Page 46 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘Yes,’ she whispered, turning away from the beach and moving to clear debris from a table. ‘Perhaps Iwilltake a chance.’
Chapter Eighteen
In 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 becominga 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 & Threes’ delayed as players discussed The Travelling Grandad’s latest exploits.
But what surprised Arthur the most was something from an earlier phone call with his friend.
Arthur had been in his shed at the bottom of the garden at Shirlarth Cottage, stacking garden pots and planters. He began to wrap Shirley’s impressive collection of garden gnomes for their winter storage, and enjoyed packing away her pint-sized protectors, which multiplied every year. Arthur loathed the gnomes; 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 inathletic 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 tothe 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.’
