Trio

by Sue Gee

  ‘Margot?’ And then he stopped himself. This was their first meal together, this was not the time. He went up behind her, put his arms round her as she stirred the pan on the range.

  ‘What can I do?’

  She showed him the china cupboard. They carried an old wooden tray into the dining room, where the sun lit the polished mahogany of the table and the candelabra on the dark oak sideboard, the candles half burned down. Did she and her father eat here every evening? Steven wondered. Or were there endless dinner guests? There was so much he didn’t know.

  ‘Our first meal together,’ she said, putting down the tray.

  ‘My love.’

  He looked about him as she laid mats, silver, glasses and water jug. Everything in here was old, well-made, well cared-for: how his father would like it all. Everything should be well made, he thought, pulling out his chair: furniture, an essay, music. A life between two people. She sat down opposite him, reached a hand across the table.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  He held her hand. ‘How pleasing all this is. How my father would appreciate it – he’d like everything in this house. That staircase – what a piece of work.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  He kissed her hand, released it. They began to eat, and he told her: about his father’s apprenticeship at fourteen, his knowledge of old furniture, his skill at making new – the Art Deco things everyone was after now, the workshop in Birley Bank.

  ‘He’s been on his own for a long time, he has quite a name, I think.’ He put down his knife and fork. ‘And your father?’ he asked her, reaching for her hand again. ‘You’ve always lived with him?’

  ‘Always.’ She raised his hand to her lips. This will be one of our gestures, she thought, kissing his fingers, feeling her heart lift again. ‘I mean – Diana and I went away to school, but apart from that – George went down to London, to the Royal College, but – I just couldn’t leave here. My father needed me so much. I suppose I needed him.’

  ‘And—’ he hesitated. ‘He’s never wanted to remarry?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Of course, lots of people were interested in him, but—’ She got up, came round to his side of the table. ‘I want to sit in your lap.’

  ‘Come on.’ He was filled with longing, all other thoughts flown away. And he took her on to his lap and pulled her to him. How long did they sit there, kissing and kissing? The clock struck a half-hour, but which one he had no idea. At length he held her a little away from him, aching with desire.

  ‘Margot? Would you come to bed with me? My darling?’

  She covered her face, awash with feeling. The house stretched all around her, empty and waiting. She thought of her bedroom, where she had wept as a child, overawed and lonely, and of how she had grown to love it, to love looking out at the cedar, the great stretch of lawn, the distant ambling cattle. She thought of how every morning she woke in her bed to the sound of a dog whistled up, a walk beginning, come rain, come shine, and of the return: footsteps over the flags, boots wiped on the scraper, the dog lapping from his bowl, the ragged forsythia shaking in the wind. Bang of the front door, bang of the porch door, into the hall.

  ‘Hello, darling? Are you up?’

  What was she thinking now? That he could come home and find them? Or that it might break his heart to lose her?

  ‘Margot?’ Steven was drawing her hands away from her face. ‘It’s too soon,’ he said gently. ‘Isn’t it? It doesn’t matter.’ And he lifted her from his lap. ‘Let’s get some air.’

  ‘You’re cross with me?’ She could hardly speak.

  ‘Never. Perhaps – well, perhaps it’s too soon for me, too.’

  ‘Oh, Steven.’

  ‘Sssh.’ He took her hand, and led her out through the hall, glancing at the clock. Almost six o’clock: well, well. He stopped and looked up at the face, the pale profile of the moon just beginning to rise, with its sleepy, secret smile, its clouds. Another thing beautifully made.

  Margot said: ‘I used to adore that clock. When I was little, I mean.’

  ‘I can see why.’

  They went out through the porch to the garden. He stood still. ‘Listen to that bird.’ It was still singing, up on the topmost chimney.

  ‘It must be another one,’ said Margot, beginning to recover herself. ‘Surely no one bird could sing that long.’

  ‘I don’t know. Blackbirds are tough old things.’

  The terrace was sun-warmed, the lavender a symphony of bees. The shadow of the cedar fell deep on the grass, the evening sun glancing through the dense full branches. Against that depth, that darkness, the swing was so fragile and light. He’d thought this before, on the March afternoon when Margot had shown him round. How they had misunderstood one another then. Now—

  He led her towards it. He touched the rope, let the swing move back and forth just a little. Then he eased himself on to the narrow seat, and pulled her on to his lap.

  ‘Yes? It’s all right to do this? It won’t break, with two of us?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She leaned back against him, and he put his arms round the ropes, and then round her waist. For a little while they just sat there like that, listening to the blackbird. After a while, he said:

  ‘You remember you said I’d been sad for a long time. When we were having our drink.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His arms tightened around her. ‘That’s what I thought about you – when we were getting to know one another. That you’d lost your mother so young, that it must have haunted you. I saw a lonely little girl, in this great big house.’ He kissed the back of her neck. ‘Is that right? Do you mind my saying that?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘It was true. Often it was true. And you know – a lot of the things in the house you like: they came from her. She chose so many things. I remember her dressing table, everything so pretty. She was so pretty.’

  He thought of the photograph, the glimpse of earring. ‘She was.’

  ‘But I had the others,’ Margot said. ‘Diana and everyone. We stayed close in the holidays and they meant everything. And then I had music. And my father, always.’

  And another distant day came floating up from the past: cold, autumnal, leaves blowing about, Barrow waiting in the trap.

  ‘Please don’t cry.’

  ‘Don’t you cry, Daddy.’

  ‘How will he feel about us?’ Steven asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s not talk about it now.’

  He kissed her again, and then he began to push back with his feet on the ground, with its scattering of cones and needles, until their legs were stretched taut, and they were standing. Then, tall as they were, they began to swing. The rope creaked, the branches of the cedar, rising so vast and old above them, released their cedar smell: pungent, resinous, unforgettable. Everything was shadowy, as the sun slipped further down. They swung back and forth, back and forth, their feet – oh, so lightly – just brushing the grass.

  2

  ‘Well now,’ said George, parking his bicycle against the window, and peering in. It was morning, dewy and fresh, the drawing room barred with shadow. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Things are fine, thank you.’ Margot was looking through scores. She went on looking. George lowered his violin through the window on to the floor, and climbed in after it.

  ‘Which tells me precisely nothing.’ He straightened up, brushed dust off his trousers.

  ‘Who said I should tell you anything?’

  ‘I did. Where’s Diana?’

  ‘On her way, I imagine.’ Margot riffled through Beethoven trios. ‘What do you think? The Archduke? The Ghost?’

  ‘The Archduke gets everyone going, of course. But then it’s done so often.’

  Outside, Barrow was trundling the mower out of the pele tower, bending to adjust the cl
ippings box at the front. George turned to watch.

  ‘Marvellous. You come here and all’s well with the world. Feels almost Edwardian, doesn’t it, old Barrow keeping everything in trim, just as usual, that blackbird singing away. You’d never think that war was in the air.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that.’ Margot propped up the score on the stand. ‘Father thinks it’s less likely now.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He spun across the room. ‘And what does Mr History Teacher think? Does he have a view?’

  ‘Stop it.’ She flattened the pages. George put his arms round her waist.

  ‘Don’t be like that. I want to know everything.’

  ‘What makes you think there’s anything to tell?’

  ‘Margot dear, I’m not stupid. I saw you both spring apart in the hall.’

  ‘Spring apart?’ But she was laughing now. ‘I don’t think we sprang, exactly.’

  ‘Oh, yes you did. Like a couple of antelopes.’ He leapt across the room. ‘Or gazelles, possibly.’ He made a gazelle face, huge-eyed and doleful, and bounded towards the door. She was helpless.

  Out in the garden the mower had started up. Petrol fumes rose into the air.

  ‘Oh, how that takes me back.’ George stopped bounding. ‘And here’s Miss Embleton,’ he said, as a sports car slowed down in the lane. ‘Perhaps she should decide about the Beethoven. The cello’s rather gorgeous in both, of course.’ He stood at the open window, drinking in the scent of petrol and cut grass, and for a moment Margot saw all playfulness evaporate, and with that lost, intent expression felt a wave of warmth and affection.

  But then, she loved everyone now.

  The car pulled in at the gates, and George lifted his hand. Then he turned back to the room.

  ‘The main thing is, are you happy? That’s all I want to know.’

  ‘I am,’ she said, and then: ‘Oh, I am!’

  ‘Good. Long may it last.’

  ‘Don’t sound so doubtful.’

  ‘I’m not. Not for a moment. But on the face of it – not a huge amount in common.’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘Then he has more wit than I gave him credit for. Anyway—’ he bent to pick up the violin. ‘Since when did “having things in common” have anything to do with love?’ The car door slammed, and he leaned out of the window. ‘Good morning, Miss Embleton!’

  In the end, they decided on the Ghost.

  ‘It’s just so heavenly,’ said Diana, and no one could disagree. And this was their big summer concert: they needed to make an impact. With two or three weddings before then, there were lots of little pieces to rehearse as well.

  ‘We’re going to be busy,’ said George over lunch in the kitchen. He tipped back his chair, and tipped it forward again as Mrs Barrow stirred soup on the range and turned to tut-tut at him. ‘Sorry, Mrs B. You’re quite right.’ He reached for the breadboard and began to slice the loaf. ‘Is your father joining us?’ he asked Margot.

  ‘If he’s back in time. He’s gone to a Directors’ meeting.’

  ‘And what about Mr History Teacher? Can he get away from school?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he can’t.’

  Diana was pouring water. She stopped, and put down the jug.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, looking at Margot across the table. ‘Are you – is it – I mean—’

  ‘Try again,’ said George. He shook out his napkin as Mrs Barrow came over with pan and ladle and gave her a dazzling smile. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You haven’t said a word,’ Diana said to Margot. ‘You haven’t told me a thing.’

  ‘I know.’ Margot reached for the butter dish.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She knows, and she doesn’t know,’ said George, picking up his soup spoon.

  Both women turned on him. ‘Oh, do stop it!’

  He stopped it. He drank his soup.

  Then: ‘You’re my dearest friend,’ Diana said sadly to Margot. ‘How could you not tell me something like this?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘How long—’

  ‘A little while. A few weeks.’

  Diana was silent. Mrs Barrow went round with the soup and took sandwiches out to share with Mr Barrow, as usual. George remarked on how touching that was.

  ‘Steven Coulter’s nice,’ Diana said at last. ‘You’re lucky.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I don’t know why I never seem to get involved with anyone.’

  ‘Do you want to?’ asked George, wiping his mouth. He reached for the breadboard again.

  ‘Of course I do. Give me a slice.’

  ‘You’re too gorgeous, that’s your trouble,’ he said, passing one with his fingers. ‘Frighten them off. Though Jonty Gill seems pretty keen still.’

  ‘Oh, Jonty Gill.’ She raised her eyes to the heavens.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, George.’

  ‘Whereas I,’ said Margot, laughing, and mopping up crumbs, ‘I’m just so plain and ordinary that no one was ever remotely interested.’

  ‘Frank was,’ said Diana. ‘You know he was.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘I think he still carries a candle.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Margot reached for the cheese. ‘How is he, anyway? Still at mysterious meetings?’

  ‘I don’t think so. All that political talk seems to have died down. He’s gone awfully quiet, now I come to think about it.’

  ‘Pass the mousetrap, there’s a good girl,’ said George. ‘And tell him to come to the concert.’

  ‘What about you?’ Diana asked suddenly.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Love. Romance. Lots of girls like you, I know they do.’

  ‘I’m dedicated to my art, don’t you know.’

  ‘We all are.’ She frowned. ‘But even so – why are you always so happy?’

  There was an infinitesimal pause. Then:

  ‘Queer, isn’t it? Do pass that cheese, dear girl.’

  ‘Revise! Revise, my boys!’ Straughan, at Assembly, spoke as if mustering his troops for a charge. His gown almost billowed as he flung his arms wide. One or two boys sniggered, and stopped quickly at a look from prefect or teacher. But a lot of them were fired up: you could tell, as they got to their feet for the hymn, that they were putting their hearts into it.

  ‘I vow to thee, my country,

  All earthly things above,

  Entire and whole and perfect

  The service of my love . . .’

  Gowens said that Straughan had been choosing that one at exam time since before the Flood, that it always got them going, as if they were vowing to do well for old Straughan’s sake. It felt different singing it now: news of Hitler taking troops to the border with Czechoslovakia, Anglo-French talks in London. And last month Alicante had been bombed to pieces. Over three hundred dead.

  But to hell with it, said Armstrong, lighting up at break-time. England had declared 658 for 8 v Australia at Trent Bridge, the sun was out, and Norris, always a bit of a bonehead, seemed finally to be getting to grips with the square root. He blew out a stream of smoke in the trolley queue, and Steven coughed, and took his tea to the window.

  It was very hot. On the hills, sheep in need of shearing were moving down to the cool of the bracken. After break he was taking the fourth years through the Civil War again: Cromwell’s New Model Army, the battles of Edgehill, Marston Moor and Naseby, five thousand Royalists taken prisoner. Charles’s flight in disguise, his capture and eventual execution.

  Thirtieth of January 1649. Everyone’s mind was always working towards that freezing day: the scaffold in Whitehall, the king in two shirts so he would not be seen to shiver, his last defiant words, ‘A subject and a sovereign are clean different thin
gs.’ Then the horrible fall of the axe.

  By the time they got to the fourth year the boys had many a beheading under their belts, as well as gruesome deaths on the battlefield. They’d had burnings at the stake – Tyndale, Cranmer – and any number of hangings. Boys were boys, and they lapped it up. But the death of a king still awed them, as it had awed him at school, even though by instinct most were on Cromwell’s side.

  ‘Sir? Sir, do you think kings are appointed by God?’

  ‘No, Todd, I don’t.’

  But still – Charles’s end, and Cromwell’s character, meant that the Civil War was generally popular, something they could get their teeth into.

  As for the threat of war now – like Armstrong, like most of them, they were pushing it aside, swotting up. And, as for Armstrong, cricket was the great diversion from everything: in the news, and down on the playing fields, where Frank and Duggan, or Gowens and McLaughlin and sometimes Steven, walked them down on exam-free afternoons, or supervised net practice at the end of the day. As the huge summer clouds sailed slowly over the hills, and a ball flew into the deep with a mighty thwack, it wasn’t hard to think that this peaceful scene could go on for ever.

  Then it was pens filled, papers given out by tight-lipped invigilators, Quiet Please notices put up by Miss Aickman all down the corridors. Heads down, a swallow as they turned the papers over, a rush to the teachers afterwards.

  ‘Sir, sir, we never did that bit!’

  ‘Oh, yes, we did.’

  The whole school was in the grip of all this, and Steven was, too, you couldn’t help it, though for much of the time he was in such a haze of delight that his own concentration wavered.

  Darling Steven . . .

  My darling Margot . . .

  Their letters flew back and forth. Last week he’d found one in his pigeonhole at the end of the day, when she’d been teaching here for the last time before the exams began – the exam hush couldn’t be disturbed by scales and pretty little arrangements of Tchaikovsky. No one, after all, was taking Music. But on that last day he’d heard the piano through lesson after lesson, floating out of the hall, and then, though they’d only greeted each other with a surreptitious smile, after she’d gone he’d found the cream envelope slipped in on top of a textbook.