by Angela Huth
So while the others made their way to the cathedral, William returned to his blank little room. There, he played his violin quietly to himself for an hour. Then sat in the plastic armchair wondering about the best way to kill his wife–who he telephoned twice, as if the sound of her voice might be inspiration–before he made his way back to the church to sort out the matter of more practical chairs.
On his return to the hotel he ran into Rufus and Grant whose stamina for sights had run out before Bonnie’s. She, they said, had gone off to see the Charles Bridge on her own. In a moment of folly William contemplated hurrying there to find her: they could have a few moments alone. The tourist-crowded bridge would not be the ideal place, but better than nowhere. But he soon dismissed this ridiculous idea–sure to miss her–and returned to his room. Lay on the bed.
He was rewarded, half an hour later, by a knock on the door. Bonnie. Bonnie pleased with herself, glowing, impatient, cross. She glanced at the bed.
‘What’ve you been doing?’
‘Lying down a bit.’
‘You’re a chump. A disgruntled old thing, spoiling everyone else’s fun. What’s the matter? What’ve you been sulking about?’
‘Things on my mind. Sorry.’
‘The Quartet?’
‘Oh no. It was a good rehearsal. Should be a good concert tonight.’
‘That church … I’ve never played in a church before.’ Bonnie sat on the bed. William hesitated only a moment, then sat beside her. ‘Look what you missed,’ she said. She handed him a postcard of a painting: cracked gold background, three round trees, each harbouring a finch. ‘Best thing in the Národní Galerie. The others hurried on. I just stared and stared.’
‘I remember it. When we were here ten years ago.’ Then, there had not been murder on his mind. No Bonnie to cause his wretched state. He turned the card over. Look what you missed, she had written. Love, Bonnie. Childish kisses scrawled at the bottom.
William turned to her. She was only a foot from him. Their knees were perilously near to touching. None of this would mean anything more to Bonnie than the proximity to her grandfather. William felt the heat of tears behind his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’
Bonnie banged his knee with a clenched fist.
‘Well, tomorrow morning, wherever we go, you’re coming too. Some church full of bones, Grant suggested.’
‘Oh Lord.’ He remembered that church.
‘He’s organising the minibus. You’ll come?’
William nodded.
‘Now cheer up. Please cheer up.’
‘I’m improving by the moment.’ Dear God, forgive the lie. He wanted so much to take this warm, soft, sweet creature into his arms that he had to clasp his hands in prayer in order that they should not reach out to her.
‘You’re a funny one, sometimes. I don’t understand you one bit, your moods.’ Bonnie was all lightness now, crossness gone. She stood. William, buoyed by conflicting feelings that the danger was almost over, stood too.
‘Don’t bother your head. Just keep playing like you do–’
The last part of William’s sentence was suffocated in the mesmerising skin of Bonnie’s neck. She had clasped him to her, once again, in the kind of hug that William disapproved of–the public hug that has now become fashionable in times of disaster or mourning. He felt himself go rigid. He was saddened by her kindness: the sympathy of a grandchild to its grandfather. He forced a smile and pushed her away, awkwardly, as if pushing a heavy table.
‘Last time I went to my doctor,’ he said, ‘there was a notice in the waiting room saying Hug Someone in Need. Sentimental rubbish.’
Bonnie laughed.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Now, come on down. There’s time for more of that square strawberry jam you’re so fond of before we have to change.’
William followed Bonnie down the mauve passage. The smell of her, some gauzy flower he could not put a name to, clung to his jersey. He moved like a man entranced.
The church was packed. Those for whom there were no seats sat on the floor of the aisles. Considering they had been expecting a different, and more famous quartet, this was extraordinary. William found himself moved by their hope of a good evening. Though they said nothing, it seemed that the others felt the same. William looked over the mass of expectant faces–something he used to steel himself to do when he was younger, rarely did now. Then his eyes rose for a last look up at the vaulted ceiling of the nave, where the cunning fusion of frescoes and architecture deceived the eye. ‘Illusive architectonic elements,’ Rufus had explained, not to be outdone by Grant’s phrase-book fluency. The magnificence of it all caused William a certain stiffness of limb and straightness of back. What impressed him most was the fact that Mozart himself had played the organ here–so his eyes, too, must have travelled among the huge figures and pillars. Mozart himself must have sensed that something beyond the material world had been netted in this place of timeless stone, wondrously carved, and holy pictures. With a strange feeling of humility William gave the nod to begin. The Quartet’s rendering of Beethoven’s quartet in C sharp minor rose with a spirit that he hoped the players would always achieve, but in fact, on more ordinary occasions, they rarely did. In between pieces, shuffling his music, he was aware that Bonnie, perhaps in deference to the holy place, had no coloured lining in her velvet sleeves. He was moved by that too.
Later, tired but exhilarated, the Quartet gathered in the hotel bar for a drink before bed–their custom when on tour. It was an unspoken rule that they never discussed their performance until the morning after a concert. They sat round a small table on seats of quilted mauve plastic, only slightly less unpleasant than the pink chairs in Manchester, sipping at their whiskies and brandies. Each one of them was affected by the audience’s appreciation. Each one of them sensed the elation that comes, and lives a while, after a memorable performance. But that was not a subject to be discussed either. There was nothing to say that would further enhance the mutual feeling.
‘So,’ said Bonnie, breaking the silence at last. ‘Trip for tomorrow morning all organised?’ She looked at Grant. He nodded. Then she looked at William. ‘William’s coming, aren’t you, William?’
‘Of course.’ He nodded. He had forgotten what was planned and dreaded to think what it might be.
‘Good heavens,’ said Rufus. Behind the flatness of his tone William guessed that Rufus might have suspected Bonnie had something to do with William’s uncharacteristic decision. There was little, in his quiet way, that Rufus did not observe.
‘Minibus is arranged for ten,’ said Grant.
There was no life in the bar. Only two others, quietly speaking German, drinking in a corner. William let his eyes trail round the hideous room, feeling the warmth of the whisky. They came to rest on a piano, half-hidden behind a large rubber plant. It was the strangest piano he had ever seen–painted, or glazed, like faux marble. Its iridescent shine was of the mauve that blighted the rest of the hotel. The gleam brought to mind far away things -mussel shells, the breasts of wood pigeons, moonstones, and he felt the old, aching swoop of spirits that so often assailed him in foreign parts. But his reflections were broken off by Bonnie’s giggle. She, too, had spotted the piano.
‘Do you think anyone would mind?’ she said.
Without waiting for an answer, she rose and went to the piano, pushing her way through the tangled leaves of the plant. They clung to her black velvet.
‘Not a very good piano,’ said the young bartender, to no one in particular.
Bonnie arranged herself on the stool. William, Grant and Rufus all moved a little in their chairs. The Germans put down their beer.
‘What are we to expect?’ asked Rufus, quietly. He looked embarrassed. To take over a piano in a public bar, unasked, was to his mind showing off. He looked at his watch, a sign that whatever Bonnie chose to play he would soon be retiring.
‘My Very Good Friend the Milkman’ she beg
an with, ruffling through the notes in a way that would have delighted Fats Waller himself. Then she moved into ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’ and began to sing in a wispy, smoky voice that reminded William of Blossom Dearie.
The Germans sat up very straight. Rufus raised his eyebrows. The barman stopped polishing glasses, leant on his elbows on the bar. Grant had gone very pale.
It was an accepted fact that each of the three Elmtree men had areas of music they positively disliked. William loathed ‘light classics’ of a military nature, the ‘gymkhana’ music he so abhorred on the radio. Rufus could not abide the human operatic voice. Grant was unable to tolerate any kind of jazz. So when Bonnie began to play, surprise and dismay twisted his face. William observed his struggle as Bonnie delightfully husked her way through the verses. When she came to an end Grant applauded her, hands held high over his head, and gave a smile in her direction which she did not see. Her head was down over the keys. She had shuffled into a complicated piece, her proficiency astounding. Grant rose, with a nod at William, and left the bar. Rufus, eager as always to ring his wife, followed immediately. The barman reluctantly pulled the grille across the counter. The Germans, looking at their watches, left the room backwards, their eyes locked on to Bonnie. As they passed William one of them clapped his hands.
‘You the father, yes? Congratulations.’
Bonnie was left playing to William alone. She switched from ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ to a Marlene Dietrich number, ‘Falling in Love Again’. Had William had more to drink he might have taken this for some blissful message. As it was, he told himself, it was just a song that came to Bonnie’s mind. But he felt the need to assure himself he had not been mistaken.
William rose and went to the piano. He struggled through the greenery, rested his arms on the glistening mauve veins of paint, looked down at Bonnie’s nimble white fingers smudging the notes in a way that suggested considerable sentiment.
Never meant to, what can I do? Just can’t help it …
She tipped up her head for a moment. Gave William a teasing smile. Feeling he might fall, he leant more heavily on the piano. This was all absurd, of course, he told himself. But goodness gracious how convincingly she sang. If she carried on like this he could easily be persuaded his own feelings were in some measure reciprocated …
Suddenly she stopped playing. Looked round.
‘What’s happened? Everyone’s gone. Did I do the wrong thing?’
‘Course not. Your spontaneous performance was hugely appreciated, I’d say. Did you see the Germans’ faces? The barman’s amazement?’
‘No:
‘We were all enchanted.’ No point in saying anything about Grant’s dislike of jazz. He would have to tell her himself at some point. ‘I never knew you could play, sing. You’re a dark horse.’
Bonnie shrugged. With the index finger of her right hand she struck a few single notes.
‘There was a time when I wanted to be a jazz pianist. But the viola won.’
‘You play beautifully’ Oh, the inadequacy of words when it comes to admiration: when it comes to coded messages to a woman you love. ‘Just the sort of music I like. Ruth Etting …’
‘Ruth Etting? There’s a heroine.’ She struck the first few notes of ‘Harvest Moon’, still with one finger. The beam of a small, fierce downlight in the ceiling pierced the white skin, the pearly nail. William shifted his position, took a risk. With the upright piano between them, he felt safe.
‘I don’t feel I know you at all, Bonnie,’ he said. ‘I feel there’s so much hidden.’
‘Well, I’ve not been part of the Elmtree for long, have I? It takes time. You all know each other so well. I could never catch up.’ She kept her head down, spoke quietly, then laughed a little. ‘Anyway we’re pretty even, there. I don’t know you at all either.’
William straightened himself, encouraged. There was no time to work out his answer.
‘I’m a combination of the very serious and the wholly ridiculous,’ he said, surprising himself. The ridiculous, he reflected, as he stood at attention between the leaves of the confounded rubber plant, was pretty obvious.
Bonnie stood up, smiling at him across the piano. Patted his shoulder.
‘I’ve seen both things,’ she said. ‘You’re also an extraordinary violinist
‘No compliments, please.’ William struggled to free himself of the larger jade leaves that were attacking him like slow-winged bats. He followed her to the corner the Germans had vacated. She seemed in no hurry to be off to her room. Such bliss was almost unbearable. They sat.
‘Afraid there’s no more chance of a drink.’
‘I don’t want a drink,’ Bonnie swung her legs on to the empty chair beside her. The copious black velvet of her skirt gathered into liquid ripples. William’s eyes glutted themselves from her feet to her head, where another spotlight charged down on to her shining hair, making a flat halo. Finally their eyes met.
‘William, is there anything the matter? Is there something on your mind?’
Startled, William blinked rapidly
‘On my mind? There’s a lot on my mind, yes. Always is, I’m rarely blessed with a scoured mind. There are always trails of completely preposterous thoughts gathering, tormenting–’
‘I mean, anything special. Anything serious–’
‘The thought’s always serious when I’m playing, or thinking about playing, or remembering about playing–’
‘You know what I mean.’ Bonnie sounded impatient.
‘I don’t. I can’t guess.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You’ve been rather odd, of late.’ She smiled kindly.
‘Odd? I’m always odd.’ William smiled back, relieved. At least she had not homed into anything specific. ‘Eccentric, perhaps. Have the others said anything?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Abroad unnerves me,’ William said at last, to break another silence.
‘Homesick?’
‘You could call it that.’ Fleetingly Grace came to mind: her cheerful voice as he opened the front door, the wings of grey hair that she had started to hide behind her ears, her brilliance as a driver, her lemon meringue pies. He shrugged.
‘I can’t picture your life at all when you’re not with us,’ said Bonnie.
‘Very quiet.’
William sensed his chance had come. He must take it carefully.
‘And you … is there nothing you’re homesick for? Don’t you have some … eager young man in tow?’ Hell, he had blown it. In his hurry he had put it just about as badly as he could. But Bonnie responded with such laughter that her dimples bit deeply into her cheeks.
‘“Don’t I have some eager young man in tow?” Honestly, William, you put things more weirdly than anyone I’ve ever met.’
For all her friendly scorn, William felt he must persist. There might not be so good a chance again, for a long time.
‘You must be getting used to my manner of speech by now. I can’t change a lifetime’s habit of distancing formality, though I do sometimes try.’
Bonnie looked at him curiously. She leant forward and patted his sleeve. He was getting used to restraining his hopes whenever he saw her hand coming towards him. He knew it only moved with kindly intent, would never turn into the harbinger of desire that he craved on her part. He let it lie unmoving on his arm, trying to convey the gesture meant nothing to him, for all the currents that blazed up his legs and zig-zagged through his stomach.
‘I once went out with a certain Toby of Aldershot for almost three years,’ she said. ‘But we fell apart.’
‘Ah.’ William envisaged some vague arrangement whereby the said Toby collected Bonnie each evening, sometimes with chocolates or flowers, and took her to the cinema or theatre or out to dinner. Then escorted her home, kissed her in the porch. The sub-reason of his mind knew this was an insane and inaccurate picture, but he could not bring himself to shift to the reality.
‘And then I discovered I li
ked living alone. Loved it. Solitude, the great healer.’
‘You’re unusual in that view, though I agree with you. Forced to live alone, I can image myself very content.’ As the thought of a past boyfriend was not too depressing, William felt it not untoward to enquire a little further. ‘And what field was he in, this Toby fellow?’
‘Computers.’
‘A funny thing, you know. I’ve never yet met anyone in computers.’ (He knew the power of self-deprecation.) ‘Our worlds don’t cross much, I suppose. But I’m told you can become very rich if you design programmes, or whatever.’
‘Toby became so rich he could only talk about money. He didn’t know his Bach from his Beethoven and in the end I couldn’t take that.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ His understanding about Toby, William felt, was forcing them towards a closeness he had not liked to imagine would ever come about.
‘I mean, I did try to understand his world. He made no effort at all about mine. Hopeless.’ Bonnie frowned, contemplating. ‘If you really want to know, the solitude once he’d gone wasn’t absolutely unbroken.’ She gave a mischievous smile, dimples flashing. ‘There’ve been a few visitors in my life since Toby, but nothing serious. Merely visitations.’
‘Visitations is my sort of word,’ said William.
‘Then it’s catching, the way you speak.’
‘Much better to keep going on your own than join up with someone less than perfect, just for companionship.’
‘Of course. I’d never do that. Is Grace perfect?’
‘She is.’ William suppressed the fraction of a sigh. He was doing so well it was worth plunging in even further, he thought. ‘And now: any visitors?’
Bonnie giggled, blushed. She looked about sixteen.
