by David Nobbs
‘You don’t know. And you don’t know what you’ll want to read. Bring one book, you aren’t in the mood for it, you ruin a good read by reading it at the wrong time. Unfair to the author. A ham.’
‘A ham?’
‘Yes. A carving knife.’
‘A carving knife? What have you brought a carving knife for?’
‘For the ham. Are you an idiot? What else would I carve it with?’
‘You’re planning to eat a ham, secretly, in your room?’
‘I’m not planning. I hope it won’t be needed. But you’ve probably never even boiled an egg in your life, I don’t know what I’ll get, I’m not taking the risk.’
‘Even all that’s not going to fill two suitcases.’
‘No, well, I didn’t want to admit this, not after you and Max have lugged the blasted things up two flights of stairs, but I’ve just put in a few heavy things to fill them up. It’s a question of style.’
‘Style?’
James was uncomfortably aware that in his conversations with Stanley he was apt to end up just repeating odd words like a bewildered parrot.
‘I was brought up in the halcyon age of travel, when vast amounts of baggage trailed behind every Englishman worth his salt. I remember my father telling me very firmly that half-empty bags would not impress the porters.’
‘There aren’t any porters. There haven’t been any porters for years.’
‘I realise that.’ Stanley sighed and suddenly looked his age. ‘I’m out of touch.’
There was a ring at the door. James hurried off downstairs.
It was Charles and Valerie. Charles was carrying one small, elegant bag. Valerie looked tired. It was Charles who had travelled round Europe giving concerts, but it was Valerie who looked tired.
James made tea, and produced a lemon drizzle cake. As he brought it out he recalled something Deborah had said. ‘That’s the thing about James. He seems in a world of his own, and suddenly he produces exactly the thing you want.’
It was strange, but as each day passed he found that he was beginning to think more and more of his times with Deborah, little odd things, a remark, a laugh, a rebuke.
They sat in the garden, Deborah’s garden, in the shade, sipping their tea, and eating their lemon drizzle cake. James had produced tiny forks, for the cake. He wanted there to be no diminishment of style because of Deborah’s absence.
But Max took his sliver of cake in his great gnarled hand.
‘Nothing pansy about eating cake with a cake fork, Max,’ said Stanley.
Max blushed.
‘Not a pansy, are you?’
‘How did the concerts go, Charles?’ asked James somewhat too fast.
‘No need to change the subject, Dad. I’m not embarrassed,’ said Max. ‘I’m not actually, Stanley. I rather wish I was. Then I could sing “The Lumberjack Song”.’
The allusion was lost on Stanley, who didn’t watch comedy on television in case it made him laugh.
‘No, but how did the concerts go?’ asked James.
‘Oh, you know, not bad,’ said Charles.
‘They were a triumph, Charles,’ said Valerie.
Charles gave his wife a look of unmistakable irritation.
The phone rang. James started to get out of his chair but without any enthusiasm.
‘I’ll go,’ said Max.
He bounded towards the house with the stored energy of a man who hasn’t chopped down a tree for two whole days.
‘Charles did the Schumann in Helsinki,’ said Valerie.
Charles gave Valerie another look, less irritated but still not quite pleased.
‘I’ve told James,’ he said.
‘Yes, but he may not have told Stanley,’ persisted Valerie.
‘He hasn’t,’ said Stanley. ‘Nobody tells me anything. They don’t when you’re old.’
‘I did it for Deborah, and I told the audience that I was doing it for her,’ said Charles. ‘They liked that.’
Stanley gave James a meaningful look.
Was there really anything in it? James tried not to think about what Stanley had said in the taxi, but it had been said, it couldn’t be unsaid, and, for all that it was ridiculous, it nagged him.
Suddenly a dreadful thought struck him. The phone call might be from Helen, hysterical once more. Oh, God. He should have answered. He stood up, began to walk towards the house, but at that moment Max returned looking utterly unflustered.
‘It was Uncle Philip,’ he said. ‘He said he’ll join us at the restaurant.’
‘The restaurant?’ said Charles, perking up.
‘We’re going to a Turkish restaurant tonight,’ said James hastily. ‘Not far. Very cheery. Well, I couldn’t face cooking.’
‘Of course not,’ said Charles, ‘and Turkish food’s very good.’
‘A million people will drown in Istanbul when the sea levels rise,’ commented Stanley. ‘You wait.’
Charles ordered the meze. It was natural that he should do so. He was the one who went to Turkey. He was the one who had been cheered to the echo in Istanbul.
He ordered aubergine purée, beetroot salad, garlicky cucumber yoghourt, broad beans in olive oil, stuffed vine leaves, potato balls, stuffed mussels, runner beans with diced mutton, and tiny fish rather like whitebait that weren’t on the menu. ‘They’ve always got little things that aren’t on the menu for those that know,’ he said.
Valerie looked sour and James could guess at what she was thinking. None of them know what hard work it is for me, left at home, having to compete with all this, having to satisfy his jaded international palate. He wasn’t feeling his usual unalloyed warmth for Charles. Perhaps there was something in what Stanley had hinted.
Philip arrived just as they were ordering their drinks, mainly red wine. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘These conferences don’t half go on. Sometimes I think talking about global warming creates so much hot air that it could heat five medium-sized towns.’
After the wine had arrived, and they had raised their glasses to each other, Charles said, ‘Um,’ so meaningfully that they all looked at him expectantly. ‘I … look, throw this out if you like, please feel free, but I had an idea. I played the Schumann in Helsinki. The piano concerto. The one Deborah loved.’
Stanley gave James another meaningful look. James glared at him.
‘I played it for her, really, and I told the Finns, and they loved the thought, and I gave it everything I’d got … people said they were very moved … so I wondered … everybody’s emotional, we can’t just sit around talking all night so … should I play some of it tonight, back at the house, for her? It wouldn’t be quite the same, without the orchestra, but I have done it before for friends, and it sort of works. What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ said James.
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly. It’s ages since you’ve played for us, anyway.’
‘Fantastic.’
Oh, Stanley, thought James, stop giving me meaningful looks, you evil old man. You’ve planted the thought, it’s there, it isn’t going to go away, you don’t need to give me meaningful looks.
The meze arrived, there was barely room for everything on the table. Stanley and James made sure that the red wine flowed, and Max turned to it after two beers. The restaurant had filled up. It was loud and cheery, and the smiles of the waiters never wavered. James wondered if the others had all forgotten they were here tonight because of a funeral.
Over the lamb kebabs, the stewed lamb, the cabbage rolls with minced lamb, and the baked red mullet (without lamb, thank goodness – Charles had chosen the main courses without consulting James, who didn’t much like lamb) the conversation turned back to global warming, as perhaps it was bound to do.
‘Probably this isn’t the right moment to talk about this, Philip,’ said Charles, ‘but, you know, we got talking a lot in Copenhagen, where they had such an abortive conference on global warming last year, and there are such different opin
ions about it, but come on, you’re the expert, how great is the real threat from global warming?’
‘It isn’t the right moment, Charles,’ said Valerie.
‘Don’t feel it isn’t the right moment because of me,’ said James. ‘I’d be delighted to have my mind taken away from why we’re all here.’
Philip clearly didn’t want to use his expertise to be dogmatic on this social occasion. He said that he was just one of many experts, and they didn’t all agree. James pressed him for his personal opinion, and he said that he thought there was a real risk, if not a certainty, that the human race would destroy its own life on this planet well before the end of the century.
‘Good job too,’ said Stanley. ‘It’s a rotten planet. Time it went. You all talk about the threat of global warming. I talk about the promise of global warming.’
‘Oh, Stanley!’ said Valerie.
‘I know. I’m wicked,’ said Stanley complacently.
‘That is just the trouble with evil,’ said James. ‘I keep hearing of judges and magistrates telling people they’re evil and they seem to think it’ll upset them. Don’t they realise it’s exactly what these people want to hear? That’s why you can’t deal with evil or ever conquer it, all you can do is encourage goodness and hope it wins the battle. That’s why I believe you can only beat people like the Taliban with ideas, not guns.’
‘Well, I think the battle between good and evil is maybe a bit heavy for tonight,’ said Valerie.
A waiter poured more red wine, liberally and unequally, including into the glasses of those who didn’t want it, so that they had to order another bottle. It’s the way of waiters all over the world.
‘I didn’t say I was evil,’ said Stanley. ‘I said I was wicked. But, yes, I’ll be gone and I think man deserves the catastrophes that are coming. Most parliaments in the world are built at very low levels. The politicians deserve to drown, and one day they will. I just wish I could be there to see it.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Uncle Stanley, your perversity is so tedious,’ exploded Charles. ‘You’ve fallen in love with your image. The eccentric academic.’
‘And you, of course, aren’t in love with your image at all, are you?’ said Valerie.
‘What image is that, my darling?’ asked Charles icily.
‘The famous artist, of course.’
A pink spot had developed on each of Valerie’s pale cheeks.
‘I didn’t choose to become famous,’ said Charles with an infuriating smile. ‘It was sheer talent.’
James looked across at Valerie and his heart sank. Oh, Valerie, the pity of it, he thought. You are the only woman at the table with five men successful in their fields, and you cannot rise to the occasion. Where is the spark of yesteryear? Taken, James, by my distinguished husband, and spread among his fans. The reply that Valerie’s tired eyes gave to the question he hadn’t actually asked shocked James.
‘I’m the person here who’s going to be most affected by global warming,’ said Max suddenly, ‘and I haven’t said a word.’
They all turned to look at him and a very slow blush crept over his large, owlish face like a sunrise. He took a quick sip of his wine and they could see that he was choosing his words very carefully. ‘I wasn’t terribly bright at school,’ he said. ‘I didn’t connect. I think I was a big disappointment to Dad and especially to Mum, but in the forests of Canada I’ve done the connecting that I failed to do and the teachers failed to do at school, and I want to say this. I wish we wouldn’t place so much importance on the different opinions about global warming, because I think that, whether or not it’s going to happen isn’t the point, the point is that not to act is a horrendous gamble, and, lousy though it may be, this is the only planet I’ve got, Stanley.’
Stanley had the grace to look somewhat abashed.
‘The point is, as I see it, that the things we’d do to combat global warming are things it’s good to do anyway. We’re destroying the planet’s resources, we’re using them up, we just have to find alternative sources of energy anyway, we have to solve the population problem anyway, we have to stop cutting down the rain forests anyway, we have to reverse the pollution of the oceans anyway. Sorry. It probably wasn’t the right moment, but I had to say it.’
James felt a surge of pride in his son, but no emotion could be without sadness for him on this night, and the pride led to a feeling of shame. Max had been very quiet all evening, and James had wondered if he was over-awed in this company, or merely jet-lagged, or just had nothing to contribute. Now he realised how little he really knew his son, and this led on, of course, to thoughts of Charlotte and the abyss that always hovered near his heart. He knew nothing of Charlotte’s last five years. He could have known so much more of Max’s.
They wandered back slowly from the restaurant through a London that had been transformed by the fine weather, past restaurants and pubs and cafés that were spilling out onto the pavements. Everywhere people were strolling and talking. If they had been better dressed it could almost have been Italy. James found himself wondering how much the cold and gloom of the British climate had contributed to the nation’s character. Had upper lips only been stiff because they had been frozen? Would global warming free up the people of this strange island for one last brief era of junketing before the apocalypse came to wipe them off their planet?
The great, amorphous city was alive with noise, with chatter, with laughter, much of which sounded coarse, and with singing, most of which sounded drunken. It seemed as if nobody else in the great wen was facing any sadness the next day. James felt, as he had so often felt, that he was out of step.
Even in the shady ground floor of the house it felt warm. There was no breeze. James opened a bottle of chilled white wine, dropped three ice cubes into a glass of water and put it on the piano for Charles. Stanley plonked himself onto the chaise longue, Max sat tactfully in the straightest of the chairs, Philip sat beside Valerie on the sofa, and James took the high-backed armchair. Nobody spoke. Charles had often played, in this room, over the years, but this was different. The atmosphere was just slightly eerie, somewhat artificial, as if they were posed for a photograph. James sensed a sudden tension in the room, a stiffness, an embarrassment, as if they all thought what a wonderful and utterly suitable idea this was, but all wished that it wasn’t actually happening.
Usually Charles just plonked himself at the piano and began. But on this emotional evening he had felt the need to leave the room to compose himself, so now he had to make an entrance. But the living room of a Georgian terraced house in Islington is not the Albert Hall, and the family looked at each other and had no idea which would be the more absurd – the applause of a massed audience of five or an entrance in total silence. They opted for a smattering of embarrassed applause. Charles gave a little bow and a half-smile.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think that the music speaks for itself, but for those of you who do not know Schumann’s piano concerto …’ he stared at Stanley as he said this, and then gave a little, less severe look towards Max ‘… I need to explain that it was written for his beloved wife Clara, a better pianist than he, though a less good composer. It’s an emotional piece, subtle and elegant, written for a woman he loved. What could be a more effective memorial for a woman like Deborah? I wish I could have an orchestra here to give the full effect of this marvellous piece, for the musical conversation between piano and orchestra is one of its great strengths. Sadly, however, though a successful businessman, James isn’t rich enough to be able to afford a house with a large enough room. What I am playing tonight is really just my patched-up version of the piano part, but I think it carries the spirit and meaning of the piece, and I like to think I have given it its own unity, its own integrity. Lady and gentlemen …’ he smiled at his pedantry, ‘… Schumann’s piano concerto.’
He sat at the music stool, stroked his beard thoughtfully, pulled down his cuffs, wiggled his fingers, held his hands just above the keys, appeared to g
o into a trance, and began.
James was absolutely determined to listen to the music to the exclusion of everything else, to savour every moment of his brother’s brilliance. But listening to music is a talent in itself, and he didn’t possess it. He knew that the music had emotional meaning, as opposed, he assumed, to narrative meaning. He felt that he must let himself go blank, devoid of thoughts and above all of words, so that he could just feel the emotions, but he found that he couldn’t feel an emotion without knowing and describing to himself in words what that emotion was. Birds, he believed, could do that. Animals, he was certain, could do it. Why not he? He heard himself saying to himself, Ah. This is optimistic. Oh, now a touch of fear creeps in. And then the floodgates of his mind were open. He found himself looking at the other listeners and wondering how they were reacting. On the surface Philip seemed all sensitive concentration, but for all James knew he might have been wondering where to go on his holidays. He felt like an inferior being, lacking artistic understanding, solidly unmusical, and consoled himself only with the thought that this was not obvious to anybody else. He found himself watching Valerie, and he had a feeling that beneath her bourgeois serenity a great battle between pride and resentment was being fought. He noticed that Max’s eyes were closing and opening, closing and opening, closing and opening, as he fought a long agonising battle against jet lag. For minutes at a time James hardly heard the music. Then he would jerk himself back to it, as if he also was fighting jet lag. He would try again to empty his mind, and fail. Then he noticed that Stanley was fast asleep, utterly oblivious to this great performance. There was Charles playing his heart out, playing superbly (how did he know that it was superb? Did he know enough about music to know that it was superb?) and, out of his audience of five, one was fast asleep, one was fighting jet lag, one was reflecting on the fact that one was asleep and one was fighting jet lag, one had heard it all a thousand times before, and only one, Philip, was really appreciating it (he hoped). It was in danger of becoming a fiasco. Then Stanley snored, just once, loudly. His snore woke him up. He looked round the room, having no idea where he was, remembered, grimaced, saw Valerie glaring at him, sat up straight, listened with exaggerated attention. Charles hadn’t appeared to hear the snore, he powered on, delicately, subtly, strongly … well, James was certain that he was being delicate and subtle and strong. Within about ninety seconds Stanley was fast asleep again, and Max was losing his battle against sleep and embarrassment. Now James could hardly concentrate on the music at all, for fear that Stanley would snore again.
