Entertaining Arthur

Yesterday’s Christmas family gathering felt like a year ago as I waited for Arthur in a soggy meadow, wrapped in my new woolly hat and scarf. My father once described Arthur as an eighty-year-old jazz fan whose eventful life read like a boys-own adventure book of twentieth century history. He had a lifetime’s worth of exploits and wasn’t shy about recounting untold anecdotes. 

I admit Arthur was amusing, it’s just that I questioned everything when I was thirteen-years-old. I thought his stories were far-fetched and made the mistake of saying so during yesterday’s Christmas meal. Me and my big mouth. I just couldn’t believe Arthur had saved a whole town from drought by sourcing an underground spring. So, you’re a magician? I said, rolling my eyes. All my relatives fell silent. Arthur turned, raised a startled eyebrow, and stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, lad, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Damn Shakespeare - I should’ve kept quiet. Meet me tomorrow at Sanderson’s meadow, he said. Be there for eight, lad, and bring two metal coat hangers with you.  

* * *

Forty years later, it’s difficult to remember a Christmas before my parents invited Arthur to join our celebrations. Over the ten years of my adolescence, he was both an endless source of entertainment and an instigator of controversy, dominating the entire proceedings. My father collected the dapper old chap from his cottage mid-morning and he’d talk non-stop from the moment he crossed the threshold until late evening when his taxi departed. 

My mother would ditch her apron, adjust her hair and welcome him as he sauntered up the garden path in his camel-hair overcoat. “My dear,” he’d say, doffing his jaunty trilby. “You’re looking younger than ever.” She’d smile and blush as he clasped her fingers, bowing to kiss her hand. “A delight to behold.” 

My father would shuffle about behind, clearing his throat. “I’ll take your coat, Arthur,” he’d say, fixing a grin. “You’ve got him well trained,” Arthur would say, smoothing his rakish whiskers. “Is he handy round the kitchen?” My father knew the routine. “It’s out of bounds, old chap.” Arthur winked at Dad and strolled inside. “Quite right too.” He knew his way to the lounge. “Keeps her busy and out of mischief.”

Arthur was a man who’d elevated himself from humble beginnings to rise to the rank of major and worked for the Ministry of Fish and Agriculture. He had a life’s worth of yarns to tell, and believe me, he could tell those stories for hours. Arthur had perfected the raconteur’s craft to a fine art and held my elderly relatives in rapt attention all day. They’d nod in recognition when he mentioned growing up on a farm, stare with amazement when he discussed fighting in two world wars and chuckled at his shenanigans among London’s upper echelons. You might imagine they’d challenge him or compare notes, however, it wasn’t the case. Arthur was like a tsunami. An unyielding force of nature. 

* * *

It was about thirty minutes after eight when Arthur strolled toward out of the mist like a knight on a mission, brandishing a pair of tin snips. Morning, lad! I thought you weren’t coming, I said, tapping at my watch. Damn taxis, he said. I trust you’ve got two coat hangers, lad? Never leave home without them, I said, smirking. 

I hear you’re a know-it-all, young man, Arthur said, smiling as he snipped the hook and twisted wire from the coat hangers. Who told you that? I frowned. Your mother said you’re too smart for your own good. Is that so? I said, snorting in amusement. It didn’t take Arthur long to fashion two L-shaped metal struts. One for each hand, he said. Hold them at arm’s length and follow me.

* * *

Over the decade that Arthur had attended our Christmas festivities, he repeated several stories. It was inevitable, of course. I’d disguise a sigh when he launched into another nail-biting account of escaping a Burmese P.O.W. camp or marching through Polish forests to encounter the first concentration camps. I recall my mother jabbing me in the ribs and my father raising a severe finger to his lips as I stifled a weary yawn.

Don’t get me wrong, Arthur was fascinating and livened up the day, which might have been rather dull otherwise. I had an enquiring mind and absorbed his endless tales of derring-do. However, as a young and precocious teenager, I would’ve enjoyed more of a dialogue. Accepting the detail was beyond question. It was Arthur’s show, and he was the narrator of his life’s stories. I had never dared to question the exact course of events and imagined he’d give me a withering glance or segue into an alternative story with a convenient transition and steer the conversation elsewhere. I never imagined he’d validate a story or provide evidence to confirm his rendition.

* * *

I followed Arthur across the muddy field as he explained his arrival in India during the second world war and how he’d encountered a parched land, failed crops and a starving population who were desperate for water. His rank of major gave him access to the town’s council, and he’d taken part in discussions about the issue. Arthur’s commanding officer presumed his prior knowledge of agriculture and water irrigation might ease the problem or assist the townsfolk in their hour of need. Irrigation’s only possible if they have a supply of water. Of course, said Arthur’s C.O. Well, see to it, Major. Yes, sir! I have faith in your abilities and expect a report by the weekend. 

Yes, sir. Very Good, sir. Leave it to me. 

* * *

Arthur raised a gnarled finger, and I halted on his command. Are you ready to find the source, lad? What do I need to do? I asked. Raise your fists, slacken your grip and walk towards me. I sighed, set my jaw, and stepped forward. 

As I approached Arthur, I felt a gentle movement in my hands. The cold metal in my grasp twitched. Slow down, lad. Arthur raised his right hand and beckoned me forward. I took one last step, and the quivering poles swivelled in opposite directions, crossing over in front of me. I paused and shook my head in disbelief. That wasn’t me, Arthur. You’ve discovered an underground source. But… I don’t understand. Arthur raised his left hand and pointed off to one side, along the line described by the metal struts. Let’s follow their lead. 

We walked in the direction indicated by the rods. Twenty feet away, there was a ditch and a perpendicular irrigation pipe with flowing water. The two divining rods had detected the liquid moving underground in the pipe below our feet. Now do you believe my story, lad? I never doubted it… Arthur smiled and patted my back. Let’s grab a hot chocolate, lad, and I’ll explain how dowsing works.

* * *

It would be easy to say I believed everything Arthur told me after that morning at Sanderson’s meadow. Maybe I wasn’t as cynical for a few years. It doesn’t pay to be too doubting at an early age, there’s time for that later in life.

The End