‘Why would you want to do that?’ I’m sceptical.
‘You don’t think they’d like it?’ His expression is dejected, as though he’d hesitated to voice the thought aloud.
‘Oh no, I think they’d love it.’ It’s true, and he untenses a little in relief. ‘That’s what worries me.’ He creases his forehead and wordlessly encourages me to explain myself. ‘You haven’t seen that lot organising the village fete. There are political power struggles, passive-aggressive Facebook posts, and one year they even had special sashes made that the committee walked around in to draw attention to their roles. You’ve only known Barbara for five minutes but I guarantee you’ve already thought about her trying to usurp you as director.’ Arthur nods slowly. ‘Exactly. It’s a good idea in theory, but in practice …’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ He laughs softly. ‘I would like them to be a part of it all somehow though. I feel as though this is New York’s story as much as it is Jim’s, or Dad’s.’
He’s right. The setting is perhaps one of the most important elements of a story. Each and every one of us is a product of the place we were brought up, for good or bad. Perhaps Jimmy and Edward Cavendish wouldhave made entirely different choices in their lives had they been born in a city, or even just fifteen miles away. Both of them, and all of us, were raised by this village. Even if the only influence is that they both hated it so much they did everything they could to leave, this village is the centre of both of their stories, so why wouldn’t it take an important role in the narrative?
‘How about we do it in secret? You know, ask the locals questions but not tell them that we’re using their tales for anything other than just a bit of friendly conversation?’
Arthur pauses for a moment to think over my scheme. ‘I thought there were no secrets in New York?’
I smile though his words and expression come out serious. ‘I’m sure that between the two of us, we can keep a secret, don’t you think?’
Arthur says nothing; he only outstretches his hand for me to shake and I take it in mine with a squeeze.
In the next moment, the sound of footsteps echo in the hallway, growing closer with each shuffling step. ‘Perfect timing,’ I whisper just as Ms Riches steps into the kitchen sporting her slippers and hair rollers.
‘You kids are working late. What are you up to?’ She flicks on the kettle and spoons some Horlicks powder into a mug. ‘Want one?’ She gestures to the pot but both Arthur and I refuse politely.
‘I’m trying to teach Arthur here a little bit more about life in New York.’ I glance at him from the corner of my eye and he watches with great interest as I try to wangle a story from his grandmother. ‘Has it changed much over the years?’
‘Christ no. Apart from the farm machinery gets bigger and the jets from the air base get louder.’ She shakes her head as though she’s made herself annoyed with the thought. ‘Not a lot has changed at all, oh except Jan and Mick have painted their house that god-awful colour on the main road.’
‘The bright blue one?’ Arthur asks and his grandmother grimaces.
‘That’s right. Not very in keeping, is it?’ she states and I struggle to hold back my smile as all of my words from just minutes ago are proven right in one conversation.
‘It’s hardly changed, even in all of the years you’ve lived here?’ I try to steer her back on topic.
‘I think that’s why people like it so much. It’s home. Even if you’ve been away for twenty-five years, you can come back and everything is just as you left it.’ Ms Riches casts a sad glance at Arthur and I wonder if she’s thinking of her son. ‘I think the pub has had that very same layout since the Seventies. Some would say it’s outdated or whatever, but people round here find it comforting. In a world that won’t stop changing and you can’t help but feel like you’re getting left behind, there is one constant: home.’
The kettle clicks and she fills her mug, stirs her drink and then shuffles out of the kitchen once more with a: ‘Night, kids. Make sure you switch off all the lights when you’re done.’
‘It sounds silly to say that a pub is an important place, doesn’t it? Makes you sound like some sort of alchy. But, especially round here, that place is our beating heart.’ I shake my head at how absurd I must sound.
‘Do you think that could be why Jimmy ends up in there every day? Looking for the familiar?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ I sigh. ‘Pub?’
Arthur collects together all of his things on the table and stands up with a start and a smile. ‘Pub.’
Chapter 22
Arthur
Our secret lasted four days. Or at least that’s how long everyone kept it a secret that they knew our secret. So, every day for the last week, instead of writing quietly in the pub and polishing our pitch whilst Beatrice works the bar, I have been given a table on the tiny corner stage, usually reserved for karaoke performances, to take an audience with whomever decides to come. Much like a lord collecting taxes from his subjects. Funnily enough, someone did actually try and bring their sheep in to trade for a role in the film but thankfully Tracy put a stop to that before she made it through the door.
Barbara has arrived in a different fur coat each evening, with her eyebrows painted on like Elizabeth Taylor, speaking in an accent that slips between the Hollywood transatlantic and Black Country. She hasn’t said it in asmany words, but I think it may have something to do with her wanting to try her hand as an actress.
‘I once modelled, don’t ya know.’ She flicks her bouncy blow-dry over her shoulder. ‘And I got headhunted to be in the Christmas production at the theatre in town.’
‘Oh lovely,’ I say politely, unable to let anyone down by telling them that we are far from even thinking about a cast at this stage.
‘I remember that,’ Beatrice calls from the bar. ‘Didn’t they ask you to do the tombola in the theatre foyer because Mrs Peterson was in hospital?’
As I cover my snigger with my hand, Barbara’s huff is strong enough to part her fringe right down the middle. ‘Well, they did offer me a role on stage but my hip replacement couldn’t keep up with the choreography.’
