2

William Handle was a man constantly amazed by his possessions. It seemed to him unreasonable that he should be the owner of a house and its furniture, a car, a violin of some value, and a cupboard full of clothes. He knew his amazement bordered on the irrational, but having come from a family for whom making ends meet was a daily struggle, he felt it was no wonder that appreciation of security and worldly goods should churn so powerfully within him.

Had it been through his own earnings he had acquired these worldly goods, he sometimes thought, then perhaps he would have felt differently. Pride, perhaps. Or at least some sense of achievement, having been able to provide comfort for his wife. But players in a string quartet, no matter how excellent, do not rank among British high earners. They are not the sort of people who have no need of mortgages. When William and Grace were first married they lived in a rented flat in Finsbury Park, a modest place that became intolerable once Jack was born. The combination of a screaming baby and William practising the violin (four hours a day, then) was more than any of them could bear. But there was no money to move somewhere larger.

When Jack was two Grace’s mother died, leaving her daughter the handsome estate she had inherited from her husband, a banker. The Handles immediately sold it, enabling them to buy Reddish House, where they had lived ever since, and intended to remain for the rest of their lives. There was enough income left comfortably to provide for necessities, so William regarded his salary as a bonus, not really needed, but useful for luxuries (a new lawnmower, the occasional bottle of good port, a generous pension fund). There being quite enough money for their modest needs, the Handles had little interest in it. Unlike most of their friends, it was not a subject that concerned them.

Buying Reddish House was their only major investment, and one they never regretted. Artisan Road ran through an agreeable part of a suburb of a large town west of London. The artisans after whom it was named may have built modest cottages in what was once a country lane. No sign of them now. The road was a collection of very disparate houses, only a few of which were true to their own period. The Handles’ house was one of these: a solid Edwardian building upon which no one had experimented with a Tudor addition or a Georgian front door. Windows were deeply set in the blocks of pale grey stone, though the charm of the stone itself was mostly invisible beneath a thick growth of Virginia creeper, from which the house had taken its name.

William’s father was dead by the time they bought the house–a mercy, really, he sometimes thought, for Archibald Handle would not have approved. A frustrated architect himself, he would have preferred his son and daughter-in-law to spend the money on something a little more experimental, something of their age. Ideally, he would have liked them to commission him to design and build something for them. William often imagined what they might have been spared: a glass box with no chimneys, roof of curved steel wings to give the impression the whole structure could become airborne at any moment.

William’s father was an architect with ideas so far ahead of his time that he found it impossible to find an employer to share his vision. The only time he worked as part of a team in an office was a disaster. Within weeks he was sacked for urging others to let their imaginations soar, making them restless. He was an unwanted influence. It was unlikely any solid firm of architects would wish to employ him, he was warned. And the warning proved right. Archibald was forced to work freelance for the Council, who kept him under a tight rein. Bus shelters, they kept requesting. Archibald did he best. He sent in designs of the most imaginative bus shelters any council had ever been quick to reject: and in the end produced what the great unenlightened, as he called them, wanted, for pitiful remuneration. The great sadness of his life was that he was never commissioned to design a single private house. The hundreds of ideas and detailed drawings, all filed, went to waste. ‘I was never discovered,’ were his dying words to William.

On the morning of the concert in Northampton William’s departure was delayed by thoughts of his father, combined with appreciative thoughts of Reddish House. He stood just outside the front door fingering leaves of the Virginia creeper, feeling the cold stone beneath them. He felt oddly reluctant to be on his way. What should have been a completely routine day–morning rehearsal at Grant’s house, on to Northampton for an early supper before the concert–held none of the comforts that anticipated routine normally provided. Why? He didn’t know.

Grace hurried out of the house carrying his violin case. She pretended she had not seen him fingering the Virginia creeper–he was always touching inanimate things, William: making sure they were real; testing their solidity; ascertaining they were not going to dissolve–at least, that’s what she imagined.

‘You’ve forgotten …?’

‘No I hadn’t, my Ace. Would I forget my violin? Have I ever?’ He slung it on the back seat of the car. In truth he had forgotten it. First time ever.

‘So.’ Grace crossed her arms under her breasts to make a comfortable shelf for her rapidly beating heart. When Lucien arrived this morning she had had to tell him he must go–William was prowling about, preparing to leave at ten thirty. She had told Lucien he could come back later, but he had left so grumpily she doubted he would, and the equilibrium of her morning had vanished. ‘Your plans? I’ve forgotten.’

‘Rehearsal, concert Northampton, home.’

‘Late?’

The infinitesimal pause, as William got into the car, served to accommodate a thought so alien it frightened him. It was also too vague to see any clear meaning.

‘Hope not,’ he said. ‘No reason why I should be. Any hold-ups and I’ll ring.’ This was the comforting thing he always said as he left. Grace pushed her head through the open window. They kissed. William, Grace saw, had his determined-to-concentrate-on-the-road face, which pleased her, for he was not a driver attuned to the possibility of others’ foolishness, or indeed to his own. She watched him back into the bush of spotted laurel, which had suffered badly over the years–he had never mastered the art of reversing. He gave her an affectionate nod, obeying her instructions never to take one hand off the steering wheel unless strictly necessary. God bless him, Grace said to herself.

Once William had left behind the perils of the town, and was safely on a dual carriageway where he could meander along at forty mph without annoying anyone, he switched on the radio. He found the station that played the ‘popular’ classics that usually he avoided. This morning, as always, it was playing gymkhana music: marches, the stuff of pageants and jubilees, tum-te-tee-tum. This morning William needed that sort of crude rhythm to jerk him back to normality. For even now, three miles along the familiar road to Grant’s house near Aylesbury, blessed ordinariness eluded him. His nervous apprehension was increased by the fact he could not tell from whence it came. (People laughed at him when he used the word whence: but he liked it and had no intention of dropping it because it had become archaic.)

It was nothing to do with Bonnie Morse, he had decided while shaving–having spent some troubled hours of the night wondering if she might be the cause. His new viola player, once he had got hold of her on the telephone, had sounded so ordinary, so practical, down to earth, efficient, shouting against dogs barking in the background, he was convinced her incredible mouth was a figment of his imagination, and the ideas that had lapped at him through the rain the other night were no more than a trick of the mind brought on by the process of ageing. All the same, the conversation, concerning her familiarity with the fourth movement of Schubert’s Quartet in A minor coming up in a week’s time, hadn’t quite stilled him. He rang her again not an hour later. Almost at Aylesbury, he reran the conversation in his head.

‘Bonnie, William Handle here again–so sorry, but blow me if I forgot to give you instructions how to get to Grant. Bit complicated … ‘At previous rehearsals she had come by taxi. For some reason she had decided to drive today, which gave rise to William’s anxiety about her finding the way. So often he assumed his own worries were shared by others.

A fractional brush of a sigh came down the receiver, he thought.

‘Mr Handle–’

‘Oh I say, do call me William–’

‘Well, William, thanks a lot but Grant did me a little map. Doesn’t look too difficult. Think I’ll be fine.’

‘Right, good.’ Grant was an unmarried man, some fifteen years younger than William. ‘See you, then.’

‘See you.’

No, it was almost definitely nothing to do with Bonnie Morse.

When William reached the driveway of Grant’s house–a converted barn–he saw he was the first to arrive. No sign of Bonnie’s little red car, or Rufus’s very old Morgan. He switched off the radio and contemplated the legs of his new corduroy trousers. They were the colour of ripe young wheat, and soft to the touch. Grace had given them to him two Christmases ago. As with every new garment, he had put them to mature in his cupboard for a while, to get used to the idea of them before wearing them for the first time. This morning, unpremeditated, he had chosen to put them on for no apparent reason, and already he liked them. Good trousers: Grace had impeccable taste.

Grant had lit the Norwegian stove–which he did only on rehearsal days, alone he liked the cold–and was making coffee. He had lived in the barn, inherited from his parents years before the converting of barns became fashionable, for as long as William could remember. Both Grant’s parents had been musicians. He had spent many evenings of his boyhood listening to them playing, with a group of friends, far into the night round a paraffin stove. It had never occurred to him to be anything other than a musician, though for some time he could not decide which string instrument to make his own. Then by chance, at thirteen, he found an old seventy-eight record of Dvořák’s Cello Concerto, which he played on the ancient radiogram (his parents lived in an unwitting time warp into which most modern technology was given no chance), and the decision was made for him.

The cello happened to be an appropriate instrument for Grant, for he was a large man, six foot two with the shoulders of a rugger player. He carried his instrument around as easily as the others carried their violins. His only problem was chairs: the kind provided on concert platforms were uncomfortable, perilous to his massive size. Several had not been able to withstand his weight, and had collapsed beneath him mid-concert. Grant’s seating problems had become one of Elmtree’s running jokes: something they would have to either explain to Bonnie Morse or–perhaps a better alternative–let her see for herself.

The barn itself was also appropriate to Grant’s proportions. Moving across its considerable width, beneath its high vaulted ceiling, he gave the impression of being a man of normal height. William and Rufus and Andrew (no, no longer Andrew, alas) were all dwarfed by the building, as are men in a cathedral. Behind Grant’s back the others kept up a barrage of mild complaint about his poor housekeeping–the cold, the chipped paint, the discomfort, the cracked china and barren fridge. They derided his general lack of appreciation of the barn’s potential, which needed–as they often told him–a woman’s touch. But they also greatly appreciated the space the barn afforded them to rehearse. Without it, their lives would have been far more complicated and its deficiencies, which by now they had grown used to, were of less importance than its advantages.

William let himself in. Grant had cleared a space at the chaotic table to mark a score.

‘See I’m the first,’ said William.

‘Surprise, surprise.’ (William was always the first.) ‘Rufus has just rung from some garage.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘The fan belt. Says it’ll be OK but he’ll be fifteen minutes late.’

‘Ah.’

Rufus’s Morgan was responsible for several late arrivals a week. But such was his devotion to his ailing car that consideration for his fellow players came second to his determination not to swap it for something more reliable. He and his violin (his wife refused ever to travel in the car) set out on every journey knowing there was a high chance of trouble before reaching their destination, but were never deterred. The Morgan was the excitement in Rufus’s life which, he could not deny himself. The others, he was glad to say, had come to understand this, and had learnt to accommodate his erratic timing. They had persuaded Rufus always to allow himself an hour in hand when travelling to a concert, and on icy days to go by train or get a lift from one of the others. This alleviated, minimally, the sense of general anxiety on his behalf. As for rehearsals–if ten o’clock was decided upon it was understood that, depending on the Morgan’s troubles, ten thirty, or even eleven, would be the actual starting time.

William wandered to the far end of the barn where four music stands were placed in a semi-circle round the stove. (The other players guessed that Grant never approached that end of the barn except at rehearsal time. His entire kingdom seemed to centre round the large cluttered table.) An autumn sun through the barn’s tall windows lit up their silvery aluminium frames: they glittered like a small gathering of ghostly trees, thought William. He sat in his usual chair–the chairs, too, were never moved–and took his music from its case. This he arranged lovingly on the stand, bending back the bottom corners, which had been bent a thousand times before, for easy turning. Again, glancing at his knees, he thought how fine were his new trousers.

‘The girl,’ said Grant. Thought she was pretty good, first time out.’

‘Not bad at all.’

‘She’ll shape up quickly’

‘Poor old Andrew. Yorkshire.’

‘She said she knows the Schubert pretty well, but I daresay we ought to run through it before we get on to the rest.’

‘Daresay we better.’

From time to time William reflected on the nature of his cellist -the puzzle being why he was still adamantly a bachelor. William considered Grant eligible in the conventional sense. He was the owner of a barn and a large (if elderly) car. He was talented, hard working, genial, apparently good looking. Why had he never found, in all the girls who pursued him, one with whom the idea of permanency appealed? Sometimes William would worry about his friend’s old age. Grant was in his mid-thirties–surely ripe for settling down, having children? He professed a love of children. ‘One day’ he sometimes said.

Once William had questioned one of Grant’s girlfriends about his ubiquitous appeal. She had been puzzled that William could not see it. ‘He makes me laugh–wonderful mimic, does a brilliant William Handle–and he listens. I mean really listens. Never pretends. He’s rather wise, too.’ William had always been aware of Grant’s talent as a raconteur–he had entertained the other players on many an evening in a hotel bar far from home–although his ‘brilliant Handle’ imitation was news, and William had less evidence than the girl of Grant’s impressive listening. He so often had his head in a thriller when he was not studying a score, or doing The Times crossword (at which he was so good the others had given up competing). But certainly when Bonnie had been enthusing about some exotic Mexican stew, Grant had been listening very hard. Perhaps when it came to his fellow players his sympathetic bending of an ear was not much in evidence simply because, after so many years of habitual short-hand speaking, William, Rufus and Andrew did not furnish him with anything very compelling to listen to.

Rufus came through the door then, smiling. Small triumphs concerning his car always put him in a good mood.

‘Sorry, gentlemen, sorry,’ he said, ‘but what a piece of luck. Fan belt gave up the ghost right beside a repair garage where they actually managed to deal with it straight away. Anyhow, coffee on, Grant? I’m cold.’

‘Help yourself. Kettle’s not long boiled.’

Rufus, on his way to the stove, put half a packet of digestive biscuits on Grant’s table.

‘Contribution,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ Grant did not look up from the score to see the object of his gratitude. He knew quite well if it was from Rufus it would be half a packet of something–the other half having been eaten in the car to keep out the cold. From William it would be slabs of chocolate. Andrew used sometimes to bring his wife’s homemade bread and pâté to raise the standard of the average rehearsal lunch–they would miss that. But whatever the offering, Grant was never shamed into producing anything beyond instant coffee for the all-important elevenses.

‘The girl, Bonnie, she was rather good, wasn’t she?’ said Rufus. ‘I’ve been thinking about her. Potential, I thought.’

William, licking his finger to ease the bending of the fragile pages, cast him a look. Rufus was the oldest–just - of the players. Lately he had had trouble with his bones. His back had begun to curve, his shoulders to hunch.

‘She said she’d be here on time. I sent her a map,’ said Grant.

William’s look now swung in Grant’s direction. To have sent her a map meant he must have spoken to her, arranged to fax it to her from some shop–naturally the barn did not run to a fax machine. (A telephone had only been installed, at the others’ insistence, ten years ago.) A picture came to William’s mind: Grant, fax in hand, hurrying down Aylesbury High Street. Normally, Grant never hurried–and indeed perhaps he hadn’t hurried with the fax. Perhaps that was an inaccurate figment of William’s imagination, this unusual morning. All the same, it was a faintly troubling thought.

Ten minutes later the three men were seated in their usual places, mugs of instant coffee on the floor beside them, tuning up. Notes adjusted to perfection, they put their instruments down again. Looked about them.

‘Wonder what we should do,’ said Grant, dully.

‘Plainly your map wasn’t up to scratch.’

Grant ignored this. Over the years it had become an accepted practice to pay no attention to pointless remarks that each one of them made from time to time.

‘Expect she’ll turn up,’ said William. His heels were quietly drumming on the floor. ‘Last thing she said to me was she’d be here on time, punctual by nature, not to worry’ William imparted this information with another stern look at Grant. The cellist should know that he was not the only one to have been talking to Bonnie. They sat in silence, then. Waiting.

Bonnie arrived at five past eleven. She knocked on the door but ran in before Grant had time to open it–trailing a backwash of cold air, cheeks the colour of cranberries, carrying a transparent bag of fudge. William observed that Grant stopped by the table, put a hand on its surface as if to steady himself. William and Rufus rose to their feet, bows and violins dithering in the air. William, confused, looked down at his music. The slight lowering of his head, he realised, Bonnie might take for a kind of minor bow, the sort of thing that would be expected of him in the unlikely event of his being knighted for his contribution to the musical world. The thought further confused him. But Bonnie was too caught up in her apologies to misinterpret William’s almost invisible gesture, or the sudden rush of russet blood to Rufus’s normally pale cheek.

‘So, so sorry,’ she was saying. ‘Everything went wrong. Battery flat, had to get to the station, would have missed the train if I’d stopped to ring you’ - here she looked definitely at Grant - ‘then the taxi got lost getting here … I’m so, so sorry.’

Unaccustomed to such a profusion of apologies, each of the players found himself uneasy. As they struggled for words to assure her she had in no way inconvenienced their morning, they found their eyes following the airborne arcs of her hand in which she clutched the bag of fudge tied with blue ribbon.

‘Peace offering,’ said Bonnie. ‘Please accept. Home-made.’

William saw the sudden jut of Rufus’s jaw–a defensive movement he sometimes made if he felt himself to be outdone. Bonnie’s fudge had put his own contribution in the shade.

‘Thanks very much,’ said Grant. ‘That’ll be nice with our lunch break. So sorry about your car–Rufus often has the same sort of trouble with his. Now, if you don’t mind, I think perhaps we should make a start …’

Grant, as host in his own barn, sometimes acted as if he was leader of the players, too. William understood this, and had never minded. (Once they arrived at a concert hall Grant made up for his homeground bossiness by remaining absolutely silent on all matters except for the worry of his chair.) But today William cursed himself. He should have been quicker, come up with a command as soon as the girl had stopped twirling her wretched fudge in the air. She ought to be in no doubt, right from the start, who was in charge. Should her loyalties become divided, that could be fatal.

‘Hear, hear.’ William’s agreement with Grant was so quiet he doubted Bonnie heard. She came bounding across, light on her feet for one of so rounded a figure. Reaching William, she gave a light tap to his knee, touching the soft pile of the new corduroy. She smiled at him alone.

‘You remind me of my dad,’ she said. ‘The trousers.’

Moments later William managed to give the signal to start playing. They were off: the Schubert, for Bonnie’s sake. He closed his eyes against motes of dust that dithered on a sunbeam. Also, he felt it safer not to be able to see the faint crease of flesh round Bonnie’s wrist, the bounce of her fringe as her head moved and the cushion of her thigh beneath her long wool skirt. Soon, he was lost in the music.

Looking back to that autumn day of the rehearsal in the barn with Bonnie Morse, William remembered only a few things, but they were sharp-edged. He could not recollect, after the Schubert, what they played, only that they had played with more vigour than usual. Then, at the lunch break, the tension that Bonnie had caused earlier seemed to have dissolved. Her willingness to do whatever was suggested to improve a bar, or a passage, had impressed them all. She was plainly a stickler for detail, and her touch had a quality they all recognised. None of them went so far as to give her a word of praise (each one planned to do this privately, later). But if she had not been so impressive the atmosphere, when finally they put down their instruments, would have been very different.

While they ate their packed lunches, Grant turned on the portable radio so that they could indulge in their customary scoffing at the programme that played lunchtime classical choices. They had all sent in dozens of requests, none of which was ever granted, being too esoteric, presumably, for the average lunchtime listener. William remembered Bonnie laughing as the three men sneered at the Strauss waltz that thumped about them.

‘Did you know,’ said William, turning to Bonnie, ‘that the Viennese waltzes release a peculiar chemical in the stomach? We’re all made queasy.’

‘William has his theories,’ explained Grant.

Bonnie confessed that she had once sent in a request and it had been played.

‘Something so horribly popular they would never have turned it down,’ she said. ‘Something that I love, as a matter of fact. But I shan’t ever tell you what it was.’

‘Liebestraum,’ said Grant.

‘The Gold and Silver Waltz,’ said Rufus.

Bonnie shook her head at both of them. William, not wanting to be wrong too, said nothing. Bonnie swung her ankle as she ate an untidy tomato sandwich, enjoying their curiosity. Lunch breaks were never that merry in Andrew’s day, William reflected. Then, the four male players read their papers and did not bother to speak more than necessary.

Most unusual of all, that day, was Grant’s producing a bottle of chilled wine (he normally only ran to this extravagance at Christmas). After a couple of glasses, the wide light of the barn suddenly dimmed–it must have been mid-afternoon. William remembered that very clearly, the way the light gave a seriousness to Bonnie’s tilted chin resting on her viola. Then, there was the confusion of setting off for Northampton. William offered Bonnie a lift in his car. But she had already agreed to go with Grant.

‘Thanks very much all the same, William. Have another piece of fudge, why don’t you?’

When had Grant had the chance to ask her? They had all been together all the time. Except for the moment when Grant had taken the wine from the fridge and Bonnie, joining him at the kitchen end of the barn to be helpful, had reached for glasses from the shelf. Grant must have acted with a speed that William would never have guessed was within his capability. Lust the spur, he thought, angrily shutting his violin case. His own journey to Northampton was more than usually hazardous as he raged against Grant’s perfectly reasonable invitation to Bonnie–after all, he was much closer to her age than either William or Rufus–and her friendly refusal, offered with a careless shrug as if it was not the slightest matter who drove her to Northampton. What was it that had so tilted the day to an angle he did not recognise, and left him in a perturbed state? William could not answer his own questions. When he arrived at the hall he sat in his parked car for a while, trying to calm himself before he faced the others.

Sometimes, when William was out and she was quite sure he would not be back for a long time, Grace would go to the upright piano in the dining room and play. The day of the Northampton concert she was able to get down to her book earlier than usual, because Lucien, having been turned away due to William’s presence downstairs in the morning, did not return. Grace was relieved. He put a kind of pressure on the days that so often made her uneasy. Though when it came to the weighing up she knew she would miss the perverse frisson if he never came again.

So often, since he had first come round to breakfast, Grace pondered on why it was Lucien had become such an important part of her life. Sometimes it occurred to her he represented qualities she would have appreciated in a son–a man with the vigour and charm that Jack had always lacked. Sometimes she thought he was the lover she had never had in her youth: wild, unpredictable, not to be relied on, but the kind of love-object who keeps the adrenalin of hope aflame. Dear William had never been like that: solid, reliable, kindly, he belonged to the school of understated romance in which silent appreciation replaces surprise roses -indeed, surprises of any kind. Then, Lucien was both alarming and fascinating in equal measure–the first man in Grace’s life ever either to fascinate by rough ways, or alarm. He flirted with her in that safe way which those of different generations sometimes adopt–just enough to make her think what might have been in another time, another place. He flattered her, too, which Grace would have scorned had she not detected beneath the flattery a real admiration. And in her restricted, quiet, conventional life, in which her own artistic efforts brought little satisfaction, and earned scant interest from William, Lucien represented a sympathetic soul to whom, Grace liked to think, she was the sort of mother he would have loved, but never had. The unease he caused her was mostly far outweighed by the pleasure. For in his presence (and this was perhaps the most crucial reason for her attachment) Grace experienced the curious feeling that life had speeded up. ‘It’s all happening,’ Lucien would sometimes say, in the stillness of the kitchen. Although absolutely nothing was taking place, Grace believed Lucien was the centre of unimaginable events beyond her experience, which gave her a vicarious thrill. So for all their actual lack of action, his visits were a kind of magic carpet upon which Grace, for an hour or so, could take leave of her own mundane life.

She began to play a Liszt Consolation. Liszt was a composer of whom William–like Brahms and Schumann, he was glad to note -did not approve. ‘All right for lightweight fireworks,’ he would say, ‘a popstar of his age, nothing very serious.’ But Grace loved his music, and played it secretly. Lulled by the Consolation, she moved her stiff fingers into the first watery bars of Un Sospiro. As she played, the smells of the room came powerfully to her: pepper, damp carpet, the leaden smell of old gravy which had infiltrated walls and curtains. Often she wished that, like William, she had a music room of her own.

A sudden awareness of a presence in the room made her break off. She swivelled round on the music stool, whose split leather seat crackled beneath her. It was Lucien. He sat on the polished table swinging his legs. Grinning. Very unusual. Their meetings nearly always began with some burst of rage on his part.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Few minutes.’

‘You’ve never come before in the afternoon.’

‘Like I told you, I can surprise. Do you mind?’

Grace thought for a moment. Her afternoon at the piano was now blasted.

‘No,’ she said.

‘I didn’t know you could play’

‘I can’t, really. Any more. I just stumble through a few old-remembered pieces.’

‘Sounded pretty good to me.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not.’ She almost smiled. Lucien was fiddling with the sea salt in its crystal bowl. He dug into it with the miniature spoon, making small hills which he then flattened and began all over again. ‘As a child I was mad keen. I’d practise up to three hours a day, getting up early so as to get in the time before lessons started. What I really enjoyed was tackling pieces way too difficult for me. It took me six months to get through The Hungarian Rhapsody.’ She turned her back on Lucien, played the first few notes with one finger. ‘I did it in the end, though never really well.’

‘Sorry about this,’ said Lucien, when Grace turned back to him again. He had spilt a good deal of salt, was pinching it up between thumb and finger to put it back in the bowl. ‘Did you have a good teacher, or something?’

‘Terrifying. A Miss Spark. My hands would tremble so much I could scarcely play, so she’d yell and scream and beat the piano with my notebook full of furious instructions she’d made in the last lesson–which made it worse, of course. But somehow she pushed me to get things right in the end, inspired me to go on, be better. I suppose she was a sad old thing really. Not much in her life besides teaching dull pupils, or feeding the birds in her cottage in the Malvern hills. When she got angry, which was several times a day, she went purple as a damson–the colour took hours to drain away, so you hardly ever saw her normal skin.’

Lucien smiled. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have put up with all that shit.’

‘It was all worth it because when she sat down to play–various pieces for me to choose from–I knew why I wanted to go on. When she played, all the pent-up indignation vanished. Her crimpy little fingers whirled along with such joy I was left speechless, time after time. Also, the piano I learnt on was marvellous, the best I’ve ever played. Steinway grand. It had a little silver plaque nailed to the lid saying George Bernard Shaw and Edward Elgar played duets on this piano. They’d been friends of the headmistress in her youth.’

‘Wow,’ said Lucien again. ‘The company you keep. Play something else.’

‘What would you like? I’ve a very limited repertoire these days.’ ‘Couldn’t give a toss.’

Grace spun quickly round and began a Chopin nocturne. Lucien stopped playing with the salt. When the piece came to an end he said: ‘Pretty good. You shouldn’t have given it up. You could have been a concert pianist, couldn’t you?’

Grace closed the lid of the piano.

‘No. Never. My last ever lesson with Miss Spark, just before I left school, she asked me what the future had in store. I said I’d like to be a professional pianist. She kept quiet for a very long time, all this plum colour rushing to her face again–her arms, her chest, her hands, everywhere. I thought she was going to burst. Then she said: “If you want my honest opinion, Grace, I don’t think you should raise your hopes too high in that direction. You work very hard, you’re very able and you feel the music strongly. But you haven’t got that extra whatever it is that makes one pianist tower above others so powerfully that the whole world wants to hear him or her play.” Then she said: “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but I had the same ambition as you when I was your age. But I knew quite positively there was no hope. I was an accomplished pianist, but I never had that extra God-given talent that you need to make it as a concert pianist … So I decided to teach. And, well, it’s been a pleasure most of the time, though you might not think so the way I’ve raged against you to push you as far as I knew you could go …” I thanked her for her advice, and took it. She was right. After college I began to teach. I was a teacher when I met William.’

Lucien slipped off the table. He patted Grace’s shoulder. She had rarely known him so mild.

‘I’d never have guessed. –Are you going to make me a cup of tea?’

‘Sorry: I’ve been going on.’ In the kitchen, 114 she began to make the tea. ‘Once we were married, I gave it up. William tried to dissuade me, but he didn’t try very hard. Besides, I was keen to get on with something that would make use of my love of botany. Quite by chance I found I was a reasonably accomplished flower painter, too.’

Lucien looked at her, struck by the shadow of bitterness in her voice.

‘You’re great, Grace,’ he said.

Grace laughed. She brought tea things to the table.

‘How’s the new girl doing with the Quartet?’

‘I don’t remember telling you about her.’

‘Well you did.’

Grace settled herself opposite Lucien.

‘I believe she’s doing well. They seem to think they chose the right one. This is only her second concert tonight. What about you? Why aren’t you raging on as usual?’

‘I’m never angry when Lobelia’s away’

‘Where is she?’

‘Don’t know. Didn’t ask. She’s back tomorrow or the next day. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s off with this new bloke she’s seeing.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘How do I know? Only saw him once. She didn’t exactly introduce us, did she? Didn’t go that far. Tall, fat, baldish. Revolting, I thought. Still I’d be grateful to anyone who’d take her off my hands. In pharmaceuticals, he is, she said. High up in pharmaceuticals. Whatever that means.’ He ate a chocolate biscuit. ‘Anyhow, I’m starting work tomorrow’

‘Oh? That’s good.’

‘Walking dogs round the park every afternoon. Some old biddy’s prepared to pay me a tenner a time. What d’you think?’

‘Well: why not?’

‘Only till something comes up. I mean, better to walk earning than to walk not earning.’

‘Quite.’

‘You’re a good woman, Grace. You don’t judge me.’

‘I’ve no reason to judge you.’

‘I don’t want to be judged. Not till I’ve got it together. In my own time.’ He suddenly stood up, the charm fleeing from his face. His eyes had shrunk. His hands shook–he stuffed them into his pocket when he saw Grace noticed. Defensively he looked round the room as if suspicious its contents were about to attack him. Grace wondered if he was going to pick up a plate and throw it. He had done that once before, no explanation.

‘I’m off, things to see to,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the music.’

He left behind half-drunk tea, tranquillity scattered. His sudden switch from calm to inflamed had unnerved Grace. She had no heart to return to the piano, or the book, or even the ironing. She counted the hours till William’s return, and tried to put Lucien from her mind.

The Elmtree Quartet arrived in the hall in Northampton–originally a Methodist chapel, a place they had often played–more or less together. Long ago they had abandoned the idea of driving in convoy, an arrangement which would have exacerbated William’s neurosis about driving. At one time there had been discussion about buying an estate car large enough to accommodate players and instruments, so that they could all travel together. But what with the financial outlay that would involve, and the arguments it would cause about who should drive, and which was the best route, none of them was convinced by the idea. They were used to the eccentric arrangement of each one being responsible for himself. Though it often caused anxiety and frustration, it was doubtful now that it would ever change.

William always dreaded the seating rehearsal part of a concert day, the assessing of platform, space and general comfort. It was when Grant (silently) and Rufus (muttering) became their most disgruntled. Andrew used never to complain, though his tight face sometimes conveyed the pain that a minor imperfection of the location caused him. William himself, too, kept his silence for as long as he could. When his patience ran out, and he could be bothered, he would berate them. But William was not a man for confrontation, and his scolding was so mild it was scarcely noticeable. By the time he had mustered energy to chide the grumblers, they had taken up their instruments, were ready to go despite the many impediments to their performance. It was all part of the Elmtree ritual with which they were familiar, and acted out from habit several times a week.

In the Northampton hall Grant observed the utter uselessness of the seats the moment he clumped on to the stage. He picked up the chair in his place, shook it violently as if it was a disobedient dog.

‘Remember? Same trouble last time, last March. How do they expect a man to play a cello from a thing like this? Bloody ridiculous.’ He banged it down on the floor. It made an awkward squawk. The noise alerted Rufus to possible problems. He was the one with the keenest ear for sound quality, and with a small tilt of his head, raising his best ear towards the ceiling, would hold himself responsible for judging the depth of trouble that faced them. Today, curiously, eyes pinched, mouth a short line of disapproval, he said nothing.

Bonnie picked up her own chair, turned to Grant.

‘Would you like to swap with mine? It looks a mite heavier.’

Grant glared at her.

‘They’re all the same. Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out. Always the same effing problem. Total lack of vision among the chair-providing classes.’

Bonnie laughed and took her place.

‘Calm down, Grant,’ said William, who had no wish to appear unhelpful. ‘I’ll get Bob to find you something better.’

Grant looked at William in amazement.

‘What’s all this? Coming to my rescue so soon?’ He turned to Bonnie. ‘He usually lets me sweat it out a bit.’

Bonnie smiled: polite rather than amused.

‘Well,’ said William, mildness concealing his fury. Such disloyalty from Grant was surprising. And now Rufus, he could see, was about to erupt, too.

‘Problem here,’ pointed out Rufus.

‘Oh God,’ said William.

Rufus ran a finger along the lip of his music stand.

‘Edge seems to have been a bit damaged in transit. Know anything about it, Grant?’

Grant, being the only one with a car big enough to accommodate them, was the one who transported all four mahogany stands. At the end of every concert each player took his stand apart and put it in its cover with infinite care. Grant loaded the bundle into his boot with equal attention, and unloaded them at each destination. He felt keenly the responsibility of this job, and carried it out in a manner that meant scant possibility of damage. All the same, Rufus could not quell his suspicions. Never a concert day passed when he did not examine his precious stand with the eye of one who suspected it might have suffered mysterious harm.

‘Have to admit I did take a corner at thirty-five mph,’ said Grant, seriously. ‘I suppose that could have been the cause.’

William saw him wink at Bonnie. Rufus snorted, unamused.

‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Feel.’

Grant moved over to Rufus. He enjoyed indulging the old boy. Rufus ran a finger along the edge of the stand’s lip.

‘Pretty rough,’ said Rufus, ‘or am I imagining it?’

Grant, enjoying his own solemnity, also ran a finger along the wooden lip.

‘Very rough, I’d say. Bound to be a distraction.’

‘Bit of sandpaper might do it.’ Rufus was now worried. ‘Anyone got a piece of sandpaper?’

‘No one,’ said William, ‘has a piece of sandpaper. Come along, now’

‘Bob’s bound to–’

‘When I ask Bob to find a better chair for Grant, I’ll also ask him if he can find a piece of sandpaper for you.’ William marvelled at his own patience.

Grant had turned back to Bonnie.

‘Normally’ he was saying, ‘Rufus’s problem is the width of his ledge. Seems to be OK for the rest of us, but not for Rufus. Won’t hold his pencil–’

‘My mute’s the problem,’ said Rufus, ‘not to mention my resin.’

Grant looked at Bonnie. ‘You may have noticed that while mutes and resin traumatise Rufus on concert days, at rehearsals it’s not only pencils, but also the size of the rubbers.’ He spoke with mock seriousness. ‘We do what we can. We give him the narrowest little rubbers we can find by the dozen–birthdays, Christmas, Elmtree anniversaries–’

‘They’re no good,’ said Rufus.

‘He still has trouble,’ said Grant.

‘Come along, gentlemen,’ said William again. Out of the corner of his eye he observed Bonnie was looking bemused.

Grant took his seat. He leant back, slung his huge legs apart, squirmed in a way designed to test the strength of the chair. There was an instant crack, a splaying of four spindly legs. Grant flung himself to the ground like a ham actor in a minor tragedy. From the floor, he looked up at Bonnie.

‘What did I tell you? Bloody stupid chair.’

‘Now come along, gentlemen, time’s getting on,’ said William. He was exasperated by the amusement Grant was causing Bonnie. He called for Bob, the deputy manager of the hall, who was unstacking chairs for the audience. While a new chair was being found, and a piece of sandpaper for Rufus, Grant continued to lie beached on the floor, propped up on one arm, looking up at Bonnie confident of the attractive figure he made–a sort of playboy pose, he imagined. Ridiculous. Undignified. Very unlike Grant. And indeed William, who felt his own sensitivities were more acute than those of his suddenly show-off cellist, saw that Bonnie, behind her polite look of interest, was more embarrassed than amused.

‘Get up, Grant,’ he brought himself to say at last.

Grant lumbered up on to his new, firmer chair, and finding it adequate made no further comment. His sense of humour, usually forthcoming in difficult circumstances, did not ever extend to the matter of chairs that failed him in concert halls all over Europe. Perhaps it was to cover his grumpiness before Bonnie that he had gone through all the foolish acting up on the floor.

As Rufus continued to dab at the offending lip of his stand with a small piece of sandpaper, which in his unskilled hands had no effect, William allowed himself an intense look at Bonnie. She was wearing jeans. He must have seen earlier in the day, just didn’t notice. Jeans and a T-shirt. Well, fine for rehearsing. But the thing that struck him was her footwear: red peeptoe sandals through which twinkled toenails painted a metallic green. The sort of shoes in old wartime photographs of forties film stars. But the nail polish … Would Bonnie be changing her footwear for the performance?

William felt faintly sick. It occurred to him that he had never had a talk about sartorial matters to Bonnie. At the audition none of them had thought to ask what sort of dress she had in mind that would be in keeping with their own white ties. Grace had berated him for that. You must insist on a dress code, she had said. The girl could turn up in anything. But at the rehearsals with Bonnie before their first concert together, William had not found an opportunity to bring up the subject. Had Bonnie, then, sported her saucy peep-toes, he might have been jolted to enquire what sort of evening dress she was planning. But at those rehearsals she had appeared in black trousers and black suede boots (he remembered thinking they looked rather expensive) and the matter of dress had gone from his mind. At the concert in Slough she appeared in so ordinary a long black dress he could remember nothing about it, and the whole problem of possible sartorial awkwardness dissolved.

Now, he saw a message in the outrageous shoes. The new viola player seemed to be saying that she had no intention of conforming to convention, and every intention of wearing what she liked. William swallowed. He hated the idea of having to curb her, perhaps argue with her, or even cause offence by criticising something that was not strictly within the bounds of his responsibility. But the Elmtree, with its reputation, could not afford to be made to look foolish by the choice of its new member’s shoes … No, he would have to take her aside. Put it to her gently. God forbid.

His eyes rose from her feet. Her chin rested eagerly on her instrument with a certain tilt that was becoming familiar. She reminded him of a winter robin, beady-eyed, waiting for a worm.

‘I think we should begin, gentlemen,’ he said, then cursed himself for his mistake. He could no longer refer to his fellow players as gentlemen, with the addition of Bonnie, for fear of being accused of some sort of ism. He hoped he hadn’t offended Bonnie. Oh dear–perhaps he better not have the shoe talk after all … ‘Let’s begin with the Britten,’ he floundered.

‘Wretched sandpaper hasn’t helped at all,’ said Rufus, ruffling through his music. Several erasers fell to the floor.

‘I’ll give this chair just one chance,’ muttered Grant.

‘Ready, everyone?’ William glanced round. Bonnie tossed back her fringe so that for a second William saw that her large eyes were almost colourless: ice eyes, he thought. But not ice hard. They crinkled as she returned his look with the smallest indication of a smile. She did not seem at all offended by the reference to gentlemen. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed. Perhaps there would be no need to apologise. Perhaps …

He gave the nod. They began to play.

At seven o’clock Grace was about to draw the curtains when the telephone rang. It was Jack. He usually rang once a week, duty call.

‘Oh, Jack.’ Grace wondered if he could detect the lack of excitement in her voice. She had never outgrown her youthful sense of anticipation when the telephone rang unexpectedly. When the caller was not some vaguely imagined surprise, she was guilty of a flatness in her voice.

‘I see in my diary it’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow’

‘That’s right.’ Her own present to William was wrapped and hidden, waiting to be placed on the breakfast table before he came down in the morning.

‘I was thinking: celebration. How about we come to one of his concerts with you, then all go on for something to eat?’

Grace paused.

‘Mother?’ Since he was a small child Jack had always addressed Grace as Mother, though behind her back he referred to her as Mum. Recently his girlfriend Laurel had discovered from her therapist that this was some form of protest. ‘Mother, are you there?’

‘I was thinking. I mean, why not? Except you suggested the same thing last year, you remember, and somehow it never came off.’

‘I had to go to Amsterdam.’

‘So you did.’

‘Well, how about it? I’d be willing. Over to you.’

‘I believe there’s something next week in Ealing. That’d be quite convenient for you.’

‘Fine: any night.’ Considering the exciting life as a chartered accountant that Jack sometimes described, Grace was always puzzled by his lack of engagements in the evenings. ‘Check it with Dad and get back to me.’

Grace paused again. She had a sudden impression that there was someone at the window. She turned. It was almost dark. No one.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘But don’t be surprised if he’s reluctant. You know how nervous he gets if you’re in the audience. He knows you’ve no patience with the Quartet’s music’

Jack laughed. ‘Nor he with my sort of music,’ he said. ‘Well, whatever.’

‘I’ll let you know. It’s a kind offer, anyway. Laurel all right?’

‘Busy’ Laurel, second-in-command in a travel agent in Shepherd’s Bush, was never not busy. Variety in the answer was supplied by the seasons. ‘Heavy early bookings for skiing.’

‘Ah.’ It was completely dark outside now, but in the extra density of darkness made by the laurel bush across the drive Grace thought she saw a pale, smeary movement. The wave of a white handkerchief, perhaps. A needle scraped down her spine. ‘I must get off the line, now,’ she said. In these weekly perfunctory conversations between mother and son, they had reached the point where neither found it necessary to give an excuse for ending them.

‘Righty-ho. Look forward to hearing.’

Grace went to the window, looked out. Pure darkness, no sign of anyone. She drew the curtains, heart beating fast. This was a relatively safe neighbourhood: the odd burglary, occasional vandalism to cars parked in the road, a spate of bricks thrown through conservatories a few years ago–someone with a grudge against symbols of affluence, it was thought. But Artisan Road, with its good streetlights towering over the trees planted every few yards, was a place the inhabitants were not afraid to walk with their dogs by night. Grace had always felt safe in the house alone, although William insisted she lock the doors when he was out late. Curtains drawn, she put down her possible sighting of something or someone to imagination. All the same she decided not to wait till she went to bed to lock the front door.

She switched on the hall light. The brightness made her bolder. She decided to take a quick look outside.

There was a man in the porch. A long grey scarf was wound round his neck, hiding his mouth. He was tall, thin, scruffy. He pulled down the scarf and she saw it was Lucien.

‘Sorry if I gave you a fright.’ The porch light–a lantern of stained glass from Portugal, Christmas present from Jack last year -swung a little in a cold breeze. Its sickly reds and blues and greens cut across Lucien’s pale face. His eyes–now red, now blue, now green of the ugly glass–had shrunk back into his head, as they did when he was in one of his states. ‘Didn’t ring. Saw you were on the phone.’

‘Jack.’

‘Your son Jack, right.’

‘Want to come in?’ Grace shivered.

‘I won’t come in, no thanks.’

‘On your way somewhere?’

‘Not really, no. Just wandering about.’

‘Well, if you really don’t want …’ Grace put her hand on the door, longing to shut it.

‘I’ll be on my way. Guess what? She’s back. She and the pharmaceutical bugger. They come back loaded with all these fat-cat bags of food, start spreading gin and paté and a lot of crap all over the kitchen table, bawling me out because there was a single fag end in the ashtray. Enough to do your head in, she is, they are.’

‘Didn’t they ask you to join them for supper?’ Even as she asked the question, Grace was aware of its presumptuous middle-class overtone, and at once regretted it. Although there was no doubting Lucien’s own origins, he liked to think he had left the middle-classes long ago. In his adoption of ‘classless’ speech and unattractive clothes, he could be taken for a youth from an underprivileged background. To note any more refined signs through this disguise caused him great offence. Usually, for peace, Grace remembered to ignore the fact that his living just down the road meant they had something in common. She was careful to avoid any reference to middle-class behaviour with which he might be acquainted. So her thoughtless question was a mistake, she realised at once, she would have to pay for. Lucien looked at her with utter scorn.

‘Didn’t they ask me to join them for supper?’ He mimicked her voice perfectly. Then, pulling the scarf back up over his mouth, turned away. Grace waited till she saw he was through the gate, and shut the door.

There was the rest of last night’s cottage-pie in the oven, but she had no appetite. She was unnerved. The thought of Lucien prowling round the house at night was disturbing. When he came in the morning Grace felt tense, but safe. William was usually upstairs. If Lucien, spurred by the thought of his mother, had become worry-ingly aggressive, William would have come to the rescue, turned him out. In fact, for all his anger, Grace had only been really alarmed on one occasion. She had innocently enquired after Lobelia, not realising then that he was the one who liked to bring up the subject. No one else was permitted to do so. He yelled abuse at Grace for mentioning her very name, and picked up a saucepan drying by the sink. He raised it, swung round poised to hit her. Grace covered her face with her hands, cowered in a corner, terrified by the look on his face. But her fear made him laugh. He scoffed at her for even thinking he was going to attack her. She’d just got on his wick, he said. He was sorry. He put down the saucepan and hugged her, kissed the top of her head. Grace was only partially soothed: the look in his eye had been that of a man temporarily deranged, and her heart had battered for a long time after he left. It was hard to be sure Lucien would never resort to violence, though his good manners (which must have been instilled, somewhere, in his childhood, dreadful though he claimed it was) nearly always came to the rescue of one of his rages. Tonight, though, there had been something sinister about him she had not seen previously. But then, of course–she tried to be rational–he had never come visiting at night before.

Grace did not want to think about the scene up the road when Lucien returned to find his mother and her lover enjoying their innocent dinner. She did not want to think about Lucien at all. It was one of those moments she wished she had never met him. She sat in the armchair by the unlit fire, glanced at the clock. At least four hours before William would be home. What could she best reflect upon to calm herself?

Jack and Laurel–that was the answer. The very thought of them was always soporific. As she imagined her son’s earnest, bespectacled face (which bore no resemblance to either her or William, everyone said) her limbs felt heavy, mossy. It was very hard to take a maternal interest in his life–though she did try–for there was little in it to interest. This lack of enthusiasm between parents and son was mutual. Jack had always been a good, dull boy–clever, hard working, cautious. He had decided to be a chartered accountant in his teens, and worked consistently towards that end. Now, for some years, he had been the youngest partner in an apparently ‘thriving’ firm in Shepherd’s Bush. It was buying tickets one lunch hour for an Easter break (alone, all his holidays were alone) to Portugal that he had met Laurel. She was a girl as ambitious in the travel agency world as Jack was in his profession. Recognition of their mutual desire for success drew them quickly together, and four years ago Laurel joined Jack in his depressing flat in Hammersmith. It took six months for him to introduce Laurel to Grace and William. When he did so he called her his ‘partner’, a description neither of the Handles could bring themselves to say. To them, a partner was a business partner, and Laurel was his girlfriend. Grace could see this lack of co-operation irritated Jack by the way he jerked his head and pulled at his right ear. (He had done this, when put out or worried, for so long that his right lobe was now considerably longer than his left, but in Laurel’s eyes this was no impediment. Or perhaps she did not notice. Grace had judged at once that Laurel was not a keen observer, or surely she would have been demented by Jack’s personal habits.)

Laurel described herself at that first meeting as a career girl, and Jack had supported her. ‘I should say she is! My partner’s a great career girl. She’ll go far.’

William and Grace saw there was some truth in that. Laurel was so consumed by her love of the travel agency business that it had inspired even her language. Words such as ‘exotic’ and ‘snow-capped’ littered her talk. Early on in their relationship, when she and Jack decided to go away for a weekend in the country, she telephoned Grace to tell her they had chosen ‘a very exclusive hotel, river frontage’. Oddly, its exclusivity did not inspire them to many other weekends away: these days their Saturdays were spent in the office, while their Sundays were spent ‘catching up on paperwork’ at home.

‘It’s like this, Grace,’ Laurel once explained. ‘If you want to be top dog, you’ve got to give it your all. Work must come first.’

‘Surely,’ Grace had said, ‘you very nearly are top dog. You could give yourself a break sometimes.’

‘No way. There’s Danielle above me. When she goes–and I heard her husband’s to be posted to Bahrain quite soon–I want to see myself in her chair. The boss.’

‘Well, I’m sure you will.’ Grace had suppressed a sigh.

During the course of their son’s arrangement with Laurel, Grace and William had learnt a great deal about the travel agency business, and were aware they often disappointed Laurel in their refusals to accept her discount offers to almost any exclusive, exotic, sun-bathed, palm-fringed place they liked to think of. Although Laurel herself had only been as far as Spain, on a late-season special bargain tour, her need to acquaint herself with the brochures from all over the world gave her the feeling she knew the places she read about as well as if she had been there. So at the infrequent meetings of Grace and William, Jack and Laurel, there was much talk of places foreign to all of them and of little interest to two of them. (Jack, on these occasions, took a back seat. His only contribution was to agree with all Laurel’s rhetorical questions.)

‘I’d say Jamaica, with its golden sands, would be nice for you one February’ She was trying yet again to persuade the reluctant Handles to contemplate a ‘relaxing break’. ‘Wouldn’t you, Jack?’

‘I’d say yes to that,’ nodded Jack.

Grace remembered thinking that surely Jamaica’s beaches were white. But it was the sort of reflection best kept to herself. Perhaps they looked golden in Laurel’s brochures. William, later, said to Grace that if Laurel tried to sell them one more of her ruddy ‘leisure breaks’, anywhere, Economy class upgraded to Club class by her ruddy string-pulling, whatever, he’d strangle her.

At every meeting between the two generations Laurel’s progress towards being top dog was the main topic of conversation. Jack rarely said much about his office life except that ‘it keeps on doing very nicely, thank you’. Once he mentioned that he intended to take up jogging–so refreshing, it was, on the tow-path, fortunately only yards from their flat–in the early mornings. But there was not much to add to this information. And what the two of them never revealed were any domestic plans–marriage, for instance. Grace and William had long since accepted that actual marriage did not seem to be a priority these days among the young, and perhaps that was of no great importance so long as the commitment was there. ‘In fact,’ William had once ventured, ‘if they’ve not actually tied the knot, and another girl should come along with, shall I say, wider horizons than Laurel, then it wouldn’t be too difficult for Jack … to swap.’

The unsubtle intimations of this suggestion made Grace laugh, but she thought it unlikely. Jack was not the sort of man to whom lively girls were drawn. Her own sadness was total lack of plans for children. Never a mention of a baby, and Grace rather fancied the idea of being a grandmother. Perhaps they intended to marry first. Should they have a baby in their present state of live-in lovership, or whatever it was called, well, Grace did not know what she would feel about that. Her reflections were interrupted by the telephone again. Unusual, two calls in one evening.

‘Hello, Grace? It’s me, Laurel.’

‘Oh, hello, Laurel.’ The voice flat again.

‘I was just ringing to say I think Jack’s plan about William’s birthday treat is a lovely one.’

‘Yes, well as I said, I’ll …’

‘So I hope you’ll persuade him. We could make a night of it. -You all right?’

‘Fine, fine.’

‘Mega busy at the agency–as you can imagine. Whole world wants to go skiing. Well, we’ll look forward to hearing. I’ll say bye for now.’

Grace turned on the television to watch the news. She didn’t want to think any more about Jack and Laurel, and the scarfed Lucien still troubled her. By now William and the others would be halfway through the Britten. She rather wished she was in the audience. Perhaps she should start going to more concerts again, as she used to before Jack was born. William would be so pleased. Well, tomorrow morning, his birthday breakfast, she would put to him the idea. Cheered by this plan, she turned her attention to the latest sleaze scandal among politicians. Sometimes, she felt very remote from the real world.

‘Good audience,’ said Grant in the interval. ‘Northampton’s woken up or something.’

William nodded. He, too, had sensed a particularly lively attention from the audience. Returning to the platform, he felt more eager than usual to achieve a near-perfect rendering of the second half of the programme.

And then, when the last note had finally evaporated into an intense silence, the audience broke into applause so rapturous that William, Grant and Rufus exchanged looks of astonishment. They were not used to this sort of thing. Quartet audiences were enthusiastic, knowledgeable, appreciative. But they did not usually respond with such eager applause. One or two of them were even standing. There were shouts of hear, hear! There were shouts of more.

Bonnie, William observed, was smiling a delighted smile, swinging it from one side of the hall to the other. William frowned. Smiling, grinning, was not something the Elmtree players did. In gratitude for the appreciation they were shown, they would stand, give a curt, tight-lipped nod. They would let the clapping continue for a moment or two, then, when William judged it had reached its peak, leave the stage. Nothing worse than to be stranded in the dying fall of applause: undignified. To get off quickly was the Elmtree’s way–always had been.

Shocked by the vigour of tonight’s applause, after the encore, William remained seated for longer than usual. Rufus nudged his arm. All four players then stood. The men gave a couple of nods. Bonnie’s gesture was a deeper bow, a well-trained courtier sort of bow. Then, when she rose again, she stretched out her arms, viola in one hand, bow in the other. She was laughing. Grant, William observed in a quick sideways glance, was grinning. Grinning. By God, he’d have to speak to Grant. To Bonnie, too … there should be no more of this larking about.

His plans were cut off by further, more hectic applause. Several people were shouting for a second encore. A second encore? They almost never gave two except at Christmas. What was all this? In his confusion, William felt his mouth, very dry, fall open. Warm air from the hall fell like a pad of velvet on his tongue. Rufus was whispering something. Hard to hear, all this confounded clapping.

‘Hadn’t we better … play something?’

‘For Christ’s sake, we never …’ But this was no time for an argument, exposed on the platform in front of three hundred people demanding more. ‘What could we do?’

‘Scherzo of the Schumann A minor?’

Good old Rufus, quick-thinking as always. That was nice and short and they all knew it well. But Bonnie … what about Bonnie? They’d never rehearsed … could she manage it? The applause rattled on.

‘Fine. Ask Bonnie.’ William himself did not want to risk not being able to hear Bonnie’s answer. Rufus whispered to Bonnie, she nodded. William mouthed to the elated-looking Grant. Rufus returned to William.

‘Better say something.’

William took his point. There was no time to be nervous. He stepped forward. The applause stopped abruptly.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is un-prec-e-dented.’ His voice was oddly high. There was a ruffle of sympathetic laughter. ‘As some of you may know, the Elmtree players are not accustomed to giving second encores. But if I’m reading your message correctly, and I think I probably am, what you are demanding is that the arrival of our new poor relation should be celebrated with an especial evening …’ The words were tumbling out quite easily now, no thought: William listened to himself, fascinated, as if it was someone else speaking. The reference to the musical in-joke about the viola player (always referred to as the poor relation) was appreciated by many in the audience: there was yet more laughter. It was all rather enjoyable. ‘Bonnie, here,’ he went on when the laughter had died down, ‘has gallantly replaced dear Andrew Fulbright, who was sadly forced to take early retirement. But after just one concert we knew we’d found the perfect replacement in Bonnie. And you, tonight, seem to be in agreement.’ Bonnie was smiling uproariously, all over the place. ‘So just for once, in celebration of her joining our little band of players, we’ll give you one more … But please bear with us. We haven’t rehearsed the Schumann A minor with her. But we’ll do our best.’

It was during the Schumann that William noticed Bonnie’s sleeves. Previously he had taken in that she was wearing a long black velvet dress, very demure and appropriate, just as she wore at the first concert. Indeed her choice of clothes had been so good–no sign of the alarming shoes–that William had felt there was no need now to have the sartorial discussion he had been dreading. In the Green Room before the concert he had heard Grant complimenting her on the medieval design of the sleeves. William had no idea what he meant by this. To him they were just long, flowing sleeves, a little wider than usual at the bottom.

During the Schumann he glanced constantly at Bonnie to see how she was doing–this was a nerve-racking experience, playing something they had never practised together in front of an audience. As far as William was concerned, it would never happen again. He did not believe in quartets playing two encores. In the event, it seemed to be going better than he could ever have expected. Bonnie was swaying back and forth, afloat on the music, wholly at ease, as if she had been playing the piece with the others all her life. As she moved her arms William saw that the wide velvet sleeves tipped and swung, and as they did so there were strange flashes of shining green: a deep, jade green, it was, that caught the light and was flared for moments with emerald. William realised this green flashing stuff was some kind of lining, designed to intrigue subtly as jewels on a wrist. He was moved to think of the trouble Bonnie must have taken to achieve such beautiful sleeves. How clever she was to have designed them. He then thought that if he was captivated by them in his few glances over his violin, what effect must they have on the audience? Enchantment, perhaps. And audiences should not be deflected by external factors. He would have to speak to Bonnie, after all.

At the end of the piece there was further overwhelming applause, but this time the players scarcely stopped to nod before hurrying after William.

He found Bonnie beside him in a long passage, anxious.

‘Have to hurry if I’m going to catch my train,’ she said. She folded back one of the sleeves, looked at her watch. A wide band of the green, dimmer in the passage light, was exposed.

‘Wonderful sleeves,’ said William.

‘Aren’t they? Antique satin I found somewhere. Feel.’

She took one of William’s hands, lay it for an infinitesimal moment on the stuff, soft and downy as feathers. He thought of kingfishers, linnets, greenfinches, moss.

‘I’ll give you a lift to the station,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite. It’s on my way’

The station was directly opposite to his route home, but Bonnie had no inkling of the lie. Grant came out of the men’s dressing-room, already changed. William drew himself upright, as if to look less guilty. Guilty of what, for heaven’s sake? Stopping two seconds in the passage to compliment Bonnie on her sleeves?

Grant came right up to Bonnie, patted her on the shoulder.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was a bloody miracle. You played like an angel.’

Bonnie was far more pleased with this compliment than she had been with William’s trivial comment on her sleeves. She thanked Grant with a heavenly smile. William cursed himself. He should have been the first one to congratulate her on her remarkable performance.

‘Want a lift to the station?’ Grant asked. ‘I pass it.’

‘Thanks very much, Grant. But I’ve just said yes to William. It’s on his way, too.’

Grant gave William a long look in which his surprise, out of loyalty to his old colleague, was indicated only in the almost invisible raising of one eyebrow.

In the car Bonnie said: ‘I think if we hurry a bit we might just make it.’

‘Very well.’ With Bonnie beside him, William’s concentration was slipping. She smelt strongly of some flower. ‘Is that scent you’re wearing bluebell?’ he asked.

‘Daisy, actually’

‘I knew it was something wild.’

‘William: the lights have changed.’

‘My goodness, so they have.’ Some idiot behind them was hooting.

‘That means we ought to go.’

Firm of purpose, William attacked the gear. The engine stalled. Sweat poured down behind his ears.

‘I don’t think you like driving very much.’

‘No.’ They shuddered off at last.

‘Still, we’re nearly there. You’re doing well.’

Her kindness burst like a sunflower within him, warming, giving him strength. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her pick up a plastic shopping bag into which she had stuffed the velvet dress. He had not the heart to tell her there was at least another mile to go, complicated by traffic lights, one-way systems and every kind of impediment to speed.

They reached the platform just as the train was leaving. William was too distraught to think clearly. He had let Bonnie down and must be seen to do something. Still in his white tie and tails (knowing he was not a speedy dresser, he had decided not to change for fear of delaying Bonnie), he plucked his handkerchief from his pocket and ran some yards after the train, waving, to no avail. He was stopped in his tracks by the guard.

‘Bad luck,’ said the man.

‘Can’t you do something?’ panted William.

‘Like what?’

‘Stop it?’ He saw that the train was toy-sized in the distance by now, and Bonnie was laughing.

‘I can’t, no,’ said the guard, who was enjoying himself. ‘Whoever you are,’ he added.

‘Have we a hope of catching it up at the next station?’

‘Don’t suppose you have. Unless you drive a Porsche.’

‘I don’t, no, thankfully’ William’s knees were trembling. The command he knew he could summon on a concert platform seemed to have evaporated completely, here, on the empty station platform. Bonnie beside him looking as if she was convinced he could solve the problem. ‘Well, I don’t know …’

‘The last train’s in an hour’s time,’ offered the guard. He wandered away, the novelty of the scene having worn off.

That’s cool,’ said Bonnie. She was beside William, hand on his trembling arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a coffee. I’ll wait. You must go. I’ll be fine.’

‘Not on your life.’ William backed away from her. ‘It’s all my fault, I’m so sorry. The least I can do is stay with you, get you a drink.’

Bonnie, seeing his determination, did not argue. They sat at a small plastic table in the café, the objects of the place bared in all their ugliness under strip-lighting. William waited for the man behind the counter to finish shuffling an arrangement of rolls bandaged in clingfilm, and show some interest in his order. Eventually the man looked up.

‘What, you a ringmaster, or something?’ He sniggered.

‘One tea, one Diet Coke,’ said William, with great dignity. For a few moments, in the pleasure of realising he was to spend an hour alone with Bonnie, he had forgotten about his clothes. The man reminded him of his own absurdity, but he did not mind. In his present heightened mood he was protected from all slings and arrows. He looked over to Bonnie, chin resting on her hands, eyes on the empty platform. What a girl, what a girl … What should he say to her? How should he begin? It would be foolish to waste the single hour with small talk.

He fetched the drinks when the man behind the counter showed no signs of performing that part of his duty. Then he moved towards Bonnie, carrying the tray with the same rigid pessimism as he held a steering wheel. But encouraged by her enchanting smile, he felt he might have been crossing the floor of the Café de Paris bearing champagne. He took the nasty little chair opposite her, arranged the tea and Coke on the nasty little table, scarcely bigger than a plate, between them. Bonnie’s delight seemed out of all proportion to the gesture.

‘Thanks. Great. I say, that was really good, the concert, wasn’t it?’

‘It was good, yes.’

‘What d’you think happened? I mean, I felt the sympathy of the audience was almost tangible. It’s not often as powerful as that.’

‘It’s certainly not, no.’ William sipped the disgusting tea to give himself time. He decided to go for lightness of explanation. He moved one side of his mouth, prelude to a smile. ‘I think it must have been something to do with your sleeves. The audience was captivated by them.’

Bonnie laughed.

‘I thought you were going to say it was something to do with my playing.’

‘It was probably that, too. You did so well, though as you know we’re all equal in a quartet.’

‘That’s not quite true, though.’ Bonnie looked at William shyly. ‘You’re an outstanding violinist. Don’t know why you’re not world famous.’

‘No! Really’ William, not often called upon to be modest, was uncertain how to handle compliments of this kind. ‘I’m just a regular player. Love my violin.’

‘One day, I’d like to hear you play by yourself

‘I’m sure that can be arranged …’ Dear God, it could. William’s eyes left Bonnie’s, fearful she might see in them the turmoil in his heart. He envisaged the scene they made as if from the platform on the other side of the rails … man of middling years in white tie and tails, beautiful young girl who some might take for his daughter, heads haloed by strip-lighting, horrible little café their pathetic backdrop, all another world from the station scene in Brief Encounter …

‘When did you know you wanted to be a violinist?’ Bonnie was asking. ‘I always like to know the precise moment when a decision strikes someone like lightning. When there’s no doubt any more.’

Well, he could answer that.

‘My father was an architect, worked at home. Passion for Wagner. Said Wagner was his inspiration. So we had The Ring blasting through the house all day. Did nothing much for me. But he drove my father to design more and more bus shelters with winged roofs–nobody ever wanted them. I think the music was some sort of consolation. Anyway, one day he took his portfolio up to Manchester, where he was going on one of his wild-goose chases. Knowing he’d be away for a whole day I asked my mother if she’d put on something she liked. She hunted through a small pile of old seventy-eight records that she took from a cupboard–a hidden store, I think. I’d never seen them before. She put one of them on the old gramophone–one of those radiogram things in an elaborate case of polished walnut–you’re too young to know what I mean. Anyhow … “You may not like this, son,” she said, “but it’s the nearest I know to sublime.” It was one of the Beethoven late quartets.’ William paused, let his eyes meet Bonnie’s again. That was it, really. I was six. Said I wanted a violin. The music frightened me so much I knew I had to …’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I didn’t know what I had to do. A few weeks later, my seventh birthday, they gave me my first violin. Some benevolent old man in the neighbourhood commissioned my father to design a crazy summer-house, so I was able to have lessons

‘Goodness,’ said Bonnie, quietly.

‘I do remember very well that feeling of absolute certainty. It was as frightening as the music’

‘Know what you mean. Certainty can be frightening.’

‘And you–how did it happen to you?’

Bonnie shrugged. ‘I was always fiddling around on the piano, from a very young age. My mum used to play, Blues and stuff. Then when I was about ten I was walking down our road, a hot summer, and heard this music coming out of an open window -radio on very loud. Wow, it was something, I thought. I just stood by the privet hedge, waiting till the end, feeling daft just standing, listening. Then to my horror a fierce-looking man came out of the house, asked me what I was doing, hanging about. Don’t think he believed me when I said I was waiting till the end of the piece -think he thought I was a young burglar or something. Anyhow, he said, “Dvořák’s Cello Concerto, now you run along.” So I ran home, saying the word Dvořák to myself over and over again so as not to forget it. When I got there I told my mum what had happened and said I now knew absolutely definitely what I wanted to do: I wanted to play the cello. She said don’t be so daft, the cello’s much too big. So I said, being perverse, well a violin’s much too small–course, I hadn’t a clue what size a violin was. So she said why not try something in between? About six months later I played a solo viola piece, can’t remember what it was, in a Christmas concert. Got a write-up in the local paper … And that was it. Certainty. Just carried on.’

‘Well,’ said William.

‘Boring story, really’

‘Not at all. Another Coke?’

‘No thanks. D’you know what I’ve been thinking?’

‘I don’t know what you’ve been thinking, no.’

‘That it would be much easier, now I’m with the Elmtree, if I got out of London. I hate the place anyway. If I found somewhere much nearer to the rest of you there’d be no more of these sort of problems.’ She nodded towards the empty platform. ‘Grant says he knows a neighbour with a top flat to let. Might go and look at it.’

At the thought of her already having discussed her plans with Grant (when? when?) something shifted painfully within William.

‘That’s a good idea,’ he said, aiming for brightness.

They talked about the advantages of her moving, the convenience of Grant’s barn, the forthcoming concerts. The hour was gone. William accompanied Bonnie to the train door, patted her shoulder.

‘You’re a star, William,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow, three o’clock. Drive carefully’

William seemed to remember he had once heard Laurel calling Jack a star: perhaps it was a compliment often used by the young. All the same, he felt himself spinning about the station, dazed, inebriated, hopelessly looking for a telephone. He had to ring home. Grace would be so worried. He found one at last.

‘My Ace, oh my Ace. Sorry not to have rung before. Got dreadfully held up–an amazing concert. Two encores.’

‘Two encores?’ She sounded calm, unworried.

‘I’ll tell you all about it. I’m on my way now. Don’t wait up.’

‘I’m in bed already.’ Grace laughed, her long rippling laugh that was part of William’s being.

‘Back in an hour.’

All the way home, a slow and peaceful journey aided by a full moon, William thought not of Bonnie, who had done such peculiar things to his heart this evening, but of Grace. How good their life was. How inestimably he loved her. What a remarkable woman she was–a woman in a million. How he sometimes took her for granted, perhaps. And why, suddenly, this evening, was he accosted by so many loving thoughts?

Grace was asleep when he crept into the bedroom. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. She did not stir.

He got into bed as quickly as he could, turned out the light. He always loved those moments of total darkness before sleep came. They produced so many surprises, possibilities. Tonight the last bars of the Schumann sang through his head, bars of twinkling lights: and there was Bonnie, dipping and swaying, flashing her funny green sleeves. She was the last thing he remembered.