Instructions for Arrival

Clara had put three versions of the same message into her phone that morning. All began with Before we set off. None had been sent.

Now they were past the ring road, with Arthur driving as if the table were a passenger likely to complain about his cornering. It seemed too late to begin with before.

Her phone vibrated against her thigh.

A message from Mia: Have you told him?

Clara turned it face down.

The kitchen at the Old Station in Saltwick was not going to open on Friday. It was not going to open at all, at least not with Clara in it. Mia had accepted a salaried job ten days ago and withdrawn the money she had intended to invest. The landlord had not been prepared to renegotiate. Clara had handed back a set of keys she had only been allowed to hold for forty-eight hours.

She had cried in a bus shelter, which had felt unoriginal. Then she had applied for a job in the hospital catering department and arranged to rent a room above Rosa’s café.

Those were sensible things. She had done them quickly. She had told almost everyone.

Beside her, Arthur changed gear.

“How many covers?” he asked.

“What?”

“At your place. How many can you seat?”

“Twenty-four. That was the idea.”

“Table takes six comfortably. Eight if they’re thin.”

“Yes.”

“Your mum used to get ten round it.”

“She made people eat with their elbows in.”

“She was right. You don’t need your elbows to eat.”

Clara looked out at the wet fields. A horse stood in a yellow coat, appearing to regret it.

Arthur had not understood the business plan. He had read it with a pencil, marking figures in the margin, and asked questions about electricity and wages until Clara heard only that he thought she would fail. She knew he had been a self-employed furniture restorer for thirty years. She knew those questions mattered. She had still wanted him, before the electricity, to say it sounded wonderful.

When Helen was alive, she had translated them to each other.

He’s worried. That’s what that looks like.

Or, to Arthur: She didn’t ask you to inspect it. She asked you to come and see.

Clara had resented the translation even while depending on it. Since Helen died, she and Arthur had discovered how few sentences they could get across the room unaided.

He pointed to a sign for a service station.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“I could do with a stop.”

“Then stop.”

“Just asking.”

“I know.”

He parked as far as possible from the entrance. She was about to object when she saw the row of spaces nearer the door, all too short for the van. Perhaps not everything he did was an attempt to make her walk in the rain.

Inside, he chose two sandwiches, then put one back and picked another.

“What do you eat now?”

“Food.”

“I meant are you still not having cheese?”

“That was when I was fourteen.”

“I lose track.”

She took the sandwich from him. It was cheese.

They sat beside a window overlooking the petrol pumps. Arthur opened a paper packet of sugar and poured it into his tea without tasting it first. Helen had done the same and Clara had once considered this proof they belonged together.

“When are you handing the house over?” she asked.

“End of next week.”

“That’s soon.”

“It took ages to sell. Now everyone wants everything done yesterday.”

“Could you have stayed?”

He flattened the sugar packet.

“Not comfortably.”

“Money?”

“Among other things.”

She had imagined the sale as something he was doing to their life. It occurred to her, unpleasantly, that it might also be something happening to his.

“I could have helped with the packing.”

“You were busy.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I thought—” He stopped, took a drink, put the cup down. “No. I didn’t.”

The admission was small and unfamiliar. Clara picked at the corner of her sandwich wrapper.

“We’re stopping at Eddie’s,” she said.

Arthur looked up.

“My dad’s,” she added, unnecessarily.

“I know who Eddie is.”

“He has somewhere we can stay. And a workshop, in case the table needs anything.”

“The table doesn’t need anything.”

“All right.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Since Mum got ill. A bit before that.”

Arthur looked out at the pumps. A man in a suit was trying to open his fuel cap while holding a phone under his chin.

Clara wanted to say that Eddie had changed, then resisted. He had changed in some ways. In other ways he still sent birthday cards after her birthday and began apologies with explanations. He was sober now. He answered his phone. She was learning to want only the things he could actually give her.

“You don’t have to like him,” she said.

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

“You’ve done the mouth.”

“What mouth?”

“The one you do when somebody paints oak grey.”

Against his will, Arthur smiled.

“It’ll just be tonight,” she said. “We can get to Saltwick tomorrow.”

He nodded.

Clara picked up her phone. Mia had sent another message, just a question mark.

She typed: Not yet.