Grace was unable to sleep for the rest of the night. In the long hours till a concrete dawn began to fill the window, she worked out a rational answer to the disturbance of the night: youths. Recently there had been trouble in the neighbourhood, burglaries and vandalism carried out by a gang of teenage boys who came from an estate some miles away. There certainly hadn’t been a gang, exactly, in the front drive–just a single boy with some talent at imitating animal noises. Perhaps that had been their fun for the night–each one of them would target a house and make weird noises to alarm the owner. They probably would not return, but think of some further cruel trick with which to excite their pathetic lives.
Despite assuring herself of all this, Grace was shaky when she got up at seven. She bumped into things in the bathroom. She found herself creeping downstairs as if not wanting to disturb someone. She switched on all the lights against the gloom of the winter morning, put on the radio to furnish the silence. Then she found her usual appetite for breakfast was gone. She ate only half a piece of toast, scarcely touched her tea. Why had she not told William? she wondered. He would have provided some comfort, encouraged her to ring the police, which at the time she had thought pointless. She longed for his return tomorrow, dreaded the thought of another night alone. She rested her hands on the table and wiggled her fingers as if it were an invisible keyboard. Quite suddenly, surprising herself, she burst into tears.
Grace covered her face with her hands and sobbed noisily, swaying back and forth in her chair. She had not cried for many years. It was a strange, disagreeable sensation: tears pouring down her cheeks and making the backs of her hand, with which she tried hopelessly to rub them away, glisten as if they had been crossed by the trails of several snails. She sniffed and coughed and bent low over the table, trying to ease the pain in her chest. People said to cry was a relief. She could feel no relief. Only the urge to sob more loudly. Perhaps the relief came if you knew what you were crying about. And of this Grace had no idea. ‘What’s the matter with me?’ she gasped out loud.
Even as she sniffed and swayed Grace knew this was no way to comport herself. The question she asked out loud marshalled her senses. She could see what a pathetic figure she made, roaring away, red-eyed, for no more reason than she had been frightened by truants in the night. Her training of a lifetime came into play. She pulled herself together quickly, in the manner her mother would have expected and approved. Blowing her nose, she got up and went to the sink. There, she dampened a dishcloth under the tap and bunched it over her sore eyes. When she took it away she saw she was face to face with Lucien. He was at the other side of the window, grinning.
Grace’s unease, beginning to drift away, returned at once. She could not imagine what he was doing here so early in the morning. His normal time nowadays was nine o’clock. Profoundly she wanted him to go away. She had not the heart to deal with him, his problems and his aggressive energy this morning. But Lucien was waving at her, signalling to let him in. Cocky he was–behaving as if breakfast in the house was his right. Wearily, Grace unlocked the back door. He barged in, a fretwork of cobwebs on his lank hair, wet mud on his boots.
‘William here?’
‘No.’ Immediately Grace cursed herself. She had not wanted Lucien to know William was away for the night. She had managed to keep the fact from him. Now, in her unnerved state, she had given it away.
‘That means there’s no rush, then. Where is he?’
‘Prague. He’s coming back tomorrow morning–or tonight,’ she added, thinking that piece of information might grant her some safety.
Lucien sat at the table, long legs spread like bony wings from the seat of the chair. He must have noticed the state of her face, Grace thought, but he made no comment.
‘So: William’s gone to Prague, has he? Busy schedule there?’
‘There’s always a full programme on a foreign tour.’
‘What: two concerts a day? Morning and evening?’
‘I’m not exactly sure.’ She was puzzled by this unusual interest in William’s work. ‘But I know the last performance is tonight, seven o’clock–some church. Can’t remember its name.’
‘Ah! Evening concert. Hardly likely then, is it, they’d take a late flight after that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said they might be coming home tonight.’ He was enjoying himself. Tapping the table with an egg spoon, smiling with one side of his mouth. ‘In other words, Grace, you lied to me.’
There was no time for Grace to calculate an answer. She folded her arms beneath her bosom, tilted up her tear-marked face, mustering all the dignity she could.
‘At some point it was planned for them to come home tonight … Travel plans sometimes change at the last minute. It’s not my business to be absolutely sure of their movements at all times.’
‘Quite. But don’t pretend. You thought if I knew William was coming home tonight you’d be–well, safer.’
‘I thought no such thing,’ said Grace with all the suppressed anger of one whose thoughts have been accurately read.
‘I’ll take your word for it. All the same, it’s funny you didn’t tell me William had gone to Prague in the first place.’
‘I don’t see what business it is of yours what my husband does.’ Her unusual sternness made Lucien smile.
‘Look: I’m not here to quarrel with you. Everyone’s entitled to lie if they feel like it. Put the kettle on, sit yourself down, tell me why you’ve been crying.’ Outraged by his audacity at telling her what to do in her own house, Grace felt herself being won over by his persuasive voice–the voice he used when he chose to be his most gentle. Silently she did as he bade, then sat down opposite him with a pot of tea.
‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘You must have cried buckets.’ Without warning he leapt up so fast the tablecloth erupted into a mass of ridges, and snatched the drying-up cloth from the sink. He came towards her. It was bunched in his hands, still damp. For a second Grace thought he was going to hit her. He squatted down, patted at her cheeks and eyes for several moments. Then he leant over and kissed her on the forehead. A blade of foul-smelling breath cut across her.
‘So what’s all this about? Who’s done what to you to cause the tears?’
‘No one’s done anything.’ She sniffed, then smiled. She wanted the drama to peter out now, normality to return. ‘I just had a rotten night, headache, felt tired, missed William … burst into tears. I don’t do that very often. About once a decade.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Lucien. ‘Everyone’s entitled to cry, too, if they want to.’
Grace, eyes on his sympathetic expression, marvelled at his capacity to endow statements of the utmost banality with a convincing sense of profundity. She began to make toast, prepare the breakfast Lucien liked. He returned to his seat, eyes following her every movement. The dour winter morning had lightened a little: a hint of light behind putty cloud showed Lucien to be paler than usual. Deep shadows under his eyes. He scratched at his unshaven jowls.
‘Work, this morning?’ Grace asked. She sat down, longing for him to leave as soon as possible. She longed for the house, the kitchen, to herself. She knew it was going to be one of her lost days–impossible to get down to work or domestic administration–and was impatient to start whatever occurred to her she might like to do instead. A walk in the country, perhaps. Reading her book. Even sleeping for an hour in the afternoon.–Lost days struck her rarely and caused her no guilt.
‘Nah. Not today’ Lucien shrugged. ‘Matter of fact, and this is what I came to tell you, see how it’d grab you, I’ve given in my notice.’
The slight rise of Grace’s eyebrows indicated nothing more than further enquiry.
‘Well, you know how it is. I didn’t think in the first place it would be my sort of job, did I?’ Grace refrained from contradicting him, gave a slight nod as she remembered his initial enthusiasm. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Well it was rubbish. All these rules, they’d drive a man mad. I couldn’t be, like, my own person there, could I?’ Grace felt herself stiffen as she always did when Lucien produced his trendy phrases. But she did not move. ‘I had to be one of a team, all consistent, they said. Everyone spouting out the same ideas, rules and regulations. That’s not what I’m about. Besides, far as I could see, the wretched homeless we were dealing with weren’t benefiting much from what the Centre provides. Far as I could see, what they wanted was more money and a regular decent meal. All that psychobabble was just doing in their heads.’ He paused, looked for Grace’s reaction. She kept her face closed. ‘I did try, though, honest. I put up some ideas. In fact’ - he gave a small smile - ‘I flooded them with ideas I thought’d be helpful. They didn’t tell me in so many words, but I could see they thought I was rubbish, interfering. So I thought: no point in wasting my time here, is there? I’m off.’
‘I see.’ None of this news surprised Grace. ‘So you’ll be … looking for something else?’
‘I might. There again I might not. See what turns up. ‘On the whole not much turns up unless you–’
‘Don’t you go lecturing me just like Lobelia, thanks very much.’ Lucien said this with such an endearing grin Grace felt no affront. ‘And don’t you worry about me. I’ll get myself sorted.’
‘I do worry about you,’ said Grace. ‘I don’t know why, but I do.’
Lucien poured himself another cup of tea. It then occurred to him that he should fill Grace’s cup. But it was too late. The pot was empty. Grace tried to imagine what was going through his mind as he realised his moment of inconsideration.
‘Sorry’ he said.
‘I didn’t want any more.’
‘So: what are you going to do when I’ve gone? Back to the flowers?’
‘I don’t much feel like painting today.’
‘Pity. Because you’re very, very good. See? From what you showed me, I’d say you have bags of talent. More than most. You shouldn’t waste it. Get on with that book. Finish it. You’ll be surprised at the reaction–’
‘Oh, go on,’ said Grace. ‘You exaggerate. As I told you, I’ve a minor talent, perhaps. Nothing more.’
‘Who says talent can’t grow?’
‘I don’t believe it can. Technique can improve and improve. But actual talent, that actual fire of ability which is given to a few people in unequal measures–I don’t believe there’s any way in which that can be made to expand.’
‘Just shows you’re not aiming high enough,’ said Lucien. ‘In my judgement, and I admit I’m no expert but I do have an eye, you’re pretty bloody good. You should carry on not just half-heartedly but with all your energy. See?’ He gave one of his fist bangs on the table. He looked convincing.
Grace, completely calm now, felt invisible feathers ruffle proudly round her. No one but Lucien had ever encouraged her in her art, or even been interested in what she was trying to do. William was faultless in his politeness, of course; made some play in showing interest. Jolly good, you carry on with the good work, my Ace, he would say, on the rare occasions Grace approached him for an opinion. But she could tell there was no depth to his interest, no real belief that his wife’s painting was anything more than a useful little hobby, something to occupy her mornings at home. And here was Lucien, the uncouth stranger and new friend in her life, giving her genuine encouragement. At such moments she felt overwhelming affection for him, chided herself for ever thinking she would like to be rid of him for good.
‘You’re very kind,’ Grace said, more primly than she intended, ‘to take such an interest, to give such encouragement … Nobody else …’ She trailed off, fearful of disloyalty.
‘Course I’m interested. You’re a wonderful woman come into my life, heaps of talent, gives me all these mega breakfasts. You’re the sort of woman I’d like to find. Bit younger, I suppose …’
They both laughed. They both fell silent. Then Lucien spoke quietly.
‘So: did you get my message last night?’ ‘What message?’
Lucien tipped up his head. Grace could see the straining muscles of his neck. He gave a long, low howl in perfect imitation of a wolf. Even here, in the warmth of the post-breakfast kitchen, lights on, windows shut, Grace felt a blade of ice razoring down her spine.
‘Lucien … I don’t believe it. It was you.’
‘Me: the said wolf!’ He banged his chest, grinning. ‘Now there’s a talent I’ve always had: animal noises. Anything from an elephant to a guinea pig, honest.’
Grace, seeing his good humour, realising he obviously thought of the whole thing as some kind of joke, fought her natural indignation. Determined not to sound admonishing, she spoke in a tight, controlled little voice.
‘You gave me a terrible fright,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t think what it was.’
‘You can’t have thought it was a real wolf? Escaped from a zoo?’
‘The thought crossed my mind. One doesn’t make much sense, woken up in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what it was.’
‘Well, sorry and all that if I alarmed you. It was meant to be a message.’
‘A message?’
‘Just a little signal from me to you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t know William was away, did I? You didn’t say he wasn’t coming back after the concert. I thought I’d give a few howls, hope you’d come to the window. You’d see me. Or at least know it was me. William would be in bed asleep, and I’d have managed to send you a message. I thought that was a nice idea. A secret that would be between us.’
Grace frowned, feeling the return of uneasiness.
‘I’m not sure I …’
‘No, well, the plan didn’t quite come off, did it? You alone, the howling scaring the shit out of you … didn’t work out as planned.’
This was not one of the occasions when Grace found Lucien’s coarse language refreshing. This morning, in her disturbed state, it repelled her. She could not begin to comprehend the motive behind Lucien’s curious ‘message’, and wanted nothing more than he should go, now, at once. Leave her alone. He gave her a look possibly intended to be apologetic. Grace saw it as sly.
‘What were you doing, anyway, prowling around at three in the morning?’
‘Night walk. I walk a lot at night. Good time to think. Can see you don’t approve.’
‘You can walk all night as far as I’m concerned. But I suggest you don’t go making wolf noises under anyone else’s window. Could get you into trouble.’
‘Would I? Come on, Gracie. Take that look off your face. I’m sorry the whole thing was a mighty cock-up, and it won’t happen again. There. Am I forgiven?’
He turned his eyes on Grace so appealingly like a small boy forced into contrition but still convinced of his innocence, that she smiled despite herself.
‘You’re forgiven,’ she said. It was always easier to forgive. Lucien clasped his hands as if in prayer.
‘In that case, you might grant me a favour. Could you spare me a few biscuits for my lunch? Lobelia’s in one of her moods at home, so I don’t want to go back there till she’s calmed down. And I left my wallet …’
Grace, eager to encourage his departure, rose and went to the larder. As she stood by the shelves, contemplating which of the packets Lucien would most like, she heard his chair scraping very slightly on the floor. She stood quite still, intent on listening rather than choosing biscuits. Some instinct told her Lucien was up to something, not merely rising from his chair. She thought she heard a movement by the dresser–a rustle of paper–but could not be sure. She snatched a small packet of chocolate digestives and went quickly back into the kitchen. Lucien was in his chair. He had the air of one who had never moved. Imagination getting the better of me, thought Grace. Put it down to my jumpy state.
She handed him the biscuits. Lucien stuffed them into his pocket, thanked her and hurried out, leaving her no time to enquire when he would be coming again. She wanted to warn him that tomorrow, William just home and tired from his trip, would not be a good time. But she was too late. Standing at the sink, she waved through the window at his back view, wondering how any one man could play such havoc with her feelings in under an hour.
Then she turned back to the dresser, picked up the papers she thought she had heard move. Underneath them was the egg basket, full of brown free-range eggs that were delivered especially once a week for William. Lodged between two of them lay the lost jade cufflinks. Grace picked them up very gently, as if they were breakable as the eggs themselves. She looked at them in disbelief.
Murder, William was beginning to realise, in the mind of one who was not basically evil, was a slippery subject. Time was going by and so far nothing had been achieved beyond one pathetic attempt with crushed peanuts in a curry that had given Grace unusual pleasure. The idea of throwing Grace over a Dorset cliff when they went to stay with Dick was a pretty horrible one, and there was no absolute guarantee she would die. But unless he could think of something better, subtler, he reckoned he would have to give it a go.
The trouble was, whenever he tried to put his mind seriously to the matter of how to dispose of his wife, his thoughts scattered hopelessly, frantic as leaves in a wind. It was a subject upon which he found it impossible to concentrate. This very fact, he concluded, might be his conscience at work, urging him to abandon even considering his nefarious act. But some devil within him persisted: driven by his all-consuming love (was it love? a question he must attempt to answer very soon), the flotsam of thought concerning the murder of his dear wife floated day and night through his mind. Only when he was playing did it disappear.
After William’s strange encounter in the bar with Bonnie, whose news of no current boyfriend had so raised his spirits, there was little of the night left. He managed a couple of hours’ uneasy sleep and woke to find the curtains of the soulless room bleached by a bland and foreign light. Still four hours till another of the ghastly mauve breakfasts, six hours till the dreaded drive into the country to see the church.
William decided it would be a good idea to employ his time by thinking very hard about the Unspeakable. Calmly he would confront himself with difficult questions, and try to answer them. With any luck, he might arrive at some firm, sane decision. He shut his eyes.
Do I love my wife Grace? he began.
Completely. As much as any man can love a wife.
Do I love young Bonnie?
I suppose it’s love, though it doesn’t feel like the love for Grace. It doesn’t even feel like the love I felt for Grace when we were young.
Are you happy with Grace?
I am. I always have been. I always will … be.
Then why do you suppose, being so extraordinarily fortunate in your marriage, that you should want to swap your wife–either hurting her or killing her–for a young girl (a very attractive, sweet young girl, yes, yes) about whom you know little?
Can’t really answer that.
It’s not an unusual syndrome. Happily married man (or woman) sees something beyond the safe confines of his or her life, and is irresistibly drawn.
Even if it’s impractical, foolish and cruel to act upon this feeling?
Yes.
Mid-life crisis, perhaps?
Don’t believe in any of that rubbish. Crises come every year of your life.
I know comparisons are odious, but perhaps we should do a little comparing. It might make you see sense.
Very well. I’m prepared to try anything.
What is it that fires your love for and devotion to Grace?
Pretty well everything. She’s as near perfection as you could hope for in a woman. Gentle, kind, considerate, imaginative, unselfish, strong, funny–the list would go on for ages.
Exciting?
Well, not as exciting as she used to be, obviously. But then nor am I. The dimming of excitement on both sides, in a marriage, is perfectly reasonable. To be expected.
In all your years of marriage have you ever looked at, or been attracted to another woman?
Never. Hand on heart.
So: harder question. What is it you love–if it is love–about Bonnie?
Everything I’ve ever seen, though I admit that’s not been very much. Most of all, I suppose, her talent. She’s an extraordinary musician. When we play together … I’m not going to describe what happens to two people joined together in the playing of a profound piece of music, but its power can leave one weak with gratitude, helpless. The nearest thing I know to ecstasy.
When did you first realise the depth–if it’s depths we’re speaking about–of your passion for Bonnie?
The day she came to my house and we played some Mozart duos together looking out over the garden. There was snow.
Do you think she has any idea of your feelings for her?
I’m pretty sure she knows I like her. And admire her. She probably sees me as a funny old thing, but age doesn’t come into the bond of music.
William: let’s be sensible. Is there any reason to suppose that the swapping of the tried-and-tested and altogether remarkable Grace, for the untried, talented young Bonnie, is a good idea?
That is a question … to which I shall give further thought on the way to the church this morning, and whenever I have a free moment.
Be practical, too. Have you considered if Bonnie would be party to your plan?
I have.
And?
That’s another matter for further cogitation. In many ways she’s older than her years. She’s aware of the … music between us. I daresay she could be persuaded. I think she’d know that in me she’d found a man whom she could trust.
Trust? But you’re planning to murder your wife.
That’s a plan that’s been floating, I agree. Pretty mad. Probably won’t ever come off. Can’t unfortunately see much alternative.
If you’re really set on the insane plan of leaving Grace, you could go for something conventional, like divorce. Thus you’d avoid prison–for surely one as inept at murder as you, would be found out within moments of the act–and be able actually to be with Bonnie. Should she want you …
True.
Then why -?
I’d find it very hard to leave Grace. To explain to her. Murder might be easier.
Then stay with her. Abandon for ever all the evil thoughts that have been consuming you, and return to thinking of Bonnie merely as your delightful new viola player whom the Elmtree was lucky enough to have found.
That’s the trouble: I can’t go back to that.
William: two final, difficult questions.
Thank God we’re nearly through. This is all a dreadful strain. Is it desire you feel for Bonnie?
(Long pause.) That comes into it, yes. (Another long pause.) Well, yes, I suppose I can’t deny her presence has a deliquescent effect. I long to … But I love her company, too. She cheers me up. I love her playing -
Yes, yes. Now, finally -you would agree your plan is that of a man unhinged, temporarily (let us hope) insane?
Of course I agree to that.
You would agree, therefore, that the only possible thing to do is to come to your senses? Abandon the evil thoughts–in such an essentially good man they’re no more than bad dreams that have somehow lodged in your waking fantasies. Let logic, kindness, human charity return to their rightful place, dousing these insane fantasies like a blow torch -
No need to get poetic here. What you’re saying is, give up all thoughts of Bonnie, stay happily married to Grace.
That’s precisely what I’m saying.
Well, this has all been quite useful, I have to admit. Not an easy business.
Then you’ll try.
I’ll try.
Good luck.
Thanks.
When this dialogue with himself came to an end William leapt out of bed with unusual bounce and went to the window. He drew back the curtains and looked over the roofs of Prague, feeling pleased with himself. It had all gone rather well. A conclusion -the conclusion in his heart he wanted–had more or less been agreed, and now all he had to do was carry it out. At the moment he felt strong in his resolve. After all, no one had any inkling what had been going on in his tortured mind for the last few weeks: there was no explaining to be done to anyone but himself. All he had to do was screw his determination to the sticking place … remember to get Grace her favourite scent at the duty-free, return to normal. Shouldn’t be too difficult for one of his inner fortitude. He drew himself up to his full height, re-knotted the cord of his pyjamas. Grace had always believed in his inner fortitude, and she was a woman of no mean judgement.
Two hours later William was putting his good intentions into practice. Had he not had the serious discussion with himself, he would have made sure his place in the minibus was next to Bonnie. In the back seat, with Rufus or Grant, their arms, thighs, bodies might have had occasion to touch. He would have felt sick from–well, whatever it was that bedevilled him when he was close to her.
As it was William made sure he was the first to reach the minibus, and took the seat next to the driver. He gave no reason for this unusual placing–Rufus was accustomed to taking the front seat whenever they drove together. Rufus’s look, when this privilege was denied him that Prague morning, was one of astonishment and irritation. But William didn’t care. Both men kept their silence.
On the drive through uninteresting Czech countryside–it put William in mind of many of his least favourite places in England -he concentrated wholly on thoughts of Grace. What was she up to now? Her painting, he hoped. Dear head bent over a sprig of hybrid holly or a helleborous rose. He must remember to encourage her to complete this book with all speed. It had been in the making a good many years, and he didn’t want it to die on her. He would suggest a little celebration when it was finished: drinks and supper with the Quartet and a few friends. Perhaps he would compose an aria for her–she had, on occasions, remarked that she wished William was a little more like Schumann, writing pieces for his loved one. Well, William would compose a little song for Grace and get Bonnie to sing in her sweet voice … No danger there, a public occasion. He hadn’t composed anything for so long. The publication of his wife’s book would be an opportune moment.
It was more likely, William thought, that Grace was nowhere near her paints, but making plans for meals for the weekend. When he had been away, she always made a special effort to welcome him with his favourite puddings–Guards pudding, queen of puddings, steamed orange pudding. William’s stomach ached for such comforts. The Czech breakfast, as usual, had been the inadequate little squares of plastic strawberry jam flattened on to bread so hard it endangered the teeth. He was hungry. Hunger and lack of sleep had spurred, too, some other kind of longing. He kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. Not for anything in the world would he allow himself to turn round and let his eyes pry on Bonnie in her jeans, and the sloppy jersey which slunk round her breasts. No. What he thought of was Grace in the bath, his Bonnard Grace, his dearest Ace, toes mushrooming through the foam, nipples (faded nipples, in truth) no longer upright but pointing at an endearing angle towards the familiar wadge of her stomach. Faced with this picture, the uncomfortable feeling mercifully faded.
The minibus pulled up in front of the Kutná Hora Church. The driver hurried to open each of the vehicle’s doors, elated by his own gallantry. He smiled and shrugged, pointed at the church, tapped his forehead.
‘No good,’ he warned.
The members of the Quartet stretched, stood about. William could not remember how the idea of this expedition had taken root. Grant’s idea, he presumed. Abroad, Grant put himself in charge of culture, arranged that cities should be explored between rehearsals and concerts. William and Rufus–and in the old days Andrew–had always gone along with his plans, but feared they showed less enthusiasm than Grant expected. Perhaps, now, he put his hopes in Bonnie. There had been talk of ‘rushing her through’ the Jewish Cemetery on their return, if there was time before the rehearsal. (As far as William understood, this would mean missing lunch, so the idea would not get his vote.) Grant had also suggested various other visits before leaving for the airport tomorrow. William and Rufus had not been included in these invitations, and would not have accepted them if they had. All the same, thought William, it was pretty untoward of Grant to suggest excursions alone with Bonnie. He had no idea whether or not she had agreed to go with him, but rather hoped she had. Just to see Bonnie setting off in the minibus alone with Grant might convince William that her feelings for all members of the Quartet were equal. She would be happy to please each one of them in their different ways.
Rufus was the first one to enter the church. William followed a few feet behind him. There was an old woman–long wool clothes and scarf dripped custard-like from her chair–at a table of postcards in the porch. No one else. As their eyes grew accustomed to the light they could see that the entire interior of the church was encrusted with bones–human skeletons chopped up and fashioned into decorations, chandeliers, deathly designs.
‘My God, what a place.’ Rufus ran a shaky hand across his eyes. ‘It’s hard to believe. I’m only thankful the wife isn’t here.’
‘Astonishing’ said William. In the November gloom that fell upon the tapestry of bones there was a faint, ironic brightness which gave them a sense of defiant vitality. They bore no resemblance to skeletons–the only skeletons in William’s experience -in school laboratories. In a pyramid of skulls, at first glance all identical, he could see the flesh of individuals–here a laughing young woman with deep eye sockets, there a surly man with high domed brow. They were ghosts stripped of their ethereality, mocking reminders of mortality.
William did not share Rufus’s shock. Intrigued, he made his way down the stone steps into the lower half of the church, and began to study the ingenious patterns made from arm bones, thigh bones, spines–the chopsticks of human life. Bone, he thought, had a certain beauty, if you could distance your thoughts from how it once moved, swung, rested, lived, protected the jelly of the eyeball, the mess of brain–how it was the scaffold upon which veins and sinew and muscles and organs were all hung. But to appreciate innumerable bones, formed into this bizarre monument, you had to banish thoughts of the life they had once led …
There was a scream. William, deep in his reflections, turned to see Bonnie and Grant some five or six steps above him. Grant had a hand under Bonnie’s elbow. The look on his face was one of concern edged with annoyance. Bonnie screamed again, covered her face with her hands.
‘Get me out of here,’ she wailed.
Grant nodded at William.
‘You take her. I want a good look round.’
The cad, thought William. In his own heart, reluctance to usher Bonnie out of this place was mixed with delight at the opportunity of consoling her. This was a genuine reason, he told himself, to abandon every promise made to himself not three hours ago, and help a girl in trouble. Shaking his head, he hurried up to stand beside Bonnie. Relieved, Grant left them to inspect a wall of bones woven intricately as tweed.
Bonnie, one hand still over her eyes, stretched out her other to William. He took it.
‘Just get me out of here fast,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to open my eyes till we’re outside.’ She was petulant as a frightened young child.
William led her back up the steps, his right hand round her waist, his left clasped in her free hand. He could smell the sweet-hay smell of her sweat, and was aware her left breast was perilously close to his ribcage. He guided her conscientiously as someone helping the blind, without a word, until they were through the door. As they passed the old woman, she gave a knowing smile over her unsold cards.
‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘outside.’
Bonnie opened her eyes warily She did not let go of William’s hand. They looked at each other, dangerously close, for a moment. Then she broke into a gust of uncontrollable tears, making a terrible noise in the silence of the graveyard. She fell upon William, hiding her head on his shoulder, then moving it up to lodge beneath his chin.
William was alarmed. This was more than he could ever have hoped for, of course. But Bonnie’s sudden melodrama, her uncharacteristic loss of control, would unnerve any man. He felt at a loss as how to console her. Clumsily he patted her head. His heart was battering so hard (he could feel hers was, too, for different reasons) that he felt himself totter against her weight. He splayed his legs to stand more firmly. Further discomfort was caused by the snarling, rearing blood in his loins, something he prayed to keep from her, but in their curious embrace this seemed unlikely.
He had no idea how much time they passed locked together, Bonnie howling, William muttering useless words of comfort. He was vaguely aware of Rufus, whose interest in the church must have expired as soon as Bonnie screamed, sitting on a gravestone nearby, open guidebook in hand, looking curious. William heard the chirp of a Czech sparrow, which added a gust of nostalgia for his garden at home to the general chaos of his mixed emotions. He was aware of pins and needles in the arm that still clutched at Bonnie’s waist, and wondered for how long he could hold his position of support.
At last Bonnie detached herself from him, very slightly. Her cheeks were bright pink and drenched with tears. Her long eyelashes were bunched together in shining clumps, each one finely pointed as Grace’s sable paintbrushes. William had to exert every force in his being not to take her more conventionally in his arms, and kiss her for eternity.
That’s the most horrible, horrible place I’ve ever been to in my entire life,’ she sobbed–though the sobs were now more diminuendo. ‘If I’d known it was going to be anything like that I’d never have agreed to Grant’s revolting plan. He said I might enjoy it. He must be mad! Perverted.’
‘My wife would feel the same,’ offered Rufus, from his place on the grave. ‘Incidentally, that ruddy Czech Republic sparrow chirps a semitone lower than his British counterpart. Makes me a lot uneasier than the bones.’
William sensed Bonnie smile against his shoulder, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t been the first to divert her thoughts. He felt the need to take the courageous step of disengaging himself completely, now, from Bonnie. Her sobs had died to the merest whimper: she was pulling herself together, searching in her sleeves for a handkerchief. William produced his own–by chance clean and still folded (Grace was a meticulous woman with the iron). She took it without a word, dabbed at her face, never more enchanting, and causing William’s resolve and heart to twist and turn so violently he felt a little faint. Mixed with these turbulent feelings was a deeply shaming delight at Bonnie’s anger with Grant. William would not forget what she had said about him. Grant had (innocently, perhaps) tricked her, let her down. Bonnie might not forgive him for that. If there was any possibility of a liaison between them in Grant’s mind, surely this morning’s mistaken visit had scotched the plan. He had really put his foot in it … thank God.
‘Just think,’ Bonnie was saying, ‘it’s just pure chance that we didn’t live and die when those poor wretches did. We could easily be among them. We could be those horrible sticks of bones, those empty grinning heads.’
William gave a small compliant smile, and shrugged. He could think of no suitable reply to her observation. Bonnie handed him back his handkerchief. He softened his eyes in invitation to her to return to the comfort of his neck if she felt like it. But plainly she didn’t. She moved away from William and went to sit by Rufus on the gravestone.
To William’s amazement, Rufus patted Bonnie on the knee. It was, of course, no more than a grandfatherly gesture, but not one William had ever supposed Rufus capable of making. Perhaps he had been moved by Bonnie’s distress. Perhaps she had the power to move them all.
‘Beastly experience, you poor old thing,’ Rufus was saying to Bonnie. ‘Best forget it. And I have to say it’s made me so darned hungry I could eat a whole plate of those revolting dumplings without a grumble.’
Bonnie smiled.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for lunch when we get back to Prague,’ she said, ‘because I’ve not the slightest intention of going off to see anything with Grant.’
This information caused spirals of conflicting sensation to twist through William, who was beginning to feel very cold. One was the jealousy that had flared with Bonnie’s smile to Rufus–why had she failed to bestow at least a smile of gratitude on to him, William, the one in whose arms she had so keenly fallen? The other was the secret pleasure that Grant was to be spurned this afternoon. That could leave him with a chance to suggest at least a cup of tea in a café, after the rehearsal, while Rufus returned to the hotel to keep up the endless communication with his wife, and Grant went alone to reacquaint himself with the disappointment (to William’s mind) of the famous Charles Bridge.
When Grant eventually reappeared, carrying a bunch of postcards and wearing the smug look of a super-sightseer to whom absolutely everything is of acute interest, a small scene took place which gave further boost to William’s hopes.
‘D’you mind if I sit in the front on the way back?’ Bonnie asked William.
‘Of course not.’
‘We are in a huff,’ said Grant.
‘All due to your stupid joke. You said we were going somewhere marvellous.’
‘I didn’t think you’d take it like that. Anyhow, it is marvellous in a way.’ He slammed shut the minibus door.
On the silent journey back to Prague William began to have fears for the concert tonight. Bonnie’s rendering of the Purcell was pure delight, but how would she tackle the Haydn F major? He was well aware of her resistance to Haydn, and although in rehearsals she had played competently enough, he wondered if the upsets of the morning would affect her.
But how quickly moods change and anger is dissolved, reflected William, especially when peace is in everyone’s best interest. By the time they arrived back in the city Bonnie seemed quite recovered, and Grant was over his temper. He made no mention of his plans to rush her round the sights, and the four of them enjoyed lunch together in a gloomy café, many jokes made against the heavy food. At the rehearsal in the empty church Bonnie played so joyously no one would ever have guessed at her dislike for Haydn. When, after a long session, William suggested to Bonnie she might like a cup of tea in the Square, the other two presumed the invitation included them. While they accepted with enthusiasm -William, scrupulous about expenses, rarely offered to pay for everyone–Bonnie declined apologetically. She felt she needed an hour’s sleep to be in best form for tonight, she said. So William found himself round a small table with just two members of his Quartet: two men with whom he had spent so much of his life, in awe of their talent and in the warmth of their friendship, that extraneous chit-chat was no longer necessary. In the easy silence in which they drank their lemon tea, upsets of the morning forgotten, William sensed their brief return to old habits brought relief to them all. Without Bonnie’s presence there was no excitement, no possibility of the unexpected observation or question. But there was a restfulness, an understanding, that is peculiar to men who have worked and lived together for a long time in harmony. And although William secretly calculated the hours until he was able to behold Bonnie in her velvet, eyes cast down on her viola, he enjoyed the half-hour alone with his old friends more than he could ever have expected, and had no regrets that Bonnie had chosen not to be with them.