‘I don’t think monkfish would be too alarming,’ said Laurel.
William pulled his gold-rimmed spectacles down his nose and gave her a look he hoped she would interpret correctly: no need to patronise me, thanks very much.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘perhaps you should choose it.’ With the intention of further study, he raised the menu again. It was as big as a pillowcase, and bent awkwardly. After a while he turned back to Laurel, who was biting her lip. ‘Think I’ll have the Zuppa di Mammole e Tompinambur and then the Calamari ai Ferri con Peperoncini,’ he said, very fast, his Italian accent near-perfect. That’ll teach her, he thought.
‘The what?’ said Laurel.
‘The zuppa whatever,’ said Jack, who pronounced zuppa like upper.
So far, as each of the four diners privately recognised, the evening had been ghastly. Jack and Laurel were not lovers of classical music, but had suggested coming to the concert for William’s pleasure. If they had thought harder they might have concluded their presence was the last thing William desired: he abhorred the idea of anyone sitting through a concert out of perverse duty, least of all his philistine son. On the rare occasions Jack had suggested coming to hear his father play, he had been careful to choose a programme of composers unlikely to tax his ears. Tonight, Bartok, Haydn and Purcell were about as dreary as a string quartet could produce, Jack thought, but the overriding consideration had been location -Ealing. Very convenient for Hammersmith. Grace had suggested the alternative of a Schubert evening in Leicester the following week. But with a workload like Jack’s and Laurel’s, flouncing off to the Midlands, midweek, was of course out of the question. With the lack of inhibition that martyrs feel free to indulge, they had several discussions about the displeasure the Ealing concert would cause them, but nobly recognised there was no alternative, within the time limit, that could be considered a birthday treat.
They both devised a way of getting through the musical bit, as they called it. For some time Laurel had been wanting to work out a marketing strategy for a hotel in Portugal. As a mere seller of tickets and information, she was not strictly required to meddle in the business of promotion. But she had learnt that it could be advantageous to pick on some foreign hotel and sell it hard with her ‘personal recommendation’, which she could give quite easily without the bother of a personal visit. (One of her ingenious little plans on her way to becoming top dog.) Such was the busyness of her working life that the Portuguese hotel had had to be put on ‘the back burner’. The hour of the concert of tedious music, therefore, presented this opportunity, this ‘space’ she had been looking for. Not daring actually to use her calculator while the Quartet played, during the applause she executed a few sums, and by the end of the piece of music–which left her cold, as she whispered to Jack–a complete plan for the Portuguese hotel was dazzling in her mind.
Jack, too, had decided to avail himself of the chance to reflect upon a business plan concerning the higher, more complicated realms of chartered accountancy that he so enjoyed. However, without the relevant papers to hand, this was impossible. He gave up, concentrated on trying not to fidget. Occasionally he glanced at his mother, hands folded at rest on her knee, head tipped a little to one side, benign eyes following every movement of her husband’s bow. Jack followed her look to the stage. There was his father, grim-jawed, eyes half-closed, sawing away at the violin to make music that, amazingly, the majority of people in the hall had actually paid good money to come and listen to. Extraordinary, thought Jack. Other people’s pleasures never ceased to surprise him. Nor, for that matter, did his parents–a rum couple if ever there was one, completely sheltered from modern life by their adherence to bygone standards, language, behaviour. They were the sort of people who wrote thank-you letters for a minor Sunday lunch, indulged in an excess of precautions–an umbrella if there was a single cloud in the sky, vests in October, the scrupulous studying of ingredients in supermarket food. For years as a child Jack had been embarrassed by his mother’s insistence, when they went to visit friends, of carrying a bag of ‘indoor shoes’ as a precaution against any mud they might encounter on the way. He had given up trying to explain to her that the whole concept of indoor and outdoor shoes had gone out with the ice age, and this was the happy era of the ubiquitous trainer which served all purposes. Why, he and Laurel even wore trainers to the office. But there was no point in trying to persuade Grace. Her prejudice against the trainer was deeply embedded: to her, the ugliness of such footwear (as if that mattered! Jack and Laurel agreed) was so acute that she had learnt to avert her eyes from people’s feet in order to avoid the unpleasant spectacle.–Grace and William, Jack had always known, were so bound together in their wayward opinions that they made a formidable force, as parents, to confront. Both so consumed in their artistic pursuits (though Jack found Grace’s meticulous rendering of the wild flower hard to think of as art), they had seemed, for all their kindness, impervious to the requirements of a small boy, a teenager or even a young man. All he had ever wanted was their interest, and he had never found it.
Jack glanced back at his mother: the devoted wife, astonishment at her husband’s talent undiminished, love for him seemingly unabated. It would be hard for anyone (except Laurel) to agree that Grace was a mother lacking in many respects.
Jack shifted his eyes to the delectable sight of the new member of the Elmtree players, Bonnie Morse. He observed the charm of a pudgy elbow, blanched as mozzarella, that flashed against the red satin lining of her sleeve. He observed the angelic mouth, the bobbing fringe that tantalisingly hid the eyes. He was fascinated by the occasional sight–when she pursed her mouth in concentration -of the shallowest dimple he had ever seen, no more than a small shadow, really, playing about her cheek. As for the large velvet bosom … Jack could not help supposing that should Bonnie ever take the risk, say, of a lace décolletage, a cleavage as enticing as the dimple would be revealed. (The disloyal thought occurred to him that Laurel’s breasts, small and lustreless promontories, were in a sadly different league from Bonnie’s. Funny how Laurel was proud of them. She often persuaded Jack to join in their praises.) So intent was his concentration on Bonnie’s physical assets that he ceased to care about the boring music: he scarcely heard it. The interval came with surprising suddenness, interrupting thoughts which had wandered some way down a nefarious path … Bonnie jogging along the river bank beside him, so he could watch those bloody great knockers jumping about … Bonnie–well, he’d have a chance to conjure other pictures later.
It was Grace who realised, as she studied the menu, the extent of trouble Jack and Laurel must have taken to choose the right restaurant. Their concern had obviously been not to plump for somewhere alarming in its inventiveness, and yet not so pedestrian that she and William might suspect, as a very ordinary couple, they were being suitably catered for. As it was, she felt, they had got it just right. This was an agreeable place: starched cloths, comfortable chairs, attentive waiters, lively hush. Among the rather highfalutin Italian specialities that William had gone for with a certain arrogant relish, there were some simple dishes, too. Grace herself fancied the grilled chicken with herbs, some polenta on the side–she had never understood the secret of polenta, so might learn, and even copy She caught William’s eye, smiled. Laurel’s well-meaning suggestion about the monkfish had plainly annoyed him. He did not smile back.
Nothing is but what is not, William said to himself. He was inclined to quote Shakespeare at moments of great happiness or despair. Grace’s concerned little smile had made his heart bounce and lurch. He needed a drink. Jack was taking the devil of a long time choosing a suitable wine–but then he fancied himself as a wine buff. His praise of William’s own choice was always underlined with a trace of a sneer, not that William cared a toss what Jack thought about his choice. While Jack frowned over the long list, made a few comments to the wine waiter designed to illustrate his knowledge, and William fretted, a very junior waiter was permitted the task of putting a plate of nuts and olives on to the table. Laurel, who had been wondering how to dissolve the awkwardness caused by her innocent suggestion to the touchy William, pounced upon them, snatched up a green olive (not forgetting to curl her little finger in her hurry) and hoped the others would follow suit. She believed that the event of the olives and nuts would break the ice, and then there would only be three courses, and some two more hours, of the painful evening to go.
The dish was white, of fine bone china, divided into four. Two sections held black and green olives; the other two, nuts–peanuts and cashew nuts. Laurel pushed the dish towards Grace.
‘Have a peanut,’ she said, taking a black olive herself. She did not presume that Grace would be fond of olives.
‘No thank you,’ said Grace. ‘I’m allergic to peanuts.’
William raised an eyebrow.
‘I’d almost forgotten that,’ he said.
‘How interesting.’ Laurel turned to Grace. She was always fascinated by others’ illnesses and allergies, having experienced nothing but excellent health herself. ‘How did you discover the allergy?’
Grace gave a small laugh. Aware that everyone at the table was listening, she found herself confused. She never liked to be the centre of attention.
‘I was about five or six,’ she said. ‘Someone gave me a peanut-butter sandwich. I began to wheeze, then choke. I was taken to hospital. To be quite honest I don’t remember much about it except that it was very frightening. They didn’t know much about allergy in those days, but realised I must have at least a mild one. So I’ve avoided peanuts ever since.’
‘Must be rather scaring,’ said Laurel. ‘I mean, always having to be on the alert. Suppose you ate something you didn’t know had ground-up peanuts in it?’
Exactly, thought William, whose hands had turned cold.
‘Oh, I’m used to taking care,’ said Grace, choosing an olive. ‘It’s become a habit. But I hope I don’t make much fuss, do I, William?’
‘You don’t, my Ace. Indeed you don’t.’ The cold shrouded his whole body, now, as a picture of Grace, this time next year, came to him. Grace in her coffin, Grace dead. Luckily the excellent wine was poured: William gulped at it like a desperate man, earning a look of disapproval from Jack.
‘Before we go any further,’ said Laurel, ‘there’s something I want to put to you both, Grace and William. Something I think might excite you.’
William sighed. Laurel no longer had peanuts on her mind. Grace managed a look of polite interest. She, like William, could guess the sort of temptation Laurel was about to reveal.
‘It’s this. It so happens ear-to-the-ground Laurel- that’s me–has wind of a very special Spring Break to Greece. Of course, as soon as it’s announced it’ll be booked up. But if you were interested, I could pull strings, probably get you something even more advantageous than the advertised rate
‘How about that, Mother?’ said Jack.
‘Greece,’ said William, with some semblance of a man pondering.
‘The islands. Imagine! Place of the wine-dark sea.’ Laurel had gleaned this snippet of Homer from more brochures than she could remember. It was the quote used in all copy advertising the Aegean Sea. ‘A lovely new Swedish cruising ship, air-conditioned, a lecturer, some professor from Oxford … or is it Cambridge? Anyhow, all pretty irresistible, don’t you think?’ Her own excitement at the prospect had caused pink spots on her beige cheeks. They were also splattered on the V of chest exposed by the neck of her Lurex jersey.
‘I fear we shall have to resist,’ said William. ‘The Elmtree’s very heavily booked next spring.’
‘Oh dear, there’s always something.’ Laurel gave an irritable sigh. The spots began to fade. ‘But if you ask me, William, you do need a holiday’
‘I don’t, you know,’ said William.
‘Nonsense! You push yourself too hard. You need a break sometimes. Think about it.’
‘I don’t know how you can keep turning down all Laurel’s exclusive offers,’ said Jack. ‘She goes to such trouble.’
‘We’re not very keen travellers, really’ said Grace. ‘You’ve always known that.’
William caught her eye and gave her a small smile of support. She had saved him the necessity of a much less polite reply. Then, luckily, the zuppa whatever arrived, and he was obliged to spell out the Italian pronunciation, which diverted more talk of Laurel’s blinking special breaks.
At some time during the main course Jack felt it was his turn to make a show of interest in his father’s life. (Duty to his mother always failed him. He could never think of a single botanical question to ask.)
‘So: how’s the new viola doing?’
Both innocent of the other’s vision, father and son saw a white elbow dancing against scarlet satin.
‘Bonnie? She’s good. She’s doing fine. We were lucky to get her.’
‘Something of a looker, too,’ said Jack.
‘Bit overweight, if you ask me,’ said Laurel.
‘Much better than being too skinny, like a lot of girls these days,’ said Grace.
Bonnie was not a subject William had any intention of discussing. The very mention of her name made him feel light-headed. This time next year he and Bonnie could be anywhere. He would be free to ravish her, sleep with her, wake up with her, make music with her–all those Mozart duos to be explored. Bonnie! William filled his glass again. The exquisite wine was enhancing the familiar sensation that nothing is but what is not. Dully he listened while Jack and Laurel discussed her. They made no mention of her talent, only her looks. Laurel’s mean observations - ‘surely a girl with a bust like that shouldn’t wear velvet’ -indicated jealous hostility. William could see that a girl like Bonnie could pose a threat to the dreadful Laurel, but only if there was an opportunity for Jack to meet Bonnie–which, William would make absolutely sure, would never happen. Not that any such meeting would worry him–there was no likelihood whatsoever of Bonnie finding Jack attractive. If William had drunk less he might have found his son’s comments about Bonnie - ‘gorgeous knockers’ -outrageous, and he would have challenged Jack to show more respect. As it was, in his now befuddled state, although the observations were distasteful, William was also aware of a faint sense of proprietorial pride: here was his son plainly fancying a girl way out of his reach, the girl William felt closest to in the world. He loathed the idea of Jack’s lustful thoughts of Bonnie, although Laurel’s annoyance was amusing. Perhaps Jack was simply being provocative, entertaining himself by goading her. Well, William could see the fun of that. She was so very humourless, so very earnest. Surely Jack would realise, before it was too late, that somewhere beyond Shepherd’s Bush there must be a more life-enhancing girl with whom to spend his life.
At this very moment Laurel was about to exert her natural leadership (as she saw it). She’d had quite enough of Bonnie talk, thank you very much (and would make quite sure they never attended another Elmtree boring concert, thus avoiding the danger of running into the fat cow with her fancy sleeves). The subject had to be changed: only pudding and coffee to go.
‘I’ve just discovered tiramisu,’ she said, ‘and my goodness do I recommend it. Yummy’
No one took up her suggestion. She sulked through the long business of disparate puddings, which were eaten in weary silence. But with the coffee William sensed a faint return of energy, though his head was spinning: diners, white tables, carnations in fluted vases, aproned waiters–all were dancing towards the ceiling. Feeling it incumbent upon himself to make an effort–well, Jack would certainly be paying a lot for the terrible evening–William gripped the edge of the table and turned to his son.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
Jack frowned, not understanding.
‘Back to Hammersmith, natch,’ said Laurel. She was proud of being a resident in the borough of Hammersmith.
William kept his eyes on his son. ‘No, I mean in life,’ he said.
Jack, who had drunk almost as much as his father, was phased by the apparent seriousness of this question. He looked at his watch.
‘Good heavens, Dad. I’m not sure this is the perfect moment to answer that. I was about to get the bill.’
William was delighted Jack was unable to answer. He was not in the least interested where Jack and, God forbid, Laurel, were going in life: he hadn’t planned the question, merely released odd drunken words to break a long silence. All he wanted was to get home, go to bed. To his relief he saw that Grace, his darling Ace, was of the same mind: she was gathering up her bag, patting her lips with the napkin. The wonderful thing about their rare excursions out together in the evening was that Grace took care of the driving. There would be no bother about that. He could put back the passenger seat, sleep his way down the motorway, confident of their safe return. Grace’s competence in so may areas fuelled William’s love for her. He knew his good fortune in such a wife.
‘I’ll do the tip,’ said Laurel, peering at the bill. She took a twenty-pound note from her bag, the gesture a mixture of the discreet and the ostentatious. ‘Well, it’s been a lovely evening, hasn’t it? We should get together more often.’
William could feel Grace’s firm hand under his arm, helping him up. In many ways it was a pity she had to die, he thought. As he took his first step on the swaying carpet, the chandelier, which he noticed had become more lively in its movements as dinner progressed, was now intent on actually targeting William. It swung viciously towards him, horrible little candle-lights blinding him. If it hadn’t been for Grace’s quick reaction–she leapt ahead of him to protect him from its blow–he could have been cut to pieces.
‘Steady now,’ Grace was saying, ‘you almost fell.’
‘Only falling for you, my Ace.’
Behind him William heard Laurel’s sneering laugh, and the crude word, typical of her, tipsy. Still, so long as he could make it through the jostling tables–which, with Grace supporting him of course he could–the evening would be over. An hour from now he’d be in bed to sleep beside his wife, perchance to dream of Bonnie and the peanut plan.
On the occasions the Handles were confronted by people who wanted to know the secret of their happy marriage, Grace and William were unable to be of much help. Forced (reluctantly) to think about it, they supposed there was some art in simply observing the other one, and reacting accordingly. For the most part there was a mutual desire to avoid any sort of row or confrontation. There was an even stronger desire to avoid analysis of their lives, the eternal thrashing out and ‘talking through’ their problems, their thoughts, their feelings–the popular contemporary pastime they so abhorred. To Grace and William it would be distasteful, exhausting: there were better ways in which to pass precious time. In this, they were aware, they were branded as the very old, very British school of stiff upper lips. If pressed, they did not mind adding that tolerance of each other’s singular ways was a help to marital harmony. But they would never admit, in the name of loyalty, exactly what these ways were.–The ritual of the battle with the bed, for instance. Over the years this had become a smooth operation in which Grace happily accepted her dormant part. William expected, and received, and was grateful for her nightly co-operation.
Grace’s contribution to the whole process was vital, but not taxing. Her only duty, on nights that William came home late from a concert, was to listen to the weather forecast. Thus when he returned she could report whether it was to be warm, cool or bitter: and he could judge whether it was a two, three or four-blanket night, or a night of maximum precaution against freezing conditions, when an eiderdown would be added to the appropriate amount of blankets. If Grace for some reason failed to hear the forecast, though William would never go so far as to chide her, his dithering about as he tried to guess at the nature of the night–blankets whipped off and on accompanied by much sighing–was manifestation of his distress. He was also made unhappy by the rare occasions when he had had to leave early in the morning and there was no time to perfect the bed before his departure. Then, he would come home to find Grace reading among crumpled sheets, knowing it was not worth making any attempt to straighten them herself. At such times, not liking to ask his settled-looking wife to get out of bed, William did his best to put everything to rights around her. This was not easy. Grace gave up trying to read, lay passively while the top sheet was slung over her head, blankets were twitched in pursuit of symmetry, and her feet and knees were pushed almost flat as William tucked everything in to the desired tautness. Grace was used to all this and made no complaint. Her happiness lay in William’s pleasure when, as master of the bed, he had once again managed to orchestrate pillows, sheets and blankets to his satisfaction.
On the drive home, the night of the dinner with Jack and Laurel, Grace wished very much that William’s early departure to London that morning for a meeting with his agent had not meant that the bed was left unmade. In his inebriated state, the customary process would be certain to go less smoothly than usual. Grace, tired herself by the strain of the evening, dreaded it. All she wanted to do was to go to sleep as quickly as possible. She would have been quite happy to throw herself straight down, careless of the bed’s turmoil. But that would have distressed William beyond measure.
To Grace’s surprise, when they arrived home, William’s equilibrium seemed completely restored. His nap in the car–with whimpery little snores that registered his rare consumption of so much red wine–appeared to have sobered him completely. In contrast to his hesitant steps across the restaurant, he bounded up the stairs with an eagerness that Grace failed to understand. At the sight of the rumpled bed he smiled in peculiar glee, as if its restoration was something he could hardly wait to start upon, despite the lateness of the hour.
‘Did you listen to the forecast in the car, my Ace?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t, no. Didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Ah, well. Never mind.’
William went to the window, opened it. A shrill blast of cold air stabbed into the warmth of the room. Grace shivered, cursing herself for not having listened to the radio. William licked a finger, stuck it out of the window. Then he turned, convinced.
‘More or less freezing, I’d say. Four blankets.’
‘Eiderdown?’ Just occasionally, Grace liked to humour him. He took her suggestion seriously.
‘I’m of the opinion that won’t be immediately necessary. But if it gets cold later on, I’ll deal with it.’
Grace knew from experience that any judgement of William’s in which the word ‘opinion’ was expressed meant he was unsure, and doubts meant restless nights of leaping up and down to experiment with more or fewer blankets, battling to achieve a perfect temperature between the sheets. Wearily, she began to undress. William shut the window and took up a contemplative position his side of the bed. He surveyed it with a concerned look of one studying a much larger object–a building, or a ship–whose reconstruction required inordinate skill. But after some moments of silent cogitation, seeing Grace struggle to undo her necklace, he broke off his reflections to help. This was uncharacteristic. Normally, nothing could deflect William once he was embarked on his plan for the bed. In her surprise, Grace found herself discouraging him. She could not bear the thought of procrastination, for no matter what charitable reasons. She longed only for bed.
‘I can manage.’
‘No, no. I’ll just …’ William put on his glasses, turned Grace towards the bedside light, shuffled inefficient fingers among the strands of paste pearls that he had given her long ago. He could feel the warmth of the skin of her neck, soft as kid gloves. He fumbled unnecessarily with the pretty clasp, a paste aquamarine set in a frame of smaller pearls. He wanted to keep his fingers there, ascertaining the vulnerability of the neck he knew and loved. An impatient jerk of Grace’s head urged him to undo the clasp. He handed her the small fountain of pearls that trickled from his hand, still warm, their foggy shine quietly luminous in the poor light.
‘Thanks,’ said Grace.
Then, before she could move away, she felt William’s hand return to her neck. Oh Lord, she thought: a sign. Surely, tonight, both tired, so late, the whole palaver of bed-making still to come, it would be better to sleep as soon as possible. William had an early rehearsal in the morning. But she stood quite still, said nothing.
Beneath his fingers William could feel the top joint of her spine, the small dips each side of it. Then he stretched his hand to encompass the indeterminate place between the bottom of her skull and the top of her neck. The muscles, sinews, whatever they were, felt tough beneath the skin. He wondered how difficult it would be … He put his other hand under her chin. Her neck was now in a collar of fingers that tightened very slightly. Grace moved her head, puzzled.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Your pretty neck, my Ace. You always had such a pretty neck.’ He laughed, releasing his fingers. He needed words to cover his confusion, some way to disguise the slight unsteadiness of his hands. ‘It’s funny about necks, isn’t it? There’s the onset of the dewlap, isn’t there? The droopiness that betrays … but they don’t get thicker, do they? Have you ever thought of that? There’s no thickening of the neck, as such, is there?’ His voice was rising, shrill. ‘No middle-aged spread when it comes to the neck?’ He turned away from her, began to pick up pillows, shake each one hard, then smooth its linen case. He was aware of Grace’s patient little smile, a slight sigh: no doubt she was under the impression the effects of the good red wine had not yet worn off. ‘And you see what I was thinking, undoing your necklace,’ he blundered on, ‘was that your neck hadn’t changed one jot, in circumference that is, since we first met … has it? Still the same delicate little … stem that I saw arranged in that crimson velvet collar when you were eighteen–’ ‘- Twenty. William, are you all right?’
‘I’m in very good shape.’ He could have squeezed that little neck till the life went out of her, bruised the creamy skin that in all honesty showed only the slightest puckerings of middle-age. He tweaked at a sheet.
‘Shall I help you with the bed?’ Grace asked.
‘Good heavens, no. Whatever for?’ Strangling was obviously out of the question, though. Grace, the same size as William and possibly as strong, would fight for her life, fling him to the floor, send for a doctor and have him sectioned.
‘I just thought …’ Grace was off to the bathroom, undoing buttons.
Besides, William thought, he would not want to employ physical violence on the woman he loved. He replaced a pillow. Suffocation! That was a thought. But it was said doctors could always tell if someone had been suffocated. Tomorrow, on the train journey to Manchester, he would think more calmly. The matter of murder, which in some curious way did not strike William as at all peculiar to be contemplating, would require an intense passage of concentrated strategy … though the train might not be the ideal place. The others would be there, and there would be the distracting thought of spending the night under the same hotel roof as Bonnie. Good Lord, though, thought William: this time tomorrow night–well, anything could be happening.
A few moments later Grace was in bed reaching for her book. (However late, she liked to read a few pages each night.) William took stock: it was one of those awkward occasions when he would have to do his best to make the bed round her–always a frustrating process for them both. As usual William could not quite bring himself to ask her to get out, and his slight hints as to the convenience of such a measure seemed to go unheard. Tonight the pillows were luckily fine–his shaking and smoothing had distracted Grace’s attention from his disturbed state most conveniently–but the rest was a shambles.
As Grace concentrated on the silent turning of her pages (she had learnt that almost any movement put William off his stride), her husband anxiously paced the perimeters of the bed, tucking, smoothing, checking, intent on important calculations in his head. The nightly challenge–so very much harder when Grace was in the bed–was to leave the blankets on his side slightly untucked but orderly, and the blankets on Grace’s side tucked trimly and tightly, without losing a general sense of balance. Grace shifted very slightly: put down her book, switched off her bedside light.
‘Look what you’ve gone and done! Pulled it all over. Now I’ll have to realign
‘William! I’m tired. Why not just leave it? We’ll survive one night of not-quite perfection.’
William, on his knees on the floor, arms lost between base of bed and mattress–a position that always put Grace in mind of a farmer helping a troubled ewe give birth to her lamb–suddenly stood up. When the occasion called for it, no one could accuse him of a lack of magnanimity, and the guilt of his neck thoughts was still heavy upon him.
‘You’re right, my Ace,’ he said, ‘we’ll probably manage.’
His acquiescence was so mild, so unusual, that had Grace not been falling asleep it might have troubled her.
‘Grace,’ said Lucien, ‘I want to ask you a favour. I’m in desperate need of cash. Just a small loan.’
It was ten o’clock next morning. William had left soon after eight, having risen at six thirty in order to give himself unhurried time to deal with the bed. He liked to feel that when he was away Grace would enjoy its perfect state as much as when he was there. Unfortunately, time had outwitted him, and for all his careful planning he had had to rush his packing and breakfast. In his confusion he had left behind his birthday cufflinks from Grace. For some reason they were on a plate on the kitchen table. Lucien was fiddling with them, rubbing them between finger and thumb as a man exercises worrybeads. His restlessness made Grace uneasy.
‘I’d never ask unless it was urgent,’ he added. ‘You know that.’
‘For something particular, then?’ Arguments shifted within Grace’s weary mind. Lack of sleep had made her light-headed, unable to make a decision with her usual fast conviction.
Lucien shrugged, gave her one of his most endearing smiles.
‘You could say that.’
‘How much do you want? Without going to the bank I’ve only a bit from the housekeeping in cash.’
‘Whatever.’ Lucien put the cufflinks back on the plate. Grace picked them up, opened a drawer in the dresser.
‘Don’t want to leave these lying about,’ she said, vaguely ‘I’ll never learn to lock the back door.’ She shuffled about in the drawer, returned to the table with four ten-pound notes. A look of disappointment dulled the expectation that had enlivened Lucien’s expression, but he stuffed them quickly into his pocket. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have.’
‘That’ll help.’ This was said so heavily Grace was made fully aware her forty pounds would not be much help. ‘Thanks,’ he added, after a while.
Grace, mildly curious as to the reason for Lucien’s request, did not want to discuss the transaction any further. She knew that any news concerning William was of little interest to Lucien, but in her haste to change the subject she could find no other choice.
‘William had to leave very early for Manchester,’ she said. ‘A concert. Overnight stay’
‘You mean … he’ll not be back tonight?’
‘No.’
Grace saw Lucien registering this information. He pressed his lips together, gave a slight frown.
‘Don’t you mind being in this great house on your own?’
‘I might look in,’ said Lucien. ‘Check you’re OK.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but not necessary. Really. I’ll be going to bed straight after the news.’
‘Hint taken. I know when I’m not wanted.’ He smiled agreeably. ‘But don’t you mind your old man going off for a night to Manchester with this new bird, this viola?’
‘Of course not. They’re all going, all the players.’ Grace heard herself sounding more prim than stern. Sometimes Lucien was too cheeky, overstepped the demarcation line between the generations. She was inept at dealing with him on such occasions. ‘When they’ve a concert somewhere too far to get back afterwards, they stay the night. I think they rather enjoy it.’
‘I bet they do.–Don’t their nights away worry you?’
‘Not in the slightest.’ Grace frowned. ‘Why should they?’
‘I mean, I daresay it didn’t used to be a problem–they’re not the age group to go in search of a bit of skirt after a concert. But since they’ve been joined by this new young girl–well, you know what men are, given the opportunity’ He gave a nasty laugh. Grace ignored his tone, smiled.
‘Don’t be silly. Bonnie’s a lovely young girl. Young enough to be daughter to all of them–well, perhaps not Grant. No: luckily I’ve no worries there. William’s usually so exhausted after a concert he doesn’t even join the others for a drink in the hotel bar. Straight to bed, that’s William. Always rings me last thing.’
‘Ye of great faith.’ Lucien smiled again.
‘I trust my husband totally, yes,’ said Grace. She did not like the direction of the conversation. It was almost as if Lucien was taking pleasure in trying to alarm her. ‘Always have, always will.’
‘Quite right, too.’ He was teasing now. Perhaps he had been teasing all along. ‘My bet is you’re a wife in a million. If I could have a wish, it would be to meet a younger version of you.’ He stood up. Grace laughed with relief this time.
‘You say the daftest things,’ she said.
Lucien patted the pocket of his jacket.
‘I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can. Just got to get a few things sorted.’
‘There’s no hurry.’
‘Thanks again. See you tomorrow’
When he had gone Grace realised it was past eleven: too late to get down to her painting before lunch. She decided to take the opportunity to walk to the bank, replace the borrowed cash. Lucien’s silly teasing had ruffled her. She needed air, exercise, deflection from foolish thoughts.
By the time she arrived at the bank, calm returned. She knew that there was no need to worry about William: it was Lucien who was the cause of anxiety in her life. Why had he suddenly needed money so urgently? The question was too disturbing to contemplate for long. She told herself to give up thinking about the matter, nothing to do with her. All the same, in case Lucien was in need of another loan, she cashed a large cheque. It was one of the moments she felt willing to help him in whatever way she could. Other times her most passionate wish was for him to disappear for ever. These conflicting desires caused her irritating confusion. The time was approaching when, to re-establish equilibrium, she must make a decision about the future of relations with the strange, unnerving, though also endearing Lucien. She could not call on William’s help–his opinion of Lucien was obdurately low, would never change. This was something she would have to deal with entirely on her own, and the thought of having to weigh it all up caused her great heaviness of heart.
Alone in his hotel room in Manchester, William felt powerless in the disagreeable silence common to such rooms–silence compounded of nylon carpet, central heating that makes you choke for air, the deadening impact of mass-produced furniture with its easy-to-wipe greasy shine. He sat on a pink armchair, hands sprawled at rest on its arms. It was covered in a bristly fabric more appropriate to toothbrushes than chair covers, which pricked his fingers. The headache that had been troubling him all day had not abated, despite a quantity of aspirin.–To William, headaches were visible things: fungi. The least bad were small, scarcely visible plants in the undergrowth of his head, their own heads pushing against a temple or eye. The worst were the kind he suffered today–obscene, many-headed things whose curly edges thrust against his skull until he thought the very skin would break. Sometimes they shifted, pushing their malleable humps upwards as if to crack the top of his head. Or they would move sideways, leaning so heavily against the socket of his eye he would be forced to groan out loud. Then, for no apparent reason, the mushroom would give up its attack. William would watch it wither down in his head till it was no larger than the dot that used to appear on a television screen before close-down. Once he had tried to describe the agony of the larger fungi in his head to the doctor, fearing they might be portents of a brain tumour. The doctor had chuckled, and praised William for his lucid description of the common headache. They then fell into an interesting discussion on the difficulty of describing the exact nature of pain, and the impossibility of conveying the abstract.
William shut his eyes, neck now irritated by the back of the scratchy chair, and sensed the fungi in his head swell, move, press, pinch. He felt uncommonly depressed. With a headache such as this surely it would be difficult to give of his best in the concert due to start in under two hours. On top of that dispiriting thought, the disappointment of the whole day returned to him. He had been looking forward to it–the proximity, for twenty-four hours, of Bonnie. The faintly nefarious excitement of being away from home for the night–although at this moment he would have done anything to be in his own armchair by the fire, Grace fussing round him with camomile tea. (She was the only person who understood about the fungi, perhaps because of her talent as a botanist.) On the train journey, where he had entertained imprecise thoughts of shuffling along carriages with Bonnie to the buffet car to buy her a cup of tea, she had hidden her face behind newspapers the whole way, and declined several offers of refreshment. Grant, listening to his Walkman, had been lost to them all. Rufus had slept, while William had stared in acute depression at the rain-blasted landscape through the windows.
At the rehearsal Grant and Rufus had been at their most irritable while Bonnie, unusually silent, had twice requested to make an urgent telephone call. A friend of her mother’s was ill, she explained. But she did not look very worried. William’s disbelief added to his general discomfort. What was going on in Bonnie’s life? Was some undesirable young man pressing her in some way?–As she hurried back to the platform the second time, full of charming apologies, a sense of urgency stabbed William. He would have to hurry with his plan, put it into practice as soon as possible. or it might be too late. It was unlikely a girl of Bonnie’s exceptional attractions would remain alone for long.
The sense of urgency was still with him here in the chair, chafing him inwardly as the fabric chafed his skin. On a tray beside him an indeterminate sandwich shrouded in clingfilm, and a pot of tea, remained untouched. He had no appetite. The others had gone to a trattoria for a pre-concert supper, another thing he had been looking forward to, but in the event could not face. William raised his hands to his temples, and pressed. As he did so, the fungi faded, the pain released him. A picture re-entered his mind, horribly bright: peanuts.
With a new surge of energy William leapt up, pulled on his mackintosh and hurried out of the hotel. Rain was pouring down, thick as ash. It cut into his tired face and quickly drenched his hair. He ran a few yards down the road, hopeless mackintosh cracking about his knees, to a newsagent he had earlier observed. It was still open: warm, untidy, a smell of faintly rotting fruit, the ugly gauze of neon light falling over its small world. William was convinced there would be packets of peanuts for sale. He picked up a local evening newspaper which he did not want, to swell the bulk of the real purchase he had in mind–or perhaps to dim his guilt–then asked for peanuts.
‘We are out of peanuts, very sorry.’ The thin, sad Asian shopkeeper shrugged apologetic shoulders.
‘Out of peanuts?’ Incredulous, William searched his pocket for coins for the newspaper.
‘We’ve had a run on peanuts.’
‘Out of peanuts …’ Thwarted, William’s exhaustion returned. He had no energy left to look further for peanuts on this vile night.
‘You can never tell what people will be wanting.’ The shopkeeper’s face, bluish in the savage light, conveyed a disappointment, in letting down a customer, that looked close to his own, thought William.
‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter at all. It’s of no consequence.’ As he handed over the coins he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked round: Bonnie.
‘Just dashed in for a packet of fags,’ she said.
She was wetter than William. Her hair was clamped to her head, divided into crab-claw curls that gripped her sparkling face. In the threadbare shop she was the rarest of customers, an illumination: William could see such facts register in the Asian’s face. His own heart began to dance.
‘What a night, isn’t it? Packet of Marlboro, please.’ She turned to William. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you wanted to rest. -Why don’t you come and join us for coffee? It’s just round the corner, the café. Very good lasagne we’ve just had.’
‘I’d come to get some peanuts but they’re out of them,’ William heard himself saying. He knew he was unable to accept her invitation, but was at a loss, in his confusion, as how to refuse her.
‘You’ll not get through the evening on peanuts,’ Bonnie laughed.
‘I’ll be–’
‘I really can’t persuade you?’ She was impatient. William shook his head. ‘Well then, see you at the hall.’ She was gone, shaking her head, scattering raindrops from her hair. The shopkeeper smiled.
Defeated in his desire for peanuts, William also sensed a certain relief. If there were no peanuts currently available, he would have to postpone his plan for a while. In the end he would have to be constructive, but he was not looking forward to working out the fine details of Grace’s demise. In the meantime, the prospect of procrastination for a while longer restored his strength. He was not ashamed of his performance at the concert.
When it was over the members of the Quartet walked back through Manchester’s wet streets to the hotel, a cheerless establishment chosen by Rufus in the interests of economy. They gathered in the bar, furnished with more bristling chairs that grazed the thighs, and lit with crude pink lights. Ropes of gold tinsel swung randomly from ceiling to pillar to windows, reminding that Christmas was not far off, though their tired sparkle caused William to think they might well have been in place since this time last year. He could imagine, mid-July, what a tedious task fetching a ladder and dismantling them would be. Better to leave them up all through the year …
Bonnie was taking orders for a round of drinks. She snapped off his aimless thoughts with a pressing question about exactly which kind of whisky he wanted. Then he went to telephone Grace. Some indistinct thought occurred to him that it would be better to ring now than later.
‘Oh, William: how did it go?’
‘Fine, fine. Goodish audience.’
‘Good. How’s–?’
‘Raining up here. Pouring.’ Changes in the weather made the only changes in their ritual conversations. ‘Any news your end?’ William thought he detected a pause fractionally longer than usual.
‘No. Nothing’s happened. I was just on my way to bed.–You usually ring later.’
‘Just thought I’d ring before we had a nightcap.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Dear, darling Grace. Deception is so easy. ‘So anyway, we’re taking the eight o’clock train back. See you late morning.’
‘Lovely’ Now there was a definite pause. ‘Have you been thinking of me?’
William slammed his free hand on to the small shelf by the telephone to steady himself. He felt a drift of sweat crossing his face: his shirt stuck patchily to his chest. The question, so surprising as to be alarming, threw him completely. Grace had never asked such a thing in her life. It was not the sort of question they would ever ask of the other one, knowing full well the answer. It was the kind of superfluous enquiry they would laugh at, had they ever discussed it. The reason for it William could not imagine -unless, with her acute instinct, Grace had been reading his mind. He managed a little laugh.
‘Of course I’m thinking of you. I always do, don’t I, my Ace? What a funny question.’
Grace laughed too.
‘It’s just been a very long evening. I don’t know why. Put me in a sentimental mood or something.’
‘My goodness. Very unlike you. But you’ve put on the alarm?’
‘I have.’
‘Then sleep well, my Ace.’
William replaced the receiver before she had a chance to say more. He saw he left on it a clammy imprint of his hand. God, he needed that drink.
Back in the bar, Grant and Rufus were sunk deep in their armchairs, eyes heavy-lidded. Bonnie was on the edge of her seat, black velvet skirt rippling over the nasty carpet. She looked anxiously at William.
‘Whatever–? You look awful. Here.’ She handed him a glass of double malt. William dreaded to think what it must have cost her. ‘Also–I’ve got something for you.’ Smiling, from behind her back she produced two small packets of peanuts. ‘There! Though I can’t think why you’d want them–’
‘–No, you couldn’t.’ Shaken again, William sat heavily beside her.
‘All that salt. Terribly bad for you.’
‘I know, I know. Thanks all the same.’ William slipped the peanuts into his pocket. He took a large sip of the exquisite whisky. ‘Thanks for this, too.’ He vaguely lifted his glass in her direction, a man whose frailty of indecision was in combat with the strength of his anticipation. Forcing his eyes from Bonnie’s lively face, he turned to Rufus, whose eyes were now tightly shut. It occurred to William that his friend looked unusually tired, and suddenly old -though perhaps it was just the dreadful lighting that enhanced his years. In his perturbed state William wondered once again how many years of good playing were left to the Quartet … Surely Bonnie would not want to stay for long with this group of men so much older, less vigorous than herself? And then what? William could not bear to think of the whole wretched process of auditioning again, and probably having to settle for someone in a different sphere from Bonnie.
Rufus opened his eyes.
Think I’ll turn in,’ he said. ‘I’m knackered.’
With an attempt at brightness, William smiled at Bonnie. The last thing he wanted was that any of them should indicate to her signs of weariness.
‘Never seems to affect his playing,’ he said.
‘Think I’ll follow Rufus,’ said Grant, quickly swallowing the rest of his beer. ‘Chance to finish my Dick Francis.’
The two men got up to go, thanked Bonnie for the drinks. For a moment William thought he saw a look pass between Bonnie and Grant–some message? Was this a plot–humour the old boy with a drink or two, then come along to my room? Was- this what Grant’s eyes were saying? The idea of a third-rate hotel assignation was particularly repugnant: William quickly put it from him, again blaming the lighting for his suspicions, and sank back into his chair. At least he had Bonnie alone to himself for the duration of his whisky. Perhaps after that he could prolong the precious time by offering her another brandy.
As soon as the others were out of sight, Bonnie leant towards William and patted his knee.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
Her touch had lit a fuse in his thigh. It ran riotously upward causing weird, weakening sparks of outrageous desire, love, confusion all through his body. He found it hard to speak calmly.
‘Something of a rough night last night. After the concert our son Jack and his girlfriend took us to some fancy restaurant, plied us with very good wine We got home much too late.’
‘Then you mustn’t be late tonight.’ She stroked his hand with one finger, in the mindless way that she might have stroked a kitten, and pushed up his cuff to look at his watch. Her finger whirled briefly on the skin of his wrist. It was almost unbearable. Was this some kind of message? What was Bonnie doing–teasing? William squirmed very slightly in his chair, hoping she would not notice the discomfort she was causing. He tried to concentrate on calming himself down. He thought of pigs’ trotters, the sinking of the Titanic, the repeal of the Corn Laws.
‘No, you’re right, I mustn’t,’ he said faintly.
Bonnie removed her hand. The brisk way she did this–no hint of wanting to linger now she had seen the time–pointed to the disappointing truth: she was absolutely innocent of any delicious intention. Simply being kind to her fellow player, her boss, was all she had in mind.
‘You’re wearing my cufflinks,’ she said, pleased.
‘Of course. I’m very fond of them.’ Had William been quicker off the mark he would have attempted to tell her, in a dignified and understated way, just what the cufflinks meant to him, how he … But her thoughts had flown elsewhere.
‘D’you know what? Some fan left me a note tonight.’ Bonnie was very pleased with herself. ‘Does that often happen?’
‘Grant sometimes gets notes from classical groupies. Well, handsome fellow in a largish way. Seems to have something for the girls. A few years back, I have to admit, Rufus and I sometimes had the odd invitation.’ Now his own honesty betrayed him. In such a confession, he himself was indicating his powers of attraction were over. But Bonnie, intrigued by the thought of her own fan, did not seem to register the admission.
‘Someone called Euan,’ she said. ‘Depressing handwriting, but wanted to know what I thought about when I was playing? What went through my mind? Could I enlighten him?–Could I, indeed?’ She laughed. Then he was into all the rubbishy stuff about my looks. How could anyone so sexy–he wrote the word in red ink–be a serious musician?’ She blushed. William laughed.
‘All very old lines,’ he said. He was feeling calmer now. But just for safety he called forth another trio of passion-quelling images: turnips, pug dogs, Grace’s aged slippers. ‘Whatever you do, don’t respond.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I don’t want my new viola ravished so soon.’
Bonnie did not seem to notice the lie. Her innocence made his own longing the harder to bear. But he saw that here, by chance, was the opening he’d been awaiting. Now was the time to ask her something of herself. Did she have anyone -?
‘But it’s an interesting question,’ she was saying. ‘What goes through our minds when we are playing? Can you answer that?’
‘No,’ said William quickly He loved her serious face.
‘I enjoyed the comic bits of Disney’s Fantasia as a child. But even then I found the serious parts too crude, too neat somehow.–I don’t exactly think of anything, but pictures come to mind. When I was a child of seven or eight I heard the Pastoral for the first time.’ Bonnie hesitated. William put on his best listening face. Damnit, Grant wasn’t the only one who knew the power of really listening. And this would be no pretence on William’s part, of course. He wanted to hear all Bonnie had to say. He would be happy to listen through the night. He nodded. She continued. ‘My mum said whenever she heard it she saw cows galloping across summer fields, their tails in the air. I’ve always thought of that ever since. The idea seemed to breed further pictures–but it would sound too foolish, describing them. Haydn’s the only one who produces nothing for me so far. I love him intellectually, but find there’s no vision there. Still, I’m struggling. I realise it’s my fault, not his.’
William bowed his head, avoiding her eye. He was moved by Bonnie’s confession, surely not the sort of thing she would mention casually to anyone. Musicians rarely spoke of the effects of their music. It was an impossible subject, prone to pretentiousness. But then maybe he was out of date in this respect, as in so may others. Maybe the young generation all liked to discuss the internal experiences inspired by their playing. He himself would find that difficult, embarrassing. But tonight, in his state of joy brought about by Bonnie’s proximity, Bonnie’s confidences, he felt he should make some sort of effort to return the honour, try to explain his own feelings.
‘I don’t see pictures,’ he said, kneading his fingers, ‘though I shall enjoy thinking of those cows in the future. A very merry image.’ He paused struggling. ‘What happens to me is that I know whether a certain piece of music is … upstairs or downstairs. I can’t begin to describe this well, but if it’s an upstairs piece then I’m lifted to … some sort of life-enhancing place that restores the spirit, gives strength, joy, whatever. If it’s a downstairs piece, then I’m consumed in a sort of darkness: a serious place full of mysterious resonances, sounds echoing in some sort of invisible ocean, as in Beethoven’s late quartets. I can sometimes feel myself gasping for breath, but always know I’ll be saved by the last bar.’ He paused. ‘Do you know at all what I mean?’ His eyes met Bonnie’s as he cursed himself. He’d gone way beyond the bounds of propriety. He must have sounded like the pretentious old bore he had always hoped to avoid. But as she nodded, still angelically serious, he found himself adding one last thing. ‘The strange thing is, a piece doesn’t have to be melancholy to be downstairs. The Moonlight Sonata, for instance, is full of light for me. I was very puzzled when I first realised it was an upstairs piece …’ He trailed off, stricken with the remorse of one who has confessed a long-held secret.
Bonnie nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said.
William was desperate to break the spell, now: dismiss all he had said as if it was of no importance. Get her to join in scoffing at his fantasies, thus diminishing them.
‘Understanding can be the quickest way to an old man’s heart,’ he said, and allowed himself briefly to pat her knee. It worked. Bonnie giggled.
‘You’re not that old,’ she said.
‘No,’ agreed William. With any luck she had forgotten the details of everything else he said. But with luck she would also remember they had shared a moment of soul-baring that would bind them, on one level, for ever. William watched the barman pulling the grill across the counter. ‘Shall I quickly get you another brandy?’
‘No thanks. It’s time for bed.’ She pushed her empty glass towards the middle of the low table between them, but made no movement to get up. William finished his own drink. There was no more to say. Three lights were switched out, leaving them in the murky pink of a bad sunset. William closed his eyes, wanting to stay with Bonnie in the hideous bar for ever.
‘How are you liking it, the Quartet, to date?’
‘I’m loving it. You must have guessed that. Playing with you three is something beyond my wildest dreams.’ William opened his eyes, saw she was smiling. ‘It’s like those people who say that playing tennis with people who are better than them makes them play better. I don’t know if it’s true, but I sort of feel that.’
‘You play beautifully.’
‘Thanks. I’ve a long way to go.’
‘Of course. We all have.–You don’t mind that in a quartet there’s no star? The fact that abnegation of sole glory is essential? The excellence of the whole is what a quartet is all about …’
‘I’ve always known that, of course. I’ve never wanted to be a solo star. I’ve always thought that team effort, when it succeeds, must be much more satisfying than success on your own, with no one to share the highs or lows.’
‘Rather an unusual way of thinking, that, in these star-obsessed days.’
Bonnie smiled.
‘Well I just want to play for years and years with the three of you, learning from you.’
Touched by these sentiments, William spoke in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
‘Well, dear Bonnie, I don’t know if we’ll manage to do anything for you, but you’ve certainly inspired us with a new vigour.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Golly …’
They got up from their chairs. In the lift, a cube of salmon-pink light, William gazed on Bonnie’s reflection in the dirty mirror. He saw the absolute impossibility, after their conversation, of suggesting anything so crude as a nightcap in his room. She had signalled her closeness, but by doing so they had gone too far down some other track for him now to switch to lecherous old man. Any untoward gesture was unthinkable. The time to ravish her would be at the moment of offering her his life–a time he must now work towards with all speed, for some small hope had definitely been indicated. In the passage leading to their rooms they hesitated for one moment on the stormy carpet of maroons and blues, then Bonnie reached up and kissed William on the cheek.
‘Sleep well,’ she said. ‘You look tired.’
Then she hurried down the passage, jangling the key of her room. William knew all the players were on the same floor, but in which rooms? In all the hurry of arrival he had not noticed. Where was Grant?
The question did not bother William unduly that night. He was convinced that some step in the right direction had been taken. If he could exert patience, tact, sympathy, then his feelings for the exquisite Bonnie would surely not go unrequited.
A man elated by his anticipation, he got quickly into the narrow bed, pulled up the economy sheets, bounced his head on the rubber pillow. He thought of Bonnie’s Pastoral cows, of the depths of the invisible oceans she had understood, and her kind peanuts, which could be powdered and added to curry.
Then he slept.