Silent Song

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘Decanters?’

  ‘Wedding present. They chose ’em with me.’

  ‘And then Ruth moved to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Not then. She stayed on in Benedict’s. There was a longish gap when both constantly rang me to say how happy they were to be free. Then they turned up together, it was all on, the sun was shining, the birds singing ‒ tra-la.’

  I smiled. ‘How nice.’

  ‘Whilst it lasted. They agreed their jobs were equally important, fixed the date, found a larger flat and were in the process of getting rid of their smaller ones when, inside of six weeks, Alistair covered a tidal wave in India, a flood in Italy, an earthquake in South America. Chile, I think. In any event, he was there on what should’ve been their wedding day. When he got back Ruth said she couldn’t see the point of marrying a man who was never going to be there. Hadn’t sunk in, before.’

  ‘With her I.Q?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said dryly, ‘nothing like the emotions for blunting the intelligence.’

  I looked out of the window. ‘That’s for sure. Decanters rep. mist.?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still got ’em?’

  ‘In their original box. Box is showing the strain.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  We were silent, but as few things so successfully relieve tension as a good, shared, second-hand problem, the silence was unstrained. It was quite a while before I noticed he was propped against the windowsill just as he had been propped against the rock on that beach and the sun now, as then, was shining over his shoulder. Absently, mentally I fitted the straw hat on his head, pulled forward the brim to shadow his intent, lowered face. He had the withdrawn, contented expression of anyone creating his own private world. I remembered that expression on his younger more tanned face and the way it had altered a few minutes after as his mind translated the urgent Spanish I couldn’t follow. My mind jerked back to the present. Unconsciously, I winced.

  ‘Cramp, Anne? Like a rest?’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I suddenly realized he was possibly the one human being in the world with whom I didn’t have to pretend at this moment. ‘I was just thinking how bloody silly it is to waste happiness. One doesn’t want to be morbid ‒ to go round saying ‒ look, this could be the last day of your life, so for God’s sake use it ‒ but, it can happen.’

  He didn’t pretend, either. ‘I thought it might be that.’

  He put the sketch aside, and sat on the sofa arm by my feet. ‘Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, isn’t just ancient corn. There’ve been times when I’ve longed to knock their clever little heads together and suggest they remember the human heart only has a finite number of beats. So’ ‒ his smile was self-derisive ‒ ‘my ineffectual Cupid-bit.’

  ‘It was worth a try. Obviously, what they’ve got going between them hasn’t gone out yet, and their being so miserable apart isn’t doing them, and probably isn’t doing their jobs any good. If they’d only use their brains as well as their emotions, I don’t see why they shouldn’t work things out.’

  ‘If they’ll give themselves time.’ He shrugged. ‘On past form, this hour we’ve just forced on ’em is all they’ll take even if Alistair is on holiday. I’m pretty sure he is. He said last week if not he wouldn’t be back today.’

  ‘Did he know Ruth was free?’

  ‘I’d told him there was a chance, but not that she’d be in London as I didn’t then know that myself. Needed a bit of pressure.’

  Something in his tone made me look at him more closely. ‘Do I come into that, George?’ He nodded, briefly. ‘Haven’t you explained she doesn’t have to worry over that angle? Surely, Alistair’s told you?’

  He coloured. ‘Will you mind my answering yes to both?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. Do some good?’

  ‘Not much. People prefer to believe what they think they see rather than what they actually see.’

  I thought of Elspeth, Jilly, Dr Jones. ‘And that’s for sure. So she still thinks I’m out to hook Alistair?’

  ‘I’d have put that the other way round.’

  I smiled slightly. ‘Thanks, but I know my own sex and I’ve been a widow over four years. I don’t know if divorcées get this, but every young widow I’ve met agrees that the world ‒ and particularly the female world ‒ is convinced from the funeral onwards that we’re determined to hook another man.’

  He looked at me very thoughtfully. ‘I don’t say that’s wrong, but aren’t you a bit over-sensitive about it and quite unnecessarily?’

  ‘Well ‒ yes, Sorry.’

  ‘Not that I blame you for getting fed to the back teeth. Has the same effect on me.’

  ‘You get much the same?’

  ‘Everyone single gets it in some form or other.’

  He smiled quickly. ‘All my sick leave, Aunt Helen every other day, “Don’t think I’m trying to interfere, dear boy, but every man over thirty needs a wife.” And Alistair ‒ when not slapping himself on the back for being free ‒ handing out hideous warnings on the consequences of over-exposure to the English public-school system, the still monastery-geared life of a hospital resident, and a one-sided all-male upbringing. If you have problems, Anne, according to Alistair ‒ and Ruth in her turn ‒ so have I. In fact the one point on which they’ve agreed consistently throughout, is that it’s high time I looked around for a wife.’

  I was rather touched, rather ashamed. ‘Poor George.’

  ‘Didn’t hurt me and worth the minor irritation as it came in handy for lowering the temp at dodgy moments.’

  ‘I guess so.’ I saw his expression change. ‘George. Are you having a bright idea?’

  He hesitated. ‘Just an idea. Not sure it’s on.’

  I was curious. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Aren’t you off till Monday? So am I.’ He paused again. ‘Have you and Alistair fixed up this evening yet?’

  Our eyes met as I caught on. ‘No. Temp-lowering?’

  ‘If ‒ if the prospect doesn’t appal too much, it’s struck me that if we provided a temporary diversion we could do that and simultaneously knock on the head Ruth’s fixation about Alistair and yourself. After Monday ‒ a nice unagonizing reappraisal. But if you’d rather not, just say. They’re not kids and if they want to bugger up their lives ‒ they’re their lives. And we could even be making a huge error to take a hand.’

  ‘They aren’t kids, but that’s how they’re acting. You think this’ll work?’

  ‘God alone knows! All I think is that it might keep ’em together over the week-end, if they think our new and unsuspected beautiful relationship needs a little help from our friends. Alistair’ll enjoy playing deus ex machina. Most men do.’ He tapped his chest. ‘I should know. My favourite euphemism for arrogance.’

  I could have phrased that differently, but didn’t. ‘Let’s get this clear, George. Have we just discovered we could have this beautiful thing going for us, but we’re not too sure?’

  ‘I’ll have to be sure. They ‒ particularly Alistair ‒ know too much about me for anything less. If you’ll just play along, that should be enough.’

  ‘How do I play it? Coy? Submissive? Eager? Far from sure but keeping an open mind?’

  ‘The last’ll be perfect. The rest leave to me.’

  He had said that before. Over and over. ‘The rest leave to me, Mrs Dorland.’

  I blinked involuntarily. ‘I’ve got the picture.’

  He said in a different voice, ‘Hell having a good memory. I’m sorry. I should’ve put that another way.’

  Perversely, now I would have preferred pretence. ‘No. I’m being stupid. There’s no sense or joy in fighting old ghosts.’

  ‘The problem would be so much more simple if one could actually fight ’em.’ The door bell rang and he got off the sofa arm. ‘You’re sure this is all right with you, Anne? If you’re not, we’ll forget it.’

  Irrationally, I wanted to weep. I smiled. ‘No. I’m always trying to run other people’s liv
es on duty so why not off? Have you done all you want to that sketch?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, whatever I say, shortly. Very stiff?’ He held out a hand to help me up. ‘You’re a good model. You sit still.’ The bell rang for longer. ‘They can wait. The cooling off period won’t hurt them or the new image.’

  ‘Should I ruffle my hair?’

  ‘This’ll do it.’ He dropped a pocket comb on the sofa then rubbed his lips with a clean handkerchief. ‘Opening the door, don’t you agree?’

  ‘George! I’d no idea you could be so crafty?’

  He smiled very nicely. ‘We dei ex machinis have to be dead devious.’ The bell rang a third time and violently. ‘I’d better go before Love Unrequited relieves its aggressions by kicking down your door.’

  I was still smiling genuinely when he returned with Ruth and Alistair at each other’s throats. Ten minutes later they looked punch-drunk, but had agreed to dine and see a film with us that evening. ‘Anne,’ said George, ‘particularly wants to see it. Incidentally, Alistair, are you on holiday? Anne says you haven’t even mentioned the possibility to her.’

  That evoked the only dour look I had ever had from Alistair. ‘Yes. I’ve ten days. I’m sorry. Forgot. And where have you two decided we should dine?’

  George named a restaurant. ‘Anne wanted first to be sure you’d join us. Can I use your phone to confirm my booking, Anne?’

  ‘Help yourself. You know where it is.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said truthfully, as all the hospital flats were identically planned with the phones on shelves above the beds.

  Dinner was difficult but could have been worse. George and I did most of the talking, but Alistair helped, partly as he was good-mannered, partly as once over the initial surprise, he seemed genuinely pleased by the turn of events between George and myself. I found the way he kept watching us covertly very disconcerting, but at the same time realized a little girlish confusion was very much what he would have expected from me at this time. Being in the company of both men for much longer than ever before, I saw their differing national characteristics even more clearly than in Edinburgh, and had constantly that feeling of sitting on my own shoulder watching us all.

  George looking slightly amused, slightly phlegmatic, paying not particular conversational attention to me, but watching me as fixedly as Englishmen on the make always do watch the girl they’ve decided on. Alistair’s dark, more mobile face, alternating between cheerfulness and a smouldering dignity when he occasionally looked at Ruth. Ruth herself sulking like a spoilt child, opening her mouth only to eat, drink, or spit at Alistair. Myself looking as unsure as I felt, mostly keeping my eyes modestly downcast, mainly to hide my increasing irritation with Ruth. Both cousins were nice men, George was her old chum and all else aside, she must have realized he was trying to help her as well as himself. She wasn’t the first very bright, very pretty English girl I’d seen behave like this and probably wouldn’t be the last, but as she had one of the best brains I’d come across, as the meal progressed I had to throttle the urge to slam the table and say ‘Look, duckie, and listen whilst I tell you about the last dinner-table I shared with George. Maybe he’ll then tell you about a plane crash. After that ‒ take a good look at Alistair, then find a mirror and look at yourself. At the very best, the face you see now won’t be there in ten years’ time.’

  Fortuitously, George mentioned Mr Renner. ‘I hear Coronary Care remains an annex of Wall Street, Anne?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  Alistair had interviewed Mr Renner in New York last year. ‘You’ve all my sympathy, Anne. A dour, sour, man if I ever saw one. It’s no surprise to me none of his wives could stick him.’

  I was intrigued. ‘How many’s he had?’

  ‘Two ‒ or maybe three. Not that the alimony’ll cause him any headaches.’

  Ruth was sufficiently interested to look only bored. ‘How loaded is he?’

  Alistair shrugged. ‘I doubt anyone but himself could give you the figure, but there’s no denying he could buy up Martha’s and Benedict’s with his spare change and have enough over for the fourth yacht. They say he’s doing well, Anne. That so?’ I nodded. ‘That’s as well. Seeing you can’t take it with you he might as well enjoy it a little longer ‒ not that he looked to me capable of enjoying anything.’ He glanced at Ruth. ‘The man put me in mind of the Spanish proverb George’s father often quoted: take what you want, says God, and pay for it.’

  Ruth’s face tightened and George looked at his plate.

  I said quickly, ‘You’ve got him wrong, Alistair. I think Clive B. enjoys life a lot in his own fashion and he’s nothing like so bloody minded as he likes to make out. I’m getting quite fond of him.’

  Alistair smiled. ‘They tell me some lion tamers get fond of the lions.’

  ‘I know that for a fact!’ George looked up. ‘We’d one for a patient. Chap called Sam Potter and passionately devoted to the lion who’d chewed up his left foot. Lion was called Felix. The whole ward was in mourning the day Potter heard Felix had been shot. Poor chap was in tears. “Just frisky like, Doctor, peckish ‒ and after all, I got the other, haven’t I?” And talking of Potters, I’d a letter from ours yesterday, Alistair. Sent you their regards.’ He turned to me. ‘These Potters have the cottage across the lane from the old house in Kent my father left me. My grandfather bought it when he was the local G.P. Dad and I were born there. I don’t think you met the Potters when you came down, Ruth?’ She shook her head. ‘They keep an eye on the place now I let it furnished, Anne. Right now it’s between tenants, and as the last lot seem to have left the house and garden in chaos and the Potters are beyond climbing into lofts to check tanks, they’ve asked me to drive down and take a look all around. You ‒ er ‒ did tell me you only knew Kent from a train?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you care for a closer look?’

  I took the cue. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘The problem,’ he said, ‘is going to be how to fit in a drive down. As you’re off now, I presume on next weekend?’ I nodded. ‘And I’m off, so from then on we’ll be out of step. Remains, tomorrow. Any chance you’re free?’ I smiled on cue and the others studied their wine glasses with acute distaste. ‘Why don’t we all have a day in the country? We could push off about ten, have lunch en route, see round the house, later. What does everyone say?’

  Ruth spoke before anyone else could say anything. ‘Thanks, George, but you’ll have to count me out as I really can’t spare ‒’

  My adrenalin suddenly roared. ‘For God’s sake don’t say you can’t spare the time for a day out doing nothing!’

  They all looked at me. ‘Why not?’ she demanded.

  ‘My husband often said that and he was right.’

  For about five seconds the silence was deafening.

  Later, after we dropped Ruth at Benedict’s and Alistair at his flat, I apologized to George. ‘It was hitting too low.’

  ‘It was the moment for one below the belt and I thought you took it admirably.’ He paused. ‘Hurt?’

  ‘No. I was too incensed.’

  ‘I don’t wonder.’ He frowned at the car ahead. ‘You may’ve pulled this off with it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They first got engaged down at the house. They had gone to see over a pair of old oasts my father always intended converting and came back with the glad news several feet above ground. I thought at the time how totally right they seemed for each other and how bloody lucky they were to have met whilst both were still free. I knew she’d hit Alistair at sight. Happens that way, sometimes. One takes a look at a girl, thinks, “She’s for me”, and that’s that. Quite idiotic,’ he added calmly, ‘irrational, unreasonable, the lot ‒ but it can happen. Personally, I don’t think anyone can expect that specific jackpot more than once ‒ probably just as well as when things don’t work out it takes the hell of a time to get over. But I thought it could work for them and still do.’ He drew up outside my block. ‘I’ve been try
ing to get them back to the house for months without any success till tonight. See why, now?’

  ‘Yes.’ And why he was still single. ‘I hope it pays off.’

  ‘If it doesn’t, I’ll trade in my bow and arrow. Tonight was scarcely a jolly outing.’

  ‘At least they’re still on spitting terms, George.’

  He smiled and got out to open my door. ‘Thanks for coming and your help.’

  I thanked him for the food and movie then remembered his leg. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve asked before. How is it now?’

  He looked down at himself in surprise. ‘I’d forgotten it. Must be cured, thanks.’ He took my key, unlocked the door, handed back the key. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Just a minute. Did ‒ did Sam Potter exist?’

  ‘His name was Sam, but not Potter. The lion was Felix, chewed his foot and was shot. Shocked?’

  I smiled up at him. ‘Impressed. You’re even craftier than I thought.’

  He bowed exactly like Alistair. ‘Thanks, again. Goodnight.’

  ‘’Night,’ I said absently, being suddenly preoccupied about one-armed bandits. Last year in Coronary Care we had had a man who vowed he knew the perfect system for beating them. Chance, he said, wasn’t really a chance but an event that could be mathematically predicted if one got the sums right. He had gone bankrupt trying to prove this after he recovered from his coronary.