

“Whoopsa daisy,” he said. “You sit down and I’ll clean up this little mess. I’ll get the dustpan and brush.” He fetched it and his back cracked as he bent over. It was then he noticed that Bernadette’s eyes were swimming with tears. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s still a good half left. You know, I’ve never actually known what wimberries are.”

He saw Bernadette bite her cheek. “They’re also called blueberries or bilberries.” Her voice shook. “I used to pick them when I was a girl. My mother could always tell what I’d been up to when I went home with a purple tongue and purple fingers. They tasted so good, fresh from the bush. We used to put them in salt water and all these little worms came wriggling out. I used to wonder when I ate the pie if any of them were still left in there.”

“They’d have been in the oven,” Arthur said gently.

“I suppose they’d have burned rather than drowned. Not a good death either way.”

“I don’t suppose any death is a good one.” This was not a good conversation to be having.

“No.” She stared out of the window.

Arthur looked outside, too. Frederica was still sitting happily in the rockery. The fences were still too high. He thought that Bernadette might mention the garden or the weather, but she didn’t. He racked his brain for something to say, especially as she seemed very upset over a broken pie. The only thing they really had in common was food. “When I was in London,” he said. “I ate a sausage sandwich while I sat on the grass. It was greasy, it was covered in ketchup and it had these stringy, brown onions on it. It was the best thing I’d tasted in ages. Apart from your pies, of course. Miriam thought it was the height of bad manners to eat hot food outside in public, especially walking and eating. I felt guilty but a certain sense of freedom, too.”

Bernadette turned away from the window. “Carl insisted on roast beef every Sunday. He used to have it when he was a kid. I did turkey once and he was so upset. To him I was insulting his family tradition. Beef on a Sunday was a comfort. I was questioning his whole upbringing when I cooked that turkey. When he died I carried on making roast beef in his memory, but I never liked it. Then one day, I couldn’t face it. I made myself a cheddar and pickled onion sandwich instead. I could hardly swallow it because it felt like I was betraying his memory. But the next week I made it again. And it was the best sandwich I’d ever tasted. Now I eat what I want whenever I want it. But I’d never have changed all those roast beef lunches because, although the food wasn’t what I wanted, Carl was the man I wanted to eat it with.”

They were both silent for a few moments, thinking about their spouses.

“I’ve got some nice cheddar from the village,” Arthur said. “And I always have pickled onions in. I can make us both a sandwich and we could have your wimberry pie for afters.”

Bernadette stared at him. He couldn’t read her expression. “You know, this is the first time you’ve ever invited me to eat with you?”

“Is it?”

“Yes. It’s very nice of you, Arthur. But I don’t want to take up your time.”

“You’re not taking up my time. I thought it would be nice to eat lunch together.”

“It’s a breakthrough that you’re doing this. That you’re thinking about socializing.”

“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.