Page 23 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
Chapter Eighteen
I n the back room of The Black Bull, Arthur sat in the snug, nursing a beer.
It was cold outside, and the first chill of winter was making itself felt as wind and rain whipped over the Cumbrian hills, with an early frost threatening for the weekend.
Inside the pub, log fires crackled, knives and forks clunked, and with the smell of home-cooked food from the plates of lunchtime diners, Arthur felt cocooned in a cosy world.
‘Have you heard from The Travelling Grandad this past week?’ Reg asked as he ran a cloth over the bar and straightened a beer mat.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,’ Arthur nodded and drained his glass.
‘We’re enjoying his daily Instagram posts,’ Reg laughed. ‘He’s becoming quite the celebrity.’
‘Aye, who’d have guessed…’
Arthur had never imagined that Atticus would take so many photos and was amazed that his friend was becoming a dab hand with the camera.
His images were almost artistic, with inspirational shots of enticing beaches, stunning sunsets, colourful Mediterranean food, and characters from all walks of life.
He’d even mastered the art of a short video, and they packed quite a punch.
‘It just goes to show that you don’t have to be young to have fun,’ Reg remarked as he took Arthur’s glass and slowly poured him another pint of frothy beer. ‘Atticus is gaining quite an audience. He’s made me think about a winter holiday in the sun.’
Arthur nodded as Reg wandered away. He thought about Atticus’s frequent updates which hashtagged the names of the places he visited.
High-profile travel accounts were sharing his posts and @thetravellinggrandad was turning into a travelogue for pensioners seeking fun in the sun.
Atticus’s fans were increasing daily. Even The Black Bull Domino League had taken an interest, with Tuesday night’s ‘Fives the gaudy statues scared the living daylights out of him.
No longer limited to gardening, Shirley’s collection included nautical gnomes in sailor outfits, sporty gnomes in athletic attire, and gourmet gnomes carrying baskets of vegetables.
To his horror, a collection of three-foot Zen gnomes had arrived that summer, posed in a variety of yoga stances.
Arthur wasn’t familiar with the ‘downward dog’ and thought that no self-respecting gnome should be either.
As he considered taking a hammer to Serenity Sam and Zen Master Ted, his phone rang.
‘Hello, who is this?’ Arthur said, holding his Nokia to his ear.
‘It’s me, Atticus.’
‘Ah, The Travelling Grandad,’ Arthur sighed with pleasure.
He pulled out his old rocker to make himself comfortable and placed Peaceful Pete on his knee.
‘How’s life on the Costas?’ he asked, beginning to rock as he eagerly awaited news of Atticus’s adventures.
He closed his eyes to imagine the sun, sea, and warm salty air – a million miles away from the grey skies, wind, and rain outside the shed window.
‘Well, a surprising thing happened to me at the beach this morning,’ Atticus began.
Arthur imagined a group of flamenco dancers performing an impromptu dance on the sand, or a pod of dolphins swimming close to the shore. Perhaps a hot air balloon had drifted off course and made an emergency landing nearby.
Arthur visualised many scenarios and smiled as he waited for his friend’s revelation.
‘I’ve met a woman, and I’ve asked her for a date.’
Arthur’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.
Gripping his phone, he jerked up, sending Peaceful Pete to the floor.
Arthur was unaware of a dull thud, followed by the sound of ceramics shattering, as Peaceful Pete landed on the Zen family, creating destruction that would break Shirley’s heart.
His pulse was racing, and he tried to digest Atticus’s words.
‘What did you say… old mate… I think I misheard you?’ Arthur struggled to find the right words.
‘Her name is Britta, and she’s beautiful. I’m taking her out tomorrow.’
‘Britta…’ Arthur repeated. Shirley had a gnome named Britta, who wore a floppy hat and a patchwork tunic with a leather belt cinching her bulging waist. The image wasn’t appealing.
‘I think she might be Danish or maybe Dutch. She has a trace of an accent,’ Atticus explained.
‘You don’t know where she’s from?’
‘I didn’t speak to her for long. I’d just ordered my breakfast.’
Arthur sat up. He leaned forward, cradling the phone, bushy eyebrows furrowed as his wellingtons crunched on the broken pottery. I’d just ordered my breakfast… Arthur struggled to take it all in.
‘Aye, she didn’t know what a full house was, and I had to explain,’ Atticus chuckled.
Arthur listened to his friend, his mind grappling with the suddenness of it all.
‘Britta made a fuss of Ness and fetched her a water bowl.’
Arthur drew back his head, his voice filled with confusion. ‘And that short exchange with a stranger developed into a date?’
‘It didn’t develop,’ Atticus said. ‘It hit me like a thunderbolt!’ His voice was animated. ‘I knew that if I didn’t ask her then and there, I’d never have the courage to do so.’ Atticus paused. ‘And there was something else,’ he added.
‘Eh? What was that?’
‘Clara told me to do it.’
‘I see,’ Arthur said, not seeing at all. Now his friend was hearing voices!
‘But I think she’s younger than me,’ Atticus remarked, ‘maybe in her fifties.’
As Atticus began to discuss where to take Britta for their date, Arthur shook his head and sat back. His friend was dating a foreign woman who was several years younger.
Beginning to rock again, Arthur sighed as he listened to his friend babble on.
Reg tapped on the bar and pulled Arthur out of his trance. ‘You look like you could use a stiff drink,’ he said. ‘Is everything alright, Arthur?’
‘Aye, sorry. I was miles away.’
‘Wishing you were in sunnier climes with Atticus?’
‘Yes, something like that.’ Arthur was thoughtful. He’d decided not to mention Atticus’s news, hoping it would fade away with the Spanish tide.
Arthur couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions – happiness for his friend, but also a tinge of envy. His golden years with Shirley were decidedly dim, the light having gone out decades ago.
‘Give him our best regards when you next speak to him,’ Reg continued.
‘The pub’s Senior Socials Club wants to know if he’ll be their speaker when he gets back; they’ve all got The Travelling Grandad bug.
’ Reg reached up to an optic and poured Arthur a large whisky.
‘Everyone’s started Instagram accounts to follow him. ’
Arthur wondered what the pub’s pensioners would make of Atticus’s latest news, soon to hit social media.
More worryingly was Mungo’s reaction. Arthur downed his whisky and thought of the explosion that would shatter the peace at Barn Hill Farm when The Travelling Grandad shared love letters from the Costas and captivating date nights.
Mungo would have a fit and probably think Britta’s attraction to Atticus was financial.
But as Arthur finished his drink, gathered his coat, and reached for his bob hat and scarf, he knew he had far more pressing problems. There was a gnome crisis at Gnome-Sweet-Gnome, and Arthur urgently needed to confer with Jake to find a gnome-emergency repair shop.
‘See you soon!’ Arthur called out to Reg. He secured his bob hat, and with a wave of his mitten-clad hand, braced himself not only for the wild weather but also for the tricky challenges with Shirley at Gn’Home.
Saturday lunchtime at the local Spanish market was once again a bustling hive of activity. The charming little café, La Tasca, was busy with locals and tourists crowded around tables and chairs, engaged in lively conversation.
Sheltering from the sun in the shade of overhanging trees, Atticus sat with Cheryl and Ruby as flamenco music floated across the square.
Feeling the heat, Ness lay under the table, her tail lazily flicking at flies.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby stall mingled with the sweet fragrance of churros dusted with cinnamon.
Chatting idly, Cheryl sipped fresh orange juice, and Ruby held a glass of sangria, while Atticus enjoyed his café con leche.
They’d ordered tostados, and as they waited for their brunch, Atticus suddenly felt compelled to speak.
He needed advice and hoped that his new friends might help him.
‘You’re fidgety,’ Cheryl said, adjusting huge sunglasses perched on her nose. She studied Atticus, who held his hat in his hand and twisted it round and round.
‘Aye, sorry,’ he replied, placing the hat to one side. ‘I don’t know who to ask, you see. I need some assistance.’
‘We can help.’ Cheryl reached out and patted his arm. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Fire away,’ Ruby instructed and pulled her chair closer.
‘I was on the beach earlier and stopped to have a bite of breakfast,’ Atticus began, ‘and there was this person, well, lady, you know, a woman…’
‘Yes, love, we know what one of those is,’ Cheryl said.
‘She was very nice and er…’ Atticus stuttered, ‘before I knew what I was doing, I asked her if she’d have a meal with me tomorrow.’
‘Bulls eye!’ Ruby took a swig of sangria.
‘You don’t hang about, do you?’ Cheryl chuckled.