Everybody in the care house knows that that bench, just as those pigeons, are both Arthur Kirkland's.
Nurses and clients have long learned not to sit there or give food to the birds, the wrath of the grouchiest of all inhabitants being as deadly as his glare, and yet there he is. A man. On his bench.
Feeding his pigeons.
"Get the fuck out of there!" Arthur shouts as he limps his way to the intruder, his chest spazzing frantically as he fails to breathe, talk and run at the same time.
The man turns around, mild surprise in his round face. He must be new there and his hair is far too long to be decent in his age, falling into his face and covering the stubble on his cheeks.
"I'd be much more careful with the cane, you surely don't want to stumble." he shouts back sweetly, words thick with Frenchness and false concern. Then, ignoring Arthur's profanities spat from the bottom of his arrhythmic heart, he turns back to the pigeons and throws another baguette chunk.
This is how Arthur and Francis meet.
Of course they make them sit together in the dining room.
"You always seem so lonely at your table, Mr. Kirkland, company will do you good!" Nurse Mathias says cheerfully as he is laying a second set of cutlery on the polka-dotted tablecloth,"We can't have you talk only to the pigeons, you will start cooing soon."
Arthur wants to hit him straight in his smile but grinds his dentures instead and waits. The man appears soon and introduces himself even before he takes the place opposite Arthur – Francis Bonnefoy, a Frenchman.
What a surprise.
Determined to ignore his eating companion, Arthur keeps his head stubbornly down, eyes fixed on his fish and salad. He can't no matter how much he tries, because Francis – there isn't really a word for the collection of pitiful sounds that the man is performing above his dinner, sobs and sighs and silent moans, as if the mere sight of his food would cause him inhuman pain.
Arthur snaps by breakfast on the third day.
"What's your problem?" the butter knife clutters to the ground as Arthur uses his fist on the table to demonstrate his point.
"I can't decide." Francis says and then looks up, face on the verge of tears. "I don't know what I hate more, the fact that I'm on diabetic diet, or the English diet that I'm forced to eat."
"You...!"
It takes Arthur some ten seconds to recover from the initial shock, but he soon catches his breath. Until they get to the dessert, Arthur insults French cooking, French politics, French manners and French accents (twice).
Francis returns everything with the brilliance of seventy-eight years worth of practice, and forgets to lament that instead of a parfait Arthur is devouring, his own dessert consists of two over-ripe kiwis.
The fight doesn't stop at the dining table; only it transforms from a vocal fight into a deadly serious fight for pigeon attention. Both armed with every bit of bread the kitchen staff was willing to give them, they stand two feet apart from each other – Arthur occupying his rightful place on his bench and Francis just standing on the lawn opposite – and they lure the grey and brown birds with every dirty tactic they can think of; whoever has more birds flock around them, wins.
But because they are both so eager to win, they soon lose their ammunition, who won and who lost forgotten in the following discussion whether to return to the kitchens or not.
Then, Arthur looks around stealthily, making sure nobody in a white nurse uniform is around, and he pulls out a pipe and a tobacco box from the large pockets of his cardigan.
Francis watches him, how he stuffs the pipe and lights it with a match, and then his eyes catch the sight of something else.
"Why do you bring books with you when you never read them?" he asks. In the last three days, he never saw Arthur without a book, whether it was in the dining room or in corridors, but he never witnessed him opening one.
Arthur stays silent, only for a moment glancing to the side where his library copy of The Lost World rests, untouched.
"My eyes are too weak." he admits after a while long enough for most people to lose interest. Not Francis. "I tried different glasses, didn't help."
"But why borrow books when you can't read them?"
Arthur crumbles the empty paperback in both fists. "I worked as a journalist for thirty-nine years, I can't just... not read."
Francis' reaction is a short, bemused laugh, as if he just understood a good joke.
"A journalist that can't read and a baker who can't eat sweets." He says, and then Arthur understands too, destiny's awful sense of humour.
His grip on the paper bag slowly softens. Then, he reaches for the book that was placed on the bench as a clear do not sit here warning, and puts it on his lap instead, the silent offer subtle but clear.
It's after their screaming match in the dining room regarding the Suez crisis that they are given the chess board. Emil, the young nurse still in training, sets it between them as he clears the plates with an un-amused face - "Gentlemen, how about you use your tempers for less vocal fights, other clients will greatly appreciate it."
Arthur knows the "other clients" – old grumpy men and women - are currently all watching their tables with disdain, judging how only old people can judge, and he doesn't look around although his face grows a bit warm with embarrassment. Francis is already studying the chess pieces. They are visibly old and went through many heated fights, the black and white polish missing and showing the tree rings underneath.
"Ready for your failure?" he asks, and Francis' face scrunches with hundreds of little wrinkles like the finest silk as he smiles.
"Always."
Neither of them can play well.
Arthur has a brain of an artist, spinning words and pictures in colourful clouds of imagination, but completely useless when faced with basic logic. Francis barely knows the rules and has never played a serious chess game before. Yet they play, fierce matches that end too quickly or drag on for days, their skills equally lacking and therefore in perfect balance.
Usually, Arthur is horribly indecisive, his hand hovering over the board for minutes until he decides where to put the knight he's holding. And Francis watches the hand when he pretends to ponder his next move, watches how the blood pulses in the blue veins under the skin thin like parchment paper and dotted with brown flecks, like unruly freckles sprouted in the wrong places. He has them too, the spots, and yet Francis' hands look younger, with fewer wrinkles on his chubbier fingers.
Arthur's hands have broad knuckles but his fingers are long and thin, almost graceful were it not for the thick and overgrown nails, yellowed with nicotine.
"You have hands like my grandfather."
"My my, am I flattered now." Arthur uses his knight to knock down Francis' pawn and puts it in its place, then grabs the pawn with childish hastiness and lays it neatly into the empty chess box.
Francis chuckles. "That was a compliment. My grandfather brought us up, my sister and me. Mother was always too sickly for parenting and father died on the front."
Then he adds: "I never respected anybody in my life more than him."
Arthur hides his hands under the table.
Francis has a photo on his nightstand, two smiling children playing in heaps of snow. The blond boy is missing two front teeth and the black-haired girl has little dolphin pins in her pigtails. Nurses coo over them, but Francis just waves his hand if they ask when his grandchildren will visit.
"They live in Canada with their parents, I only have pictures."
Only ever will have pictures, he says to Arthur as they meet by coincidence in the empty common room one morning. Both are early risers and only the night watch nurses are awake at five on a Sunday.
"At least you have some grandchildren." Arthur lights his pipe, confident that for once, nobody will criticise his bad habit.
"You have nephews and nieces."
"Different." Arthur's face is wearing a distant smile but soon overshadowed by a puff of smoke from Francis' view.
The common room is silent for a moment, Arthur enjoying the subtle taste of his Gold Block tobacco while Francis flips through the Easter special of a random woman's magazine he found on the armchair.
It's only once the flame in the pipe dies down and Arthur carefully starts to clean and pack his precious possession that he asks, as if he was pondering the question for all twenty minutes of his smoking ritual.
"Why is a French Frenchmen like you in an English care house anyway."
"My wife was British." Francis looks up from a recipe on ginger glazed ham, then puts the magazine aside. "My children insisted on sending me to a care home they trusted, and that was apparently this one."
"Don't you miss your home?" Arthur asks in a rare moment of nicotine caused empathy.
Francis closes his eyes as he relaxes back into the armchair.
"Terribly."
"And you, Arthur? Married, widowed, bachelor?"
Francis is visiting Arthur's room because he insisted he had to see the signed ticket to The Who concert Arthur was bragging about as they ate the awfully overcooked piece of beef the staff graciously called "dinner".
While Arthur is searching for the ticket somewhere in the depths of his closet, Francis eyes his nightstand. It's bare, safe for his glasses case and the ugly plastic box for medicaments every member of the care home received upon arrival.
"Huh?" Arthur lifts his head up from the piles of books that occupy even the inside of his wardrobe. "Not that it concerns you, but I was never married."
"Oh, I see. Was she taken already? Or did she just dislike the eyebrows."
"How the hell..."
"Don't tell me somebody who likes reading this," Francis reaches down and picks up The Brownings' Correspondence, Volume 1 from the top of the book pile next to the bed, "never fell passionately in love, no matter how unrequited."
Arthur turns to the closet once again, but to Francis' surprise starts talking. "This is really none of your business, but there was someone very... dear to me, yet the circumstances never allowed us to get married."
Francis sits down on the bed, face eager like a dog waiting for a biscuit. "Oh do tell, which lucky lady had managed to capture your grouchy heart?"
"A colleague, from the same newspaper office where I started to work after school. We were rivals, both working on political columns, fighting all the time and pushing each other forwards...here," Arthur stops and straightens up from where he was crouching in front of the wardrobe.
The sudden vertigo makes him collapse back onto his knees and the subject gets lost as Francis makes an unnecessary huge fuss about the incident and almost calls a nurse.
Sometimes Arthur tries to remember how it used to be, to sleep until the afternoon when he was young; the thought of uninterrupted slumber for more than two hours is nonsense nowadays. Tonight it's barely after three as he gives up the turning and twisting in the too-warm sheets, both his legs predicting with persistent, stabbing pain that it would rain soon.
He is just reaching for the knob on his radio in a faint hope to get distracted as he hears footsteps walking; not the shuffling sound of soft slippers, but solid shoes dulled by the carpet outside. They seem to come closer, then stop as if someone was standing right in front of Arthur's door, the silence lasting for almost a minute. Arthur is holding his breath, heart pounding with unnecessary strength in his withered ribcage.
When the footsteps start walking again, the adrenaline that he forgot he possessed kicks him out of bed and he limps to the door, opening them just in time to see the person at the end of the corridor.
"Francis?" He calls, a hushed whisper echoing in the narrow space. The slightly wrinkled trenchcoat together with the grey and fedora hat are a deadly giveaway even to Arthur's weak eyes.
Soon, the wrinkled trenchcoat is folded neatly on the single chair in Arthur's room, and Francis himself is sitting on the still unmade bed. Back hunched, he is talking to his hands that are resting palms-up on his knees.
"Just once, I need to see it once again. Feel it, smell it – did you know the air in France smells differently than here? That water tastes much sweeter and flowers have brighter colours."
Arthur wants to spit back that there is nothing wrong with English air or water or greenery, but realizes in time he would say the same things if he was on the other side of the Channel. Instead he shuffles to his closet; whatever it is that he will be facing tonight, he doesn't want to do so in the worn, striped flannel of his pyjamas.
"I wanted to sneak out while everybody is asleep, it's Friday so there aren't so many staff people. I'll be back on Sunday, I promise just – I have to go to France."
Arthur looks up from where he is clasping braces on his trouser hem, just in time to see Francis close his hands into fists.
"One last time."
"You don't even know how to buy a ticket." Arthur scoffs as he checks the state of his wallet. "If you don't want to end up in Aberdeen, I will have to go with you. Trust me, I travelled good old Britain with trains so often, you couldn't have picked a better guide."
Francis wants to protest, say that Arthur would put himself into a whole panoply of risks, most of which he can't afford. But Arthur's eyes are sparkling with childish excitement, the little boy inside of him eager for adventure; and so he just smiles and reaches for his own coat.
They manage to catch the first morning train to London, but the ride is still long and hours of sitting aren't good for either of their arthritic legs. Arthur expects to sleep through most of it but no such luck; with every passing mile, Francis' excitement grows palpably and he talks so much that Arthur has never seen him like this in the last three months since he moved into the care house.
He talks about the sweetness of the water and colourfulness of the smells, but also about how people are nice to each other, about how much more warmth they share with a simple greeting. He talks about art and music and love, a subject Francis can't get enough of, and about his ex-wife naturally too.
"She had this lovely pear-shaped figure and hair that looked like copper in sunlight, and the sharpest tongue you can imagine – she was witty and sarcastic and could tell the most amazing anecdotes, amusing whole rooms full of people. Yet she was telling them always with this serious, almost grumpy face, so that her cynicism was simply irresistible."
Arthur nods and doesn't even notice how the corners of his mouth turn upwards. Francis' dedicated description is irresistible too. The smile turns into a frown as Francis unfolds the story further, from their marriage through the children to the sad years when they grew more and more distant, until his wife finally announced she had a lover in Canada and planned to move there and take the children.
Francis' face as he describes the divorce and most of all the hunting emptiness afterwards makes Arthur overcome his inborn mistrust towards physical gestures and he leans forward, awkwardly patting Francis' knee in sympathy.
"Arthur? Can I ask you what the circumstances were that prevented you from marrying your loved one?"
Arthur knew it was just a matter of time until Francis would stop talking about himself and start asking, and he looks out of the window, feigning annoyance.
Inside, the gears in his head are turning like a windmill, trying to gather precious time until he decides what to say.
"The problem was that she... was a he, actually. My bitterest rival and closest friend," he finally says and watches anxiously to see how Francis' face will change in the window pane.
"I see." is all that Francis says and he looks up because he isn't stupid, he knows when he's being watched. Their eyes meet in the reflection, countryside and high voltage pylons running through their faces.
If Arthur weren't too tired to trust his senses, he would swear he sees understatement in Francis' glass-reflected eyes.
It takes them ages to get to Waterloo station. The names of the stops are confusing and all wrong, and while Arthur pretends to have everything under control, his mind races frantically like a little mouse in a cardboard maze. When they finally arrive it's well after noon, and the place is nothing like Arthur remembers it. Automatic glass doors, too many people, and he isn't sure how they did it but the building is decidedly smaller than how he remembered it from his younger years.
Only the concrete staircase with the iron railing stayed, and he was pleased to see something he could relate to.
It's the staircase's fault that Arthur stumbles.
His right hip that hits the stone first sends a wave of pain through his side, followed by the same sensation spreading from his elbow, and he curses a five-word-string of profanities, a knee-jerk reaction before he even realizes what happened.
His pride wills his body to get up, brush the dirt from the corduroy of his trousers and maybe add a tasteful joke on the subject of falling; nothing of that sort happens, as his body instinctively curls into itself on the dirty gravel staircase, ignorant to the pieces of glass from a smashed bottle scattered all around him.
His eyes are the first part of his body that decides to listen to him, and he forces them to open and blink. Where he is lying with the edge of the stair pushed into his temple, he can only see the staircase itself; grey concrete, worn out by the thousands of human shoe soles walking over it every day; then more scattered glass, a few cigarette butts, and then moss, growing peacefully in the cracks.
Then, arms; wrapped around him from the side, tugging him clumsily. They are weak like his own and don't even have the strength to pull him into a sitting position. And so they wrap around him fully instead, Arthur's nose suddenly pressed against the rustling fabric of the trenchcoat.
Francis holds him, a little bit like a child or maybe a cat, saved from the tallest branches of a tree; were his fall only so dramatic.
Arthur inhales and relaxes into the embrace, and as he closes his eyes anew, a memory flashes through his inner eye; not a déja vu because Arthur is sure this was real, used to be, that this was his own memory uninfluenced by what his parents told him and siblings threatened him with. The forest was dark and deep and little Arthur – just five years old – would have surely gotten into trouble for entering it, if his brothers would tell. But his brothers weren't there. It was 1942, and only the youngest child of the Kirkland family was sent to some god-forgotten village to escape from crumbling walls and nights darker than the inside of a closet.
He got lost within the first hour and ended up laying on a pile of leaves, curled up into a tight ball and crying. He liked the forest, but only a forest that had a way out.
The boy who found him was foreign, never seen before in the village and in Arthur's life. But his arms were a bit weak and a bit unsure, a little trembling but warm enough to persuade Arthur that he was real and human and would help him get back.
He led the still crying Arthur through narrow pathways and hidden passages straight to the village but stopped before they could pass the first house, squeezed Arthur's little hand and then ran off in the opposite direction. Arthur never saw him again.
Just the remote sense of the embrace, like a beloved memory returned through a faint smell on an unexpected place stayed with him; to be rediscovered, to be felt again there, on the concrete staircase of Waterloo station. Familiar arms. Somebody is here – when not to catch you when you fall, then to help you up from the ground.
For the most fleeting of moments, Arthur feels five again.
In the end they get help from bystanders, three young punks in Doc Martens boots with pierced faces. They hoist both old me to the feet with surprising gentleness, help Arthur gather his cane and wallet, and ask if they need to call an ambulance.
"No, thank you, lads." Arthur says. He feels ancient.
Francis' head is tilted up, mouth slightly agape as he watches the ceiling of the station spanning like glass wings of a gain moth over the rail road tracks. Then he remembers that he's not there to admire Victorian architecture and looks at his wrist watch. "If the booklet I found was correct, the next Eurostar should leave in half an hour."
Arthur hums, eyes hopelessly trying to focus on the board overhead. "Let's sit down in the meantime." he says as he points to one of the benches between the platforms. Both feel as if they'd just run a marathon; considering their age, they did.
When they wake up, they are caught.
Three nurses from the care home were sent out to find them, their disappearance clear from the moment the medications got redistributed. Arthur has no idea how to use his smartphone but he knows it's wise to carry it around with him; GPS takes care of the rest.
They sleep on the bench with shoulders leaning at each other, Francis' trench-coat over their knees, Arthur's cane like a protective spell laid in front of them.
"Is it time for the train yet?" Francis blinks, then sees Tino the head nurse, and his face falls.
Tino is looking at him with professionally patient smile. "You scared us so much, Mr. Bonnefoy, Mr. Kirkland." he says as he wraps blankets around their shoulders, his voice hushed and quick with well-hidden anxiety. "What were you even doing here?"
"I can explain; this was my idea, Arthur just followed for my own safety... " Francis starts, but Arthur interrupts him, blanket sliding from his shoulders as he shakes his head
"The channel. We wanted to board the Eurostar and get to France."
Tino's face stays surprised for a moment, then something different flashes through his round features, and he looks to the side. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr. Kirkland, but the Eurostar started to operate from St. Pancras, five years ago."
Arthur's gaze stays on the stone tiles, on the little flecks of dirt glued there by carelessly spit-out pieces of chewing gum.
Francis reaches behind him and readjusts the blanket tighter around his bony shoulders.
They get back in one of the care home cars and are immediately called upon their arrival by Doctor Lucas, who is in charge on that Saturday. He explains to them with his calm, professional voice that with Francis' condition, it would be very foolish to attempt a ride as far as to Paris. Or generally any journey outside of the care home grounds.
That night, Francis cries.
Arthur is there to hand him a glass of water when he starts choking on his tears.
The gossip about their flight stays in the hushed whispers in the dining room for two more weeks, then dies down. Things return to their usual rhythm, pigeons are fed again; Arthur throws them crumbs and bread chunks while Francis reads to him. He likes to skip paragraphs just to see if Arthur notices, and he always does.
"Why should I read you something you know already by heart?"
"Because I want to be able to enjoy what I like more than once."
"Oh Arthur, why the denial, I know you can't get enough of my accent."
Soon, in a heated fight about Anglo-Saxons and Franks and the origins of language, the book and the pigeons are forgotten.
Francis has a stroke in December, just as the first snow starts to fall. His brain stays undamaged but the left side of his body misbehaves even with the rehabilitations.
Arthur asks to be moved into his room.
The pigeons follow him, making a mess on Francis' little balcony, but Francis adores them, watches them fly when he himself can't even make three consecutive steps.
Arthur grumbles when he's waken from his afternoon nap by Francis' persistent demands that he feeds the little gluttons as they start to knock impatiently on the windowpane with their beaks, but still smiles while he gives them the leftovers from breakfast.
In the night, before they fall asleep, Francis likes to talk about France, describing the long impeccable rows of vineyards stretching over hills and violet lavender fields, so bright they burn in the eye.
"Can you imagine the sheer beauty of that, Arthur?" Francis always asks.
"I can," Arthur answers, already half asleep. "It's just as if I had visited it myself."