Arthur opened his bedroom curtains and regarded the world. Bright sunshine glinted upon a plastic bag as it tumbled along the sidewalk, pushed along by a breeze drawn from the ocean. He was glad the day was less humid than the preceding ones. He absently hummed a few bars of Highland Cathedral. He’d practised the tune on his chanter the evening before, grabbing the opportunity to blast out a few airs in the park while Taylor stayed at her apartment with her kids. Today would be a better day.
Singing happily to himself, he dressed and headed out. At the door of his apartment block he met Iris Forrest and Molly. ‘Morning Iris. Molly. It’s gonna be a good one.’
Molly hid behind her mom’s legs and peered at him in silence, much to his amusement. The kid was so shy, which was kind of cute since her mum was a chatterbox and her dad not much better.
‘Hi, Artie,’ Iris said, her arm instinctively wrapping its way around Molly’s back, drawing the child forward. ‘How’s everyone?’
‘We’re good, thanks. Are you on the school run this morning?’
‘Aren’t I always? I sometimes wonder if Andy opens that store early to miss this pleasure. Not that I mind, really. Actually, he’s in there so much, he might as well get a sleeping bag.’ Again, she laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘If I didn’t know he was stuck in the shop I’d be sure he was having an affair.’
That made Arthur grin. There was no way Andy Forrest would do that. Iris was concerned about something, though. ‘Well, if you need help with anything, you know where to find us.’
She nodded as she opened the door and ushered Molly out. ‘Thanks, Arthur. We’ll be just fine.’
They disappeared down the street, and Arthur followed, heading to his cab. Zander would kill him if he knew Arthur hadn’t left the taxi at the office, but sometimes it was easier to start the day with his car nearby. He breathed in deeply, savoured the morning. The air was fresh and as clear as was possible for the city. Today was going to be a better day. Today there would be no insane deaths or arrests. Today his relationship with Taylor would reset to the moment before she was told Manny was getting out of prison. Today he’d tell her about his holiday plans.
He sat on his seat. Six months he’d known Taylor, almost to the day. Six months, that was at once forever and no time at all. It was so unlike any relationship he’d had before, even the one with Thelma. As that had progressed the days had become a drag, the relationship strained. At the time he’d considered this the norm for relationships: that after an initial burst of lust all the energy and enthusiasm dulled into a lethargy and a gradual sense of irritation.
That wasn’t happening with Taylor. In fact, the effect she had on him was exactly the opposite. Life wasn’t worth contemplating without her in it. She was so special, so…
He grinned. He’d struggled to raise so much as a smile before they’d met. He’d forgotten how smiles worked when he’d split with Thelma, through the period of his Aunt Sylvia’s funeral.
He wasn’t proud of the relationship he’d had with his aunt. They’d never been close, never quite gelled, despite sharing a home for years. It had been ironic then, that once she’d died of lung cancer, Arthur found their old apartment too empty and quiet without her. His Uncle Kenny had preceded Sylvia to the grave by several years and although Sylvia was a New Yorker rather than Scottish, to Arthur’s mind her death marked the end of his attachment to Scotland, to his childhood, to his parents.
He’d spent most of the summer after Sylvia’s death idling around the local park. It was a large public space, full of lush lawns and mature trees interspersed with meandering pathways with an artificial boating lake at its centre. The place heaved with people, especially at weekends, and Arthur loved it. It was the right place for him to be when mourning. When he finished work and was unable to handle the prospect of his silent home, he’d head there to be near people, to revel in their bustle. He took comfort in their laughter, their chatter, their lives; a passive observer with no obligation to participate in their worlds. It was exactly the sort of therapy he needed. He’d no energy for interaction.
When he was a kid, the park was where his Uncle Kenny took him on a Saturday afternoon. The two of them would find a quiet spot to practice on their chanters. They’d play for hours, experimenting with their instruments, messing around with tunes, learning and joking at the same time. Arthur loved it, especially the Italian ice cream at the end, which they bought from a guy with a refrigerated trailer near the lake.
Now, abject and adrift, the park was the only place Arthur wanted to be. He limped through its emptier spaces and imagined them to be his home, his true home in Scotland, and not this sprawl of skyscrapers and endless conurbation. Instead, the park became the fields and hedges, the stands of trees and boggy hillsides around his village in Fife.
Arthur knew that sense of longing had been inside his Uncle Kenny, too. Although Kenny chose the US over Scotland, had met and married an American woman, he’d always identified as a Scot. He loved the drone of the pipes, the tartan, the whisky. God, how Kenny had loved a fine Scotch malt…
As Arthur had traipsed through the park, he’d told himself that when he’d the saved enough money, he’d buy a ticket and fly across the Atlantic for a grand visit, for a trip so fabulous he would never leave Scotland again. One day, when money wasn’t tight. One day…
Looking back, nothing had blocked him from buying that ticket. He’d had the funds, just about, but some overriding reticence had held him back. Now, more content and happier than he’d ever been, he understood that failure: he’d been scared of raking over the memory of his parents’ demise, of re-treading ground that would have broken him.
It was ice cream that changed his world. One Sunday afternoon – a day of intense sun and a bright azure sky – he’d chosen to stand in line to buy an ice cream sandwich from the famous stall near the boating lake. A tall, skinny woman with a hooked nose and raven hair that tumbled down her back, tugged his sleeve. ‘You should head across to the other side of the lake. There’s a crowd of folks over there listening to some buskers. You’ll love them!’
‘Sure, thanks, I will.’ The woman had vanished from Arthur’s mind as fast as she’d disappeared from his vision, leaving behind the idea that he should wander around the lake. When he arrived, he found two young guys harmonising their way through a selection of tunes in front of an enthralled crowd, the singers’ voices knitting together in a tight blend that was accompanied by intricate guitar licks and rhythms.
Arthur took up a place near the edge of the crowd beside a beautiful Hispanic woman and her two daughters. The three of them were singing along to the music. Of course, the kids were making up their own lyrics, causing their mother to stop her rendition when fits of the giggle overtook her. But in between times her voice more than matched the two buskers.
As one gusty performance ended on the stage and the audience’s appreciative applause died away, one of the performers announced, ‘We’d love someone to help with the next song. Don’t be shy. We don’t eat people.’ Arthur winced, hoped the kid didn’t use the line at every gig. The singer’s request was met only by a ripple of nervous laughter and a lack of volunteers.
‘Come along,’ the singer said. ‘Youse all know you’ll love it!’
The oldest of the two children bumped against her mother’s side. ‘Go do it, Mom,’ she said. ‘Go on. You’d do it great.’
The crowd appeared to hear the girl’s remark and, with a collective sigh of relief, carved itself apart so that a path appeared between the woman and the singers.
‘Go on, Mom, go on!’
The woman blushed and smiled at her daughter. ‘I can’t, Francesca. I don’t have anyone to look after the two of you.’
Francesca cast around until her gaze fell upon Arthur. ‘This man will, Mom. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
If anything, the woman’s blush deepened. ‘Francesca, I can’t just ask him to do that. I don’t know who he is. And besides… I can’t get up there and sing. I just can’t…’
Without thinking, Arthur said, ‘It’s fine, really. I’ll keep an eye on them. And besides, you won’t be far away, and there’s all these other folks to keep them safe, too.’
‘See, Mom,’ Francesca said. ‘I told you he would do it. It’s not a problem. He’s a nice man. Please go sing.’
The woman gave in. ‘Oh, alright! But I’ll make you pay for this Francesca Vasquez; you see if I don’t!’ And then she smiled at Arthur. ‘Thank you. I think.’
‘It’s not a problem, honestly. I’d like to hear you sing too. Erm…’
‘Taylor. My name’s Taylor.’
There was a broad smile on his face. ‘Arthur. That’s my name. Or Artie. Or Art. Or whatever you like, really.’
‘Well, thank you again, Arthur. Wish me luck, girls!’ She didn’t appear all that pleased to be heading onstage, despite acquiescing to her daughter’s demand. In fact, her hands trembled.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
She sighed, steadied herself as she replied. ‘Yeah, it’s, you know… stuff…’ And she made her way to join the musicians as the crowd whooped and applauded.
As she turned to face the crowd Arthur stooped towards the girls. ‘Will she be good?’
‘The best ever,’ they said together. And Arthur believed them, such was their excitement.
Some part of Arthur’s mind told him it was important to keep the conversation flowing. ‘So, you’re Francesca, right? And you are?’ He turned to the smaller girl.
She retreated a little, reluctant to get into conversation on her own. ‘Michelle,’ she said eventually, her quiet voice almost drowned out by the hubbub of the crowd.
‘Well, hello, Michelle. Hello, Francesca.’ In the awkward silence that followed, he didn’t know what to say to them. Fortunately, their mom’s turn on the stage came quickly and it turned out she had a superb mezzo-soprano voice that out-sung the buskers as she interpreted the ballad she’d chosen to sing. To Arthur’s ears it was as if Taylor had lived the lyrics of the song, her initial nervousness vanishing as she lost herself in the music. By the time she’d finished, Arthur was convinced she wasn’t only the best singer ever, but also the most beautiful woman he’d ever met.
The attending crowd agreed. They applauded and cheered at the song’s finale, with Arthur and the two girls cheering louder than anyone.
‘We told you she was good,’ Francesca said.
‘And you were right.’
When Taylor returned to them, she folded her arms around her daughters’ shoulders and hugged them tightly. ‘Well, how was I?’
‘Totally the best!’
Taylor flicked her fringe away from her eyes with dainty fingers. She appeared excited and relieved all at once. ‘Thanks again, Arthur,’ she said. ‘That was very kind of you.’
She really was the most beautiful woman. ‘It was no problem,’ he told her, finding the words difficult to enunciate. ‘I didn’t do anything at all.’ Silence fell between them but he didn’t care. The smile on his face was broad and he was happy. Taylor wore a wide smile, too. It made her face light up in the most amazing way.
‘Mom,’ Francesca said, pulling at Taylor’s sleeve, breaking the spell. ‘I’m thirsty. Can we get some soda?’
To Arthur’s disappointment her focus returned to her kids. ‘Sure. Would youse both like some?’
‘Yeah!’ The girls began pulling at her arms, dragging her away.
‘Thanks again, Arthur,’ she said as she headed off. Soon they’d disappeared into the crowds, leaving Arthur with a somewhat hollow feeling. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one that made him uncomfortable, but it was better than the remorse and grief he’d woken up with.
‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’ a middle-aged woman with raven-dark hair said. Her voice was as familiar as a close friends, but Arthur had no recollection of the woman. ‘You know,’ she continued, ‘you should come back next weekend. At the same time. Those boys will be playing their songs again. I guarantee it.’
‘Sure,’ he replied. He wished he remembered how he recognised her. ‘Next weekend. I’ll be here.’
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