“I’m going to have to go in a minute or two,” said Fenchurch, “and you haven’t begun to tell me whatever this terrifically extraordinary thing is that you were so keen to get off your chest.”
“Why don’t you let me drive you to London?” said Arthur. “It’s Saturday, I’ve got nothing particular to do, I’d…”
“No,” said Fenchurch, “thank you, it’s sweet of you, but no. I need to be by myself for a couple of days.” She smiled and shrugged.
“But…”
“You can tell me another time. I’ll give you my number.”
Arthur’s heart went boom boom churn churn as she scribbled seven figures in pencil on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
“Now we can relax,” she said with a slow smile which filled Arthur till he thought he would burst.
“Fenchurch,” he said, enjoying the name as he said it. “I—”
“A box,” said a trailing voice, “of cherry liqueurs, and also, and I know you’ll like this, a gramophone record of Scottish bagpipe music…”
“Yes thank you, very nice,” insisted Arthur.
“I just thought I’d let you have a look at them,” said the permed woman, “as you’re down from London…”
She was holding them out proudly for Arthur to see. He could see that they were indeed a box of cherry brandy liqueurs and a record of bagpipe music. That was what they were.
“I’ll let you have your drink in peace now,” she said, patting Arthur lightly on his seething shoulder, “but I knew you’d like to see.”
Arthur re-engaged his eyes with Fenchurch’s once again, and suddenly was at a loss for something to say. A moment had come and gone between the two of them, but the whole rhythm of it had been wrecked by that stupid, blasted woman.
“Don’t worry,” said Fenchurch, looking at him steadily from over the top of her glass, “we will talk again.” She took a sip.
“Perhaps,” she added, “it wouldn’t have gone so well if it wasn’t for her.” She gave a wry little smile and dropped her hair forward over her face again.
It was perfectly true.
He had to admit it was perfectly true.
Chapter 13
That night, at home, as he was prancing round the house pretending to be tripping through cornfields in slow motion and continually exploding with sudden laughter, Arthur thought he could even bear to listen to the album of bagpipe music he had won. It was eight o’clock and he decided he would make himself, force himself, to listen to the whole record before he phoned her. Maybe he should even leave it till tomorrow. That would be the cool thing to do. Or next week sometime.
No. No games. He wanted her and didn’t care who knew it. He definitely and absolutely wanted her, adored her, longed for her, wanted to do more things than there were names for with her.
He actually caught himself saying thinks like “Yippee” as he pranced ridiculously round the house. Her eyes, her hair, her voice, everything…
He stopped.
He would put on the record of bagpipe music. Then he would call her.
Would he, perhaps, call her first?
No. What he would do was this. He would put on the record of bagpipe music. He would listen to it, every last banshee wail of it. Then he would call her. That was the correct order. That was what he would do.
He was worried about touching things in case they blew up when he did so.
He picked up the record. It failed to blow up. He slipped it out of its cover. He opened the record player, he turned on the amp. They both survived. He giggled foolishly as he lowered the stylus on to the disc.
He sat and listened solemnly to “A Scottish Soldier”.
He listened to “Amazing Grace”.
He listened to something about some glen or other.
He thought about his miraculous lunchtime.
They had just been on the point of leaving, when they were distracted by an awful outbreak of “yoo-hooing”. The appallingly permed woman was waving to them across the room like some stupid bird with a broken wing. Everyone in the pub turned to them and seemed to be expecting some sort of response.
They hadn’t listened to the bit about how pleased and happy Anjie was going to be about the £4.30p everyone had helped to raise towards the cost of her kidney machine, had been vaguely aware that someone from the next table had won a box of cherry brandy liqueurs, and took a moment or two to cotton on to the fact that the yoo-hooing lady was trying to ask them if they had ticket number 37.
Arthur discovered that he had. He glanced angrily at his watch.
Fenchurch gave him a push.
“Go on,” she said, “go and get it. Don’t be bad tempered. Give them a nice speech about how pleased you are and you can give me a call and tell me how it went. I’ll want to hear the record. Go on.”
She flicked his arm and left.
The regulars thought his acceptance speech a little over-effusive. It was, after all, merely an album of bagpipe music.
Arthur thought about it, and listened to the music, and kept on breaking into laughter.
Chapter 14
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
“Hello, yes? Yes, that’s right. Yes. You’ll ’ave to speak up, there’s an awful lot of noise in ’ere. What?
“No, I only do the bar in the evenings. It’s Yvonne who does lunch, and Jim, he’s the landlord. No, I wasn’t on. What?
“You’ll have to speak up.
“What? No, don’t know anything about no raffle. What?
“No, don’t know nothing about it. ’Old on, I’ll call Jim.”
The barmaid put her hand over the receiver and called over the noisy bar.
“’Ere, Jim, bloke on the phone says something about he’s won a raffle. He keeps on saying it’s ticket 37 and he’s won.”
“No, there was a guy in the pub here won,” shouted back the barman.
“He says ’ave we got the ticket.”
“Well how can he think he’s won if he hasn’t even got a ticket?”
“Jim says ’ow can you think you’ve won if you ’aven’t even got the ticket. What?”
She put her hand over the receiver again.
“Jim, ’e keeps effing and blinding at me. Says there’s a number on the ticket.”
“Course there was a number on the ticket, it was a bloody raffle ticket wasn’t it?”
“’E says ’e means its a telephone number on the ticket.”
“Put the phone down and serve the bloody customers, will you?”
Chapter 15
Eight hours West sat a man alone on a beach mourning an inexplicable loss. He could only think of his loss in little packets of grief at a time, because the whole thing was too great to be borne.
He watched the long slow Pacific waves come in along the sand, and waited and waited for the nothing that he knew was about to happen. As the time came for it not to happen, it duly didn’t happen and so the afternoon wore itself away and the sun dropped beneath the long line of sea, and the day was gone.
The beach was a beach we shall not name, because his private house was there, but it was a small sandy stretch somewhere along the hundreds of miles of coastline that first runs west from Los Angeles, which is described in the new edition of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in one entry as “junky, wunky, lunky, stunky, and what’s that other word, and all kinds of bad stuff, woo”, and in another, written only hours later as “being like several thousand square miles of American Express junk mail, but without the same sense of moral depth. Plus the air is, for some reason, yellow.”
The coastline runs west, and then turns north up to the misty bay of San Francisco, which the Guide describes as a “good place to go. It’s very easy to believe that everyone you meet there is also a space traveller. Starting a new religion for you is just their way of saying ‘hi’. Until you’ve settled in and got the hang of the place it is best to say ‘no’ to three questions out of any given four that anyone may ask you, because there are some very strange things going on there, some of which an unsuspecting alien could die of.” The hundreds of curling miles of cliffs and sand, palm trees, breakers and sunsets are described in the Guide as “Boffo. A good one.”