Later, Ella decided that what she had got from William’s stay in the house was the illusion of permanence, the same illusion that had made the afternoon of the video so enchanting.
William kept odd hours. His program was simple but impressive. He slept when he was tired and ate when he was hungry, coming into the kitchen wearing the sweet abstracted smile with which he warded off conversation. If Ella was working there, he asked politely, ‘Am I in your way?’ and she answered, just as formally, ‘Not at all.’ Then he emptied the contents of one of his plastic boxes into a saucepan without noticing whether he had taken beef or chicken – an omission which annoyed Ella so much that she found it wiser to look away – heated the food, scooped it onto a plate and washed the saucepan before he carried the meal away to his room.
He was, as Rob had said, as neat as a cat.
She had left cleaning materials in the bathroom cupboard with little hope that they would be used, but when in the course of housecleaning she looked in the room, she found all surfaces shining and the harsh, virtuous smell of cleaning powder and disinfectant rising from tiles and lavatory bowl.
She was still in the kitchen one day when he brought back his plate and his knife and fork and put them in the sink.
‘Don’t bother to wash those,’ she said. ‘Put them in the dishwasher.’
He looked with distress, not at her but at the objects in the sink. Clearly, it caused him pain to leave anything unwashed. Dirt and disorder fretted his soul – a fine quality in a lodger, but one wouldn’t care for it in a husband. How like poor William to have such a maddening virtue.
His presence was most comforting when it was unseen. Coming downstairs at one in the morning to make a sleeping draught of rum and milk, she would see the light under William’s door, know that he was awake and working, and feel that it was good to have a man in the house again.
Sophie took over the computer in the study next to William’s room and began to make a clean copy of his manuscript. That was an odd way for a young girl to spend her leisure, but Sophie seemed to be happy, working alone and now and then going next door to consult William about a difficulty. Ella, too, took pleasure in the growing stack of clean, typed sheets and the thought that something important was being produced in the house. How could she express this satisfaction? It was like hearing running water, having a fountain playing in the garden, a small pleasure which offset her continuing sadness over the defection of Caroline and the loss of Becky.
William avoided society. He vanished at the sound of voices. In a short time he had gained the status of a mild, harmless domestic animal, so unobtrusive that a fortnight passed before David and Martha knew of his existence.
This is ridiculous, thought Ella, on the third Thursday of his presence in the house. She caught William on his way out for one of his solitary walks and said firmly, ‘My son and his wife are coming to dinner. I want you to stay and meet them.’
Sophie said, ‘Yes. You’re not the Phantom of the Opera, you know.’
Sophie’s attempt at humour did not make him smile. He sat down obediently and watched Ella make salad.
‘That food,’ he said.
Ella was startled. Was he going to make a complaint?
‘Will you show me how to do it? Tell me what the cheapest foods are and how you cook them?’
‘Yes. I’d be delighted.’
‘And that’s no lie,’ Sophie commented.
‘Which dishes do you like best?’
William looked puzzled.
‘They’re all economical. We might as well start with the things you like.’
It was useless trying to extract praise of her cooking from William, who did not seem to know that one food could be preferred to another. Pique gave way to pity as she understood what bleakness of life lay behind that indifference. She hoped urgently that his book was good and would bring him success and a little ease.
David and Martha came in to an awkward silence and made it no better, looking at the stranger with an astonishment which was perceptible, though quickly suppressed.
Sophie ignored formal manners to claim territory.
‘William, this is my brother David. Oh, sorry, wrong way round. Martha, meet William. My sister-in-law Martha, my brother David.’
Oh dear. William really did look out of place, large, ungainly, uncertain, too large for the kitchen chair he was perched on and looking quite alarmingly large as he stood up, towering over slight Martha, wearing a guilty look which made it plain that he had no right to be there and making Ella feel positively shifty.
‘William is a friend of Sophie’s. He is staying with us while he finishes a novel.’
‘Is it your first novel?’ asked Martha.
William nodded to the introduction, shook his head at the question and plunged away through the back door.
When they had heard it close, David said, ‘You’re taking up with some odd characters, Mum.’
Sophie directed a ferocious but affectionate grimace at the back of her brother’s head.
Ella said, ‘He just writes books, dear. I don’t know anything about his sex life.’
She was herself astonished at this remark while David took on a pinched and peevish air quite devoid of the glamour of youth. A good young man, Ella reminded herself, yet she felt sadly that there should be something more between the school prefect and this.
Martha was unwrapping fish and chips and distributing them onto plates.
‘Tell Ella about your lovely letter.’
David smiled and youth was restored.
‘I got a letter from a Phys. Ed. teacher who’d read my thesis in the Journal and tried out the exercises. He says he’s had great results with them. You know, I thought it was great when they published that thesis but I never thought about anyone reading it and using the stuff.’
‘I suppose,’ said Martha, ‘that is what publication is all about.’
‘That just hadn’t sunk in.’
‘That’s wonderful, dear. You don’t know how many other people have used them and didn’t bother to write.’
Martha said, ‘This man – this Harry – he’s very serious about them. There’s one problem class he has where he says behaviour has improved in other subjects, too. He says it’s an increase in self-respect and general physical control. He’s coming to see us this vacation to show David some ideas of his own. So you didn’t waste your time over it, in spite of Pritchett.’
David nodded, silently happy.
‘Harry wants to write a book. He wants David to do it with him.’
David shrugged.
‘I don’t think I could go as far as that. I wouldn’t mind helping but I’ve said all I want to say about it.’
Ella and Martha both looked disappointed. That was David always – so far and no further.
*
At dinner Martha introduced the topic of William.
‘I said the wrong thing to your friend, didn’t I? I gather it isn’t his first novel.’
‘He won a prize with his first book. His second didn’t do so well. There’s a lot hanging on this one.’
‘Oh, dear. One needs to be briefed before one talks to writers. I hope I didn’t give offence.’
Martha, no longer the enthusiastic girl sure of her ability to change the world, had become the tactful domestic manager, selling David the idea of William.
‘All I said was William. Could have been William Smith. He’s deadly shy with strangers.’
‘That was tactful of you.’
‘Oh, I’m cunning all right,’ said Sophie complacently.
‘A proper barrel of monkeys,’ David grumbled.
Martha was, after all, a teacher of English.
What is his surname, then?’
‘Anstey. William Anstey.’
‘William Anstey.’
As Martha pronounced the name, William’s looks improved mysteriously. At least he ceased to be ‘poor William’ and acquired some dignity.
‘Now I am offended, Sophie. You could have trusted me. I’ve read both his books. I’m one of the few who really admired the second one.’
‘Sorry.’
In the silence which followed, it became clear that Sophie had been protecting William from intrusive conversation. Sophie owned William and did not intend to share him.
Martha, who now had real cause for offence, decided instead on indulgent understanding. She ended the pause by saying, ‘I wish he’d collect his short stories. You might suggest that to him.’
Sophie smiled, her territory restored intact.
David said, ‘How’s the Curse of the Funnelweb going?’
‘It is progressing,’ said Sophie with dignity. ‘You are an author yourself, now. You should speak with more respect.’
‘Strictly utilitarian,’ said David, but he glowed a little.
To Ella, the film script had become boring. The main themes were set; there was little pleasure in listening to the details which now occupied them.
‘How hard they all work,’ she thought. ‘I wonder they have the courage to begin.’
She was contemplating a major work herself. She had decided to make a hooked rug for Becky. The work would dull the pain of Becky’s absence, which must surely be temporary. If it were not, the gift would be a message, a permanent one. She will know how much I cared for her. That will be something.
With a film script proceeding in the dining room and a novel (perhaps famous) being produced in the downstairs study, she began to take the infection, feeling the stirring of creativity.
When Rob and Sophie came in to suggest coffee, she was busy with a sketch pad and felt-tipped pens, studying a print in a book of Chinese scrolls.
‘Hullo,’ said Rob. ‘I always suspected this. You’re an artist.’
‘Heavens, no. I’m working out a design for a hooked rug, that’s all.’
‘Hang on to your clothes,’ said Sophie.
‘Sophie,’ said Ella patiently, ‘you had outgrown that pink skirt long before I cut it up.’
‘You didn’t ask me.’
‘I didn’t think it was necessary. You were ten years old at the time.’
‘A very old grievance,’ said Rob with amusement.
‘Well, there it is in front of me. See the pink rosebuds in the wreath? A constant reminder of Mum’s perfidy.’
Sophie was kneeling on the floor by the rose rug, pointing to the remains of her pink skirt.
‘Did you make that, Ella?’
Rob’s tone was awed.
‘Mum’s an expert. She made us each one. Martha’s carried off the one she made for David. Caroline took hers, too. I suppose it’s in Becky’s room.’
‘I mean this for Becky.’
Pause for pity. She did not look up.
‘I didn’t imagine this was handmade.’
Rob had joined Sophie on the floor and was examining Ella’s work.
‘The cutting is the worst thing. That’s the finest I’ve made.’ Ella was talking quickly, blushing over Rob’s admiration. ‘I started making them in London because it was a cheap hobby and it kept me warm, then I got interested and kept it up. The ones I made for the children aren’t so fine.’
‘You live creatively,’ said Rob with enthusiasm. ‘You make beautiful rugs, cook beautiful meals, teach English – give people a voice – ’
‘Ask useful questions,’ Sophie finished helpfully.
‘Too good to walk on,’ said Rob, getting up and coming to look at the print Ella was studying.
‘They’re very hardwearing. It’s what they are meant for.’
‘I don’t know how people could bear to walk on them. Why don’t you make wallhangings?’
‘Not so useful.’
‘Are you going to translate this picture into a rug?’
‘No. I’m just getting help with the proportions. Once I have my design and my colour scheme, I go looking for secondhand woollen clothes in the opportunity shops. I always enjoy that.’
‘The pleasures of the hunt. I understand that.’ Rob studied the painting and Ella’s sketch. ‘Are you making out that something beautiful to hang on a wall and make people feel good isn’t useful? That’s a shocking thought.’
‘You’d have to be sure it was beautiful.’
Rob sighed.
‘Oh, yes. That’s the risk we all have to take. And think of the fun of hunting for the materials, breaking up old junk jewellery for the river stones, silver gauze for your little cascade …’
‘Pale brown silk,’ Ella contradicted her, then wondered why she had found the moment so satisfactory.
The risk that made Rob rueful and furrowed William’s brow was certainly not for her.