by Angela Huth
Even as such odious thoughts glanced through her, Grace berated herself. It was inconceivable that William would look upon Bonnie as anything other than the new young addition to the Quartet, to whom he should be kind and considerate and fatherly. God forgive her for even contemplating anything else.
Still in search of the meaning of her unease, her mind now switched to Lucien. It was also improbable that he, for all his erratic ways, would ever behave in a manner that was threatening. His visits, his demands, his way of inveigling her into his life were annoying rather than alarming. At some moment soon she would have to try to distance herself, maybe banish him from her life altogether. But that would be less than kind … Besides, his existence had come to provide her quiet life with a small frisson she might otherwise miss.
Grace rolled a small sable brush on her tongue. It emerged as a crisp little point. She stabbed it into a knob of dried blue paint on her palette, longing for water, but still lacking the energy to go to the kitchen. She must pull herself together, she thought: a strategy she had always believed in. Think of other things.–The pepper pots, they needed polishing. Grace glanced at the sideboard. The silver pepper pots were horribly tarnished, streaked with marks the colour of dried blood. She would enjoy cleaning them. William would still be on the aeroplane. He would ring tonight, of course. He was good about keeping in touch when he was away. She had a nasty feeling there was no more silver cleaning stuff. Poor William: three nights in a hotel bedroom. Grace dabbed the brush on to paper. The dry paint made feathery scratches. She must put an end to this idleness, fetch water, get down to work -
There was a loud bang from the kitchen. The door slamming. Grace jumped, twisted round in her chair. Lucien was there, damp, frowning, his waterproof jacket smeary with rain.
‘Oh, it’s you. You gave me–’
‘Sorry. Door was open. Thought I’d drop in on my way home. Tell you about it. Tell you about day two as an employed man.’
Grace stood. She smiled. A smile feathery as the blue paint, she thought. Her hands were trembling. To disguise this she brushed at her skirt, as if banishing invisible crumbs.
‘I could have sworn I bolted it. Shall we go -? Tea?’
‘In a minute. I rather like it in here for a change.’
Lucien sat on the table, folded his arms, proprietorial. Annoyance rose within Grace.
‘Please, Lucien. Not on the table.’
Lucien laughed. It was astonishing with what speed he could turn from charming to disagreeable.
‘We are stressed out today, aren’t we? Sorry again.’ He pulled out a chair, sat. ‘What’s the matter? All right if I sit?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. How did it go today?’
‘Thought you’d want to know.’ Lucien was pleased by her interest. He ran a hand through his hair. Grace expected it to return covered in grease. His fingernails were deep rims, black as hooves. She had never known him have dirty nails before, and wondered at this significance.
‘Started off all right. That is, Tuesday, like, that was fine. Boring, but fine. Today, the pits.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno, really. Can’t quite put my finger … But they seem to have a problem with me.’
‘Oh, Lucien–’
‘So I’m thinking it over in my mind. I might not stay’
‘Give it a chance. A week or so at least. It takes time to settle in. What do you have to do?’
‘Bit of paperwork. Show the people who come into the Centre where things are. Heat up soup. Boring. Gets to my skull.’
‘But surely you didn’t expect–?’
‘I don’t know what I expected, but not this crap. I’m an able pair of hands and they give me this fucking boring job.’ He glanced at Grace. ‘Shocked you, have I?’
‘No.’ Grace produced a firmer smile. She was so accustomed to William’s mellifluous phrasing it was a relief sometimes to be reminded of the existence of gutter speech.
Lucien got up, came over to Grace. They were divided only by her upright chair between them. He put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Wouldn’t want to shock you, now, would I? Though I reckon you’re pretty unshockable. I reckon beneath that calm little face of yours you’re as screwed up as the rest of us.’ Grace felt her whole body tighten, as if pulled in by invisible straps. Lucien bent over and looked at the painting of a bluebell: one side of the paper was daubed with the dry blue paint. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Not my sort of thing, flowers. But I’d say they’re good.’
‘They’re nothing much.’ Despite herself, Grace was warmed by his praise.
‘No, really. I mean it.’ Lucien began to flip over the pages. ‘I’d say they’re really pretty good. What do you think?’
The light in the room had dimmed to the colour of wet sable. Grace switched on the sideboard lamp. The yellow-pink was flung over sketchbooks, paints. Lucien’s hands. Safer, with the light on, Grace felt. Her heart slowed down. She could see Lucien was in a contrary mood, but there was nothing about him that gave her cause for alarm. In fact, to be fair, after all her anti-Lucien thoughts, she found his interest in her work endearing.
‘I think they’re reasonably competent,’ she said, containing a sigh. ‘Nothing more.’
‘If you really think that, if you really think you’re only “reasonably competent”, why do you bother?’
Grace frowned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I wouldn’t think it was worth anyone’s while bashing away at something if the result was never going to be anything more than reasonably competent.’
‘In that case, there wouldn’t be much accomplished in the world, would there? If only people of real talent worked hard, think of the deprivation.’ Grace gave a small, huffy laugh. ‘Most people aren’t blessed with much talent, for heaven’s sake. The Williams of this world are rare. But we like to plod on, hoping to get better, enjoying ourselves. Perhaps producing something worthwhile for others. You learn to live with the realisation that you’re never going to be very good. You get used to it. You don’t mind that much.’
‘I’d say that was very depressing.’
‘Well I don’t find it so.’
There was a long silence between them.
‘At least you don’t take yourself too seriously,’ Lucien said at last. He took his hand from her shoulder. ‘Am I going to be offered a cup of tea?’
‘I’ve already offered …’ William would be landing by now, Grace thought.
In the kitchen–warmer, brighter, a sponge cake between them -Lucien veered towards the apologetic.
‘Hope I haven’t said anything to offend.’
‘You haven’t, no.’
‘I was only extending the idea you put up, like about only being reasonably competent.’
‘I know you were. Don’t worry I’m not remotely offended. I was just trying to explain I’m fully aware of my own limitations.’
‘No bad thing. Quite the opposite from me. I always think I can do anything, and there I am stuck doing f-all. You’re the one in the better position.–Where’s the husband? Off on some gig?’
‘A Beethoven concert, yes.’
‘I didn’t used to mind Beethoven.’ Lucien cut himself a large piece of cake, pushed the plate towards Grace. ‘He’s always away it seems. Don’t you mind?’
‘Not at all. As you know. We’ve been through all this before.’ Grace attempted to sound stern.
‘You can always call on me, you know. Like, were you to feel lonely or anything.’
‘I know, thank you.’
‘I’m never far away.’ He shoved the sponge cake into his mouth. ‘Where’s he playing this time?’
Beneath the table, Grace kneaded her fingers. Lucien’s mouth, full of cake, muffled his question. She could pretend she had not understood.
‘He was in a terrible state, going off,’ she said at last. ‘He always is. But this time it was worse because he’d mislaid his cufflinks, a nice pair I�
�d given him for his birthday.–I mean, I’d mislaid them.’
Grace watched Lucien’s mashing jaws, the uncouth way he rubbed crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t seem much interested in William’s trouble.
‘They’ll turn up,’ he said, when at last he had finished his mouthful.
‘I expect so. Things always turn up.’
Lucien began to break up the cake that was left on his plate, the black crescents of his nails punching through the yellow sponge, nudging the jam. He licked three fingers at once. Grace hated the way he ate.
‘Haven’t forgotten I owe you that money,’ he said.
‘Any time. There’s no hurry.’
‘Suppose I’d better stay in the job till I’ve earned enough to pay you back.’
‘I think you should stay in the job, but not for that reason. What does your mother think? She must be pleased you’re working.’
‘Lobelia?’ Lucien looked up with the usual sneer that accompanied any thought of his mother. ‘Bloody woman. Wouldn’t lower herself to give me a passing thought. Last night she went out in these very high heels: pearlescent, she said they were, proud as punch. I said she looked like a trollop. She said I was scum. We had one of our better punch-ups.’
‘Punch-up?’ Grace cursed herself for having mentioned Lobelia. She sighed.
‘She can push me so far, then I go ballistic. Her fault.’
‘You don’t mean you -?’
‘She gets what she deserves.’ Lucien punched his own temples, bored by talk of Lobelia.
‘You don’t seem keen,’ he said, ‘to tell me when the old man’s coming home.’
‘Soon,’ said Grace. She wondered if ballistic meant really violent, but decided it unwise to ask.
‘Well anyway, like I said, you can call me any time. I’ll look after you all right.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m on my way now.’ He stood up. ‘But I’ll be round as usual. In and out.–Hey, what’s bitten you? What’s up?’ He clenched a fist, pushed it gently into her cheek.
‘What do you mean? I’m fine.’
‘White as a sheet.’
‘Nonsense! I was in such a rush … you usually see me with a bit of rouge on my face.’
‘Don’t give me any of that rubbish. I know you.’
When he had gone, Grace sat down again. It occurred to her that it was the first time anyone had commented on her appearance, noticed her pallor, for many years. William was not one for observing a familiar face.–What would he be doing now, William? He should be ringing soon.
There was a telephone, nothing but a telephone, on the Formica table beside William’s bed. He picked up the receiver, intending to ring Grace, then put it down again. Later would do. There was nothing so far to say. He was exhausted by the lack of event.
On the flight he had insisted Grant, Rufus and Bonnie sit together: he had taken the seat across the aisle. Thus he was not obliged to talk to any of them, and he noticed they spoke little among themselves.
In Prague it was raining. Bonnie, of her own volition, chose the front seat of the minibus, which Stephen arranged for their transport on foreign trips. The three men sat together in one of the back seats, William with his violin on his knee–he would never permit it to travel in the boot of any vehicle. Bonnie gave a running commentary on how beautiful it all was. William had not the energy to argue with her. To him the streets, with their tall dirty buildings, were gloomy as his least favourite parts of Paris. He turned his eyes away from them and rested them instead on the back of Bonnie’s head. There was a small arrow of white flesh–her neck–where her hair had parted. William gripped his violin case. He wanted so much to touch her he felt he might explode. Her red wool scarf hung down over the back of the seat. What was the history of that scarf? Who had given it to her? What of her secrets did it know? Was he going mad, asking himself such questions in the streets of Prague?–They arrived at the hotel.
The hotel was the kind that always made William most homesick: a modern box of no character, low ceilings, no air, padded silence, people with suitcases gliding about driven by vaguely indignant eyes. This particular place had been flooded with amethyst carpet, which swirled relentlessly through passages, stairs, reception, bar, dining room. The designers had plainly found a job-lot of amethyst carpet, with imitation flowers to match. They were arranged in prim little bunches on every shelf, table, available space. Each one was placed beneath a spotlight in the ceiling that bore down on the cheap mauve leaves and wire stamens, insults to the humblest peony.
This is great,’ said Bonnie’s reflection to William’s reflection in the mauve glass of the lift.
‘It’s terrible,’ said William. He felt sick.
Now he remained sitting on the edge of his second-class hotel bed looking at the rain (silenced by the thickness of the double glazing), imagining Bonnie, next door, opening her case, in all her delight at being abroad. She would be shaking out her velvet dress, exploring the mean little room with the sort of gladness in her heart that William feared he would never feel again.
He had decided that he would make use of the dead hours in the hotel room in Prague, sort out the confusions in his mind, make firm plans. So far his plans for murder had been pathetic: a small packet of crushed peanuts fed to one who was not even sure she had ever been allergic to them, and the fingering of a much-loved neck which he knew that even in the higher realms of insanity he would be incapable of strangling. But try as he did to marshall his thoughts towards serious murder, they kept skittering away to the girl next door. He could hear the gush of water. He pictured her in the shower, arms up, pushing the wet hair from her eyes. Mascara running down her cheeks, water running down her breasts. William groaned, bent over like a man in pain.
The telephone rang, a shy, foreign sound. He picked it up.
‘Just wondered how you were.’
‘Grace? My darling. What are you doing, ringing me? I was just about to ring you.’ His heart was thumping like a military drum.
‘I wanted to make sure you’d arrived. Everything all right.’
William produced a sympathetic laugh.
‘Well as you can imagine, it’s not all right at all. Bloody raining here. Prague nasty as ever. Perfectly awful hotel. Otherwise no news.
‘Only three nights.’
‘Thank God. You all right?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve been working.’
‘Good.’
In the silence that followed a ticker tape of things William could have then said clanked through his mind: wish I was home, I miss you, I love you.
‘Be sure to bolt the kitchen door,’ he said.
‘Course.’
‘Well, then … I’ll ring tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be here.’ Of course she’d be there. What foolish things people say to one another to affirm what they already know.
‘Bye, my Ace.’
What was up with her, ringing? She never rang.
There was a knock on the door. William picked up his violin case and went to open it. Bonnie stood there, damp hair, smelling of bath essence. She wore a T-shirt with a low neck. There were freckles on her chest.
‘You said we had to be off at four thirty for the rehearsal. We’ve been waiting for you downstairs.’
‘Sorry. I’m here. I’m ready.’
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Very unlikely to be a ghost in a place like this.’ William managed a smile.
‘What’s the matter, then?’
‘I’m not much good on journeys. Don’t like travelling. Just trying to reorient myself. I can never quite believe that one minute I’m home, and a few hours later I’m somewhere that only a hundred years ago it would have taken weeks to get to–’
‘Poor old William.’ Bonnie was smiling. ‘You’re not much good at the modern world.’ She moved towards him, put her heavy arms round his neck, lay her head beneath his chin. William feared he might collap
se.
‘No,’ he said. Then, breathless, ‘You’re an angel, Bonnie.’
Probably she didn’t hear. She had stepped away from him again, sympathetic gesture snapped off in her impatience to get going. She took his free hand, guided him along the amethyst passage to the lift. In its small, claustrophobic space, privacy almost tangible, William felt Bonnie’s curious eyes on the unusual scarlet of his cheeks. Could she have any idea of the effect of her presence?
In his turbulent state, William was happy for Grant to take charge of administrative matters, as he so often did when he saw William confused by the strange ways of Abroad. Grant chivvied them all into the minibus to the church, checked instruments, music stands, and double-checked scores. He paid the driver and thanked the man in Czech. (He’d been studying a phrase book on the journey, as always unable to resist impressing his companions with a rudimentary knowledge of the language in whatever country they visited. A show-off, Rufus called him. William was secretly impressed.)
In the church of St Nicholas in Malá Strana, for a while they stood, keeping their distance from one another, looking up at the huge fresco of the apotheosis of the saint that covered the nave. William, suddenly realising time was against them, dragged each one from his private contemplation by suggesting they should take their seats at the edge of the altar and begin their rehearsal. Grant, for once, perhaps awed by the baroque flamboyance of the surroundings, grumbled but minimally about his chair. William took up his bow, gave the signal to start. He was conscious of the vast presence of the golden statue of St Nicholas, in the altar, looking down on him, as he leant into Purcell’s Fantasy as a lone sailor bends his sail into the wind, and composure returned at last.
The first twenty-four hours in Prague, for William, were spent in misery. On the Saturday morning he joined the others for breakfast, was enraged by the miniature plastic pots of butter and jam, and declined to go sightseeing with Rufus, Grant and Bonnie. He had no wish to revisit the wonders of Prague, which in his view were vastly over-estimated, nor to eat disgusting, undigestible dumplings for lunch in some gloomy restaurant–a plan for which Bonnie showed irrepressible enthusiasm.
