Chapter Twelve: Monday
“During the late-1970s, regular, although largely unconfirmed, sightings of a puma were reported in the borders area, north of the town of Berwick, and around Ayr.”
Art was early but he was pleased to see that his fellow walker was already waiting for him. She had her back to him as he approached, leaning over the railings on the bridge, gazing down into the water. Her dog was more welcoming, apparently recognizing Art instantly and bounding over to greet him and Luke with the sort of winning smile that only retrievers seem able to achieve. The dog began to run in one direction around Luke’s buggy, changed its mind, and then ran back in the other direction, barking excitedly, causing the young woman to look around and smile in her turn. “Sandy! Hey! Here boy,” she called.
Art wheeled his vehicle over to join her on the bridge. “Nice day,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed, “Lovely.”
They smiled at one another slightly self-consciously, both uncertain of what to say next. Art was just composing his next sentence when the young woman relieved some of the tension by kneeling down, bringing herself level with Luke’s head and waggling her fingers in front of his eyes and pulling a silly face. Luke gurgled appreciatively. ‘Babe magnet’, that was how John had described small children, when Art had once complained about how difficult it was to meet anyone new now that he had an infant to care for. He had not been convinced by the description at the time, but he now had to admit that John might just have had something. She certainly was a babe too. Those wonderful big brown eyes, long, dark lustrous hair, a lovely figure - some may have called her slightly chubby, but in Art’s eyes that was lovely; in this ensemble it was, in any case. Her smile too was beautiful, it was not just her mouth that smiled, her eyes sparkled and her whole face radiated the honest expression of happiness. She was looking up at Art now and smiling, although her look of happiness was more as a result of Luke’s infectious giggling than from her reflecting Art’s worried features, as he anxiously tried to remember the lines he had rehearsed. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes, sorry,” said Art. “Everything’s fine. I was just wondering which way you would like to walk?”
“I don’t mind. Do you have a regular route?”
“No. Just wherever the fancy takes me.”
The young woman smiled again, a wide beam of reassurance. “Well, let’s see which way your fancy leads.”
•••
Art discovered that her name was Rupinder. She was twenty-nine years old, she was single, and she lived with her younger sister in West Watford, only a few streets away from Art’s own house. He also found out that she was a freelance designer, who worked from home, and that she took her dog - Sandy - out for a walk at the same time every morning and every evening. Marks for a successfully completed initial interrogation: he gave himself nine out of ten. Marks for a set of satisfactory answers to the interrogation: he awarded Rupinder ten out of ten. She could not have been more perfect. Looking back, the only downside on a delightful morning, had been the onset of his own verbal diarrhoea: Art had been hoping not to reveal too much about his own circumstances; to hold back a little about his personal life; to retain an air of mystery. As it happened, Rupinder got the whole potted life story, warts and all. Perhaps it was not having had someone close to talk to for so long, Art found that once he started chatting the flood gates were well and truly opened. She hadn’t seemed to mind though. Had she?
They had walked along the towpath in the direction of Grove Mill, Art pushing Luke in his pram, Rupinder halting intermittently in order to wait for Sandy to reappear from where he had disappeared into the adjacent trees. They had stopped to watch a group of ducks gliding across the surface of the canal, keeping their silent formation like a squadron of fighter pilots, a V-shaped ripple marking each of their paths like the jet-stream from a soaring plane, and once again when Art spotted a heron, high up on the stark branches of a tree on the opposite bank.
“I love this park,” she had said. “It gives me inspiration for some of my designs.”
“Really.” Art had been interested. “What sort of design work do you do?”
“Anything that pays the bills. I pick up work from an agent, so I don’t often get much choice in the matter, but for preference I like doing book covers, that sort of thing.”
“Any books?”
“Children’s books mainly. At the moment it is all web stuff though, you know, corporate make-overs, logos, it’s not really me.”
“It must be nice working from home,” said Art.
“Yes, sometimes,” agreed Rupinder, her tone of voice not carrying the same conviction as her words, “Although I miss the social aspect of work.”
Art mentally ran through a roll-call of his fellow employees in the library and found the concept of sociability did not sit very easily with any one of them. He found himself agreeing in the abstract. “Where did you work before?”
“A big design company based close to Waterloo. It was my first job out of college.”
“Where was that?”
“Here in Watford. It was what brought me here in the first place.”
“Oh, right.”
“Hey Sandy! Come here.” They had halted again as Rupinder waited for the large, golden dog to show himself from his current place of concealment. Art put the brake on Luke’s buggy and, squatting down, checked that the blanket was still securely tucked in around his son’s legs and that he was not feeling too cold. In the shadow of the trees, out of the direct sunlight, the winter morning air was still cool. As he stood again, he picked up a small, flat stone from the ground and, testing its weight appreciatively, absentmindedly sent it skimming across the surface of the water of the canal. It bounced three times before sinking without trace.
“Nice throw.” Rupinder was standing watching Art, Sandy sitting obediently by her side, his tongue lolling as he panted noisily.
“Thank you,” he smiled, self-consciously.
“So, what about you?” Rupinder asked. “How long have you lived here?”
“Man and boy,” said Art. “I used to play along here when I was little.”
“And yet you still couldn’t tell a Rosebay Willowherb from a Meadowsweet,” she teased, referring to an earlier conversation they had had.
“I told you,” he laughed, “I don’t do flowers. I can tell a willow by its catkins and a birch by its silver bark, but that is about my limit. Birds, now that’s a different story. I’m better on birds.”
“What’s that then?” Rupinder signalled for Art to be silent as they listened to a sudden burst of melodic twittering from the anonymity of the woods.
“Not a clue,” Art admitted, “I need to actually see them to be able to identify them. The songs all sound the same to me.”
“The original man of the forest, aren’t you,” Rupinder joked, “It’s not surprising you didn’t find your puma. Did you know what you were looking for?”
The ignominious failure of his morning tracking had been one of the many secrets that had spilled out during Art’s earlier confession, along with the fact that he was married; that Amanda was in New York; that he didn’t enjoy his current job; plus the whole thylacine, cryptozoology, daydream sort of thing. Still, that was him, and what could he do about it? Every relationship comes with some baggage attached. By the age of thirty you couldn’t hope to have passed through life without picking up a few surplus parcels. He just hoped that Rupinder came equipped with a team of porters. She had sounded interested, supportive even, of his big cat hunt when he had mentioned it previously, and so Art was confident that her current question was only light-hearted leg-pulling. He answered similarly flippantly, “Big beige thing with four legs at each corner and a long tail.”
Rupinder stroked Sandy’s head fondly, ruffling the fur on his forehead, causing him to close his eyes with pleasure, “Sounds like you can’t go wrong.” S
he smiled, but said more seriously, “So, when are you going to go searching again?”
“I don’t know. It will depend on when Helen, you know, my sister, I think I mentioned...”
“Yes, you did.”
“Whenever Helen can look after Luke again. I don’t like to ask too often, because she has him every day when I am at work, and it is not fair on her to impose too much.”
“I’ll look after him.”
“What?”
“I said, I would be happy to look after Luke for a morning, or whenever, if you like.”
“But...”
“I often look after my elder sister’s kids. It wouldn’t be a problem. And we seem to get along, don’t we?” Rupinder had bent over Luke’s buggy, directing her question at the laughing infant, at the same time offering one of her fingers for him to hold.
“Well...”
“I can change nappies, talk in soppy voices...”
Art interrupted her, “I wasn’t worried about your credentials. I just thought you might find it an imposition.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if that was the case. Really, I’d enjoy looking after him. My sister will love him too.”
“He can be hard work.”
Rupinder straightened up and took Art by the hand, shaking it up and down as though working a pump, trying to ease some of the tensions out of him. It was the first direct physical contact they had had. “You worry too much.”
“It’s an occupational hazard.” Rupinder looked puzzled, so Art clarified, “It’s all part of fatherhood.”
“I’m sure. Well, you can stop worrying on my account. So?” she added, “My offer doesn’t stand for ever, you know. Yes or no. What’s it to be?”
“You’re very assertive,” Art joked, still prevaricating, unwilling to commit himself.
“One of us has to be.” Rupinder countered, mischievously.
“Miaow.” Art clawed the air, mimicking a pawing feline, “Catty.”
“Yes or no?” Rupinder ignored the accusation, her voice more steely than before, indicating that this really was the last chance saloon.
“Sorry,” Art apologized for being flippant, “Yes. If you’re sure, yes, that would be great. I’m off again on Wednesday morning. I don’t know if that would be too soon for you?”
“If you are going to catch your cat, I presume the quicker the better. Right?”
“Right.”
“Wednesday it is then. Not too early though.”