by Angela Huth
‘No good,’ he warned.
The members of the Quartet stretched, stood about. William could not remember how the idea of this expedition had taken root. Grant’s idea, he presumed. Abroad, Grant put himself in charge of culture, arranged that cities should be explored between rehearsals and concerts. William and Rufus–and in the old days Andrew–had always gone along with his plans, but feared they showed less enthusiasm than Grant expected. Perhaps, now, he put his hopes in Bonnie. There had been talk of ‘rushing her through’ the Jewish Cemetery on their return, if there was time before the rehearsal. (As far as William understood, this would mean missing lunch, so the idea would not get his vote.) Grant had also suggested various other visits before leaving for the airport tomorrow. William and Rufus had not been included in these invitations, and would not have accepted them if they had. All the same, thought William, it was pretty untoward of Grant to suggest excursions alone with Bonnie. He had no idea whether or not she had agreed to go with him, but rather hoped she had. Just to see Bonnie setting off in the minibus alone with Grant might convince William that her feelings for all members of the Quartet were equal. She would be happy to please each one of them in their different ways.
Rufus was the first one to enter the church. William followed a few feet behind him. There was an old woman–long wool clothes and scarf dripped custard-like from her chair–at a table of postcards in the porch. No one else. As their eyes grew accustomed to the light they could see that the entire interior of the church was encrusted with bones–human skeletons chopped up and fashioned into decorations, chandeliers, deathly designs.
‘My God, what a place.’ Rufus ran a shaky hand across his eyes. ‘It’s hard to believe. I’m only thankful the wife isn’t here.’
‘Astonishing’ said William. In the November gloom that fell upon the tapestry of bones there was a faint, ironic brightness which gave them a sense of defiant vitality. They bore no resemblance to skeletons–the only skeletons in William’s experience -in school laboratories. In a pyramid of skulls, at first glance all identical, he could see the flesh of individuals–here a laughing young woman with deep eye sockets, there a surly man with high domed brow. They were ghosts stripped of their ethereality, mocking reminders of mortality.
William did not share Rufus’s shock. Intrigued, he made his way down the stone steps into the lower half of the church, and began to study the ingenious patterns made from arm bones, thigh bones, spines–the chopsticks of human life. Bone, he thought, had a certain beauty, if you could distance your thoughts from how it once moved, swung, rested, lived, protected the jelly of the eyeball, the mess of brain–how it was the scaffold upon which veins and sinew and muscles and organs were all hung. But to appreciate innumerable bones, formed into this bizarre monument, you had to banish thoughts of the life they had once led …
There was a scream. William, deep in his reflections, turned to see Bonnie and Grant some five or six steps above him. Grant had a hand under Bonnie’s elbow. The look on his face was one of concern edged with annoyance. Bonnie screamed again, covered her face with her hands.
‘Get me out of here,’ she wailed.
Grant nodded at William.
‘You take her. I want a good look round.’
The cad, thought William. In his own heart, reluctance to usher Bonnie out of this place was mixed with delight at the opportunity of consoling her. This was a genuine reason, he told himself, to abandon every promise made to himself not three hours ago, and help a girl in trouble. Shaking his head, he hurried up to stand beside Bonnie. Relieved, Grant left them to inspect a wall of bones woven intricately as tweed.
Bonnie, one hand still over her eyes, stretched out her other to William. He took it.
‘Just get me out of here fast,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to open my eyes till we’re outside.’ She was petulant as a frightened young child.
William led her back up the steps, his right hand round her waist, his left clasped in her free hand. He could smell the sweet-hay smell of her sweat, and was aware her left breast was perilously close to his ribcage. He guided her conscientiously as someone helping the blind, without a word, until they were through the door. As they passed the old woman, she gave a knowing smile over her unsold cards.
‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘outside.’
Bonnie opened her eyes warily She did not let go of William’s hand. They looked at each other, dangerously close, for a moment. Then she broke into a gust of uncontrollable tears, making a terrible noise in the silence of the graveyard. She fell upon William, hiding her head on his shoulder, then moving it up to lodge beneath his chin.
William was alarmed. This was more than he could ever have hoped for, of course. But Bonnie’s sudden melodrama, her uncharacteristic loss of control, would unnerve any man. He felt at a loss as how to console her. Clumsily he patted her head. His heart was battering so hard (he could feel hers was, too, for different reasons) that he felt himself totter against her weight. He splayed his legs to stand more firmly. Further discomfort was caused by the snarling, rearing blood in his loins, something he prayed to keep from her, but in their curious embrace this seemed unlikely.
He had no idea how much time they passed locked together, Bonnie howling, William muttering useless words of comfort. He was vaguely aware of Rufus, whose interest in the church must have expired as soon as Bonnie screamed, sitting on a gravestone nearby, open guidebook in hand, looking curious. William heard the chirp of a Czech sparrow, which added a gust of nostalgia for his garden at home to the general chaos of his mixed emotions. He was aware of pins and needles in the arm that still clutched at Bonnie’s waist, and wondered for how long he could hold his position of support.
At last Bonnie detached herself from him, very slightly. Her cheeks were bright pink and drenched with tears. Her long eyelashes were bunched together in shining clumps, each one finely pointed as Grace’s sable paintbrushes. William had to exert every force in his being not to take her more conventionally in his arms, and kiss her for eternity.
That’s the most horrible, horrible place I’ve ever been to in my entire life,’ she sobbed–though the sobs were now more diminuendo. ‘If I’d known it was going to be anything like that I’d never have agreed to Grant’s revolting plan. He said I might enjoy it. He must be mad! Perverted.’
‘My wife would feel the same,’ offered Rufus, from his place on the grave. ‘Incidentally, that ruddy Czech Republic sparrow chirps a semitone lower than his British counterpart. Makes me a lot uneasier than the bones.’
William sensed Bonnie smile against his shoulder, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t been the first to divert her thoughts. He felt the need to take the courageous step of disengaging himself completely, now, from Bonnie. Her sobs had died to the merest whimper: she was pulling herself together, searching in her sleeves for a handkerchief. William produced his own–by chance clean and still folded (Grace was a meticulous woman with the iron). She took it without a word, dabbed at her face, never more enchanting, and causing William’s resolve and heart to twist and turn so violently he felt a little faint. Mixed with these turbulent feelings was a deeply shaming delight at Bonnie’s anger with Grant. William would not forget what she had said about him. Grant had (innocently, perhaps) tricked her, let her down. Bonnie might not forgive him for that. If there was any possibility of a liaison between them in Grant’s mind, surely this morning’s mistaken visit had scotched the plan. He had really put his foot in it … thank God.
‘Just think,’ Bonnie was saying, ‘it’s just pure chance that we didn’t live and die when those poor wretches did. We could easily be among them. We could be those horrible sticks of bones, those empty grinning heads.’
William gave a small compliant smile, and shrugged. He could think of no suitable reply to her observation. Bonnie handed him back his handkerchief. He softened his eyes in invitation to her to return to the comfort of his neck if she felt like it. But plainly she didn’t. She moved
away from William and went to sit by Rufus on the gravestone.
To William’s amazement, Rufus patted Bonnie on the knee. It was, of course, no more than a grandfatherly gesture, but not one William had ever supposed Rufus capable of making. Perhaps he had been moved by Bonnie’s distress. Perhaps she had the power to move them all.
‘Beastly experience, you poor old thing,’ Rufus was saying to Bonnie. ‘Best forget it. And I have to say it’s made me so darned hungry I could eat a whole plate of those revolting dumplings without a grumble.’
Bonnie smiled.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for lunch when we get back to Prague,’ she said, ‘because I’ve not the slightest intention of going off to see anything with Grant.’
This information caused spirals of conflicting sensation to twist through William, who was beginning to feel very cold. One was the jealousy that had flared with Bonnie’s smile to Rufus–why had she failed to bestow at least a smile of gratitude on to him, William, the one in whose arms she had so keenly fallen? The other was the secret pleasure that Grant was to be spurned this afternoon. That could leave him with a chance to suggest at least a cup of tea in a café, after the rehearsal, while Rufus returned to the hotel to keep up the endless communication with his wife, and Grant went alone to reacquaint himself with the disappointment (to William’s mind) of the famous Charles Bridge.
When Grant eventually reappeared, carrying a bunch of postcards and wearing the smug look of a super-sightseer to whom absolutely everything is of acute interest, a small scene took place which gave further boost to William’s hopes.
‘D’you mind if I sit in the front on the way back?’ Bonnie asked William.
‘Of course not.’
‘We are in a huff,’ said Grant.
‘All due to your stupid joke. You said we were going somewhere marvellous.’
‘I didn’t think you’d take it like that. Anyhow, it is marvellous in a way.’ He slammed shut the minibus door.
On the silent journey back to Prague William began to have fears for the concert tonight. Bonnie’s rendering of the Purcell was pure delight, but how would she tackle the Haydn F major? He was well aware of her resistance to Haydn, and although in rehearsals she had played competently enough, he wondered if the upsets of the morning would affect her.
But how quickly moods change and anger is dissolved, reflected William, especially when peace is in everyone’s best interest. By the time they arrived back in the city Bonnie seemed quite recovered, and Grant was over his temper. He made no mention of his plans to rush her round the sights, and the four of them enjoyed lunch together in a gloomy café, many jokes made against the heavy food. At the rehearsal in the empty church Bonnie played so joyously no one would ever have guessed at her dislike for Haydn. When, after a long session, William suggested to Bonnie she might like a cup of tea in the Square, the other two presumed the invitation included them. While they accepted with enthusiasm -William, scrupulous about expenses, rarely offered to pay for everyone–Bonnie declined apologetically. She felt she needed an hour’s sleep to be in best form for tonight, she said. So William found himself round a small table with just two members of his Quartet: two men with whom he had spent so much of his life, in awe of their talent and in the warmth of their friendship, that extraneous chit-chat was no longer necessary. In the easy silence in which they drank their lemon tea, upsets of the morning forgotten, William sensed their brief return to old habits brought relief to them all. Without Bonnie’s presence there was no excitement, no possibility of the unexpected observation or question. But there was a restfulness, an understanding, that is peculiar to men who have worked and lived together for a long time in harmony. And although William secretly calculated the hours until he was able to behold Bonnie in her velvet, eyes cast down on her viola, he enjoyed the half-hour alone with his old friends more than he could ever have expected, and had no regrets that Bonnie had chosen not to be with them.
8
It was not in Grace’s nature to initiate rows, but her anger on discovering what Lucien had done seethed so furiously all day that she determined to confront him when he arrived next morning. His outrageous act signified it was time to put an end to his troublesome visits. The pity–the affection, even–she felt for him was now far outweighed by her fury.
Her intention was to brace herself for the row as soon as he arrived–she might even refuse him his customary tea and toast -and to be rid of him by nine thirty. Then, putting the whole disagreeable matter from her mind, she would spend the rest of the day preparing for William’s return. On the telephone he explained there had been a less than successful expedition to some weird church, and he was tired and hungry and looking forward to being home. God, was she looking forward to that too …
Her plans were confused by Lucien’s non-appearance at the usual time. Nine thirty, nine forty-five, still no sign. Perhaps, too guilty to face her, he wasn’t going to appear at all. Perhaps the return of the cufflinks had been a farewell sign. Well, in some ways that would make everything easier. Grace would not have to charge herself up to shout and accuse. She would be spared his intimidating response–something she had witnessed on occasions if ever she had offered some small criticism. She would not have to resist one of his sudden bouts of charm and persuasiveness should he disagree with the plan to bring their peculiar relationship to an end.
At ten o’clock Grace began her preparations for William’s supper. Convinced by now she would not be seeing Lucien today, she felt her usual calm override the obnoxious tumult of the last twenty-four hours, and concentrated on the pleasing rolling of her pastry. With so much on her mind, it had not occurred to her to protect herself from surprise by locking the back door. At ten past eleven she heard it open. There was the familiar sound of Lucien’s slouchy tread: and there he was, grinning down at her. Lucien with huge dull pupils to his eyes, damp jacket, thickly bristling jowls.
To one who is unaccustomed to entertaining anger in the first place, to reassemble it once it has faded is not an easy matter. Grace, knife in hand (she had been making such a fine job of slicing the edges of the pastry from the pie dish), stood looking at him in incredulous silence, waiting for a pulse of indignation to fire her.
There: caught you out, didn’t I? Tricked you! Bet you thought I wasn’t coming. Bet you thought now I’d returned them I wouldn’t be coming back to face the music.’ He was smiling. The scoffing bore no malice.
‘Lucien,’ Grace said.
Lucien took a step towards her. He put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. He removed it at once.
‘Look, I can explain. I’m no thief–well, am I? You know that. I nick a bit from those who won’t miss it if I’m desperate. But in here–’ he banged his chest - ‘I’m not a thief. Besides, I wasn’t stealing those cufflinks, I was just like borrowing them. Took them to a pawn shop, got the money to deal with a bit of business, had a bit of luck with another bit of business, repaid the loan, got the bloody cufflinks back and first thing I do is bring them back. You can’t fault me there. I’d say that was the act of someone pretty honourable, even in your book.’
Grace sighed. The anger she tried to summon, all the things she had thought of to say, would not return. Instead, she felt an acute weariness.
‘It was completely unacceptable, what you did,’ she said.
‘Well: I wouldn’t say that. Not considering the emergency. Course I’m sorry the bit of the business to repay the pawnbroker’s loan took a bit of time. People let you down. You can’t rely on people.’ There was no flicker of a smile at his own irony. ‘But the main thing is they’re back now. I daresay I’m forgiven, you being the sort of forgiving woman you are. How about we celebrate with a cup of tea?’
Their eyes met.
‘No,’ said Grace, putting down the knife.
‘Come on, now. Where’s your sense of humour? I’m hungry.’
‘Have you any idea the worry you caused? The misery? I’d only just given those
cufflinks to William. He was distraught.’
‘Sorry about that. I’m not much of a things person myself. Possessions don’t hold much interest. So I’d not be the best at understanding that sort of thing.’
‘You could have asked me for another loan,’ said Grace. ‘I was willing enough to give you one in the first place.’
‘No: I couldn’t, could I? Not a second one. I’m not a man to take advantage of a friend’s generosity–speaking of which I’ll get the money back to you any day now, honest.’ Lucien sat down in his usual chair. ‘Are you going to make me breakfast?’
Grace shook her head without much conviction.
‘Just a cup of tea, then. I’m busy. William’s coming home tonight. I want to get on with the dinner.’
‘Lucky old William.’
Grace went to put on the kettle and get Lucien’s customary mug. She could not face an argument about that. When she turned back to the table she saw he was playing with the knife, testing the blade between two fingers.
‘You work with a mighty sharp blade,’ he said, quietly.
‘You have to, for pastry.’
Grace was conscious her heart had begun to beat faster. She told herself not to be so stupid.
‘Pastry: that’s something Lobelia never does.’
Lucien pulled the board on which Grace had been rolling her pastry towards him. He straightened out one of the ribbons that had been cut from the edge of the pie. With the tip of the knife he sliced through its middle, hand absolutely steady.
‘Imagine if that was skin,’ he said.
‘Lucien! That’s horrible.’
I am horrible, remember.’ He gave one of his ‘laughs that reminded Grace of a shaken coal scuttle. ‘I used to play with knives as a kid. I liked slicing things. One time Lobelia gave me a rabbit. It bit me, stupid bugger. I ripped right up through its belly with a penknife. That was good fun, at fourteen.–She never found out.’
