It certainly felt as if he had forgiven her, Ann mused happily, glancing from Andrew to the rest of their little group, which had been joined by the flautist’s daughter, a tall, skinny creature with long thick chestnut hair and gazelle eyes. ‘Andrew, meet your soprano solo – Meredith Chambers, ex-Juilliard, now finishing a post-grad in composition at Columbia.’ Ann squeezed the girl’s hand affectionately as she introduced her. ‘She’ll be doing her bit at the next rehearsal, won’t you, Meredith? With the other three soloists too, I hope, though apparently the bass is recovering from a bout of laryngitis.’
‘That was so great,’ Meredith exclaimed, with singsong exuberance, once she had kissed her mother and reached for a glass of orange juice. ‘I got here in time for “Worthy Is the Lamb” and the last Amen … They were both so moving.’
‘I’m pleased you thought so. And I am very much looking forward to hearing you at our next rehearsal,’ replied Andrew warmly, privately amazed at the girl’s youth – no older than Olivia by the look of her, although from what Ann had said about her being near the end of her second degree she had to be twenty-five at least. Her mane of dark hair had been tied with artistic insouciance entirely to one side of her head so that the entire bundle tumbled over her shoulder. She was dressed just as his daughters now did in hot weather, in a skimpy T-shirt and short skirt that made no secret of her long legs – of so little obvious genetic resemblance to the bulging limbs of the parent standing next to her that it was hard not to marvel.
‘Ann and Mom said you were, like, a music scholar at King’s College in Cambridge,’ Meredith chattered on excitedly, ‘which is, like, the best place for music in England, isn’t it? I mean, that’s where Benjamin Britten and, like, every famous twentieth-century composer went, isn’t it?’
Andrew, flattered enough to blush, was diverted from the need to respond by a tap on the shoulder from one of the trumpeters, a wiry elderly man with ebony skin and a head peppered with grey, who was eager, like so many others, to shake the English conductor by the hand and pronounce – with some formality – on the pleasure of working with him.
Such attention and praise were thrilling, of course, but it was the joy of the music that lingered in Andrew’s heart as he sat on the train back to Darien. How had he lost touch with that? he wondered, watching the glorious colours of high summer glide past the window, seeing a depth to them that he was sure didn’t exist in England. And there was more sky too, he was certain of it – higher, wider, bigger. Maybe that was why he felt so much freer, so much more himself. He had thought Sophie was the one who needed to right herself, but maybe it had been him all along.
And yet Sophie had been undergoing some sort of transformation on the holiday too – so visibly that Andrew, in recent days, had had to bite his tongue to stop himself angling for some acknowledgement – some credit – for bringing it about. The holiday had only happened thanks to him, after all, hacking his way through all the recent, hateful months of her negativity. A conversational gambit along the lines of I told you so hardly seemed unreasonable. But on the other hand he was too grateful for the change in his wife to want to risk scaring it into retreat, even with some joking demand for congratulation.
Whistling softly, Andrew slid the Lincoln into its side of the garage and skipped up to the front door, pausing to yank a tendril of ivy that had entwined itself around an outside light. He had done nothing about the house-alarm not working, so it seemed particularly important to make sure that such minor security measures could flick into action, should the necessity arise – although it was hard to conceive of such a necessity: the quietness, the tree-muffled seclusion, only the occasional car driving by, let alone a pedestrian. Andrew had never encountered anywhere that, while part of a busy community, still managed to exude a sense of such tranquillity. The only regular familiar faces were those of the newspaper boy, hurling his plastic-wrapped delivery straight from his bicycle carrier into the drive, and the postman, a moustachioed chunky man dressed in a Boy Scout-style uniform of shorts and shirt, who called, ‘Howdy,’ if spotted delivering items into the mailbox, before roaring off in his regulation golf buggy of a car to the next address. In fact, after almost three weeks, the place, for him at least, was beginning to feel a little too secluded. Sophie was clearly thriving, but lately Andrew had relished every pretext that came his way for diving back into the hubbub of New York.
Once in the house, Andrew dropped his music case at the bottom of the stairs and headed along the hall to the kitchen. In the doorway he paused, momentarily awe-struck by the sight of the tanned, slender woman in a sleeveless white cotton dress and bare feet bending over a chopping board, her knife slicing expertly through an orderly array of vegetables.
‘Good music-making?’ She looked up, smiling briefly, the blade poised over a wide, velvet-gilled mushroom. Her hair, freshly washed and now streaked near white in places by the sun, hung loosely round her face, heightening the blue of her eyes and the strong ridges of her cheekbones.
‘You look amazing. That dress, is it new?’
‘Nope … ancient. M&S circa 1995.’ She pulled a face. ‘Incredible what a bit of sunbathing can do.’
Andrew crossed the room and put his hands over hers. She looked up, taken aback, but also, he judged, quite pleased. ‘Sophie, I just want to say that … well … coming home to you like this – cooking, happy … it’s nice.’ And then suddenly, without having planned it, he was kissing her, with a tender intent not attempted for so long that it felt new. To his surprise – and rather to Sophie’s, from what he could tell – she responded in kind, breaking away after several long moments with a shy, girlish laugh. ‘I’ve lit the barbecue,’ she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, as if remembering the kiss, ‘or, at least, turned it on – it’s a gas one. I decided it was about time we ate outside.’ She gestured at the halved mushrooms, lying alongside chunks of onion, red pepper and a heap of chopped moist pink chicken breast. ‘Kebabs, I thought.’
Andrew nodded absently. They might make love that night; the possibility had been there, hanging in the sweetness of the kiss, for him to take … if he still wanted it. What had it been now? Four months? Six? He pushed open the kitchen door and stumbled outside. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The music from the rehearsal was still swirling in his head, pumping in time to his heart. The air was balmy from the heat of the afternoon and thick with the clack and hum of insects. In the corner of the patio he could see, from the flicker of blue flame, that Sophie had indeed lit the barbecue – a square metal contraption with as many grills and knobs as the stove in the kitchen. Above it, an outside light was attracting a miniature universe of bugs, some of such alarming shape and size that Andrew decided to search for some candles with which to illuminate the meal instead. He was rummaging in drawers when Sophie came to stand next to him, carrying the kebabs, now assembled and arranged crosswise along the chopping board. ‘Can I help?’
‘Candles, I thought.’
‘Down there.’ She pointed to two candlesticks – containing two new dark blue candles. They sat on a low shelf next to the empty cat basket, a sight that caused both of them to stop in their tracks.
‘Bloody animal.’
‘I know,’ Sophie murmured, ‘I feel terrible too … so terrible that I took the plunge and phoned them.’
‘The Stapletons? Blimey. Well done. What did they say?’
‘There was no answer – I tried everything, home, mobiles, so I’ve left messages. I said we’d looked and called and informed the SPCA and was there anything else they wanted us to do. I apologized too, of course – as best I could – saying the only reason we had left it so long was because we hadn’t wanted to worry them.’
‘Quite right. Well done. At least they know now, eh? There really isn’t anything more we can do.’
Sophie nodded, her thoughts shifting guiltily to Carter, not because his teasing accusation of cowardice had stirred her to take action about the cat, but
because of all that had happened afterwards.
She had ended it. That was the main thing. A boundary had been crossed, but she had pulled back. And now all she cared about was building on the good, unexpected things that the holiday had produced – her own peace of mind, the mending of feelings between her and Andrew, not to mention a mounting, irrepressible excitement at the prospect of seeing the girls. Just the thought of hearing their voices again brought a lump to her throat, to watch how they ate and laughed and lounged, just being in the way that teenagers seemed to manage so effortlessly – she would savour every moment.
‘Tell me about the rehearsal,’ she said, returning her focus to Andrew, noting with a twist of delight how handsome he still looked in the soft light of the candles, how much twinkle there still was in his forty-three-yearold grey-blue eyes. While she stood over the kebabs he had opened a bottle of wine and assembled the salad, whistling like a songbird – because of the kiss, Sophie guessed; because of the kiss, which had felt extraordinary to her too, like a door opening, a door that – to her joy and relief – she still wanted to walk through.
Andrew responded to her enquiry with boyish eagerness, describing – through mouthfuls of food – the commitment and deftness of the musicians, and Ann, bossy as ever but still impressively in touch with her music, and Meredith, so rake thin and young, but with a reputation that apparently made her more than equal to the exquisite vocal demands of ‘I Know That My Redeemer Liveth’, the toughest by far of the many solo soprano treasures he had yet to hear her perform. Delighted by his wife’s rapt expression, Andrew gave the fullest account of everything, daring – needing – to let her glimpse the intensity that had made the day so special and burnt inside him still, like faith restored.
‘And did you do any more hard work on the neighbourly front?’ he prompted, once their plates were empty and he feared he had hogged the conversation for too long. ‘Any more swimming to promote the cause of Anglo-American relations?’
‘I … yes, but only briefly.’ Sophie blinked, aware of the blood rushing to her face. ‘And I got another one for your damn list,’ she rushed on, groping for safer territory. ‘ “Green thumb”. ’
‘Hmm?’
‘The American for “green fingers” is “green thumb”. And this is “flatware”,’ she added, picking up her fork.
‘But I already … Hey, what’s the matter? Sophie?’ She had leapt off her seat and was crouching by the table. ‘What on earth …?’
‘There – did you see it?’ she shrieked, clutching her head now and pointing. ‘Oh, God, this is hideous, I’ve got to get inside.’
‘Christ, it’s bats – loads of them,’ Andrew exclaimed, getting to his feet, enthralled, as a thick dark silent swarm – like one long spectral animal instead of a pack of many thousands – swept over their heads. ‘Hey, Soph, it’s okay. They’re coming close, but they won’t touch – the best radar systems in the world, remember?’
Sophie had grabbed his leg and worked her way to a standing position, pressing her face into his shirt. ‘Ugh … I can’t bear it,’ she said shakily.
‘Dessert inside, then, is it?’ Andrew teased, keeping a protective arm across her head until he had steered her into the kitchen.
Sophie smiled sheepishly. ‘There’s ice cream and fruit, but I think I might just have lost my appetite.’
‘Bed, then?’
‘I guess.’ Sophie turned away, smoothing imaginary creases in her sundress. ‘We can clear up in the morning.’ She stretched, opening her mouth for a yawn that then didn’t arrive.
‘No, I’ll do it now.’ Andrew spoke brusquely, aware of a sudden, curious reluctance to see the evening through to what now seemed like its obvious conclusion. She had shunned him for so long, after all, neglected him. Why should he suddenly dance to her tune? ‘You cooked so it’s only fair.’
He went back outside to blow out the candles and gather up the dirty crockery. To his surprise the bats had gone and the insects had fallen silent. A swelling suspense seemed to fill the darkness instead, as if not just he but the world was holding its breath. He stacked the plates and glasses and then paused, watching Sophie through the glass panes as she carefully folded a tea-towel and hesitated in the doorway of the kitchen, as if torn between waiting for him and going upstairs alone.
7
William wasn’t sure he could have confessed, even to Beth, how soothed he felt at the sight of the slate-grey stone Yorkshire farmhouse in which he had spent the first twenty years of his life; how he loved it for being so obstinately unchanged, from the rusted cockerel weathervane that never spun, to the lichen-studded wooden gate of the driveway, propped open for so many years that plumes of grass had lashed themselves over the lower slats, as if making their own bid to bind it where it stood.
And his parents too – after the first momentary shock of the deepening stoop in his father’s tall frame, the thickening furrows in his mother’s once smooth, pearly complexion, the thinning sweeps of their robust white hair – were still so comfortingly as they had always been, emerging from round the side of the house in matching mud-caked wellingtons and padded green jerkins, glove-fingers and trowels sprouting from the pockets. Moving in unconscious unison, they crossed to the edge of the front lawn, smiling and waving their arms in needless hand-signals to assist in the easy business of parking. William pulled up, as he always did, along the low dry-stone wall that began by the disused gate and ran round the perimeter of the entire garden. In the neighbouring field a cluster of sheep brayed their distaste before trotting off to graze at a safer distance.
The moment William switched off the engine, Alfie and George tumbled out of the passenger doors like released springs, trailing food wrappings and the wires of the various technological entertainments that had kept them more or less quiet for the long slog up the M1.
‘Two not three?’ called his mother, even as she was receiving George’s cursory entry between her arms, while Alfie leapt with his usual boyish enthusiasm at his grandfather.
‘Er … this time, yes.’ William stole a guarded look at Beth, still levering herself out of the car. It wasn’t the moment to talk about Harry and he hoped she knew that. The crutches had gone, thank God, but she was still walking very unsteadily, putting as little weight as she could on her bad foot and spending large proportions of each day lying on her back or side, doing leg and ankle exercises with a thin stretchy purple rubber band given to her by Susan’s physiotherapist – a man cursed for the source of the recommendation, but in whom she nonetheless seemed to have acquired a certain wary trust.
‘Where is Harry, then?’ barked his father, releasing Alfie and approaching the boot to help with luggage.
‘Don’t, Dad – the boys and I can manage.’
Anthony Stapleton ignored the admonition and seized the two largest bags. ‘Parties preferred to grandparents now, is it?’
‘In a manner of speaking … Beth, are you all right there?’
‘Yes, William, thank you.’ Beth had safely extricated herself from the car and was leaning against the stone wall for support while closing the door. But then two bold sheep, their stubby tails twitching, the straggly fringes of their thick coats dangling with mud-clods, made a darting approach and she hastily moved away. William’s mother was hovering by the bonnet, waiting to offer a proper greeting. ‘Hey, Mrs Stapleton – it’s just great to be here.’
‘It’s Jill and Tony, please.’ Jill kissed Beth on both cheeks and then stood back, shaking her head in concern as her daughter-in-law hobbled towards the front door. ‘William, I thought you said the ankle was better. The poor love. Tony’s got a walking-stick, haven’t you, Tony, from that time you twisted your knee? Shall I find it for you, dear?’ she cried, hurrying ahead of Beth and holding open the door.
‘Oh, no, I’m fine … really.’ Beth, who had felt her ankle swelling during the long confinement of the journey and who wanted only to be able to lie down somewhere, preferably with her foot raised above
her hips, managed a smile. ‘This is so beautiful – this house, all these hills and so green.’
‘Yes, well, that’s the rain, I’m afraid,’ admitted Jill, cheerily, shaking a limp fist at the overcast sky as she ushered Beth inside. ‘Worst summer on record – but, then, they seem to say that every year, don’t they?’ She took Beth on a tour of the ground floor – a labyrinth of small, low-ceilinged rooms full of fireplaces and decorated in shades of mustard, orange and brown – before starting up a set of steep, narrow stairs, which Beth managed only with considerable assistance from the spindly banisters.
‘I’ve put you two in the guest room rather than William’s,’ she explained, her voice fading as she trotted, with enviable sprightliness, along the passageway. ‘That’s for the boys, these days – fun for them, I always think, to admire their father’s model aeroplanes and have the Beano annuals and such. This is you.’ She pushed open a door at the end of the narrowing corridor, revealing a room barely larger than the double bed it housed. ‘Such a shame Harry’s not with you … As the eldest, he normally gets the box room upstairs.’
A look of such steely questioning accompanied this last remark that Beth, ensnared now in the tiny bedroom, felt bound to respond. ‘I guess you may as well know – I mean, William will tell you himself –’
Jill stepped closer, releasing her grip on the door latch. ‘My dear, what is it? Has something happened?’
‘Not like that, no … It’s just those summer exams Harry took – they didn’t go so well. We heard last Thursday. It’s not a system I’m familiar with, but he got D grades instead of As.’ Beth hesitated, thinking not of her stepson’s disappointing results, or the boy’s brief, pitiful attempts to conceal them with a series of stumbling lies, first about the grades themselves and then with some smoke-and-mirrors talk about the school submitting papers for reappraisal, but of William who, after cancelling the prematurely arranged ‘celebration’ lunch, had unplugged Harry’s early-eighteenth-birthday-present laptop and hurled it across the sitting room with such force that one of its corners had punctured a splintering hole in the Chapmans’ ancient television – much as a bullet might have left, Beth had thought. The long moment of spellbound horror that followed broke with Alfie bursting into tears, Harry storming upstairs and William out of the house, slamming the door with sufficient violence to make the light fittings shake. Beth had remained in the sitting room with George, who had said, ‘Fuck,’ first to the carpet and then to her, so bleakly – and with such indisputable aptness – that rather than offering some sort of stepmotherly reprimand she had merely nodded in agreement.
Before I Knew You Page 10
