Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

‘We didn’t have any. I can’t say the lack of them made any difference.’

  ‘What might have happened–I mean, had I not known about your allergy and put them in?’

  ‘Nothing, I don’t suppose. It was never proved I had an allergy. I expect I’ve often eaten them without knowing it, and I’m still here.’

  Her confidence was a comfort. All the same, William knew he would have to observe her closely for the next few hours.

  ‘That’s good, then,’ he said. ‘But it’s worth being careful.’

  When they had finished eating Grace moved steadily about the kitchen, no sign of any pernicious effects. Perhaps it took several hours, and the night would be torn with her shouts of agony. For the moment, except for the pinkness of cheeks, she was her normal self, keen to see the news.

  They sat in front of the television on the sofa, as they always did when William was home in the evenings. From time to time William glanced at his wife: no untoward signs. Eventually he put a hand on her knee. She smiled. Such rare gestures of affection always pleased her. She could have no idea that tonight the gesture held a particular message of love and relief. They stayed up later than usual, and when they went up to bed, just before midnight, there was still no signs of any deterioration in Grace. In bed William lay tense for a while, awaiting any sudden change, a groan in sleep, a twist of pain. But Grace lay quite still, breathing regularly. William let the last of his fearful anticipation dissolve into a trio of soothing images: tulips, crumpets, nightingales. Eventually he slept too, and passed a good and dreamless night.

  Next morning, Grace’s normal happy presence was evidence of the complete failure of his plan. This realisation was so confusing he felt physically weak: on the one hand he was relieved beyond measure that he was no murderer, and his beloved Grace was still here with him, not some corpse in a morgue. On the other, the horrendous question persisted: how was Grace to be disposed of to leave him free for a life with Bonnie?

  And it was Bonnie who preoccupied most of his thoughts during the day off at home. It was only his foul plans yesterday that had deflected these reflections a little. Now, he knew he could not survive the morning making tiresome plans for Prague without ringing her. He picked up the telephone as soon as he reached his study.

  ‘Just wondered how the tea ceremony went?’

  ‘Tea ceremony? Oh, William, it’s you. It went very well, thanks.’ Did she sound just a touch frosty?

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t able to stay.’

  ‘We missed you.’

  ‘How about Rufus?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, did Rufus manage to stay?’ William coughed, furious with himself.

  ‘He didn’t, no. Had to hurry home.’

  There was a long pause while William fought down further questions.

  ‘I wasn’t really ringing you about your tea-time arrangements,’ he said at last, lightly as he could. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I just wanted to check your passport’s in order for Prague.

  ‘It is, yes.’

  That’s fine, then.’ How could he keep her for a few more moments? ‘You’re in good shape, good spirits?’

  ‘Absolutely’ She sounded merrier. ‘Actually, in rather a hurry. I’ve got to take the chance of the free morning to make plans about moving’.

  ‘Of course.’ With Grant’s help no doubt. ‘I’ll not keep you, I’m sorry. See you tomorrow night.’

  The conversation did nothing to dispel his fears–fears he could not quite name, but concerning the predatory nature of Grant. Women, for some reason beyond William’s comprehension, seemed to find Grant attractive. The Quartet groupies they had had to deal with in their time–not for some years, it had to be admitted–had always gone for Grant. Women appeared to like great hunks with curly hair and rugger thighs. A touch of musical genius spurred them further. William could not deny that Grant, straddling his cello, was a magnificent sight. His distant, rather grumpy look was apparently an added attraction. William liked to suppose that Bonnie was too clever, too sharp for Grant. His slow (though accurate) assessment of life would tax her patience, though of course she would be charmed by his consideration. William wished that long ago there had been a rule insisting that no personal intercourse between members of the Quartet should take place. But as there had never been a woman player before, there had been no necessity for this rule. And now it was too late. William could only hope that Grant would deem it improper to make any untoward approach to a fellow player, thereby disturbing the general equilibrium of the group. In the past his girlfriends -rarely produced–had been of the thinnish, earnest variety: mature students intent on further maturing rather than getting a job. (William could remember several occasions on which Grant had generously subsidised some of these perennial students.) Surely Bonnie, for him, would be too frivolous, too over the top, too buxom … despite her talent.

  His ruminations were interrupted by the telephone. It was Dick Lancer, fellow student and for some years closest friend at college. They had not met, or communicated, for several years. Enmeshed in his own thoughts, it took William several moments to bring Dick to mind.

  ‘Oh, Dick, yes, why, Dick–my dear fellow … how are you doing?’

  ‘Not too bad. Concerts here and there. Best time of year.’

  It all came back to William. Dear Dick: freckles and red hair, not a bad cellist but not a good enough one to make history. Then he discovered he had a good baritone voice, and switched to singing. Joined and left several choirs, had a good year when he was the dubbed voice behind a film star who had to sing in a popular film. But ever since he had led the precarious life that is the norm for most musicians: many weeks between solo concerts in regional halls, constant financial worry. He used to visit Grace and William frequently in the past. But since the success of the Elmtree coincided with his own demise, he came less often. In the last few years, not at all. An exchange of Christmas cards was now their only form of communication. So a call from Dick out of the blue was naturally confusing on this troubled morning.

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’ve moved,’ went on Dick. ‘Dorset. Always wanted to be beside the sea. So when I retired last year I found myself a snug little cottage on the coast. Wonderful.’

  ‘Retired?’

  ‘Well, you know how it is. I could be persuaded, I suppose, in the unlikely event of anyone wanting to persuade … I’m trying to rustle up a group of singers in the village.’

  ‘Oh, Dick, my dear chap–that sounds like an enterprising thing to do.’

  ‘–So I was just ringing with a suggestion. Thought occurred to me you and Grace might like to come down for a day or two in the New Year. Bitter cold, but there’s a good fire … Haven’t seen you for far too long.’

  William’s mind spun through the re-shuffling of plans a visit to Dorset would mean. He had never been a man keen to leave his own home when he didn’t have to–there was far too much going away tied in with his job. But Dick was a very old friend, sounded a bit gloomy … it was the least they could do.

  ‘Let me have a word with Grace. In principle it sounds a good idea …’

  ‘I shall keep my fingers crossed. Be jolly nice if you could both come.’

  Five minutes later, half lost in the andante movement of Borodin’s A major quartet, William was unable to imagine a wintry weekend on the Dorset coast with Dick Lancer. Instead, scenes of Prague came to him: Bonnie and he dining on the famous dumplings; Bonnie and he (he might even take her arm) wandering round the cathedral, though God knows how they would get rid of Grant and Rufus. Something would suggest itself. Then it occurred to him–as he lifted himself on the wave of a crescendo, that perhaps, as he was a sane violinist, not a murderer by inclination, it might be a good idea to get to know Bonnie better, weigh up his chances of lasting happiness with her, before making a second attempt at expunging his dear wife.

  Just as this thought produced a surge of profoundly felt playing, the comfort wa
s snatched away as quickly as it had come. William faced the picture of Dorset: the dour winter coast, the high cliffs, the snarling sea hundreds of feet below. Grace eager for walks. How easy it would be.

  William put down his bow, wondering at this new madness.

  6

  On the morning of William’s departure for Prague Grace made the decision not to tell Lucien of his absence, and felt easier. It happened to be a day that Lucien was working (his second day, the first had gone well) so she was relieved of the anxiety of his appearing while William fussed about his luggage. William always showed signs of neurosis when it came to packing. Grace did all she could to make the preparations less fraught for him. She lay on the bed a selection of folded shirts for him to choose from, she put his passport and foreign currency into the inside pocket of his jacket, so all he had to do was to bang his chest in order to ascertain it was there, and she slipped a list of clothes into his suitcase so that, like a schoolboy, he could check them when packing to come home. (Over the years, so many white ties, silk socks, birthday jerseys and even jackets had failed to return.) But Grace’s help did nothing to assuage William’s nervous state. He flurried about the kitchen looking for the telephone number of the hotel in Prague that he had given Grace two days ago.

  ‘William! It’s hardly likely to be in the fruit bowl. It’s on my desk.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘But I’m not looking for the telephone number, am I? I’m looking for the cufflinks.’

  ‘Cufflinks?’

  ‘I’m all of a fluster, I’m afraid, my Ace.’

  ‘Which cufflinks are you after?’

  ‘Yours, of course. My birthday present.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little rash? I mean, they’re worth a bit, and knowing your turnover in cufflinks … I would have thought, abroad, it’d be better to take–’

  ‘No. I want yours. So far from home, Prague, I’d feel safer with your cufflinks.’ This was the truth, as William had reflected for some hours during the night. He had come to the conclusion that wearing Grace’s cufflinks might be a guard against iniquitous acts, though exactly what he might be tempted to get up to was not clear in his mind.

  ‘Very well,’ said Grace. ‘Luckily they’re insured.’ She joined in the search, methodically scanning every shelf and drawer, while William hunted in less likely places–the fridge, the jar in which the washing-up brushes and mops resided. Grace pretended to be unaware of his increasing anxiety. She found it contagious, though. After half an hour’s search and still no sign of the cufflinks, she sank into a chair to try to unravel her despair.

  ‘I put them in the drawer the morning you went to Manchester,’ she said. ‘You insisted on taking the other ones.–I know I did.’

  William, too, sat. Exhausted. He glanced at his watch. They’d have to be leaving for the airport in precisely five minutes.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘I remember.’ In fact he had no recollection of what Grace had done with them–just the awkwardness he had felt, rejecting them. But he remembered something else quite clearly.

  ‘You were worrying that your friend Lucien was about to arrive,’ he said.

  Grace gave him the mildest look of enquiry. She had no recollection of mentioning Lucien. Perhaps William was able to read her more keenly than she supposed.

  ‘Was I? I do believe you’re right. Anyway, I know I’ll have put them in a safe place. I’m always doing that, then can’t find things, aren’t I?’ Ruffled by William’s curious detective powers, Grace was flustered.

  ‘Well we can’t keep looking now. Time to go.’ William stood. He banged his chest to check the wedge of passport and tickets. Their presence brought him no comfort.

  ‘Stop worrying. They’re sure to turn up while you’re away.’

  ‘I’m not worrying about the cufflinks, my Ace. I’m worrying about getting to Heathrow on time. The traffic …’

  Grace contained a sigh.

  ‘If we leave now, twenty minutes before you said we should leave, you’ll be there an hour before the others.’

  ‘Good. I shall like that.’ William was in desperate need of time for cogitation.

  ‘Very well. Let’s go.’

  It was William’s custom, on the rare occasions he disagreed with Grace, to follow any criticism with a small, placatory tribute.

  ‘There’s no one like you for understanding a man’s worry about time, I’m bound to say. ‘I’ll get my stuff from upstairs,’ he said, and gave her a grateful look.

  ‘Remembered your shaving cream?’

  William, unable to remember if he had remembered, looked stricken. Five minutes later, Grace driving, William squirming in the passenger seat as he burrowed beneath his overcoat yet again to the reassuring package of documents in his jacket, they set off for the airport.

  When Grace returned to the empty house she was aware–as she always was when she had deposited William at some airport or station–of a lowering of spirits. It was not that she minded being on her own. Indeed, from time to time she enjoyed absolute aloneness. It gave her the opportunity to work uninterrupted. In William’s absence–never, fortunately, more than a few days–she imposed upon herself a rigorous discipline, and stuck to it. Long mornings at her desk, an hour’s walk after lunch, a decent supper during which she would listen to one of the Elmtree’s tapes, early bed with a book. She did not mind the emptiness of the house, the silence. She entertained no thoughts of rapists, burglars, or other such unpleasant surprises. She felt no need to telephone Jack, or friends, for a talk: she was truthfully happy to be on her own for a while, as she had so often assured William. By now he had come to believe it. But that sense of contentment had always been tempered with a very slight lowering of spirits–indeed so slight it was not worth reflecting upon, or mentioning. But there. From time to time Grace had tried to analyse its cause, and came to the sensible, obvious conclusion that it was due to the lack of small anticipation that fired most of her days–the fuel that fires most people who are not in the habit of excitements. The anticipation concerned William’s descent for breakfast, or return from a rehearsal or concert: the constant joyful thought of his arriving back home, being under the same roof. This, she knew, was ridiculous. After so many years of happy marriage it was extraordinary that her husband’s daily, routine appearances should continue to bring such undimmed reward. But it was so. To be in William’s presence she found no less exhilarating now than she had in their youth. In some extraordinary way the essence of romance for her had not dulled. The dreary hum of daily life’ had done nothing to corrode Grace’s appreciation of a husband she loved with her whole being. For such a blessing, when she said her prayers, she gave thanks.

  But on the occasion of dropping William at Heathrow for his visit to Prague, Grace sensed that her spirits had dipped a fraction lower than usual. Returning to the house she found herself entering with a certain caution, a flicker of dread. She had no idea from where these feelings of trepidation came: the doors had been locked and bolted. Lucien, safe at work in Reading, would not be waiting in her kitchen.

  Scoffing at herself for such sentiments, she made a cup of tea, carried it to the table in the dining room where she intended to put in a couple of hours’ work in this always lustreless part of the afternoon. For some unknown reason she glanced through the cloakroom door on her way, checked that all was in order. Multiple coats hung bulbous as always from their brass hooks. The comforting sight gave rise to the silly thought that if a sartorially inclined butcher swapped meaty carcasses for old mackintoshes, then this is what his surreal shop would look like.–Her Wellingtons, neatly next to William’s, were in their usual place. Nothing odd. Everything fine.

  On the table, Grace found the jam jar in which she put her water–an old marmalade pot she had used the first time she had tried to paint a bluebell, and without which she would have felt bereft. It was empty. She had no heart to go to the kitchen to fill it. Instead, she fanned th
rough one of her sketchbooks so that the flowers on their pages were broken into a kaleidoscope of delicate colours. Then she spread open two pages, rested a hand upon them to keep them flat. A tangle of old man’s beard and rosehips sprawled from under her palms: the orange of the hips was alive as flame, the froth of old man’s beard insubstantial as mist. Rather good, she reflected: and then was puzzled. How could she have allowed herself any such thought?

  She started to turn the pages again. Mallow, kingcups, Queen Anne’s lace all done, nicely executed, finished. Lulled by a sense of achievement, it should have been a peaceful afternoon. Painting things were orderly before her. The ochre light of a winter afternoon gave a soft edge to the outlines of hard things: furniture, pictures, books. It was the kind of light that sometimes pressed through the silent rooms and inspired Grace–sensing a strange quickening of her spine–eagerly to take up her brushes. But not this afternoon. She remained sitting, unmoving, ignoring the list of flowers to be completed. Buttocks squarely pressed on squat chair, she floated, buoyant with wonder at her own inability to move.

  Grace had never been averse to solitude. Time on her own was as essential to her as it was to William. To be alone without worry, she had learnt, is a privileged state. Puzzling, then, that today William’s absence troubled her in a way so clouded that she could not fathom its source, and that apprehension of something unknown ran round her edges.

  Don’t you mind your old man going off for a night with this new bird, this viola?

  Lucien’s question came back to her. William had been going to Manchester. Grace knew perfectly well there had been no funny business in Manchester. Lucien was at his most subversive that day.

  Ye of great faith, he had said.

  His unpleasant suggestions had not merited a moment’s consideration then. Nor did they now. All the same, nights when William was away might never again be devoid of–not worry, exactly: not suspicion, either. But they might no longer be times of bare, clean solitude of the kind that is engendered by absolute trust. Damn Lucien, Grace said to herself. What right had he to unnerve her with his beastly insinuations–she who had done her best to comfort and befriend him? Thank God, at least, the lilacs would not be out. A foreign tree, in full flower, could turn the thoughts of a man missing home … In fact, Grace reminded herself, the real danger was that Prague in November could be a gloomy place. And Bonnie, with her dimples and velvet and sunny disposition, could be relied on for comfort.