10

‘How was your night?’ asked Grace.

‘Not bad: not bad at all, my Ace. And yours?’

‘Fine, fine.’

On the morning after their return home, Grace and William fell automatically back into their normal routine, their daily enquiries as to the other’s well-being. For once, both lied for their different reasons. Instead of exaggerating their small nocturnal disturbances, here they were both declaring their rotten night was not bad, fine. Very unusual, they both thought, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Grace, on getting up, sensed a stiffness in her limbs that had not been there the day before. She noticed bruises on arms and thigh. One ankle was swollen. It was painful to walk (but not too bad). She was determined to disguise her hobbling. It would be better to make no further reference to yesterday’s fall. At the time it had all happened so fast that the impact, the potential horror, had escaped her. But in the night what might have been had brutally assailed her, been the cause of her wakefulness. Now, she found herself shaky, eager to lose herself in her painting to deflect the trauma.

Further agitation was caused by the thought of Lucien. Some instinct told her he would return, at last, this morning. He could not know it was far from the perfect morning. William seemed to be in a jumpy state equal to Grace’s own. She could see the inner quivering, despite his firm mouth and bright countenance, and imagined that he, too, was suffering shock from their near escape. It was not a morning Lucien would receive any welcome from William.

But Lucien did not come. The Handles kept their silence during breakfast, both willing the time to speed towards their various escapes. Grace finished her second cup of coffee. She longed to glance once more at the window, both dreading and longing for the sight of Lucien. But she resisted, for fear William would detect the process of her mind. She placed one hand flat on the table, fingers pointing towards him. Through the veil of his own preoccupations he recognised this was some kind of unusual appeal.

‘Hello, my Ace.’ He patted the strangely placed hand. ‘Busy schedule today, have you?’ In reply Grace smiled, nodded. ‘Well, I must be on my way, too. There’s the Bournemouth concert to grapple with.’ He hurried from the room.

Grace knew there was no hope of settling down to paint until later. Much though she wanted to escape into the shell of her work–sable brush, thin colour, delicate stamens to be depicted with infinite care–she knew she could produce nothing of any value until she had walked off the restlessness that nagged at her. She put on her thick coat, boots and scarf and left the house. She did not bother to leave William a message. He was unlikely to come downstairs till lunchtime, would not discover her shirking.

It was a raw grey morning, bitterly cold. Frost tinselled the hedges that divided her neighbours’ gardens. Lighted windows threw their reflections on to trim little front lawns, making a strange geometry of gold on the frost-white grass. Grace walked slowly, painfully With no one to see her she did not try to disguise her limp. She was aware of encroaching self-pity. She wished the visit to Dorset had never taken place. She wished she had never come across Lucien. She longed to see him.

At the end of the road she stopped, wondering whether to turn right or left. She had had some vague plan to go to the bank, but there was no need for this chore. So instead she turned left. Once round the block, she realised, was all she could manage with her ankle. Home, she would have to bandage it.

She hobbled a few yards along Beauchamp Road–houses more exposed than in the Handles’ road, a wary look on their mock Tudor façades–and looked up from the pavement to see a familiar figure loping towards her. Lucien: definitely Lucien. He wore a long, shaggy coat she had not seen before, open to reveal a thin, unbuttoned shirt … how did he manage never to catch cold? Her mind dithered on these motherly lines while her heart tipped up, unbalancing her. Lucien was almost upon her: brisk, unshaven, smiling as soon as he recognised her. She was glad she had had a few seconds to observe him before he had seen her. They stopped simultaneously, a yard apart.

‘Well,’ said Lucien. ‘Grace. Whatever -?’ He looked down at her foot. ‘William been throwing you downstairs?’

Grace smiled back. She felt a warm flush of blood roaring across her face. Her fingers, in their angora gloves, burned.

‘Slight accident,’ she said. He was thinner. Spiky wrists jutting from the short sleeves, more bruised than her own arms. What on earth had he been up to?

‘I was thinking of coming to see you,’ Lucien said. ‘Been a long time.’

‘It has.’

‘Enjoyed your Christmas?’

‘It was quiet.’

‘You got my message?’

‘Thank you, I did.’

‘Seemed you were having a party. Didn’t like to intrude.’

‘Just the members of the Quartet. We get together every Christmas.’

‘Very exclusive, like.’ Lucien hunched his shoulders, frowned.

‘Not at all.’ Grace gave a small laugh. ‘What’ve you been up to? Working?’

Lucien stamped his foot. Nails in the sole of his boot made an ominous clash on the pavement.

‘I’ve been here and there. Thought I’d send you a signal, though. You know me–signals. That’s what everything’s about, signals, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Grace, after a while. ‘Were you to ask me about my Christmas - ‘

‘–I’m so sorry, I–’

‘Were you to ask me about my Christmas … well. Bloody nightmare.’ Lucien searched in the deep pocket of the wolf-like coat, found a loose cigarette, lit it with the last match in a crumpled pack. Inhaling, he tossed the empty pack into someone’s garden. The puff of smoke, paler than the sky, which whistled down through his nostrils, had an evil smell that Grace could not quite distinguish. Sour milk, sweat, gutters. ‘Lobelia was out of her head. Jewels, lace stockings, silver eyelids, prancing a-bloody about. Fridge door kept bursting open, so much stuff. She gave me a poncy scarf, silk one side, cashmere the other. Can you imagine? I’ve just been and flogged it.–I couldn’t stand the whole scene. I left. Went to London.’

‘I’m sorry’ said Grace. Standing still, the weather had begun to bite into her. She put her hands in her pockets, shifted her weight. Her feet were so cold she could not feel them.

‘So,’ said Lucien, inhaling ostentatiously again, ‘are you not going to ask me back for a cup of tea, this bloody freezing morning?’ He gave her one of his most endearing smiles. But behind the question Grace saw a hint of mockery. An array of alternative replies flared through her mind. One thing was quite sure: she could not answer truthfully. Lucien would have no patience with William’s presence as an excuse.

‘I’m not sure it’s the perfect time,’ she said with a small frown to indicate she wished it were–‘I’m on my way to the surgery. Got to get this ankle looked at …’

This time Lucien’s smile was nakedly mocking. He nodded several times.

‘Aren’t you going in the wrong direction?’ he asked.

‘I was just going round the block, seeing how I got on. I mean, if it didn’t hurt too much then I wouldn’t have bothered the doctor. As it is, it does …’ She trailed off, wishing now she had told the truth.

Lucien seemed convinced. His scorn melted fast.

‘Sorry I doubted you,’ he said. “S’matter of fact, I was thinking of coming round to pass on an invitation. Seems Lobelia is all psyched up to meet you. Really wants to. Tea and cakes and stuff. What d’you think?’

Grace swallowed.

‘That would be nice, sometime.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘This afternoon?’

‘Why not?’ Lucien’s look challenged her. ‘Get it over with.’

William never asked where she was going in the afternoons. She had nothing planned. She could, in all truth, get her ankle bandaged at the surgery: Lucien’s house was only a few yards down the road. Besides, she was curious, always had been, about the dreadful Lobelia. She had been looking forward to this invitation, had almost given it up. The idea, though unnerving in its spontaneity, was appealing.

‘I think I could manage that,’ she said. ‘About four o’clock, shall we say?’

Lucien nodded. He ground the half-smoked cigarette into the pavement.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. She’s off her trolley. She’s a whore, a self-obsessed trollop only after one thing–

‘Lucien.’ Grace put a hand on his arm.

‘Well, two things. Money comes into it.’

‘I’ll be the judge for myself. No need to go on.’

‘As for her appearance–you’ll be shocked. Don’t know how you’ll manage to keep a straight face.’

‘I expect I’ll manage.’ Grace wanted to be on her way, now. The cold was dreadful, and there were so many things to reflect upon before the visit this afternoon. ‘I must–’

‘You be on your way. I’ll tell Lobelia to get out the red carpet. May see you there.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘Mind you, if you two get together, where does that leave me?’

He swung round on a heel, hunched his shoulders and strode off down the road. Despite the cold, longing to move to restart her circulation, Grace remained where she was for a few moments, staring at his receding figure. It was hard to know what to make of the meeting. Lucien had done nothing to assure her their friendship had resumed. Rather, he had given the impression that although he was not displeased to see her, and had carried out a duty by asking her to come and meet Lobelia at last, she had become part of the flotsam of his past. Not needed any longer.

After a while she turned back in the direction of home, heart still battering.

It came to William, in the blessed silence of his study, that to ring Bonnie and enquire after her Christmas would not be untoward. There would be no reason for her to suppose that his call was spurred from any motive other than friendliness. There was a rehearsal tomorrow morning, but he did not think he could survive another day without hearing her voice. Besides, in the long sleepless hours of the night, the thought returned to him that before he made another attempt to expunge Grace, he should be quite sure that Bonnie would be willing to take her place. It would indeed be foolish to murder a much loved wife and be left with nothing. But in the early days of his obsession with Bonnie, his own crazed desire had blasted all reason. He had been foolish–he now saw–in his blindness. And even as this new uncertainty about Bonnie’s willingness to be part of his plan grew, so did he find that the desire to murder his wife was on the wane. His New Year’s resolution, he decided, was to make assurance double sure. If Bonnie gave any further hint that his feelings were reciprocated, and she fancied spending her life with him, then he would make just one more attempt at the foul deed. But if there was any doubt, then he would let the whole matter rest: continue to want her, from afar, but remain with his dear, good Ace.

William made a place for himself on the sofa between the piles of music. He put the telephone on his lap. His hands were unsteady–he was beginning to realise that general shakiness of limb was the price of a troubled conscience. He tried to think of things to calm himself: waterfalls, the shade of willows, cucumber sandwiches. He pictured Grace at work downstairs, earnest little head bent over her daisies. Since the dreadful Lucien had ceased his morning visits, she had retained her old serenity over the toast and marmalade. Much less fidgety, thank goodness. Less flicking her eyes towards the window, thinking her anticipation went unobserved. William appreciated that the repellent lout was Grace’s latest good cause, but she’d done more than her bit for him. His sudden disappearance was a merciful relief. If he ever returned … William would be bound to express his opinion very firmly.

He picked up the telephone, hand still fretting. Dialled Bonnie’s number–engraved more deeply than any other number had ever been in his memory. She sounded breathless: the delicious breath-lessness he knew so well when she dashed in, never quite late, for rehearsals, bosom erupting gently under angora of opal grey, or a childish blue or pink–

‘William! Sweet of you to ring. How are you? How was your Christmas?’

‘Quiet. I was just ringing to enquire after yours. No trouble in Northumberland?’

‘Trouble?’

‘I mean, you had a good time? Family all well?’ Here, he was presuming she had a family. He had no idea what it consisted of, apart from her mother. How pathetically little he knew of her.

‘All great, thanks. We had snow. Wonderful. I walked the dogs for miles over the hills. Needed the exercise.’

‘Ah.’ He could just see her: bunched up in warm jackets and scarves, storming up the stony hillsides, dimples ablaze, sheep scattering, dogs–Great Danes, Labradors, wolfhounds?–the background barking he so often heard meant nothing to him–bounding about beside her. He wasn’t a dog man, could only guess she was not a lapdog girl. God what he would have done to march beside her holding her cold little hand–or, more likely, not holding it.

‘And you?’

William, entangled in his fantasy, floundered for a moment.

‘Dorset,’ he said at last. Heavens, he must pull himself together or the girl would think something was amiss.

‘Bet you and Grace didn’t do much walking. I can’t imagine you walking.’

‘We did a bit … up the cliffs. But, Bonnie …’ He squeezed shut his eyes, fighting to control his voice. ‘I know there’s a rehearsal tomorrow. But it happens I have to come into Aylesbury this afternoon to the dentist.’ He was so shocked by this unexpected, unpremeditated lie that he had to stop. What on earth was he saying? But yet again having entered in so far, he could only continue.

‘Poor you. Something bad?’

‘Nothing very much. It was just that when it’s over it occurred to me that I should avail myself of the opportunity to be given a tour of your flat …’

‘William! Honestly!’ Bonnie laughed. ‘I thought I’d managed to cure you of your verbal flatulence. A few days apart, and back it comes. What you mean is, you want to drop in for a cup of tea?’

‘Would that be convenient?’

‘Why not?’ Her voice had surely lost a little of its bounce. Should he retract the suggestion.

‘I mean it was only a silly idea. I wouldn’t want to impose.’

‘It’s a lovely idea. I’ll expect you whenever.’ She gave him the address, said she had to dash, her voice full of warmth and friendliness again. And in just four hours he would be with her, alone.

The thought left William incapable of any immediate action. He flung himself further back into the sofa, aware that hundreds of sheets of music were falling, slipping over him, scattering on the floor. He shut his eyes, the better to imagine: but not to imagine too far. What would happen? Would there be a chance at last to declare himself? Could he extract from Bonnie some inkling of what she might feel for him? Dear God: it would probably be his only chance. He prayed that the right words would come to him, and that the chance would not be wasted.

William had merely picked at his fishcakes at lunch. Grace’s pale face signalled her surprise: she was used to appreciation–daily appreciation, he had learnt, brought its rewards–for her cooking. Perhaps, though, he thought, it was her ankle that hurt more than her feelings. But in his hurry to be off he somehow forgot to ask how it was, now tightly bandaged. And Grace said nothing. Dear Grace.

In his state of nervous excitement his driving suffered. Every few yards he seemed to do something that annoyed other drivers. People hooted and signalled rudely at him–all very puzzling considering his careful keeping to the kerb at a very slow speed. Eventually, partly because he was far too early, and partly to seek a few moments’ respite from taunts of the modern motorist, he drew into a garage There, as always, he had trouble filling the car with petrol. He had written several letters, both to The Times and the Minister of Transport, suggesting that the return of attendants to fill cars for customers would be a step back towards the decent service motorists had been accustomed to a couple of decades ago–but had received scant gratitude for his idea. Hands still unsteady, he did his best. But the eager pump fulfilled its job long before William had expected, gushing wasted petrol not only over the flanks of the small car, but also over both legs of his trousers. There was nothing he could do, he realised, about smelling of petrol–the sort of thing Bonnie would notice and perhaps notch up as incompetence on his part. He would just have to make a joke of it. Self–mockery, lightly put, usually worked in such circumstances.

To fill more time, William studied flowers in their Cellophane cones, lined up on a bank of green plastic shelves on the forecourt. Daisies, chrysanthemums, and the odd freesia bowed among dull greenery, a couple of bunches of those roses he had never seen growing on any bush–two feet of stalk topped with a hard nipple, no less, of dark, scentless flower that never opened. Where did they come from, such roses? Who on earth found them desirable? Bonnie would know such flowers were garage flowers, but perhaps if he bought her enough she would still be quite pleased. He banged round his pockets for his wallet.

Moments later he found himself stuffing half a dozen lustreless bunches on to the back shelf of the car. He realised too late that his view was now impaired, and would cause further hazards. But he had not the heart to stop and rearrange them, and continued on his careful way.

Despite his lingering, William arrived half an hour before the appointed hour. This was a good thing, he thought: he’d have time to calm down. Perhaps to work out his approach–though each time he tried to calculate what that might be, in the last few hours, his mind had turned to an unhelpful blank.

He parked very skilfully alongside the kerb a few yards from the small fifties block of flats about which Bonnie had enthused on a number of occasions. To the untrained eye it looked pretty ordinary. A narrow strip of grass and just one weeping silver birch divided the communal front door from the road. No view to speak of. But Bonnie must have rented it for its convenience to Grant’s barn and rehearsals, and no doubt it was a great deal cheaper than whatever she had left in London. However unprepossessing inside, she would have made it agreeable, of course. William had complete faith in Bonnie’s taste (based only on her velvet evening dresses and her choice of biscuits when it was her turn to go out for elevenses). He watched the hands of the car clock creep intolerably slowly towards three thirty, and wondered for how long his heart could bash so hard without exploding.

Bonnie’s flat was on the first floor. There was no lift. William clattered up the lino–tiled stairs, one hand on the wall for steadiness. Then he was there, outside her front door. A cheap, uniform front door, no embellishments, but painted the grey of so many of her jumpers. Trust Bonnie to choose such a colour to distinguish her territory … To while away just one more moment before ringing the bell, William glanced up at the floor above. Its front door was an identical grey … With a pang of melancholy William was forced to assume this was a regulation colour for all front doors in the block. Strange how profound love endows the object with all manner of mistaken attributes, he thought, and rang the bell.

Bonnie faced him before he had a moment to compose himself. There was a brief flash of her beaming face, then her arms were round his neck, noisy kisses on his cheeks. She smelt of summer flowers–sweet peas, perhaps, though there was also a hint of onion, of garlic.

‘A visit at last,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never come. You and Rufus–you haven’t exactly shown much interest in my new flat. You haven’t exactly been pressing for invitations, have you?’ The dimples flashed, William shook his head, registering the fact that Grant did not come into the category of friends who had shown no interest in her new habitat. But then obviously … it was Grant’s friend who owned the flat, Grant who found it for her. No doubt she had rewarded him with the occasional drink, or supper. William did not like to think how many times–though innocently–Grant had been round. He did not want to calculate the depth of Grant’s acquaintance with Bonnie’s dream flat.

William followed her into the sitting room, ungrounded by the warmth of her welcome.

‘Well, this is it. Nothing very grand, as you can see. Sit yourself down. I’ll make a pot of tea.’

No, it was nothing very grand, William was bound to admit–indeed nothing very memorable or even particularly agreeable. A very standard room, in William’s opinion–low ceiling, rather grubby white walls, random bits of furniture, uncomfortable–looking chairs, a dying pot plant at the blank little window. Altogether disappointing, surprising. William had been so sure that however fundamentally plain her apartment, Bonnie would have made it into a sort of magic cave of warmth and colour. He had imagined bright cushions, lively pictures, a mass of plants. As it was the room indicated nothing of Bonnie’s life. You could never have guessed she was so good at velvet dresses and delicious biscuits. But then perhaps she just hadn’t had the time to start work on it yet: or perhaps she could not be bothered. In any case, it was of no consequence. The fact was he was here at last, and he must take his chance.

Bonnie was pouring boiling water into a teapot in the kitchen end of the room. He saw she had laid a small tin tray with two cups and a plate of ginger biscuits–the especial thin ones that she always managed to find.

‘I have to say I’m feeling pretty low,’ she said.

William’s heart leapt. He was good at ministering to those in a miserable state. There had been many occasions on which his sympathetic listening had apparently been of great help. He knew the best thing was not to enquire why her state of gloom had come about. She would tell him in her own time.

‘I had to make the decision to leave the dogs in the north,’ she said after a long moment of sad reflection. ‘It simply wasn’t practical having them here. No time ever to exercise them properly, and there’d been complaints from the neighbours about their barking.’

As high as William’s heart had leapt at the thought of her predicament, now he knew its cause it plummeted equally low. There was very little he could do to console someone for the absence of a dog–consolation that came from the heart, that was. He hated dogs. Indeed he had often thought that should Bonnie ever agree to his proposal, the problem of the dogs was one he would dread confronting.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ he said, ‘but I daresay they’re much happier in Northumberland, all those walks.’ He hoped he sounded suitably dolorous.

‘I miss them dreadfully.’

‘I bet you do.’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Bonnie nodded towards the low armchair beside the electric fire. Its wicker bones were covered with a colourless rug made pale with white dogs’ hair. Having no wish to add to the mess of his petrol-stained trousers, William chose instead the slightly more buoyant looking sofa, half occupied by Bonnie’s viola. Its springs squawked as he sat, reminding him of the sofa at home. Dog talk now out of the way–with any luck Bonnie would spare him the details of her loss–he felt happier, though uncertain as to how to proceed.

Bonnie settled in the dog chair, put the tray down on a low table of faux wood and spindly legs, much like one he had once seen in Grant’s barn. She was lit from the silky grey light that came through the high window. Even in its poor wattage her hair shone like a bird’s wing, the fringe so long that as usual it all but hid her eyes. It was all William could do not to leap up and ravish her, clutch her round body to him till she squealed for more. He shifted. Above her, on the shelf above the fire, was a photograph of her and a good–looking man, arms about each other. Bonnie followed his look.

‘My brother,’ she said.

‘Really?’ God, the relief. William could see that if this room was all he was going to be shown of the flat–and as it was far from a grand mansion of architectural delights, to ask for a tour would not be appropriate–he would be unable to find many clues. Bonnie handed him a cup of tea, a plate and biscuits. ‘You’ll enjoy Bournemouth next week,’ he said. ‘We’ve a wonderful following there. Always a marvellous audience. The Dvořák … They love that.’

‘Have you come here to talk about Bournemouth?’ Bonnie pushed back her fringe. For a second there was a flash of wide, pale forehead and the ice-coloured eyes. Teasing, William thought.

‘No.’

‘Funny thing is,’ she said after a while, ‘outside your music I know nothing of your life, despite a few hints in Prague.–You and Grace. Can’t imagine it.’

The idea of her trying to imagine it was surprising. It brought a measure of comfort. It meant that during some of the long hours that he had spent thinking of her, she had been thinking of him.

‘Grace and I, we’ve been married a long time. Very happy and all that. She’s a woman in a million. All the same …’ He clasped his hands, raised his shoulders with the effort of an attempt to say what he desperately wanted Bonnie to know. ‘All the same, I’m gravely alone.’

There was a moment’s silence in which Bonnie looked as if she wanted to laugh, then restrained herself.

‘Gravely alone! I know what you mean, though gravely probably applies more to you than to me.’

‘Quite. I can’t imagine you grave.’

‘But you can imagine me happily alone?’

‘I suppose so. I hope so.’

‘Because that’s what I am.’

Whither, now? He had dared, she had almost understood. But they seemed to be slithering off the path. He must play for time, return more gently.

‘You’re set up nicely here,’ he said, feeble in his attempt.

Bonnie shrugged.

‘Haven’t done much yet, as you can see. Not sure I can be bothered. I don’t see myself here for ever.’

‘You’re thinking of moving?’

‘Nothing definite. But I think of this as a temporary place. It doesn’t feel like anywhere permanent, does it?’

William shook his head, which was spinning. The room was becoming a quicksand into which he felt himself sinking. Did Bonnie mean that her time with the Elmtree was temporary, too? That she was thinking of moving on? But to question her further would be to risk an answer he had no desire to hear.

There was a long silence.

Then William said: ‘Do you ever think about Clara Schumann?’ ‘Not much, why?’ Again Bonnie halted a smile. William’s switches of thought confounded her, amused her. ‘That poor woman. I think about her a lot.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Well, she wore herself out, didn’t she? Wore herself out loving. But it was Brahms I feel really sorry for.’

‘He gave her the rough time, didn’t he? Wouldn’t commit himself, used her, dropped, her, used her–’

‘Oh, all that. I don’t deny that.’ William sighed, braced himself. ‘But the Julia Schumann part of the story …’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Clara’s daughter. He’d known her as a young child. Watched her grow into a glorious young creature, apparently. Brahms was obsessed by her. Couldn’t do anything about it, of course, because of Clara.’ There, he’d said it. Some inspiration had produced this introduction to what he wanted to say. Bonnie looked interested.

‘Old man’s lust?’ she asked.

‘I suppose you could call it that.’

‘Sad.’

‘Where’s the dividing line–lust, love? Such cases are always sad. Though I don’t know why they’re always assumed to be nothing but lust. Love is often the driving force.’ He said this lightly, with a smile. Bonnie responded–unless he imagined it, in the fading light, with a slight deepening of her pink cheeks. His inspiration now seemed to be failing him. Here was another impasse, and he had no idea where to turn next.–‘But you, Bonnie: what’s in store for you? How do you see your future? Any plans?’

Bonnie laughed. She probably had no notion of the importance of his questions.

‘How can I possibly answer such things? I’m far too young to be sure of concrete plans. All I know is I just want to go on playing and playing, getting better. I take each day as it comes–don’t you remember doing the same, when you were young?’

William took two slow sips of tea, stung. He glanced at his watch. Time was running out.

‘Daresay I did, though I remember always being rather boringly precise about what I imagined was to happen next. You could say I was old even when I was young …’ He smiled again, attempting to win her back on his side. Not having planned a strategy had been foolish: things had not gone the way he had hoped. There had been no indication of reciprocated feeling–and now he was lost. Soon he would have to go. Just one more question, jokingly put …

‘But your heart–not engaged? You must have hundreds of young men queuing up for your favours …’ God, he sounded so old. Intrusive, too, despite the lightness of tone. But this time Bonnie laughed with a depth of good humour.

‘Honestly, William! Do you ask your son all these questions? But, no, right, I’ll tell you. You’re sitting next to the love object that most engages my heart.’ She looked at her viola. ‘OK? But I promise you one thing, in case it’ll bring any comfort. If ever things change, and I have to leave the Elmtree, I’d give you masses of warning, I promise.’

‘That would be very kind.’ But that was not what he meant at all.

‘As it is, that’s far from my mind. But you could replace me in a flash, no trouble.’

‘Never.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘You’d be irreplaceable.’ William’s hand suddenly shook so hard he had to put down the cup.

‘That’s very sweet of you, but not true.’

‘You’ve probably no idea how high a regard I … we all have for you.’

‘And you’ve probably no idea how much I realise how lucky I am to be part of such a quartet. Beyond my wildest dreams, honestly.’

‘Your only trouble is that you’re so damn beguiling I sometimes want to–’

The telephone rang, cutting him off. Bonnie leapt up. On the way over to answer it she patted William affectionately on the shoulder. As soon as she picked up the receiver she giggled. William put his head in his hands. He could not be sure if she had taken in his last crumbled declaration–and if she had, was she affronted, amused, pitying, what?

‘N–o,’ Bonnie was saying. ‘About five, I should think. Come about five.’ She put down the receiver and returned to the fire, but not to sit. William glanced at his watch: twenty to the hour. He must go before she was forced to suggest his leaving. He stood, drooping in his failure. Bonnie did not urge him to stay. In the skidding of her look, the flicking of her skirt, he observed a slight impatience for him to be off. Her next visitor was the one that mattered–of that there was no doubt. His thanks, their farewells, were brief.

‘It was lovely that you came, William, really … any time.’ Kisses on both cheeks again. Then the sad journey down the stairs, the melancholy of knowing he had achieved nothing, messed up his chance. Plainly it would take much more work on his part to persuade Bonnie where her free heart (could that be the truth? he wondered) could come to rest. He must gather his strength, his patience: think more clearly about how to win her, how to do away with Grace …

The streetlights were on, their beams shimmying down into an evening mist. William unlocked the car. He saw the back shelf still crowded with the garage flowers he had forgotten to give her–probably a good thing. Might have been over the top, caused her more embarrassment. Waste of money, but still. Grace wouldn’t want them … He’d have to stop and throw them over a hedge on his way home.

William drove more jerkily than usual, invoking the rage of more than the usual number of motorists. He tried to turn his weary mind to the comfort of the warm, familiar kitchen that awaited him at home. Scones, perhaps. Strawberry jam. Grace. His dear, innocent Ace.

But he found the house in darkness. She was out–where, for heaven’s sake? It was unlike her not to be back from shopping by five thirty. As he turned the key in the door it occurred to him that this final nail in his despondency was more than a little peculiar, considering his ultimate plan was for Grace to be gone for ever. At approximately the same time that William was waiting outside Bonnie’s door, wondering what to expect, Grace stood outside Lobelia’s house in an identical state of nervous anticipation. She rang the bell, waiting to be faced by the vulgar, hedonistic woman she had heard so much about.

Lucien opened the door. Grace was immediately surprised by his scarlet jersey, new and expensive looking: very unlike him. Perhaps, Grace thought, he did not sell every present from his mother. Her look rose from his jumper to his face. He stared at her with dead eyes, as if he had just woken and did not recognise her.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said at last, and indicated she should come in.

There were no lights on in the narrow hall that Grace had seen on her charitable visit. Mournful wooden panelling and shut doors made it near dark.

‘She’s in there, or will be,’ said Lucien. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall. ‘Go on in. I’ve got to go out.’ He moved towards the open front door.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ Grace knew he would scorn such conventional politeness, but dreaded the awkwardness should he disappear with no word.

‘You’ll recognise each other.’ He gave the faintest smile and was gone, banging the door behind him.

Grace stood at a loss in the hallway. The rudeness of him, she thought. For a moment, angry, she contemplated leaving, too. It had been his idea, this meeting: the least he could have done was to have introduced her to his mother, made a little polite small talk before leaving them on their own. But to leave now, the arrangement having been made, would be as badly behaved as Lucien. Grace went to the door he had indicated, knocked, and went in.

The room was empty. No lamps lit in here, either. It took Grace a while to accustom her eyes to the dim geography of the room, lighted only by a darkening sky over a narrow garden outside. It was a cheerless place: too many dark armchairs herded together like animals before a storm, shoals of tasselled cushions clinging to the sofa, a reproduction of Landseer’s Stag at Bay over the fireplace. Grace unbuttoned her coat, wondered what to do. Lucien had not alerted his mother to her arrival: maybe, in his perverse mood, he had not even told her the time Grace had arranged to be here.

She sat on one of the Dralon-covered chairs. On a small table beside her there was a photograph of an enchanting small boy in a silver frame. Lucien, she supposed, and sighed. How on earth had such a sweet innocence turned to … whatever it was he had become now? Ten minutes passed very slowly.

Then there was the sound of footsteps upstairs. Grace stood, doing up the buttons again. She faced the door. It opened. The woman who stood there was backlit by a single light in the hall that she must have switched on. Grace could only see that she was small and thin, in her mid–or late–sixties. Probably the housekeeper, she thought. From what Lucien had said, Lobelia did little in the house herself.

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman.

‘Grace Handle, Lucien’s friend. He told me Mrs Watson wanted to meet … He arranged that I should come this afternoon–’

‘You’re Grace Handle?’

‘I’m sorry–weren’t you expecting me?’

The woman came into the room, shutting the door behind her. She touched a switch. Balloons of cautious light spread from various lamps.

‘I’m sorry to sound so unwelcoming. No, I wasn’t expecting you. Lucien is always a little imprecise about when things are going to happen. He simply said one day you would come.’ Her small mouth twitched. Grace could now see her clothes: all grey, a crochet cardigan over a demure silk blouse.

‘And you … are?’ Grace was still fighting to establish the woman’s identity. Perhaps she was an elderly relation living here: someone Lucien had failed to mention. The woman clasped her hands, looked puzzled.

‘I’m Lobelia, Lucien’s mother.–Won’t you sit?’

Grace’s own amazement was reflected in Lobelia’s small, pale face. United in their disbelief, both women stared at each other in astonished silence before finally sitting in two of the armchairs that faced each other. Grace was the first eventually to break the silence.

‘I have to say this is very strange. I was expecting … someone quite different.’

A frown gathered on Lobelia’s forehead. She dabbed at it with one hand, and made an effort to replace it with a weary smile. ‘As was I,’ she said quietly.

‘There can’t be any confusion, can there? It’s the kind of thing that makes one think one is losing one’s senses.’

‘A feeling I’ve lived with for many, many years,’ said Lobelia. ‘Do take off your coat, or is it not warm enough in here? I’ll get some tea in a moment. But I think we should just … establish the truth of the matter first.’

‘I think we should.’

Lobelia sat very upright, tiny in the huge chair, hands clasped on her grey flannel knee, ankles crossed. She reminded Grace of a nineteenth-century governess.

‘The fact is–and forgive the surprise I’m afraid I could not hide–I imagined someone so entirely different … that it’s difficult to believe you’re the Grace Handle I’ve been hearing about for so many months.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘The woman Lucien had described a thousand times is a tyrant, no less. A–hussy: could that be the word? Vulgar, loud, demanding … He said he met you when you came round collecting for some charity.’

‘That’s true,’ said Grace. Her chest had become so tight it was hard to expel the words.

‘And in those few minutes you became totally … obsessed by him.’ Lobelia looked down at the floor. ‘Please forgive the word, and all its connotations. But it’s the word he used, over and over again. She’s deranged, Mother, he used to say. After me every moment. Once, he even suggested the police should be called in–protection from the nuisance you were causing him.’

The women’s eyes met.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Grace. ‘And yet I must, because it’s very close to all he told me about you.’

‘And that was?’

‘It would be painful to tell … But in essence I was under the impression you were a fiend of a mother–cruel, uncaring. There was some man he referred to with considerable dislike–’

‘Some man?’

‘Some … friend. A certain consumption of drink was mentioned.’

‘Drink! Oh my God. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. There’s been no man friend in this house for thirty years. There’s nothing to drink but sherry for the vicar’s occasional visits. What was he saying?’

‘There must be some explanation,’ ventured Grace, kneading so hard at her wedding ring that it hurt her finger.

Lobelia took a small linen handkerchief, thin as a wisp of ectoplasm, from her cuff, and dabbed at her nose. Her eyes were dry, but beaten.

‘There is,’ she said. ‘There’s an explanation, but no solution.’ The handkerchief was refolded, put away. ‘There are many modern names for his trouble. As far as I’m concerned he’s just mentally ill. Mad.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Grace, after a long silence. She knew she must concentrate only on Lobelia. This was no moment to think of herself.

‘I’ve lived with the hell of it since he was twelve or thirteen. He’s been seen by everyone you can think of: in and out of those curing places. Nothing’s done a scrap of good, made a jot of difference. It’s rather–well, worn me down.’ Lobelia flattened her hands on her knees. ‘The trouble is, I’ve never been able to give up hope, to accept the fact there is no hope. So often, you see, he’s almost convinced me he’s as sane as the next person–as sweet as they come. Funny, considerate, touching … then at the flick of some invisible switch he becomes someone else, an enraged, frustrated, wild creature it’s hard to recognise.–He’s a congenital liar, always has been. The truth does not exist for him. It’s not a concept he’s ever been able to understand. In many respects I’ve learnt to recognise the lies: but even after so many years he can catch me out … In the case of you’–she looked straight at Grace–‘I initially thought he was making it up, all these stories about this wild woman who lived down the street. But the stories were so consistent, went on for so long, with such venom, that I thought there must be something in it. Perhaps I could help, I thought, by meeting this raving Grace. That’s why I suggested a meeting. Long ago I suggested it.’ She paused to give a difficult smile. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘the thought of us here, so astonished by each other, is causing him a lot of amusement …’ She was bitter, dry.

‘I imagine it is.’

‘Tea–I’m so sorry. Can I get you something?’

‘No, thank you. Really.’ Swallowing would be impossible.

‘When he comes home this evening there will be that hyena laugh all over the house–that dreadful, dreadful laugh. Manic. And his animal noises. Sometimes he howls like a wolf.’

Grace nodded.

‘If he comes home,’ Lobelia went on. ‘Often he doesn’t. Often he’s away for days–weeks sometimes. Comes back with no warning, stinking clothes, thin as a rake, never says where he’s been. He’s always in need of money. If I refuse him he …’ She looked round the room. ‘So many of my ornaments gone. All the silver. But what can I do? Turn him over to the police? Turn in my own son?’

‘Has no one been able to help?’

‘No one’s been able to help because he’s not prepared to cooperate. He’s not interested in changing. He seems to get a strange kick out of his weird life. I have a horrible feeling he’s–well, as you can imagine, spurred by drugs. I never ask, of course. I never admonish him. I’ve been trying to keep up my role of the one person who is consistently kind and understanding, no matter what. The only way I’ve ever succeeded has been to assure him that my love is unconditional. It doesn’t get me–or him– anywhere. He just takes advantage.’ Her position in the chair had slumped a little now. She gathered the thin revers of her cardigan across her chest, looking as chilled as Grace, still in her coat, was feeling.

‘Christmas,’ Lobelia went on, ‘this Christmas. All had gone relatively well for twenty-four hours. He gave me a pot of cyclamen–I hate to think where it came from. We were just in the middle of our Christmas lunch–I’d cooked non–Christmas things because he hates that sort of food–when suddenly he got up, face like thunder, said he couldn’t stand any more and walked out. He only came back this morning, still wearing my present of a nice jersey. He didn’t mention anything about your coming this afternoon, that’s why I was taken aback by finding you here. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t think of it,’ said Grace. Pity for this wretched woman had seized her body, tightening her chest so that it was hard to breathe. ‘Compared to you, my experience of Lucien is nothing: but I’ve become used to his unpredictable ways. And, like you, I’ve seen his other side, so many times. His sympathy, his interest, his encouragement. It has to be said I’ve grown very fond of him.’

The women’s eyes met again.

‘I love him,’ said Lobelia. ‘I love him whatever …’ She kept her silence for a moment. ‘I try endlessly to work out where it all went wrong. His father walked out when he was six. They got on so well together. Perhaps it was something to do with that. It must have been something to do with that. Desertion. Betrayal. The standard results.–His father went to live in Australia. No contact with Lucien ever again. You can understand …’

‘Of course.’

‘I did my best. But a woman on her own can’t hope to be both mother and father. When he began to go off the rails there was no one strong enough to discipline him. One thing led to another. And his hate for me, the woman who caused his father to leave, as he sees it, seemed to grow. I’ve failed him completely. But I can never give up hope. I can never give up believing that one day something will finally snap and he’ll be magically changed back into a normal, loving son

‘Meantime,’ ventured Grace, ‘aren’t you afraid, living with him? I mean, your safety … Do you ever consider that?’

‘I’m used to his rages.’ Lobelia shrugged. ‘He’s violent sometimes, but never towards me. Throws things about, bangs doors, abuses me in obscene language–but never causes any harm. I’m used to him. Perhaps what might appal other people has become the norm for me. Of course I live in fearful anticipation, wondering what he’ll do next. But no, I’m not afraid of his attacking me. I don’t think he’d ever do that. I’ve no worries about my own safety.’ She paused. ‘But you: what about you? I hope he hasn’t made your life too much of a misery? Threatened? Stolen?’

Grace slowly shook her head. She had no intention of adding to Lobelia’s troubles by telling of her own experience of Lucien’s misdeeds.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been aware of his unpredictability, his short fuse, his confusion and despair, sometimes. I think the constant adding to the stories and descriptions of you have been the only major deception … so puzzling. Perhaps it was his way of getting sympathy from both of us. But, as I said, I’ve grown fond of Lucien. He would come round, listen to me playing the piano, look at my rather minor little paintings … be full of encouragement. Often he was such good company. The difference in our ages seemed not to matter to him at all. You could say that he brought quite a … sparkle into my rather quiet life.’

Lobelia looked briefly gratified. Perhaps she had not heard a word in her son’s favour for many years.

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I’m relieved. And now we’ve met, now he’s negotiated to blow his fantasy, what will happen, I wonder?’

‘Perhaps, together, we could be of some real help,’ suggested Grace, aware of the feebleness of her remark. Two ordinary, well-meaning women were not the stuff of aid to one as disturbed as Lucien.

‘Perhaps we could,’ agreed Lobelia. Grace could see she had little faith in the idea either. ‘At least there will be no further point in his spinning ridiculous tales about the two outrageous women, Lobelia and Grace.’

Both managed a small smile.

‘We should keep in touch,’ said Grace.

‘We will. It’s wonderful to have met you, to know you’re so near if anything … But we must be absolutely sure not to let him think we’re in collusion behind his back. That would drive him over the edge.’

‘Of course,’ said Grace. She stood up, suddenly longing to be out of this dark, sad room. Wanting to be at home with William, muttering over his tea about the Bournemouth concert, unaware of Lucien’s betrayal raging in her heart. ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer,’ she said.

‘Please come again,’ said Lobelia, standing too.

‘Perhaps you’d come round and visit me one day? Lunch, or whatever would be convenient.’ She very much liked the idea of seeing Lobelia again: the possibility of friendship. But a look of confusion, fear, passed over Lobelia’s face.

‘I haven’t had much of a social life for years,’ she said, lightly. ‘But yes: one day, perhaps. I‘d enjoy that. Thank you.’

In the dust of the hall Grace saw that she was several inches taller than Lobelia, who glanced nervously towards the front door.

‘I daresay we’re both in a state of shock,’ she said, quietly, ‘having discovered–’

‘–what we’ve discovered. Yes, I daresay we are.’

There was a moment of touching awkwardness (as Grace thought later) when neither of them knew what kind of farewell was appropriate. Kissing the other on the cheek passed through both of their minds. But being women of a certain age and constraint, even the bond of Lucien was not enough to force the gesture of friends (as the young, these day, are wont to employ after only moments of acquaintance) into the meeting of what were, after all, still strangers. They held out tense hands at the same moment, shook briefly, but with a firmness that confirmed Grace’s hopes of a future friend was not the stuff of fantasy

‘Goodbye, Mrs Handle. And thank you.’

‘Grace. Please call me Grace.’

‘Well–goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Outside it was dark: mere frames of light round curtained windows. Streetlights shone glossily on to the bare branches of cherry trees, in their iron cages, that were planted randomly along the pavement. The cold cut into Grace’s body, ignoring the thickness of her coat. She hurried home–almost ran.

There, she realised the extent of her lateness. She had intended to be back long before William, and had failed. Guiltily, she removed his tea things from the kitchen table. Where was he? She wanted to tell him about her extraordinary afternoon now, not wait till supper. But even as the idea struck her, she knew it was foolish. He hated to be disturbed when he was working, and she imagined he was struggling over something to do with Bournemouth.

Automatically, Grace took carrots from the fridge, began to chop them. Her hands were trembling, clumsy. Lucien: how could he–? How could the man who had inspired that sparkle have been planning all along to rip her to pieces? However could she– surely a reasonably good judge of character–have been taken in by him, regarded him in many respects so highly? How could she never have been really afraid of him? The unease she had felt in the past was as nothing to the depths of the trepidation that shook her now. Released from her self-imposed composure in front of the pathetic Lobelia, Grace wanted to bellow her anguish, to beg William to protect her should Lucien ever appear in the house again.

She gave up on the carrots. Dragged herself upstairs, no longer caring about William’s annoyance at being disturbed. But when she reached the top floor she heard him playing. This was so unusual, his playing in the evening, she paused to wonder if anything had gone amiss in his own afternoon. A bad time at the dentist, perhaps.

Grace stood on the small landing outside his door, listening. She did not recognise the piece, but it was in a minor key. The sad melody kept disintegrating, like cloud. The notes, muffled through the door, rose and fell and chased each other warily, as if afraid to catch each other and destroy the pattern of despair. No: she could not go in. William must finish his piece innocent of her presence. They had always respected the other’s privacy in their various, rare times of suffering.

Grace turned to retrace her steps downstairs. But then, halfway down the top flight, she sank on to a stair and buried her head in her arms to weep unheard against the music. Her misery stretched wider and wider, like ripples in a pond of sluggish water. The discovery of Lucien’s insanity was bad enough: the thought of expelling him once again, completely from her life, which surely she now must do to protect herself and William from danger, was very much worse. It might even be impossible, she thought, as William played on and on.