Something to Live For

by Richard Roper

  “Why are you wriggling around so much?” Peggy said. “You’re like my old dog dragging its arse along the floor.”

  “Sorry,” Andrew said. “It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “. . . Nothing.”

  * * *

  —

  Andrew lost Peggy almost as soon as they walked into the bookshop, his focus drawn immediately to what was happening five feet above his head. A beautiful, dark green engine (an Accucraft Victorian NA Class, if he wasn’t very much mistaken) was sliding effortlessly around the tracks positioned above the book stacks. The aisles beyond were bridged by signs bearing lines of poetry. The nearest read:

  Yon rising Moon that looks for us again / How oft hereafter will she wax and wane.

  The train flashed past again, a soft breeze rippling in its wake.

  “I’m in heaven,” Andrew whispered to himself. If anything was going to slow his pulse back to normal after what had nearly just happened in the car, it was this. He was aware of someone standing next to him. He glanced to his side and saw a tall man in a gray cardigan, his hands held behind his back, looking up at the train. He and Andrew exchanged nods.

  “Like what you see?” the man said. Andrew had only ever heard this phrase used by bolshy brothel madams in period dramas, but despite its seeming so out of context, at the same time he really did like what he was seeing.

  “It’s mesmerizing,” he said. The man nodded, eyes briefly closing, as if to say: You’re home now, old friend.

  Andrew took a deep breath, feeling properly calmed now, and turned slowly on the spot so he could take in the rest of the place. He certainly wasn’t the sort of person who would use the word “vibe,” but if he were, he’d have said Barter Books’ vibe was one he was very much “down with,” to borrow one of Sally’s old phrases. It was so serene, so quiet. People browsed the shelves with a sense of reverence, their voices lowered. When someone took a book off a shelf they did so with the delicacy of an archaeologist bringing ancient pottery out of the soil. Andrew had read that the shop’s claim to fame was that it was where the original “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster had been unearthed. And while it had spawned thousands of annoying variations (Meredith had a mug in the office with the slogan “Keep Calm and Do Yoga” written on it, possibly the most prosaic sentence ever committed to ceramic), here it felt like the perfect emblem.

  But they weren’t here for the atmosphere. Andrew found Peggy sitting low in a chair that looked almost obscenely comfy, her hands linked behind her head, a contented smile on her face.

  “Argh,” she moaned as Andrew approached. “I suppose we better get on with this, then?”

  “I think we had better,” Andrew said.

  Peggy looked at him determinedly and held out her hands. At first Andrew stared at them uncomprehendingly, then snapped into action and pulled Peggy to her feet. They stood side by side, shoulders touching, facing the polite queue by the tills.

  “Right,” Andrew said, rubbing his hands together to suggest industry. “So are we just going to go up there and ask them whether a ‘B’ works here?”

  “Unless you’ve got a better idea?” Peggy said.

  Andrew shook his head. “Do you want to do the talking?”

  “Nope,” Peggy said. “You?”

  “Not particularly, if I’m honest with you.”

  Peggy pursed her lips. “Rock Paper Scissors?”

  Andrew turned so he was facing her. “Why not.”

  “One, two, three.”

  Paper. Paper.

  “One, two, three.”

  Rock. Rock.

  They went again. Andrew thought about going scissors, but at the last minute he changed it to rock. This time, Peggy went paper. She closed her hand over his.

  “Paper covers rock,” she said quietly.

  They were standing close now, hands still touching. It felt for a second like the hubbub had died away, that all eyes were on them, that even the books on the shelves were holding their breath. Then Peggy suddenly dropped her hand. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Look.”

  Andrew forced himself to turn around so that they were side by side once more. And there at the tills, cup of tea in hand, glasses around her neck on a chain, was a woman with green eyes and frizzy gray hair. Peggy dragged Andrew by the arm over to the waiting room café.

  “That’s definitely her, right?” she said.

  Andrew shrugged, not wanting to get Peggy’s hopes up. “It could be,” he said.

  Peggy manhandled him once more, this time out of the way of an elderly couple who were slowly carrying trays laden with scones and mugs of tea over to a table. Once settled, the man set about spreading cream onto his scone with a trembling hand. His wife looked at him askance.

  “What?” the man said.

  “Cream before jam? Ya daft apeth.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Is it heck. We have this argument every time. It’s the other way round.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense!”

  “It bloody is.”

  Peggy rolled her eyes and gently prodded Andrew forward. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve buggered about far too much already.”

  As they made their way toward the counter, Andrew felt his heart starting to thump faster and faster. It was only when they reached the woman and she looked up from her crossword that Andrew realized Peggy had taken his hand. The woman put down her pen and asked in the soft yet slightly raspy voice of a smoker how she could help.

  “This is going to sound like a slightly strange question,” Peggy said.

  “Don’t worry, love. I’ve been asked some very strange questions in here, believe me. Belgian chap a few months ago asked me whether we sold books about bestiality. So fire away.”

  Peggy and Andrew laughed slightly robotically.

  “So,” Peggy said. “We just wanted to ask, well, whether your name begins with ‘B.’”

  The woman smiled quizzically.

  “Is that a trick question?” she said.

  Andrew felt Peggy tighten her grip on his hand.

  “No,” she said.

  “In that case, yes it does,” the woman said. “I’m Beryl. Have I sold someone a dodgy book or something?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Peggy said, glancing at Andrew.

  This was his cue to take the photograph from his pocket and hand it over. The woman took it from him and there was a flash of recognition in her eyes.

  “Blimey,” she said, looking at them in turn. “I think this calls for another cup of tea.”

  — CHAPTER 19 —

  Beryl responded to the news of Alan’s death with a short, sad exhalation, like a week-old birthday balloon finally admitting defeat.

  Andrew had only ever given news to relatives on the phone, never face-to-face. Seeing Beryl’s reaction in person was a very uncomfortable experience. She asked him the questions he’d been expecting—how had Alan died, who had found him, where and when was the funeral going to be—but he got the sense she was holding back about something. And then, of course, there was the other thing . . .

  “Ducks?”

  “Thousands of them,” Andrew said, pouring tea into their cups.

  Peggy showed Beryl Alan’s note about feeding the ducks on the back of the photograph. “We assumed it was something to do with this.”

  Beryl smiled, but her eyes started to water too, and she reached into her sleeve and retrieved a hanky to dab them dry.

  “I remember that day. It was miserable weather. As we were walking to our usual bench we saw an ice-cream van parked on the side of the road. The bloke inside looked so depressed we went and bought a 99 each just to cheer the poor bugger up. We ate it before we’d had our sandwiches—it felt so decadent!”


  She lifted her mug to her lips with both hands and her glasses momentarily steamed up.

  “Do you remember having the picture taken?” Peggy asked.

  “Oh yes,” Beryl said, wiping her glasses with her hanky. “We wanted a snap of us in the shop because that’s where we first met. It took Alan about ten visits to pluck up the courage to talk to me, you know. I’ve never seen someone spending so long pretending to look at books on Yorkshire farm machinery of the eighteenth century. At first I thought he might just really love farming, or Yorkshire—or both—but then I realized he was only standing there because it was the best way to keep sneaking glances at me. Once I saw him holding a book about seed drills upside down. That was the day he finally came over and said hello.”

  “And you became an item straightaway?” Peggy said.

  “Oh no, not for a long time,” Beryl said. “The timing was rubbish. I’d just divorced my husband and it hadn’t been the easiest of rides. Looking back now I don’t know why I made such a fuss about waiting. It just seemed like I should pause for the dust to settle a bit. Alan said he understood that I needed time, but that didn’t stop him coming in and pretending to still care about bloody farming for the next six weeks, sneaking over to say hello whenever there was a gap between customers.”

  “Six weeks?!” Peggy said.

  “Every day,” Beryl said. “Even when I had five days off for tonsillitis he still came in, despite my boss telling him I was going to be off for the rest of the week. Eventually, we had our first date. Tea and iced buns in this very café.”

  They were interrupted by one of the staff, who was noisily clearing away crockery from the adjacent table. She and Beryl exchanged slightly frosty smiles. “She’s the worst, that one,” Beryl said when the woman was out of earshot, without providing further explanation.

  “But you and Alan were together properly after that?” Peggy probed.

  “Yes, we were inseparable actually,” Beryl said. “Alan is—oh, I suppose I should say was—a carpenter. His workshop was in his house just down the road, near the little cemetery. I moved in just after Christmas. I was fifty-two. He was sixty but you’d never have known it. He could have passed for a much younger man. He had these great big strong legs like tree trunks.”

  Andrew and Peggy looked at each other. In the end, Beryl realized what the unspoken question was.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why we aren’t still together.”

  “Please don’t feel obliged to tell us,” Andrew said.

  “No, no—it’s fine.”

  Beryl composed herself, polishing her glasses again.

  “It was all down to my relationship with my ex-husband. We’d got married when we were twenty-one. Kids, still, really. And I think we both knew as soon as we came home on our wedding night and gave each other a chaste little peck on the cheek that we didn’t properly love each other. We stuck it out for years but eventually I couldn’t stand it anymore and I decided to end it. And I made a decision then and there”—she rapped her knuckles on the table for emphasis—“that if I were to ever find someone else to share my life with it would have to be for love and nothing else. I wasn’t going to settle for the sake of it being the done thing, or just for companionship. And at the first sign of feeling like we were going through the motions, that we’d fallen out of love, that would be it. Bish, bash, bosh. I’d be out.”

  “And that’s what happened with Alan?” Peggy said.

  Beryl took another sip of tea and replaced the mug carefully on its saucer.

  “We were very much in love to start,” she said. She eyed Andrew mischievously. “You might want to cover your ears for this part, but we practically spent the first few years in bed. That’s the thing with someone who works with their hands. Very skilled, you see? Anyway, aside from that side of things, for a long time we were very happy. Even though his family had buggered off a long time before, and mine had never approved of the divorce, it didn’t matter. It just felt like me and him against the world, you know? But then, after a while, Alan started to change. It was subtle at first. He’d say he was too tired to work, or he’d go for days at a time without shaving or getting out of his pajamas. Occasionally I’d find him—” She broke off and cleared her throat.

  Peggy leaned across the table and put her hand on Beryl’s. “It’s okay,” she said, “you don’t have to . . .” But Beryl shook her head and patted Peggy’s hand to show she was okay to continue.

  “Occasionally, I’d find him sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the sofa, just looking out into the garden through the French windows. Not reading. Not listening to the radio. Just sitting there.”

  Andrew thought of his mother in the dark of her bedroom. Inert. Hidden away. Unable to face the world.

  “He was a proud old sod,” Beryl said. “Never would have admitted to me that he was struggling with whatever it was. And I could never find the right words, or the right moment, to ask him about it all. Then his back went. Whether it was psychosomatic or what I don’t know, but he had to sleep in another room because otherwise he’d disturb me getting up—or so he said. Then one evening we were having tea, watching some rubbish on the telly, and out of nowhere he turned to me and said: ‘You remember what you told me right after we met, about what you’d do if you stopped loving the person you were with?’

  “‘Yes,’ I said.

  “‘Do you still believe that?’ he said.

  “‘Yes, I do,’ I said. And I did. I should have said something reassuring, of course, but I just assumed he knew I still loved him as much as I always had. I asked him whether he was okay but he just kissed me on the top of my head and went off to do the washing up. I was worried but I thought he was just having one of his difficult days. The next morning I went off to work as usual, but when I got home he wasn’t there. And there was a note. I can still remember holding that piece of paper, my hands shaking like mad. He’d written that he knew I didn’t love him anymore. That he didn’t want to put me through any pain. He’d just gone. Never left an address, never left a phone number. Nothing. I tried to find him, of course. But as you know there were no relatives to get in touch with, and he didn’t have any friends I knew of. I did actually look into getting a whatchamacallit, a private investigator, but the thought always dogged me that maybe he’d just lied, that he’d run off with some other lass. Looking at this though”—she picked up the photograph—“and hearing about this duck business . . . Well, you tell me—” At this, a sob escaped her, and she clasped both hands to her chest. “Maybe I should have tried harder after all.”

  * * *

  —

  After they’d made sure Beryl was okay, with promises to be in touch soon, Andrew and Peggy emerged from the shop like two people leaving a cinema: blinking into the sunlight, thoughts consumed by the story they’d just been told.

  They stood in the car park and checked their phones. Andrew was really just scrolling up and down his short list of existing texts—offers from pizza companies he’d never ordered from, PPI scams, work nonsense. He couldn’t shake the desperate sadness of Beryl’s story.

  Peggy was gazing into the middle distance. An eyelash had fallen to her cheek, looking like the smallest of fractures on a piece of porcelain. Somewhere nearby, a car horn sounded with one sharp blast and Andrew reached out and took Peggy’s hand. She looked at him with surprise.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Andrew said.

  They left the car park and made their way toward the town center, hand in hand. Andrew hadn’t planned to go this way, but it just felt right, as if they were being drawn along by an invisible force. They walked along the high street, weaving past parents with pushchairs and a group of tourists who’d slowed to a stop in the street as if their batteries had run down, then on further to Alnwick Castle, with its red and yellow Northumberland flags strained taut by the breeze. Without
exchanging a word they made their way around the castle to the surrounding field, newly cut grass collecting on their shoes. Down, further, past kids throwing a dog-eared tennis ball around and pensioners resting on picnic tables watching the moody clouds closing in on the sun. Down, further still, along a path carved out by footfall, until finally they reached the river and found a solitary bench half-covered in moss at the water’s edge. They sat and listened to the gurgling water and watched the reeds struggling against its flow. Peggy was sitting upright, her hands in her lap, one leg crossed over the other. They were both very still, at odds with the rushing river, like the model figures Andrew arranged on his living room floor. But even in that stillness, there was movement. Peggy’s foot was stirring almost imperceptibly every second or so, like a metronome. It was, Andrew realized, not because of tension or nervousness, but purely because of the pulse of her heart. And suddenly he was gripped by possibility once again: that as long as there was that movement in someone, then there was the capacity to love. And now his heart was beating faster and faster, as if the power of the river were pushing blood through his veins, urging him to act. He felt Peggy stir.

  “So,” she said, the faintest of tremors in her voice. “Quick question. With scones, do you go with jam or cream first?”

  Andrew considered the question.

  “I’m not sure it really matters,” he said. “Not in the grand scheme of things.” Then he leaned across, took Peggy’s face in his hands, and kissed her.

  Somewhere, he could have sworn he heard a duck quack.

  — CHAPTER 20 —

  It was fair to say, if you were to really drill down and examine the data, and then draw conclusions from said data, that Andrew was, to a certain extent, drunk. He was dancing around Imogen’s living room, with a giddy and giggling Suze, singing along raucously to Ella’s “Happy Talk.” They were, by now, the firmest of friends.