1: Aria

I suppose I should have been flattered. Though Howard and I had been members of the same club for several years I knew little about him apart from the fact that he was a retired architect, unmarried and uncommunicative. He’d never spoken to me or any of my companions until that dark winter’s night when just as I was leaving he stopped me at the door and asked if I’d come to dinner with him on December the twenty ninth. Taken aback but being too slow to come up with any excuses I agreed. And so it was on the following week I found myself climbing the flight of stone steps to the Gothic-arched doorway of Slade House, a large, rambling dwelling built from granite as grey as the cloud that covered the late afternoon sky.

Standing under the porch I heard piano music coming from somewhere inside. I remember how calming it sounded and but for the bitter cold I’d have listened for longer. As it was I tugged at the bell pull and waited. Almost at once the music stopped and the figure of Howard appeared in the doorway. At first he stared at me as though he had no idea who I was or why I was there but then with a look of half-recognition he gestured for me to enter.

‘Howard,’ I smiled, ‘good to see you. You’d not forgotten, had you?’

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Come in! Come in! You look chilled to the bone. Here, let me take your coat. I’ll bank up the fire.’

Reluctantly I removed my coat and without being asked settled myself in a leather arm chair in front of the inglenook fireplace. While Howard rummaged for logs in the hearth I glanced around the room. Apart from the glow of the fire the only other source of light came from a candle on top of the grand piano. The room was sparsely furnished with two leather chairs, a long wooden chest, a bookcase, a dining table and a grand piano which filled most of the space. The grey walls were discoloured by smoke from the fire.

I looked at Howard who stood gazing into space as if in a trance. Tall and slightly bent I imagined him to be in his late sixties. His face was gaunt and with bony cheeks, a prominent forehead and deep-set eyes there was something distinctly reptilian about him. His shabby, tweed trousers and oversized sweater hung from rather than clung to his frame. Nothing about him appealed to me and yet here I was wondering now more than ever what madness had brought me here.

Suddenly stirring from his reverie as though he’d just remembered I was still in the room he turned towards me. ‘William,’ he said, ‘it is William isn’t it? What can I get you?’

‘Whatever you’re having,’ I answered, ‘and please call me Bill. Everyone does.’

‘Yes, I’d noticed. One of my old work colleagues was nicknamed Bill though I much preferred to call him William. Do you mind if I call you William?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Excellent, William it is. Would whisky suit?’

‘Sounds good to me.’ I was eager for anything alcoholic to relieve the formality. I dreaded an evening of small talk but as things turned out I needn’t have worried. Later that night I would learn more than any sane man would care to know.

While Howard was fetching the whisky a number of questions sprang to mind. Why had I been invited here and none of the other club members? Knowing so little about him why had I agreed to come? Who was Howard and what was his background? Did he know more about me than I knew of him? My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of spitting and hissing. The logs had caught light and the fire was ablaze. I should like to have said I was cheered by the sight but in spite of the dancing flames the fire gave little warmth. If anything the room felt colder than when I’d arrived. Filled with a sense of unease I was pleased to see Howard appear with two large glasses and a bottle of single malt.

‘There’s plenty more where this came from,’ he said, pouring the whisky and raising his glass. ‘Here’s wishing you an eventful new year.’

‘And here’s wishing you the same,’ I replied although being a retired widower living alone I couldn’t imagine the coming year being more eventful than any other. Since my wife’s death I’d become a recluse, set in my ways. Most days were the same - a stroll into town, the walk back home, perfunctory nods to passing acquaintances, coffee, the crossword, lunch, the News, an afternoon’s nap and a few hours in front of the tele before setting off to the club. There were people there I’d known for years and we’d spend most nights talking over old times and putting the world to rights. Others mixed in similar groups. Only Howard kept himself to himself sitting alone in a corner observing everyone without making any effort to get involved. Yet here I was away from my normal circle of friends having dinner with a virtual stranger.

‘Is it too dark for you?’ Howard asked downing his drink in a single gulp and refilling his glass.

‘A little,’ I admitted, thinking he’d switch on the lights.

‘I thought it might be. I’ll fetch some more candles. I won’t be long.’ And so for the second time I was left to look at the room and wait for what seemed like an age before he reappeared with two candles. Placing one on the table and the other on the wooden chest he returned to his chair. The flickering light from the candles produced a weird display of shadows dancing over the walls transforming the place into how I imagined Hell might look. It was disconcerting to say the least and increased my already growing sense of foreboding.

Howard seemed happy enough. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I’ve never liked electric lights. Candles add to the ambiance don’t you think?’ I gave him a non-committal smile. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I invited you here tonight and none of the others.’

‘I suppose I am,’ I admitted. ‘The invitation was something of a surprise.’

Howard topped up our glasses. ‘I’ve noticed the way you look at me no doubt wondering why I sit alone at the club never mixing with anyone.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, untruthfully. ‘You seemed contented with your own company and why not? There are times when we all prefer to be left alone.’

‘True, though I wasn’t exactly alone. I was more engaged with each of you than you might have realised.’

‘Oh, in what way?’

‘Watching, taking everything in, getting the measure of each of you. I too needed someone to talk to you see but it had to be the right person.’

‘And you thought that might be me?’

‘Yes, but only after observing your friends.’

Describing each one he summarised their main characteristics with perceptive accuracy: Eric Short, the retired clerk who was only interested in talking about himself; Arthur Dawes, the retired headteacher who was so fond of his own voice he failed to notice when others lost interest; Geoff Godwin who turned every subject around to an unrelated incident he remembered and expounded on at length; Bob Wilson who looked permanently bored; Michael Farrow who was always impatient and David Green whose attention constantly wandered.

Although I felt annoyed that he should be criticising friends of mine he’d never met I had to admit he had them off to a tee. ‘So what were your thoughts about me?’ I asked.

‘Ah, you were different. You listened to the others attentively noticing subtle nuances, seeing through their words to the meaning behind them. There was something about you, a certain susceptibility and vulnerability marking you out as someone receptive and understanding, someone I could talk to.’

‘And you had something you wanted to share with me?’

‘I did, but that’s for later.’

By now I was feeling light-headed and was pleased to hear Howard mention food. ‘I was never much of a cook,’ he said, ‘but there’s a beef stew on the stove. I’d better see how it’s coming along. Join me in the kitchen if you’d like.’

I followed him to the kitchen door and paused by the wooden chest where the candlelight fell on a collection of framed photographs of various individuals whose features were obscured in shadow.

‘Has something caught your eye?’ Howard asked.

‘Only these photos. Are they friends of yours?’

‘I thought you might ask. Yes friends or acquaintances. They were colleagues at work.’ He lifted the candle and taking each photo in turn he described their subjects and what had happened to each: Marcus, once a director but now in an institution, mad as a hatter; Simon and Matthew who wrongly believed they were inseparable; Gary who met with an untimely death; Tom whose obsession with the occult led to tragic consequences; Trevor who was wrongly imprisoned for life through no fault of his own and Paul, missing presumed dead. ‘But this,’ he sighed, picking up the last of the photos and pausing to catch his breath, ‘this is a woman I hardly knew but as you’ll discover, a woman whose tale is the strangest of all and my main reason for asking you here.’

By now I was intrigued and eager to know all about them but Howard was already leading me into the kitchen with its oak-beamed ceiling and oil-fired range on which the stew was slowly simmering.

‘There’s home-made bread in the oven,’ he said. After he’d sampled the stew and checked the oven we returned to our chairs.

Wondering what to talk about next I mentioned the music. ‘That piece I heard when I was standing in the porch, was it you playing?’

‘It was. Did you like it?’

‘Very much. I should like to hear it again sometime.’

‘Then I’ll play it for you now. It’s the Aria from Bach’s Goldberg Variations, an architectural masterpiece!’

Whatever it was or whoever had written the piece, it sounded extremely restful. The melody drifted along like a slow-running river rising and falling with intricate twiddles like eddies all timed to perfection. And listening as a child might to a lilting lullaby I drifted into a state of complete relaxation. His fingers caressed every note as though each was a long-lost friend he’d known and was now remembering. Completely entranced I sat back in that old, leather chair wanting the music to last for ever when Howard suddenly paused just as the piece was about to end.

‘Is there more to come?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he said letting his little finger fall belatedly on the final note. ‘There’s far more to come but first we must eat.’ He served up the stew with the homemade bread and we sat to eat.