An observer looking through the Handles’ kitchen window later that night would have been struck by the appearance of normality. Grace had bright–if wary–eyes: no trace of tears left. William, having returned from some amorphous land in which music magically restores, now showed no sign of the disappointment or self-condemnation at his own clumsiness that had racked him that afternoon. One of the great blessings of a marriage in which words are so few is that signals are accepted, unquestioned, respected. So if Grace had any intimation that William was troubled–the very slight shaking of his hand persisted–she had no intention of asking why. Equally, if William suspected Grace’s own afternoon had been in some mysterious way ruffled (and he did wonder at a certain flickering in her normally steady smile) then the decent thing was to keep his queries to himself. Unlike Jack and Laurel, who were forever ‘putting their feelings on the table and thrashing them out’, as they called it, Grace and William had learnt the luxury of privacy. Such was their trust in each other that jealousy never imposed. The code of behaviour that had established itself over the years, untroubled by analytical discussion, worked very well for them. They both knew, however, that should something that could not be shouldered alone enter either of their closed lives, then some indication to the other would not come amiss.
Grace considered this as she prodded at her sponge pudding. She had no appetite. William was helping himself extravagantly to custard. Grace judged the receptivity of his mood: the events of the afternoon pressed so hard upon her she felt compelled to recount, in a vague and general way, what had happened.
‘At last,’ she said, ‘I’ve met Lobelia, Lucien’s mother.’
‘Ah! That’s where you were,’ said William. ‘Unusual name.’
‘I was curious, as you can imagine.’
‘Meeting Lucien’s mother would not have been something that lit my own curiosity, but I quite understand yours. I mean, considering your high regard for her son.–Interesting, was it?’
‘Not at all as I expected. Lucien had given a very false picture of her.’
‘Never imagined he’d be much concerned with the truth.’ ‘Far from the appalling woman he described, she was rather nice. Cowed, gentle. I liked her.’
‘Any possibility of her becoming a friend?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘That would be good, my Ace.’ William was intent on more custard. ‘I mean, there’s not a rich mine of friends round here, is there? Perhaps this Lobelia woman could fill a gap. Be very convenient, living so near. As for young Lucien, he seems to have stopped using us as a free café. Good thing too.’
‘In many ways.’ Grace did not bother to conceal a small sigh. She could see that William’s concentration on the subject of Lucien and Lobelia was waning fast. She felt she had failed to lay strong enough clues. But some instinct stopped her from admitting her sense of trepidation: her desire for William’s assurance that, if Lucien came round again, he would be there to protect her. Equally she felt incapable of confessing the perverse feeling that, despite her horror at Lucien’s behaviour, she could not bear the idea of not seeing him again. And if friendship with Lobelia meant that Lucien–by his own hand–deserted her, then that potential friendship might have to be sacrificed.
‘Bournemouth: I’m driving down with Grant,’ said William, after a long silence in which his thoughts scurried eagerly away from Grace’s favourite topic of Lucien–a topic now unfortunately enlarged to include his mother.
‘Oh?’ Grace stirred herself. ‘That’s unusual.’
‘Rather a good plan. Grant and I haven’t had a moment together for ages.’ A further plan was so tentatively etched in his mind that he could not be sure of its outline. But its very existence meant that William looked forward to the drive with Grant.
‘What about Bonnie?’
‘Making her own plans. Taking a train from London, I think she said.’
‘Poor old Rufus. His car in this weather.’
‘Rufus’ll be all right. He’s bringing Iris in her car. She always loves Bournemouth. Wants to retire there.’ Bonnie danced before him, confused in the custard–smiling down at him as she stood before her grim little fireplace, mourning the loss of the dogs (for which, surely, he’d shown more than enough proper sympathy). Perhaps he had underestimated her friendliness, her regard for him. Perhaps, though not even conscious of it yet, at the back of her mind the idea that life with a violinist she declared she admired greatly was nudging its way into existence. The thought cheered William immensely. Tomorrow, facing her at rehearsal, he would make yet further sympathetic noises about the dogs, gradually worm himself into her heart. He might even suggest, if the concert went well as usual in Bournemouth, they open a bottle of champagne in the hotel bar afterwards. He had heard Bonnie telling Rufus of her fondness for champagne.
‘Anyway …’ he said. ‘My Ace.’
‘If Lucien ever appears here again one morning … please tell him he must go.’ Finally, desperate, Grace quietly exploded. William merely raised an eyebrow.
‘Happy to see him off, any time. The rotter. Glad you’ve come to see what a worthless rotter he is.’
‘William. He’s … ill. Don’t you see? I just want to make sure.’ She glanced round the room at their collection of things, remembering the cufflinks.
‘Anything you say, my Ace. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m at your service.’ He gave a small, distracted smile. William, said Bonnie in his mind, here I am, yours. For some peculiar reason he was beginning to feel more optimistic. He knew he would be able to face Bonnie at the rehearsal next morning with a look of outward calm, and real progress might surely be made after the Bournemouth concert. ‘You’re a good woman,’ he added, after a while.
Grace was pleased with the compliment, but puzzled, too: they were not words William had ever employed before to cheer her. But then he was in a slightly distracted state–no doubt about that. Worrying about Bournemouth, she presumed. But in the gentle flurry of clearing the supper things, and returning to her own thoughts of the afternoon, Grace soon forgot that William had addressed her so oddly, and smiled at her with a smile that looked as if it was destined for somewhere far beyond her.
William enjoyed travelling in Grant’s car. It was large, with soft comfortable seats, almost armchairs, very warm, and quiet. It occurred to him that perhaps he and Grace should turn in their rough little model for something more like Grant’s stately chariot, although neither of them would be capable of driving it with suitable aplomb.
The other pleasure was Grant as a travelling companion. He kept his eyes on the road, drove with a mixture of caution and dash that William could only admire. Also, he did not see the necessity of conversation unless something of real pertinence occurred to him. Indeed they listened to the whole of the Prague Symphony before either of them uttered a word. It was Grant who broke the silence, and he happened upon the very subject William was wondering if he could bring up in an innocent manner.
‘We’ll be at Bournemouth station in plenty of time to meet Bonnie,’ he said.
‘That’s good. You’re a nippy driver.’ William studied the profile he knew so well: large eyes, Roman nose, amused mouth. He had one of those timeless heads seen both in Greek statues and at contemporary bus stops. Something of a wild Roman about him–he’d be the only member of the Quartet who would look good in a toga–and yet something of the reticent Englishman, too. Grant was good–good in the biblical sense, which was something William admired profoundly. You could rely on him in a crisis (he had been a great help at the Christmas party). You could count on him to put others before himself. His foibles were trivial: disorganised (his imperviousness to the mess of the barn William could never understand). He was sulky, sometimes, stubborn; more awkward than was necessary when it came to the chair provided to sit upon at concerts up and down the country. As a cellist he was no Rostropovich. But, unhampered by ambition to be a star, his concern always to do his best as part of the Quartet–there, he could not be faulted. When finally some woman captured his restless heart, thought William, she would be unusually fortunate.
‘What was she doing in London?’
Grant shrugged.
‘Don’t ask me. She doesn’t keep me in touch with all her plans.’
Had he said any of her plans, William would have felt happier. As it was, he was stung to think some of her plans were imparted to Grant. Almost none of them did she tell him. But he was being ridiculous.
‘Can’t imagine her life, really, outside her time with us.’ He calculated this innocuous little opener might produce a nugget of information.
‘It’s good she’s moved to Aylesbury. Much easier.’
‘Easier for what?’ William sniffed.
‘Well, easier for her.’
‘You’ve seen her flat?’
‘I found it for her, if you remember.’
‘So you did. Does she seem to be happy there?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘That’s good.’ William liked the fact that Bonnie plainly had not told Grant about yesterday’s visit. He turned up the volume on the wonderfully uncomplicated-looking radio. Another musical interlude would give him time to work out his next step. But it was Debussy piano music, not Grant’s favourite sort of thing. He switched it off again.
‘I sometimes worry,’ he said, ‘that she’ll be off quite soon. I mean, she’s so young, so good. Someone will snap her up. Some job far more exciting and lucrative will lure her away.’
‘We went through all that when we decided to take her on,’ said Grant. ‘We all agreed it was a risk worth taking.’
‘So we did.’ William sighed. He felt a sudden desolation, more from the prospect of Bonnie leaving them than from the future of the Quartet. Perhaps now was the moment to put this to Grant.
‘Rufus and I,’ he said, ‘will have to think about retiring one day.’
‘No need to think about that. It’s not as if engagements are dropping off. In fact, with Bonnie, we haven’t been so in demand for ages, have we? Perhaps she’s given us a new life.’
‘I think she probably has. But the fact remains. Rufus and I … are probably past our prime. We should bow out on a high, shouldn’t we? But I like to think the Elmtree might continue in some form. I often wonder if you … could keep it on. With Bonnie, maybe. Shouldn’t be too hard to find a couple of excellent violinists. There’s so much young talent about.’
‘That could all be a possibility,’ said Grant.
‘Of course,’ went on William, after a decent interval, ‘if Bonnie got married, hitched up, involved with someone–you know the kind of thing I mean–then I suppose there’d be no chance of keeping her.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Grant shrugged again. ‘Depends. Women are so independent these days. Keep on with their careers, fit them in with children and so on.’
‘True.’ Pause. ‘As far as you know, does she have any sort of… arrangement?’
‘You mean a man?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘As I told you’–Grant was smiling–‘she keeps her cards pretty close to her beautiful chest.’
‘Her beautiful chest: yes indeed.’ William smiled too, to disguise his slight alarm. To hear Grant applying adjectives to Bonnie that he, William, only used in the most secret part of his mind was faintly disturbing. But he saw it was the moment to dare to push a little further. ‘Damn attractive young girl,’ he said.
Grant thought about this.
‘Though I don’t think she has the faintest awareness of her own attraction. Very unusual. She seems to be utterly without vanity.’
‘I’m with you there. A rare specimen of her generation.’
‘There are a lot of very good specimens among the young,’ said Grant. ‘You just don’t happen to know them.’
William enjoyed such mild teasing on Grant’s part.
‘Not among Jack and Laurel’s friends, there aren’t.’
They both laughed. William’s affection for Grant had been deepened by the journey, he thought, as they reached the outskirts of Bournemouth. What’s more, he was comforted by the knowledge that Bonnie’s private life was a mystery to Grant, too. It was right that it should be so, of course: there would be something distasteful about the single, attractive female member of the Quartet confiding her hopes and fears to her fellow players. And until she made a definite announcement about future commitment to some stranger, there remained hope that William–in a way he was still not able to work out–might win her lasting love and affection, her life.
When William had left for Bournemouth Grace stood at her desk knowing it was yet another morning in which extraneous matters would keep her from work. She flipped through her sketchbook, searching for a Pulsatilla Vulgaris Alba she had intended to finish. The pallid little flowers with their stiff little leaves so horribly carefully drawn, as she now saw, filled her with gloom. Her conviction that her talent–if talent you could call it–was very minor indeed pressed upon her. Perhaps the knowing, deep within her, that the ultimate book–if ever it was finished–was not going to be very good was the reason she so often found other excuses not to persevere. Because she did not really love what she was doing, but had chosen it as an alternative to her own piano playing when she met William, she did not feel compelled to keep at it in the sort of disciplined way that William practised his violin, always trying to reach a few steps closer to perfection. In the case of her flowers, Grace thought, she had neither the energy nor the desire to strive for perfection. And this morning, ankle still hurting, the knowledge of Lucien’s strange behaviour causing pain that could not be shifted, and William away enjoying himself for twenty-four hours, it occurred to her she should give up altogether. Stop pretending this magnum opus was worth pursuing. Throw it away, perhaps, and start something quite different. She picked up the folder of finished paintings, devoid of even less liveliness than the sketches. How could she have believed Lucien when he was so encouraging about her ability? Surely that was just another of his lies. Her work was fit only for the fire.
Grace lifted up a picture of a clump of violets, awkwardly placed on the page, it now seemed. She was about to tear it in half when the telephone rang. She put it down again.
‘Hello? Mrs Handle?’ A woman’s voice she did not know. ‘This is Lobelia Watson speaking.’
‘Oh, Lob–, Mrs Watson.’ Grace could not remember exactly what agreement they had come to about how to address each other. But it was nice to think her new, possible friend was ringing so soon. Usually, there were no calls for her in the morning.
‘I just thought you’d like to know that soon after you left yesterday Lucien came back in a high good mood. I haven’t seen him so happy for ages. He was laughing, joking, said it had given him a terrific kick, as he called it, thinking of us being so amazed by each other.’
‘I’m glad he enjoyed his little joke,’ said Grace. ‘I mean, I suppose it was quite funny.’
‘Well,’ said Lobelia, ‘it was rather protracted. Descriptions of you for months, building up this shocking picture. But Lucien’s like that–once he’s got an idea in his head he’ll stick to it, ever more devious. I suppose it’s all part of his … trouble. I suppose building up the picture was all part of his enjoyment.’
‘I’m glad he’s happy again.’
‘It’s always a relief, though it may not last long. He was so–touching, really, last night. Offered to make me a drink, even made a stab at laying the table. At supper we had a perfectly civilised conversation–history of art. Well, I was once a mature student.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘He said he wanted to find out everything I knew about Van Gogh, God knows why. He did go out later, but kissed me on the cheek on his way out. Nothing like that has happened for years. I couldn’t believe it. And this morning I found him down in the kitchen before me, boiling the kettle. All very mysterious. Wonderful.’
‘My goodness,’ said Grace.
‘He was the one who suggested I rang this morning, make some kind of plan for us to meet, perhaps. I was going to leave it for a few days … I was wondering whether …?’ Her eagerness, her uncertainty, quivered in Grace’s ear.
‘Why don’t you come to lunch on Friday?’ Grace suggested. ‘My husband will be away rehearsing, but it would be a lovely excuse to spend the morning cooking us something.’
‘That’s really so kind. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d love to.’ Lobelia paused. ‘Oh, with all these arrangements’–she gave another small laugh, as if awed by unaccustomed plans for lunching out–‘I almost forgot Lucien’s message. He said would I tell you he was planning to come round to see you today. He said he’d not been round for ages. He was looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace.
But when she had put down the telephone she realised that part of her was not looking forward to seeing Lucien at all. That is–it was so confused in her mind. She longed to see him, God knows she had missed him, but also, his madness confirmed by Lobelia, she was now afraid of being alone with him. What exactly made her suddenly nervous of his presence she could not explain. Perhaps she could not be sure she could contain her furious disappointment in him, and if she gave vent to her anger he might well react in some irrational, perhaps violent way. It would have been fine if William was upstairs in his study, ready to come to her rescue in the event of a sudden outburst of temper. But to be in the house alone with him, after several weeks of no real communication, filled her with apprehension. She thought of the wolf howling, the disappearance of the cufflinks, the extraordinary lies about Lobelia. She thought about the unknown part of his life, whose clues came in his dishevelled appearance, his large-pupilled eyes … and she felt a vulnerability that had never struck her before.
As she remained standing at her desk, looking at the mist-dull laurels outside in the drive, a sense of urgency added to her weighing-up. Suddenly she knew that she could not be here, alone, when Lucien arrived. It would be foolish–dangerous, even. She would be letting him down, of course: her absence might spur him to some future revenge. But she would have to take that risk. The important thing, right now, was to go. To check the locks on all the windows, set the alarm and be off.
As she rushed about the house no plan came to her of where she should go for twenty-four hours–she merely thanked God that William had gone with Grant and so the car was free. Something, she thought, would come to her. She stuffed her night things into a small bag, took the housekeeping money from the kitchen drawer so that there would be no need to stop at the bank. Ten minutes after Lobelia’s call, too amazed by her own unpremeditated actions to summon any coherent plan, she swirled out of the drive only wondering whether to turn right or left into the street.
After so many years of performing in public, William and the others knew that it was only very rarely that a group of performers would achieve ‘lift off, as Grant crudely called it. When it happened–sometimes spontaneously and surprisingly, sometimes anticipated due to a sympathetic location or a piece of music loved by them all–its boost would tide them over the less memorable evenings, as they waited for it to recharge them again at some unknown date.
Bournemouth, William was pretty certain, would be a lift-off evening. It was in Bournemouth the Elmtree had first won ecstatic reviews in the national press. They had returned every year, certain of support from their loyal fans–many of whom had been at that first concert. But the cheering thing was that for the last few years there had been many young people in the audience, too. William enjoyed finding a few pieces that would keep this new generation from thinking the Elmtree were strict traditionalists. Dvořák’s Quartet in F, the American, a regular every year that had come to be known as the ‘Bournemouth special’. An early Mozart, and Brahms were usually included in the programme, while the ‘spice’, the new element, was couched between them. This year William had chosen a piece by Alan Rawsthorne. He looked forward to the reaction.
The concert had been sold out for weeks–it always was. The hall was packed. A crowd of young was standing at the back. William led the players on to the platform–edged, as always, with ranks of poinsettias so popular with producers of musical concerts. He sensed a lightness of being, enjoyment, before a note was played. The applause–again, as always–conveyed the warmth of the audience’s welcome. At such times William was able for a few moments to put aside his usual feelings of inadequacy as a musician, and believe that the Elmtree Quartet could make some contribution to the happiness of a few hundred people.
William observed that Bonnie gave one of her extra special little bows, accompanied by a dimpled grin. At this, the applause thickened and William found himself smiling. He had kept meaning to say something to Bonnie: suggest she should join the others only in the one, uniform bow at the beginning. But he had not the heart to do so, and would say nothing this year–after all, it was her début, here. She had to introduce herself to the audience, many of whom might be mourning the loss of Andrew. And certainly, before she played a note, she seemed to have won them over. As her sleeves swung William caught sight of flashes of scarlet satin lining–she only wore the scarlet at especial occasions, he thought, and smiled again at the catcalls that came from the back of the hall. He took in the audience as best as he was able with lights shining into his face, and could just observe that in the front row, her tense, pale face shrouded in a filmy scarf, was Iris. For a second William was struck with guilt: perhaps he, like Rufus, should have brought his wife to this concert. But then Grace never liked staying in hotels, wasn’t keen on the Dvořák, was much happier at home in front of the fire …
A keen silence fell now as the musicians, sitting, tuned their instruments. William checked each one of them with a look. They were all ready to go. He nodded. They bent their way into the first teasing notes, the pastoral lilt, of Dvořák’s Quartet in F. All thoughts of Grace vanished as William disappeared into the music.
As the wife of William Handle, an annual guest at the hotel for many years, Grace was able to check in with no difficulty. She was shown up to his room–the red carpet of the endless corridor seemed to move towards her like those flat moving escalators at airports: an illusion caused by the long and tiring day, she thought.
The room had a high Edwardian ceiling and elaborate cornice. The furniture did not match the grandeur of the architecture, but the bed and chairs looked comfortable, and there was a television and a mini–bar. Grace, who was both hungry and tired, helped herself to a packet of crisps and a gin and tonic–very unusual, for her, but she felt she needed it, deserved it. She had driven at least a hundred miles, unable to decide where to stop, where to stay. It was only when alone in a tea shop in Marlborough that she realised she wasn’t that far from Bournemouth, and the sensible thing to do would be to join William, surprise him, and drive him home in the morning.
Grace, in the flush of the hotel room, began to enjoy herself. She took the drink into the bathroom–an extravagance of faux marble and white towels, and had a long bath. It occurred to her that if she hurried she could reach the concert hall in time for the second half of the programme. But she knew there would not be a seat. She did not fancy standing on her ankle, and she did not want to hurry. Her mind soon silvered with the gin, she felt safe in the steamy warmth of the bathroom, hidden in bubbles that smelt of pine forests, hair damp on her forehead. Later, in her dressing–gown, she watched the news on television, bad ankle resting on a Dralon stool. A second gin and tonic nudged the thought that, pleased and surprised though William would be to find her here, he might be less than delighted to find her in her dressing-gown, with its traces of breakfast on the lapels, badly in need of a wash. So she dressed again: the skirt she had been in all day and the spare (crumpled) jersey she had thrown, panicking, into her suitcase. Then she returned to the armchair to watch a cooking programme: only two or so hours and William would be here. She had made the right decision, she thought to herself. He would understand, be so pleased. Grace smiled to herself.
Their time on the platform was immeasurable. William was suddenly aware that the end had come when the audience, frozen in their delighted listening, returned from their private reflections to clap. Applause rolled on and on, an unstoppable surf crashing into his ears. He had broken his usual rule about encores and given in to Elmtree’s greatest fans with two. Andrew was plainly not mourned: Bonnie had won over this enthusiastic crowd completely. Her bows and smiles–even a small curtsey, which caused a trill of laughter among the clapping–were completely over the top, though William knew that once again he would never scold her. Dimples, shining hair, flashing velvet–no wonder they loved her.
Despite the enjoyment of the audience’s appreciation, William would not let himself spoil it all by staying too long. With a final, curt little bow–the applause still echoing like ocean depths–he led the players off the platform. Bonnie swirled about, drunk on what she called the ‘magic’. Grant muttered ‘bloody lift-off, several times, while even Rufus acknowledged with a smile that it had been the best evening for a very long time. William himself was dazed by the knowledge that they had played their best, and their best had been rapturously acknowledged–perhaps there was still a year or two left for the Elmtree in its present form. More forcefully in his mind was a picture of the near future–the hotel’s elegant bar where, for once, careless of economy, he would order champagne, see Bonnie’s delight. And then, and then … who knows? Were he to engage her in a conversation she felt compelled to continue, perhaps she would accompany him to the large room overlooking the sea (he had been adamant about that, when making the bookings), where they could explore the mini-bar and draw back the curtains to let the moon play tricks on the vast spaces of carpet patterned with red roses.
‘William!’ Bonnie had taken his arm. ‘They’re wanting you to sign.’
They were outside the stage door, a flurry of lights and cold breath ballooning up like captions from a dozen heads or so. William disentangled himself from his reveries, pulled a pencil from his pocket. Bonnie was right. Some old woman had shoved an autograph book up against his chest–politely, he guessed, for the real object of their desire was Bonnie. Scraps of paper, programmes and autograph books were swarming round her. She left William’s side, laughing. This sudden moment of fame, of public recognition, had ignited her spirits to heights William had never seen before. She was signing her name again and again, leaning against people’s shoulders and arms. William exchanged a look with Grant, who, like him, had been caught up in the slip stream of Bonnie’s popularity and had signed a few programmes. As no more requests for their signatures were forthcoming, they were happy vicariously to enjoy Bonnie’s success. Rufus was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t approve of such vulgar post-concert behaviour, as William knew, and had gone to meet his wife.
At last Bonnie finished signing for her fans, and joined William and Grant. The three of them walked back to the hotel, Bonnie deliquescent, giggling, incredulous.
‘I’ve never known anything like it! What an audience! And then all those mad people wanting my autograph … I mean, I never thought the day’d come.
‘Pipe down,’ said Grant, nicely. ‘We don’t want your head swollen.’ He took her arm.
‘Don’t be silly, Grant. I know it’s a one–night wonder.’ She offered her other arm to William, who quickly took it. This, he felt, was the meaning of walking on air. He wondered how far the one–night wonder would go. ‘Look at the sea,’ Bonnie squealed, suddenly anxious to shift attention from her own success. All three paused for a moment–a rum little trio, as William thought–and obediently looked out at the ebony water, its shallow crests just lit by the moon and the lights on the front. They listened without speaking to the percussion of waves breaking on the shore, then moved on again, more seriously.
For William, the emerging from darkness into light was always of particular significance, both metaphorical and physical. He had never grown accustomed to coming from the gloom of the subterranean passage of a concert hall into the shocking blast of the stage lights. So blatantly illuminated, he felt disagreeably exposed. His eyes were confused by the sudden change. It always took him some moments to dispel these feelings. (The others seemed not to be similarly affected.) But then he was a man who preferred shade to sun, shadow to revealing light. He regarded himself as one whose rightful place was in dark corners: not one who sought the limelight, or any other kind of light. In this respect he felt an affinity with Rufus’s wife.
But there were occasions in his life when this diffidence about moving from darkness to light, far from playing its usual unkind tricks, delighted him intensely. He could never tell when this was going to happen. The bonus moments struck him unawares. They had not happened often, but the few occasions were unforgettable. The first he remembered was as a young child. He had hidden beneath a table, blind in the darkness made by a thick cloth. Eventually tired of his game, worried by the anxiety in his parents’ calls, he crept out into a room astonishingly bright with lights and candles, and glass balls on the Christmas tree, each one stamped with a tiny reflection of part of the room. He had not remembered the brightness when he had gone to hide. The contrast of five minutes in a black world had conjured the brilliance. The child William had sat there in speechless wonder as he was welcomed back.
Another time, as a young man, he and a friend had swum into a large cave on the coast of a Scottish island. The adventure was less agreeable than they had anticipated. They perched on a wet rock inside the cave, listening to the thud of black water against its walls, then voted to leave sooner than they had intended. Outside, sun had put a blowtorch to a previously dark sky, leaving it shorn of all cloud. Instead, dazzling opal light stretched from the highest point of the heavens and flowed deeply down into the sea. Journeying back to the shore, William felt as if he was swimming through pure light. He secretly harboured the experience for many years–though several times he had been tempted to tell Bonnie–and often he relived the occasion when he was playing Schubert, who was to him a musician wonderfully capable of conveying light.–When he looked back on that swim, William recognised it as one of those times in a life that constitutes inexplicable importance. Something shifted direction within him that day. He was conscious that the vague possibility of making music his life changed, amorphously, as he swam back through the light, to something stronger: determination. The feeling grew from that day forth.
On the evening of the successful Bournemouth concert William was unprepared, as always, for one of his dark–to–light experiences. Elated by the appreciation of the audience, he was also intoxicated by the walk back from the hall with Bonnie. She had kept an arm through his–the fact that her other arm was linked with Grant’s William regarded with no great significance. The sea air ruffled their hair and slapped at their cheeks. From the dappled darkness of the street–neither the moon nor illuminated windows nor street lights did more than perforate the real darkness of the night–they walked into the Cinderella world of the grand hotel. There, William found himself delightfully stupefied by the perfectly normal evening lights. It seemed to him that suns and moons and stars shone from every alcove, making watery rock pools of the patterned carpet. There was a sense of movement: liquid light, again, it was. And what tricks it played: burnished mahogany furniture rocked, as if on a gentle sea. Armchairs jigged, and the glass petals of chandeliers were turned to living flames. Nothing was still, nothing was dark. William rubbed his eyes.
‘Come on,’ said Bonnie, interrupting the enchanting illusion. ‘What are you just standing there for? The bar! Let’s go to the bar.’
She was still there, warm beside him, arm through his. Grant was no longer on her other side. Where was he?
‘Grant’s gone on to order the promised champagne in case you changed your mind.’–God, how the girl could read his mind: though on a night such as this he would not even toy with the idea of ordering any lesser drink.
They moved together through the hotel lobby–William, stately, dazzled: Bonnie impatient. It was a moment or two, he realised, of pure, present happiness. So often such happiness is easily enough recollected in the past, or anticipated in the future. But rare it is to capture it at the moment of striking: hold it to you for a small measure of time before consigning it to recollections. What an evening, what an evening, thought William.
The bar, when they reached it, was crowded–very different from the gloomy mauve place in the hotel in Prague. Rufus and his wife were seated at a table, guarding three empty chairs. Grant was making his way through the crowd with an opened bottle of champagne in a silver bucket (very good champagne, William noted with alarm). A waiter followed him with a tray of tall glasses. Bonnie, who had detached herself from William’s side so quietly it was some moments before he felt the chill of absence, now had her arm round Iris, expressing delight in her presence. (Christ: Bonnie’s friendliness was ubiquitous.) William lowered himself into a large armchair next to Rufus, who nodded with the gravity of a man determined to enjoy himself for the sake of the others.
When a group who have participated in some binding activity reach the moment of celebration, there is often a dip in the proceedings, a sense of anticlimax. As they sipped their drinks William wondered, now the headiness of their success was over, what they would talk about–four people who saw and worked with each other most days, who knew each other so well. And Iris: she in her quiet, huddled way meant there would have to be some stricture on in-jokes and anecdotes about events unknown to her. It would be impolite to start explaining things to her–increase her sense of being the outsider. So, once they had drunk to their own good health and the future of the Elmtree (something William had no wish to dwell upon, despite feelings of optimism earlier in the evening), how would the celebration progress? In his still ungrounded state, William raised his glass and looked rather desperately at Grant. Grant did not let him down. He began to tell stories about his time in a youth orchestra–familiar to Rufus and William, new to Bonnie, who found them rather too funny for William’s comfort. But as a second, and then, glory be, a third bottle of champagne were drunk he, too, found Grant’s power as a raconteur was exceptional.
‘You ought to have gone on the halls,’ he mumbled to the spinning disc that was now Grant’s head. But as no one agreed–or perhaps they hadn’t heard this unsteady contribution–William turned his mind to the engaging of Bonnie’s attention. He put a half-empty glass of champagne determinedly down on the table. If he didn’t stop now, it would be too late to intrigue her with some idea so fascinating that she felt compelled to follow him to his room, listen while he philosophised, or confessed about the cave day, or whatever, for the rest of the night. If he didn’t pull himself together now, it would be too late to make a dignified approach to the curtains, and pull them back to reveal the moon.–Had anything quite so ridiculous been his plan? He suddenly could not be sure … But he could hear himself laughing, loudly.
‘William’s letting his hair down,’ said Grant. Bonnie went over to him, smiling her agreement. She punched him gently on the forearm. In return, Grant squeezed her wrist. William stopped laughing, and looked away. When he glanced back again they had moved apart. By now Bonnie was talking to Rufus. Maybe the moment of familiarity with Grant had never happened. William could not be sure. Nothing was clear.
But through the buzz of conversation he could hear the whine of poor-quality music. He turned. In an alcove where the bar met the larger reaches of the lounge, two musicians had taken their stand, a violinist, and a pianist. For some inexplicable reason they were dressed in a way that suggested matadors, or Spanish gypsies–high-waisted pink satin trousers, frilled shirts, and waistcoats of many coloured glass. Perhaps to distract one from their playing, William reflected: certainly to add to his confusion. Through the swirling of his head it occurred to him that others thought more highly of these musicians, currently slooping through ‘Some Enchanted Evening’. There was applause, private smiles as people remembered their own enchanted evenings. Then, heaven forbid, Bonnie was making her way through the tables of drinkers, viola in hand. What a one she was for snatching opportunities to show off. You couldn’t take her to a hotel bar without her leaping up to entertain, bring added life to the place. At the thought, William smiled to himself. While it was not in his nature to approve such behaviour, she performed with such verve and charm it would be hard to condemn her.
Bonnie whispered something to the violinist as he finished his dreadful jiggling of the C string. He smiled, instantly flattered by the heavenly creature in velvet offering to join in. At this point William heard himself groan out loud as he noticed the warm, flirtatious way she made some suggestions to the fourth-rate violinist. Oh no, please God …
Bonnie had no intention of looking at any member of the Elmtree for approval. She was enjoying herself. It appeared as if this was the kind of spontaneous fun that she believed every serious musician should allow him or herself from time to time. With any luck, she seemed to be saying in the wiggle of her hips, Rufus and Grant would join her. Even, perhaps, William. She glanced at his horrified face, smiled, and launched into ‘Let’s Do It’. Her fellow players, unused to her speed, dragged behind her.
‘Let it swing,’ she shouted, to encourage them to speed up. She wiggled her hips even more and shook her sleeves. And suddenly her new fellow players joined in her tempo, inspired. The music thumped. And William, looking round, saw an extraordinary thing: the dozens of people in the bar seemed to be enjoying it. People were standing. Some were clapping to the beat. Some were mumbling the words. Stranger still, Rufus–Rufus the quiet contained man–had joined them. He had got up, was bending his knees, intent on a kind of rhythmic bounce. Then Iris joined him. Pulling her shawl more tightly round her she, too, rose and joined the singing, with the prissy mouth movements of a singer in a Bach choir–but with a look of total enjoyment on her worn-away face. As for Grant: he was behaving like a weightlifter relieved of his weights–clapping his great hands above his head, jacket arms shooting up to reveal a vulgar set of glinting cufflinks William had never seen before, and certainly would have to speak about … Grant was bawling his head off, leading this motley choir in a verse of bawdy words. It was unbelievable.
Even as he remained in his chair, middle-aged bottoms jumping about all round him, William felt the isolation of being the odd one out. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he pushed himself to his feet, clapped his dry hands, found his shoulders heaving in time, saw his feet slither agreeably on the carpet, felt the aching need of Bonnie in his arms, a dancing partner.–Bonnie herself, jigging about like a crazed puppet, was pretty out of focus: but William was able to observe very red cheeks highlighted with a glitter of sweat. Weak with love for her, William forced his gaze beyond her lest he should not be able to control the tears he felt encroaching on his eyes. While his feet dithered uncertainly about William made himself keep his eyes from Bonnie: he focused on the horizon beyond the bar, where crowds of jigging spectators jammed the lobby. There he saw something akin to Banquo’s ghost–an illusion made manifest from the fabric of his conscience. But it was no spectre in a woolly jumper. It was Grace. The familiar figure of his wife. Grace, it seemed, had come to get him.
With the last remaining rational fragments of his mind, William was still just able to ponder on whether others saw her (if indeed they observed her at all) through his eyes: or if, as he gazed upon her in wonder and alarm, he was seeing her through the eyes of all these singing strangers.
Grace stood completely still, both hands on the handle of her old black bag. She wore the skirt she had put on that morning, and a jersey for which William had never felt any fondness, with its yoke of Fair Isle pattern slung from one shoulder to another. Among all the sequins and satins she made a very plain figure. William aimed a blurry smile in her direction. He could not bring himself to stop his shoulder twists, and small rhythmic claps of his hands. In the confusion of conflicting feelings he realised that his heart raced towards her, loving. His dear Ace–so very unusual–had come to join in the fun.
In her hurry to leave the house Grace had not thought of packing clothes suitable for an evening concert, or a drink in the bar of an expensive hotel afterwards. She regretted this as soon as she was met by the blast of central heating in William’s bedroom, but also she did not really care. In her flight from the potential alarm of a visit from Lucien, nothing mattered except the protection William could provide.
After her bath, having given up all ideas of going to the concert, she enjoyed a room-service supper, pushed in on a trolley of silver domes that she lifted slowly, excited. The mixed grill and pommes dauphinois were something of a disappointment, as was the chestnut pudding with a name more delicious than the pudding itself. Still, it was all such a novelty, being waited upon, that Grace’s enjoyment, combined with her feeling of safety, flourished. She watched television till ten thirty, then decided to go downstairs. In her hurry to surprise William–she could not wait to see his face–she ran down the endless curving staircase, her progress silenced by the dense carpet, rather than take the lift. By the time she reached the first floor she could hear the music from downstairs, and smiled at the thought of how William and the others must hate having to listen to such stuff as they sat over their nightcaps.
Grace pushed her way through the crowd. The heat was worse, here: it made the Shetland wool of her jersey prickle her chest. She continued to move her way slowly forward, observing that some of the drinkers, in their smart clothes, made a passage for her, as if they recognised an especial kind of species in need of its own furrow. The music was thumping some song from a fifties musical–Grace could not name which one. It was the kind of thing that puts silly smiles on people’s faces as they recollect past moments of their own romances finely tuned by memory.
Then Grace came upon those she was looking for, and beheld a sight she had never imagined she would witness: there before her were members of the Elmtree String Quartet drunk. That is, she told herself, if not rolling drunk, then seriously inebriated, and apparently enjoying themselves. Rufus was dancing by himself–if you could call it dancing–shuddering like a bird shaking water from its feathers, eyes rolling behind his glasses. Grant, Tarzan of the crowd, held his arms high as if swinging from an invisible branch, while William seemed intent on small hops accompanied by painful-looking twists of his shoulders. His bow tie had made its way round his neck and was lodged beside one ear. As for Bonnie–in her place next to the third-rate pianist, she was murdering her beautiful viola as she tossed her head to the sloopy beat–fringe flinging every which way, light streaking over the moving velvet of her dress. What on earth …?
Grace stood looking from one to another of the musicians. So unusual a sight rendered her helpless. She did not know how to proceed, where to go.
Then she was aware of applause, catcalls, people moving towards the bar again. Rufus’s hand was on her arm: dear, kind Rufus, always to be relied on in a crisis, even if he was not entirely himself tonight, due to unforeseen circumstances.
‘Grace,’ he said, ‘how nice you’ve come. Why don’t you join Iris on the sofa? Can I get you a drink?’
‘Very good idea.’ Now, William was beside Rufus, more animated than sheepish. ‘Oh, we’re having such fun, my Ace, aren’t we? Very surprised to find you here but lovely, lovely …’
Grace never received her drink because apparently her appearance signified some midnight chime that said time is up, and the fun seemed to be over. Bonnie moved away from the strangely attired musicians. Deprived of her presence, they lacked inspiration for another number. Grant was clumsily putting her viola in its case, Rufus and Iris had disappeared. Grace felt a sense of disappointment. Having caught the Elmtree in so unlikely a situation, she would have enjoyed witnessing a little more, to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. But she and William seemed to be gliding towards the stairs. William’s arm through hers was purposeful, though his smile skidded about in his dishevelled face.
‘Tremendous fun we’re having,’ he said.
‘So I see.’
‘So good you decided to come, my Ace. Though there was no need.’
They were climbing the massive staircase. The densely carpeted treads could have been a rockface, William had to search for each step with such difficulty. But Grant was just behind them. Grace was grateful for this, knowing she could not cope on her own if William should fall. Grant came with them to their room, took William’s arm through the door. William seemed both surprised and amazed by such nannying. He moved towards the window–a mere scrap of his now obsolete plan still left in his mind–bent on drawing back the curtains to greet the moon he was to have faced with Bonnie.
‘Where is she?’ he asked Grant.
‘Signing autographs still at the bar.’
William gave a snort.
‘Shouldn’t encourage that sort of thing.’
‘Come off it–just for one evening. It was fun. You said so yourself–several times.’
‘Oh yes, I suppose it was fun.’ William was loosely soldered to the floor. He swayed a little. ‘Well, thank you, Grant. Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight.’ Grant smiled at both Handles and left the room. Only one so keenly attuned as Grace, to the slightest hint of inebriation, could have noticed the uncertainty in his own step.
William turned to his wife, tugging at his bow tie. It missed the centrepoint of his collar, and went scuttling towards the other ear.
‘There was no need to come,’ he repeated, finally fed up with the tussle round his neck. ‘Nothing but fun, old dance tunes–you saw for yourself. Nothing but that sort of thing going on. I mean, I wasn’t up to anything with Bonnie.’
At this admission of innocence Grace, on her way to help William, came to a halt. She decided to control her laughter.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I said there’s nothing between … just because we spend a night under the same hotel roof.’ There was a buzzing in William’s ears, a sensation of drowning. What the hell had come over him, mentioning Bonnie? Putting thoughts into Grace’s head? He gave a twisted smile, accompanied by a sudden leap of his eyebrows, to indicate he was pulling her leg, indulging in a late-night joke. ‘I mean, no hanky-panky. Nothing whatsoever, my Ace.’ By now he spoke so quietly Grace had to strain her ears to hear him.
At that point Grace laughed so suddenly, and with such force, William found himself tottering to the bed, where he sat down heavily.
‘The very idea! You and Bonnie! You and Bonnie! I can’t believe you thought I had any suspicions and had come to spy on you!’ She moved about in her laughter. The jersey scratched more uncomfortably at her chest. William was pleased to see he had afforded her so much amusement, but was puzzled as to why she should find the idea of him and Bonnie quite so funny. ‘I’ never heard anything so absurd, William!’ she went on. ‘Bonnie’s a beautiful, talented young girl: you’re a wonderful musician too, but near retirement, old… Can you imagine Bonnie thinking of you as anything but a father figure? Your joke is so far-fetched it’s ridiculous.’
‘Really?’ William was battered by his wife’s noisy response to an admission he had not meant to make. But in the whole confusion of the latter part of the evening there had been no time to wonder at her motive for turning up. In a muddy way he had wondered if it had been due to some vague suspicion of his inadmissible love–guilt, the dark twister, at work. His only concern had been quickly to deflect her from the truth–and it seemed he had gone the wrong way about it. He cursed himself for ever having mentioned Bonnie and his innocence. ‘I’m glad you find it so funny, the very idea of some young girl regarding me as anything other than a–’
‘I do, I do.’
At last there was silence between them. William wanted to get up, shut himself in the white cube of the bathroom, lull himself back to sobriety by the rhythmic brushing of his teeth. But he had no energy to move.
‘Why did you come, then?’ he asked eventually. A quick glance at her face. Solemn, now. Pale.
‘I was afraid Lucien might decide on one of his visits. I didn’t want to be alone in the house when he came.’
‘Lucien? Oh, that. Him.’ Grace could see William struggling to remember old preoccupations, the normal world of minor anxieties light years away from this gilded room. ‘You never liked the Dvorak,’ he said at last. ‘If I’d thought you’d like the programme I would have invited you.’
‘No: I never come to Bournemouth.’
‘Nor you do.’
Grace went to the mini-bar, helped herself to a miniature bottle of whisky. William looked at her in astonishment.
‘Well, you’re right. You’re safe, here,’ he said with a vague wave of his hand. Come to think of it, Bonnie was safe, too, in her room. Elbows in the air, perhaps, sleeves swinging as she struggled to undo her zip.
Grace sat down in the overstuffed chair of olive nylon velvet. As she sipped cautiously at the drink she watched her dear King of the Bed confront the challenge before him. Once he had managed to pull himself upright, he regarded the hotel bed for a long time, hands on hips, assessing. Despite the alcoholic fuddling of his brain, no deficiency in its making escaped him. Imbalance of sheet and blanket, meanness of the corner turns, inadequate weight of eiderdown that would have to be supplemented with blankets hidden in some drawer or cupboard … Grace watched as William battled with these things. There followed a strange performance as sheets slipped through his infirm hands, refusing to obey his instructions. Pillows lobbed on to the floor. Mahogany cupboard doors were flung wide as spare bedding was searched for: a pile of blankets toppled from a high shelf on to his head. He floundered, moaning, cursing.
Grace, from her position in the armchair, following his every move, did not smile. The ridiculous figure William made did not bother her, annoy her, amuse her. She was only glad she was not home on her own, and that she had been able to dissuade William of his daft illusion of the very possibility of something going on with Bonnie. Drink, on the rare occasions he overstepped the mark, did not make William a wiser and better man.
Grace did not know what time it was when eventually he sank on top of the bed in a twist of blankets. They had not succumbed to his regimentation so, finally exhausted, he had silently given up. Grace had no intention of trying to undress his recumbent figure, though she did remove the white tie. In the morning … well, knowing William’s dignity would somehow be reinstated, they would order a lovely room-service breakfast before driving home.
Grace drew back the curtains and saw the moon was so low in the sky it sat on a plate of its own reflection in the sea. Strangely, she did not think of Lucien, only of her need for sleep.
But she did not sleep well. Unused to several drinks, ungrounded by the spontaneous visit to Bournemouth and the strange behaviour of the members of the Elmtree, she relived the evening over and over again–a harder-edged version than the reality bounced off her skull, keeping her awake. When first light appeared, before the noise of traffic began, Grace heard the faint brush of sea on the shore. High tide, she supposed, and was tempted to dress and go for a walk–paddle, even. But then she pictured William waking in his rumpled clothes, cold and confused, wondering where she was–and changed her mind.
Instead she made her way into the claustrophobic bathroom, ran a bath, filled it with sweet oil that turned into a cloud of iridescent bubbles. This isn’t me, she thought, as she lowered herself into them, scarcely breaking their fragile crust. This is Katharine Hepburn in a third-rate film. Luxury. An unusual episode plucked from normal life that will make us laugh when we remember it. William will see how funny it all was. Oh, how we’ll laugh … She trailed a hand through the hillocks of miniature rainbows, in her drained, dreamy state half expecting Humphrey Bogart to put his head round the door.
The head that did come round the door was a terrible sight: hair standing up like electric wires, eyes strung with red veins, skin pale and shining as a peeled onion. William had discarded his jacket but had given up a struggle with his braces which, slipping from his desolate shoulders, just kept a grasp on his half-mast trousers. He shambled in.
‘Thought I heard you.’ He put a shaky hand to his temples as if to silence his thoughts. Moved nearer the bath. ‘What time is it?’
‘About five thirty.’
‘Early, then. We were late last night.’
‘You were.’
It was this kind of grasp of things, this not giving in to self-pity caused by foolishness, that Grace would always admire.
‘You all right?’ she asked.
William sat on the three-legged stool, gazed down at his bubble-covered wife. Something vaguely came to mind.
‘Fine.’ He touched the other temple. ‘I’ll be even better after breakfast.’
He registered the forgiveness in the reddened face that sat, decapitated, among the bubbles. She was a good woman, Grace. Uncommonly understanding. No doubt of that. Curiously languorous, this morning, too. William had been expecting questions, explanations. There was none. Instead, she said:
‘I read somewhere recently that a very easy way to kill someone was simply to lean over a full bath and pick up their legs. They can’t struggle like that. They can’t keep their head above water.’ With one finger she made a small passageway in the bubbles.
For a moment William could see a ribbon of her skin beneath the clear water. The vague idea stirred again. Why was it that so often long-married couples could guess at each other’s minds? But there was no time to reflect on what Grace had said. She was offering him a last chance to act, and unless he took it he might never again have either the will or the energy for a further attempt.
‘You mean like this?’ he said, with something close to a laugh (a back-up laugh, as he saw it, so that if he failed he could say it was all a joke). With no forethought, no coherent plan, he leant over the bath. He plunged both arms into the bubbles, felt for Grace’s legs, lifted them (how surprisingly heavy they were) with a supreme effort. The legs came crashing up, streaming with bubbles that melted fast as snow in sun. A few stuck in clusters of unshaven hair before they burst … Down went her shoulders. Her head disappeared completely. Bubbles raced to fill the gaping wound of water into which it sank.
In the next moment of absolute silence William realised he had succeeded at last. This was it. Grace drowned. Water-logged. Dead. In a moment he would haul the body back up through the bubbles, further soaking the shirt sleeves that clung to him. He would pull from behind her shoulders. Having seen a similar incident in a thriller last week on television, he knew that was the easiest way. Then he would ring for help. ‘Quickly! My wife has had a terrible accident …’ Distraught words would come ringing out.
He looked down at the water swaying over the corpse, and felt a tear in one eye along with a sense of panicky triumph. Then he found himself ashamed, but smiling nonetheless, at the silly sort of thought that comes to a man in a crisis–would a bath towel be an appropriate shroud?
Two, perhaps three seconds passed. Then the steamy quiet in the murder place was broken by a gurgling noise. Suddenly Grace, emerging from the bubbles, was struggling like a wild thing. She kicked. William lost his grip on her legs. They slipped from him. He felt a blow from a foot on his jaw. He had not calculated her strength, or his own lack of it. Once again, as on the cliffs, he realised he was no match for her. He reeled back, tipping up the stool, landed on the wet floor. Grace’s head appeared over the side of the bath, purple face, hair a black net clamped to it. She was screaming. William began to scrabble up on to the stool. Oh dear: nothing for it but to give up. He attempted a laugh, to make sure she realised it had all been a silly joke. She was appearing like a volcano in reverse, sliding up out of the bubbles, ungainly breasts resting on a ledge of rainbows that were now thinning like sleet attacked by rain.
‘What are you doing?’ Grace shouted–William had never heard her shout so loudly. But then, more quietly, ‘Trying to kill me? William!’ His name was uttered with a dying fall. William felt his heart clench with remorse. He managed another minor laugh.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It just occurred to me to disprove a silly theory.’
‘I could have drowned.’ She was shaking her head, digging fingers into her ears.
‘Of course you couldn’t have drowned. I wouldn’t have let you drown, my Ace, would I?’
Grace looked up at him with a wonderful smile.
‘I don’t suppose so. I don’t suppose you’d be much good at living with guilt–or without me. Though sometimes I have the feeling I’ve no idea what goes on in your mind. Pass the towel, will you?’
Her sudden calm, her benign expression, William found more unnerving than her previous roaring. He had an uneasy feeling that this near-death experience, if that was what it had been, had in some way been a watershed (in all senses of the word) for Grace. Perhaps she was unconscious of this herself. But to one who had observed her (from time to time) for many years, it occurred to William that the experience had provided her with a weird satisfaction, an unusual elation. Perhaps, after such a long and mostly silent married life, the funny little drama, the shouting, the pretence of danger had released something within her. He hoped to goodness that it would not mean, henceforth, a change in their customary reticence. He did not relish the thought of Grace switching from a character who kept her thoughts decently to herself, to one who believed they might be of benefit to her husband.
‘Here you are, my Ace.’ William passed the towel and retreated. He had no wish to see her lively form emerge from the waves, reminding him of the flesh structure that padded out her dear old clothes, scarcely noticeable in their familiarity: to look upon what went beneath them, this morning, would be more than he could bear.
Alone in the bedroom William took off his damp shirt and trousers, put on his dressing-gown, stood gazing out of the window at sky and sea that looked as if they had been knitted together with dull wool. A gull screeched, hurting his head. Triple images would be no good at calming his battered state this morning: it would have to be sounds. He summoned to mind the cooing of wood pigeons, the trill of a Scottish mountain burn, the second movement of Schubert’s Fifth Symphony. But to no avail. The appalling pain of mushrooms swelling against his skull, pushing into the paper of his skin, worsened. He sat on the rumpled bed, in which he had had no more than a few hours’ sleep, hands hanging between parted legs, eyes closed.
Grace crept in to dress. She did not want to disturb William, or pain him with the necessity of conversation. She returned to the full support of the armchair, placed her hands on its arms, wondered how to pass the time till seven, when they could ring for breakfast. William, briefly opening an eye to ascertain her position in the room, caught sight of her damp hair and was put in mind of shredded beetroot. He quickly shut his eye again against the disagreeable image–already, he realised, he was suffering his punishment. God’s wrath was in the loathsome picture of the wife he loved. But he knew that once his head had recovered she would look herself again.
Each in his and her own way, William and Grace found comfort in the silence that came so naturally between them. They let it engulf them, familiar with its restorative powers, until a chorus of gulls outside jarred their peace, and Grace stirred herself to order porridge, kippers, coffee. She knew that William would be obliged to eat them. It would be part of the pretence that he was not suffering, a further part of the act Grace held in high regard. By the time they arrived home, late morning, their grip on normality would be complete. The episode in Bournemouth would be snuffed out as if it had never existed, the hum of daily life would resume untroubled.
William saw these things passing through his wife’s mind as she ordered the gargantuan breakfast with quiet glee, and the pain in his head moved to his heart as he thought of Bonnie. So close–just down the corridor, sleeping deeply, no doubt, against the gulls’ cry. But for him, now more than ever, out of reach, out of bounds, a possibility no longer.