by David Nobbs
At last what should have been a joy, a memorable artistic experience, was over, and he had hardly experienced it at all.
There was a moment’s devastating silence, then Philip called out, ‘Bravo,’ and began to clap. James clapped too, Stanley woke with a jerk and clapped vigorously, Max also came to and began to applaud in a slightly embarrassed way. Valerie joined in the clapping and smiled, but James didn’t think that her eyes were smiling.
Because there were so few of them they clapped for slightly longer than was necessary, and Charles bowed and bowed again and bowed yet again, and James felt certain that there were tears in his eyes.
‘I … um … thank you,’ said Charles. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I … um … I don’t want to risk boring you …’
‘Never,’ called out James. He felt he had to.
‘… but if you’re up for it I would like to play one more piece. It’s—’
‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Stanley. ‘I’m not a late bird any more, and I’ve had a long journey and a big dinner, and I am bushed. That was wonderful … wonderful, Charles … simply wonderful … I enjoyed every minute of it, but I am for my bed.’
He clambered awkwardly out of his chair.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Max, ‘but the jet lag is beating me. I’m absolutely gutted, Uncle Charles. To sit here and listen to you playing the piano just for us, what an experience, but my eyes kept closing, I’m knackered.’
‘I understand,’ said Charles, looking as if he didn’t understand at all, looking quite angry in fact. James couldn’t remember ever seeing Charles angry before. ‘I understand. Any more would be too much. I’m over-egging the pudding. It’s probably a fault of mine.’
‘No, please,’ said Philip. ‘I think one more piece would be just great.’
‘James?’ prompted Charles.
‘Yes, it’d be wonderful, Charles. A privilege. I’m not looking forward to trying to sleep …’
‘Well, that’s what I thought.’
‘And we are all perhaps a little bit overwrought, not surprisingly …’
‘Well, that’s what I thought.’
‘And so I think conversation is a little bit of a dangerous activity tonight.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought.’
‘So, please, play for us.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
My God, how much more sure do I have to say I am?
‘I am sure.’
‘Good. That’s fine then.’
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me,’ said Stanley, ‘I’ll see you in the morning. If the waters haven’t risen and swamped Islington.’
He left to a chorus of ‘goodnight’s and ‘sleep well’s. As he reached the door he met James’s eye and flicked his head in the direction of Charles in yet another meaningful glance.
‘Stupid bugger,’ said Philip the moment he had gone.
‘Absolutely,’ said James, ‘but if you really want to do something to raise awareness of the risk of global warming, you could do worse than to use him. Put him on the telly, saying, “You’re all going to drown, you bastards, and you deserve it.” He would at least shock people, and, human nature being what it is, we are tragically ready to get bored by do-gooders.’
‘Well, I’m off to bed too,’ said Max. ‘And I’m really sorry. I feel mortified.’
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Charles. ‘It’s only music.’
James wished Charles hadn’t said that. And he wished Max hadn’t said that he was mortified. He was twenty-two. He was too young to be mortified. He was too young to use words like ‘mortified’.
‘Um … well spoken in the restaurant, Max. Fantastic,’ said Philip.
Max mumbled his thanks and made an awkward exit, suddenly looking the young, inexperienced man that he was.
‘Now are you still absolutely sure?’ asked Charles.
‘Yes,’ said Philip with emphasis.
‘Right. Well, I thought it might be rather interesting to compare Schumann’s concerto with another concerto written by a man who admired and was frankly influenced by Schumann’s concerto. I refer, of course …’
James loved that ‘of course’. Charles knew that there was no ‘of course’ about it to anyone but himself.
‘… to Grieg’s piano concerto. Again, emotion, feeling, subtlety, but this time expressed in a Nordic way rather than a Central European way, or are such regional differences only in the imagination? Let’s see, shall we? And of course once again you are not getting the full effect, we haven’t an orchestra, but once again I venture to say that I think I can make it into some kind of artistic whole. Lady and gentlemen – well, at least the men are still in the plural – let us say, “Lady and Brothers,” Grieg’s piano concerto.’
There are only three of us, thought James. This time I cannot afford to let Charles down. This time I will concentrate utterly, I will be sensitive to every nuance, I will be worthy of my brother.
There were tears in Charles’s eyes. I’m sure of it. Of course he won’t have slept with Deborah. Stanley’s a wicked old man, unhinged, twisted, on the way to being deranged, why should I even listen to him?
Concentrate on the music. Oh, Charles, your playing is so lovely. Oh, I so wish I could do that. And this is a lovely slow piece, elegant, passionate, building towards a climax, so Nordic, or is that just my imagination?
Valerie doesn’t look like a woman who’s getting much.
What kind of an unsubtle thought is that, in the middle of a piano concerto? I am utterly unworthy of your music, Charles.
But she doesn’t look loved.
It was Charles that Deborah was going to so eagerly with her red shoes. He knew it. He’d been blind. She had been planning to go on his musical tour with him. Or maybe there had been no tour, maybe the tour had just been a cover. He’d had to go on it anyway, or be found out. He’d been spending nights in lonely beds in European capitals, crying for his lost love in a way that James could not. Stop it. Back to the music. Concentrate.
He closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, tried to let his mind go blank, and suddenly there it was, filling his head, at last his head was filled with nothing but the music, rich, beautiful, powerful, spiritual, strong, rising to a climax, ending.
It was over. He’d heard almost none of it. He clapped like mad.
Philip was clapping like mad too. But Philip had understood it. Perhaps all along it ought to have been Philip that he should have wanted to be.
It had never occurred to him to want to be himself.
Charles took his bows and they clapped and clapped and Valerie said very firmly, in case Charles was contemplating an encore, ‘That was a lovely little concert, Charles.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Philip. ‘Well, I must be off back to Leighton Buzzard.’
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said James.
At the door Philip said, ‘Well, that was wonderful.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘A great artist improvising on the work of two great composers, and all in your living room.’
‘Incredible.’
‘A privilege to be there.’
If only I had been.
‘Absolutely.’
James held out his hand. Philip shook it and then, impulsively, hugged his brother for the second time.
Now at last the tears flowed. He shook with silent sobs, soaking his pillow. The bed stretched vast and empty on both sides of him. He felt lost, tiny, utterly lonely. Now at last he missed Deborah with every bone in his body, as he waited for his final temazepam tablet to kick in. He put his arms round where she should have been, and gave the air a kiss that was meant for her.
Thursday
He was woken by the phone at ten past eight. At first he thought it was his alarm ringing and tried to switch it off, but then he realised that it wasn’t switched on. Then he grabbed at the phone and knocked over his glass of water, soaking the edge of the bed. Not a good start to a difficult day.
Not a good omen.
He managed to pick up the phone just one ring before it would have gone onto the answerphone.
‘Hello.’
His early-morning voice sounded like a hoarse crow’s.
‘Hello, James, it’s me.’
This was too much too early.
‘Helen!’
‘Have I woken you?’
No more lies. There was no need for lies any more.
‘No. I’m at my computer, checking on my emails before anyone else gets up.’
‘James, I’m ringing to apologise for all the awful things I said yesterday.’
‘Oh, that’s all right.’
Oh, that’s all right? What sort of a reaction is that? Come on, James.
‘It’s not all right. It was dreadful of me. What sort of woman must you think I am?’
‘I know what sort of woman you are, my darling.’
Ouch. My darling? No. It’s with just having woken up, but really, that’s dangerous.
‘Oh, James, I miss you.’
I miss you. No. Well, I do, but at the same time I know that I won’t. But, James, whatever you do, don’t say it. Look what that ‘my darling’ has done. It’s made it intimate. It can’t be intimate. It’s over. I didn’t want it to be over. I wouldn’t for the life of me have ended it if there was a chance that it wasn’t over.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Thoughts are sort of flashing around, sort of not quite yet sorted out.’
Say something to show that it’s still final, James, something to deactivate that unwise ‘my darling’.
‘Anyway, thank you for phoning and saying that, Helen. We had five great years. I really don’t want it to end in bitterness for either of us.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of coming and ruining the service. I couldn’t.’
‘I know.’
He hadn’t known. The relief flooded in
‘James, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I think I can understand your … um … I don’t know how to put it, really … your thinking on this. Your fear.’
‘My fear?’
‘Yes. That a great affair, a fantastic sexual adventure, would slide into an ordinary sort of marriage, an affectionate existence. We had an intensity that can only exist when you’re up against it, in snatches, in crises. The excitement we felt was a drug. We’d die without it. When you said “my darling” just then I thought, maybe there’s still a bit of hope. There isn’t any, is there?’
Hard not to prevaricate. Hard not to say, I’d never rule anything out. No. Be strong.
‘No, I don’t honestly think there is.’
Oh, God.
Go now. Ring off. You’ve said enough. It’s over.
‘I’ve … um … I’ve decided to try to be positive.’
Good. That’s good.
‘Good. That’s good.’
It was a relief for once to be able to say what he was really thinking.
‘Don’t think I’m getting over you or anything. Don’t think I’m happy. I’m devastated.’
‘I know, and if I say, “I’m sorry,” it sounds pathetic, but I am.’
‘But I already feel that this is a watershed for me. I’ve … um … I’ve decided not to hang about. I’ve …’ He was surprised to hear a touch of coyness entering her voice. ‘You remember I talked about a man I met in Germany.’
‘Gunter from Ulm who was so charming and Continental and sophisticated.’
‘Don’t mock, and my God, you have a memory. Well, I’ve written to him and I …’ Her voice began to crack. ‘Bye, James.’
She rang off hurriedly before the tears began.
James stared at the phone, put it to his lips, kissed it, then slammed it down abruptly. Then he made love to Helen for the last time, fiercely, briefly, nostalgically. Afterwards he felt flat and soiled. It was extremely unpleasant to feel flat and soiled after sex, but on this occasion his very flatness, his very soiledness – was there such a word? – gave him a brief sensation of excitement. He had done the right thing. A new life lay ahead.
He pulled himself to his feet, ambled over to the window, and drew back the curtains on yet another glorious sunny morning. The calm of the Georgian street matched a new feeling of calm in his heart, a feeling of which he was a little ashamed, because he knew that it was caused by his knowledge that Helen wasn’t coming, that his behaviour was not going to be revealed to the congregation, that his reputation was not going to be destroyed in front of all those he knew and loved. A strange, almost optimistic feeling crept over him, a feeling that something important would happen today, something would change, and that, hard though it was to imagine it on such a day, it would be a change for the better. Then the worries that had consumed him before the sleeping pill took effect returned. Would Stanley let the side down? Would he break down during his eulogy? And, above all, would Charlotte come, and, if she came, how would she look, how would she behave, how would she be?
The house was quiet. Nobody was up. All four of his house guests had travelled yesterday, and travel is tiring. He’d have liked a shower, but the noise of the pump might wake somebody up, and he wanted them to remain silent for as long as possible. The morning of a big funeral is an excruciating time. The minutes pass slowly. Tension rises remorselessly. Everything has been arranged. There is nothing to do. To be sad is to pre-empt. To be happy is to be insensitive. No mood is appropriate.
If no mood is appropriate, it must be good to let one’s mind go blank. As he began to prepare breakfast, James managed just that, achieving with ease what he had so dismally failed to manage while listening to Charles’s playing last night.
To float around in one’s dressing gown, to prepare breakfast for one’s guests, that was a luxury. James the Provider. There are few more comforting roles. He laid the distressed pine table in the kitchen thoroughly and slowly, putting out butter, jam, two kinds of marmalade, two kinds of honey, a basket for toast, jugs of orange juice, tomato juice and mango juice, two types of cereal, two brands of muesli, a jug of semi-skimmed milk, a jug of soya milk, salt, pepper, mustard, brown sauce, bowls, plates, knives, forks, dessert spoons, teaspoons, napkins. On the marble worktops he put eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, tomatoes and mushrooms, all ready to be cooked. On the Lacanche cooker with its five hobs of different sizes and its gas and electric ovens he placed all the pans necessary for the cooking of a full English breakfast. He was more than James the Provider. He was James the Widower whose Competence would Astonish Everybody. He was James the Bereaved whose Stoicism was Admirable. He had roles to play, and he would play them very slowly. With a bit of luck breakfast would last most of the morning.
Breakfast had lasted a long time, and much of the rest of James’s morning had been taken up with showering and shaving and getting dressed in clothes that reflected the tragedy of the occasion but were not excessively sombre. He had tried to tell as many people as possible that Deborah hated the sight of large numbers of people dressed in black. He himself was wearing black trousers with a striped shirt, a dark but not black tie and a burgundy jacket.
Then people began to arrive. The caterers came first, ready to prepare a light snack for those who were coming to the house before going on to the crematorium in procession behind the hearse.
‘I wonder if I could have a quick sandwich,’ suggested Charles. ‘I’m going to get down there early. I need to compose myself.’
‘An appropriate term,’ commented James.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Valerie, and it was a statement, not a suggestion. ‘I see so little of him, James. I have to grab him when I can.’
James could see that Charles didn’t want her to go with him, but didn’t know how to say this, and soon they were off in a taxi, absurdly early, it seemed to him.
Soon after they had gone, Fliss arrived, with her husband Dominic, who was an industrial relations consultant. James found him unimpressive, but h
e must have something. He was in demand across half the globe.
‘So sad,’ said Dominic, as he shook James’s hand with that slightly sweaty handshake that James dreaded. James always wondered if all his flesh was slightly wet and, if so, how Fliss could bear to touch him. ‘I felt so helpless, James, that was the awful thing. Fliss needing me, and there I was in bloody Indonesia.’
Unfair to take it out on poor old Indonesia, thought James absurdly.
He led the way into the living room.
‘Stiffener?’ he suggested. ‘Sherry, wine, whisky, gin? Long, harrowing day.’
Dominic glanced at the clock, which was showing two minutes past eleven. He hesitated.
‘Or is it too early?’ prompted James.
‘No, no,’ said Domnic hastily. ‘I don’t think one would do any harm. Sherry, please. It’s a terribly underrated drink, but it’s going to make a comeback.’
‘Fliss?’
‘G and T would be good.’
‘Coming up.’
Smelling the drink the moment it was poured, Stanley clumped downstairs and accepted a whisky. Max soon appeared and asked for a beer. James reminded him that they would be a long time out of range of a toilet, and he changed it to a whisky.
‘I’m really upset about my hair,’ said Fliss, and Dominic raised his eyebrows towards heaven. ‘My girl’s on holiday, and the other girl just doesn’t understand it at all.’
‘It looks really good,’ said James.
‘That’s right. Tell her,’ said Dominic. ‘Not that she’ll listen.’
‘It won’t make much difference to Deborah, that’s for sure,’ said Stanley.
