After a disgusting Sunday spent emptying rubbish bins behind a pub in Taunton, and finding nothing, no raffle ticket, no telephone number, Arthur tried everything he could to find Fenchurch, and the more things he tried, the more weeks passed.
He raged and railed against himself, against fate, against the world and its weather. He even, in his sorrow and his fury, went and sat in the motorway service station cafeteria where he’d been just before he met her.
It’s the drizzle that makes me particularly morose.
Please shut up about the drizzle, snapped Arthur.
I would shut up if it would shut up drizzling.
Look…
But I’ll tell you what it will do when it shuts up drizzling, shall I?
No.
Blatter.
What?
It will blatter.
Arthur stared over the rim of his coffee cup at the grisly outside world. It was a completely pointless place to be, he realized, and he had been driven there by superstition rather than logic. However, as if to bait him with the knowledge that such coincidences could in fact happen, fate had chosen to reunite him with the lorry driver he had encountered there last time.
The more he tried to ignore him, the more he found himself being dragged back into the gravitic whirlpool of the man’s exasperating conversation.
I think, said Arthur vaguely, cursing himself for even bothering to say this, that it’s easing off.
Ha!
Arthur just shrugged. He should go. That’s what he should do. He should just go.
It never stops raining! ranted the lorry driver. He thumped the table, spilt his tea, and actually, for a moment, appeared to be steaming.
You can’t just walk off without responding to a remark like that.
Of course it stops raining, said Arthur. It was hardly an elegant refutation, but it had to be said.
It rains… all… the time, raved the man, thumping the table again, in time to the words.
Arthur shook his head.
Stupid to say it rains all the time… he said.
The man’s eyebrows shot up, affronted.
Stupid? Why’s it stupid? Why’s it stupid to say it rains all the time if it rains the whole time?
Didn’t rain yesterday.
Did in Darlington.
Arthur paused, warily.
You going to ask me where I was yesterday? asked the man. Eh?
No, said Arthur.
But I expect you can guess.
Do you.
Begins with a D.
Does it.
And it was pissing down there, I can tell you.
You don’t want to sit there, mate, said a passing stranger in overalls to Arthur cheerily. That’s Thundercloud Corner that is. Reserved special for old Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head here. There’s one reserved in every motorway caff between here and sunny Denmark. Steer clear is my advice. ‘Swhat we all do. How’s it going, Rob? Keeping busy? Got your wet-weather tires on? Har har.
He breezed by and went to tell a joke about Britt Ekland to someone at a nearby table.
See, none of them bastards take me seriously, said Rob McKeena. But, he added darkly, leaning forward and screwing up his eyes, they all know it’s true!
Arthur frowned.
Like my wife, hissed the sole owner and driver of McKeena’s All-Weather Haulage. She says it’s nonsense and I make a fuss and complain about nothing, but, he paused dramatically and darted out dangerous looks from his eyes, she always brings the washing in when I phone to say I’m on me way home! He brandished his coffee spoon. What do you make of that?
Well…
I have a book, he went on, I have a book. A diary. Kept it for fifteen years. Shows every single place I’ve ever been. Every day. And also what the weather was like. And it was uniformly, he snarled, ‘orrible. All over England, Scotland, Wales I been. All round the Continent, Italy, Germany, back and forth to Denmark, been to Yugoslavia. It’s all marked in and charted. Even when I went to visit my brother, he added, in Seattle.
Well, said Arthur, getting up to leave at last, perhaps you’d better show it to someone.
I will, said Rob McKeena.
And he did.
在那个整天都在倒空一家汤顿酒馆的垃圾桶却一无所获——没有彩票，没有电话号码——的恶心的周日之后，阿瑟尝试了一切能做的去寻找芬琪诗，而他尝试的越多，耗过去的日子就越多。
他陷入了暴走状态，他骂自己，骂命运，骂这个世界还有这个世界的天气。他甚至，在极度悲愤之中，跑到了那个在初次邂逅她之前他所在的高速路餐馆。
“就是这毛毛雨让我特别郁闷。”
“请闭嘴不要再扯毛毛雨了。”阿瑟很不爽地说。
“只要能让毛毛雨闭嘴我就闭嘴。”
“嘿......”
“但是我会告诉你当毛毛雨闭嘴之后会怎么样。要我说么？”
“不。”
“滔滔不绝（注1）。”
“啥？”
“雨会滔滔不绝地下。”
阿瑟的视线越过咖啡杯，凝视着外面恐怖的世界。这是个完全没有意义的地方，他意识到，他开车到这儿来与其说是出于逻辑倒不如说是凭迷信。然而，就好像命运打算让他明白世间可以有怎样的巧合似的，命运选择让他和上一次碰见的大卡车司机再次相会。
他越想无视掉那个司机，就越发现自己被拖回了那个家伙恼人的谈话漩涡中。
“我觉着，”阿瑟含糊地说，暗地里诅咒自己为何还要费心说这句话，“你需要放松。”
“哈！”
阿瑟只是耸耸肩。他该撤了。这才是他该做的事。他早就该撤了。
“雨从来就没停过！”大卡车司机咆哮着。他重重地敲着桌子把茶溅了出来，而且那些茶事实上还冒了一会儿热气。
你可不能在这种情况下不回应点什么就一走了之。
“雨当然会停。”阿瑟说。这很难称得上是一个优雅的反驳，但这是必须说的。
“雨......一直......在下。”那个人吼着，再次撞着桌子，说一个字儿撞一下。
阿瑟摇摇头。
“说雨一直在下是愚蠢的......”他说。
那个人的眉毛横了起来，被惹着了。
“愚蠢？为什么愚蠢？为什么当雨整天在下的时候说雨一直在下是愚蠢的？”
“昨天没有下。”
“在达林顿下了。”
阿瑟谨慎地打住了话头。
“你是不是要问我昨儿在那儿？”那个人问，“嗯？”
“不是。”阿瑟说。
“但我估计你要问。”
“随你。”
“是以达字开头的地名。”
“随便。”
“那里可是淋透了，我可以负责任地告诉你。”
“你可不想坐在那个位置，伙计，”一个完全陌生的过路人对阿瑟快活地说，“那里是‘雷雨云之角’”。专门为‘雨点总是不停落我脑袋上’老家伙保留的。在此地和阳光灿烂的丹麦之间的每个高速路餐馆里都有这么一个保留角落。我建议你躲得远远的。我们都这么干。罗勃，日子过得咋样？还忙着哪？换上雨天轮胎啦？哈哈~~”
他说完马上就闪人了，跑到邻桌跟某人讲起一个关于布瑞特·埃卡兰（注2）的笑话来了。
“瞧见没有，那帮混蛋没一个拿我当回事的。”罗勃.麦克基纳说。“但是，”他凑过身来瞪大了双眼，阴暗地补充道，“他们都知道这是真的！”
阿瑟皱起了眉头。
“就像我老婆，”麦克基纳全天候货运公司的唯一老总兼司机小声说道。“她说我就是整天大惊小怪无病呻吟全是废话，不过，”他做作地停顿了一下，从眼中射出了危险的目光，“当我打电话说在回家路上时她总是会赶紧把外面晾的衣服收起来！”他挥舞着自己的咖啡勺。“你怎么看这个？”
“这个嘛......”
“我有本书，”他继续说着，“我有本书。一本日记。保留了十五年。记载了我去的每一个地方。每一天。以及天气是什么样的。而情况总是一样的，”他咆哮着，“烂。我去过的英格兰，苏格兰，威尔士的每个地方。欧陆的全境，意大利，德国，来来回回地去丹麦，还有南斯拉夫。全部都标在上面。甚至当我去看我的兄弟，”他加了一句，“在西雅图。”
“好吧，”阿瑟说着，最后决定起身离开，“也许你该把那玩意儿展示给别人看看。”
“我会的。”罗勃.麦克基纳说。
然后他这么做了。