by Angela Huth
‘He appeared a couple of mornings as usual. But he’s not coming any more.’ Grace tilted her head to one side. A small Madonna-like smile, faintly brave, or long-suffering, tweaked the corners of her mouth. There was a long silence.
‘Why not?’
Grace gathered up the plates. The thought of the pudding to come made her feel sick.
‘Oh, you know. I was just fed up with his visits. I couldn’t think why he kept coming, what he wanted, what we could give him.’
‘Free breakfasts. Bloody scrounger, if you ask me.’
‘You never liked him.’
‘I’m not as generous in my opinions as you, no. I could never quite see the point of him. And his visits became intrusive.’
‘They did.’
‘Very glad he’s not going to bother us any more.’ Bonnie’s hands were in the air, poised to dive on him again.
‘Quite.’ You’ve got real talent, Grace. Your paintings are very, very good. Lucien’s voice was so loud he might have been in the room with them. There are moments when absence and presence are the same. Trying to divide them causes hopeless confusion. William’s voice came from a long way off.
‘So, anyhow, my Ace, you’re a wise woman as always. You’ve done the right thing, telling him to get lost.’ William patted his wife’s hand. He noted it had recently changed shape. It used not to have this geography of hillock veins and arid patches of brown skin. Dear God, would Bonnie’s plump little hands one day look like this? The thought was calming: he needed calming thoughts. ‘And I’ll say yes to Dick, then. Dorset.’ - From whose giant cliffs this angelic wife with the ageing hands would be flung to her death on the shingle below. The image was unclear, but positive.
‘Why not? I daresay we need a break.’ Every obscenity Lucien had ever uttered in her presence punched through Grace’s mind. Relishing the vile words, she rose to fetch the pie.
‘I shall look forward to that, my Ace.’ And the thereafter: somewhere, anywhere–it didn’t matter–playing with Bonnie. The multitude of duos for violin and viola. Playing far into the night, making ready for their ultimate and imperative union.
After a long weekend (moments relived and relived) William set off on Monday morning for a rehearsal. Despite Bonnie’s excellent rendering of the Haydn F major in Prague, he wondered with some dread how she would approach the G major this morning. Her prickliness about Haydn he found hard to deal with. Her resistance was extraordinary, irrational. While it was probably the only weakness in her whole being, it was an awkward one considering the Elmtree was much revered for its rendering of the composer’s magnificent quartets. On the journey to Grant’s barn he was so preoccupied wondering how best to convince, approach, persuade Bonnie, that his misjudgement of corners caused much hooting from other motorists.
He had left the house very early - ‘just in case your friend changes his mind and decides to return,’ he had told Grace. The truthful reason was his anxiety to be back with Bonnie. His acute impatience had spurred him to drive at twice his normal speed, and he arrived ten minutes before the appointed time. Bonnie’s car was there, but not Grant’s. This was strange.
William went in. Curiosity was now added to his generally nervous state. The main room of the barn was empty, the door to the bedroom open. Bonnie came out of it at once, smiling. Faced with the innocence of her entrance, a sense of relief drenched through William’s apprehensive limbs.
‘Guess what? You know what I found in Grant’s bedroom? A piano.’
‘A piano?’ William sounded, he thought, suitably surprised. ‘Did you, now?’ He needed time to fight off the question what were you doing in Grant’s bedroom? Bonnie read his mind. Laughed, teasing.
‘Don’t worry. Nothing forbidden going on between your players. I was cold. Went to borrow a jersey’ She tightened the knot of sleeves round her neck. The jersey–Grant had worn it for as long as William had known him–was flung round her neck like a scarf.
‘I see. Well, quite. Where’s Grant?’
‘Gone to get some milk.’
The news so strengthened William’s initial relief that he found himself speaking in undue, unwise haste.
‘So you arrived very early, then.’
‘Not very.’ She was teasing him again, the little minx. ‘Only now I’m so near there’s no reason to be late, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’ William took off his coat, went to sit on the chair by his music stand. Bonnie seemed not to have noticed the significance of his silly question. ‘Tried out the piano, did you?’
‘Course I did. A few notes. But it’s beyond hope. I said to Grant why on earth have you let a once-beautiful piano like this fall into this state? Why don’t you get it retuned, overhauled? We could play together, I said.’
‘You could play together!’ William, who had tucked his violin under his chin, now returned it to his lap.
‘Well, I don’t suppose we ever would. But it was a nice idea.’
William nodded, swallowed, unable to speak.
Bonnie moved to her own chair, sat. Legs, in their tight jeans, swung apart. She pushed the baggy sleeves of Grant’s jersey up under her nose, sniffing. She made a face. She was wearing the devastating angora jersey again, breasts mysterious shadowy mounds beneath it. William closed his eyes, wishing that she would burn the wretched garment. Its effects were so uncomfortable.
‘Now, William, I’ve something to say to you.’ William opened his eyes, kept them on her face. All the teasing had gone from her voice. ‘I just beg you not to try talking me into the Haydn again. It’s counterproductive. You know perfectly well, whatever my private feelings, I’m professional and will do my best. In fact, I practised much of the night–I did, really. So just wait and see. If I’ve got it all wrong you can tell me where. But don’t go banging on about Haydn in general any more, please.’ She paused. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying this.’
‘No.’ William searched in a pocket for a handkerchief. He could feel dampness on his brow. ‘No, of course not. You’re perfectly reasonable. I didn’t mean you to practise all night, I know you’ll -
Grant came through the door swinging two bottles of milk like dumb-bells. He was followed by Rufus. A few moments later they launched into the merry, snow-swirling first movement of the Haydn in G major. Throughout the piece Bonnie wore a self-satisfied little smile, so her dimples remained firm. She played with all the joy and brilliance she had conjured so frequently playing her beloved Schubert or Brahms, and her performance was not lost on any of them. Rufus raised one eyebrow throughout: Grant nodded and tilted his head with more than usual frequency. William himself, confounded, only knew that this was the end for him. Up until this morning what he had felt for Bonnie was a mixture of admiration, friendship and lust. But her unexpected performance changed everything. It could only mean one thing: she had listened, made an immense effort, and was plainly beginning to understand the point of Haydn, whom she had found so hard to appreciate. She had done this for him. At the end of the piece there was a perplexed silence. For William it was the moment when he realised that his previous feelings for Bonnie were now replaced with something of a different order–overwhelming, and absolutely clear: he loved her totally.
It was the custom for the Elmtree Quartet to give a concert for charity every year in the week before Christmas. This was always held in a hall in Reading, and was always a sell-out. Wives traditionally attended. Many years ago Grant, the only bachelor among the players, had brought his girlfriend of the moment, a conspicuous redhead, who had fainted during the Borodin–from boredom, she later claimed–and caused an embarrassing commotion. Since then he had taken the precaution of inviting only his mother, a tiny silent widow whose amazement at her son’s profession, as well as his size, had kneaded her knotty little face into an expression of constant bewilderment.
This year it was the Handles’ turn to entertain the relations to supper after the performance. Grace always produced a delicious cold buffet and hot ho
me-made mince pies, and William matched her efforts with famously good wine. As always on such occasions he could rely on Grace to do the whole thing beautifully, and was proud that Rufus’s (frail) Iris and, in the old days, Andrew’s (grumpy) Zara could not begin to compete when it came to suppers.
But this year he dreaded the whole occasion. The idea of Bonnie becoming a guest under his own roof, being friendly and helpful to his wife, was unbearable. He would have to make a supreme effort to appear normal, a good and generous host, equally attentive to each of his guests, yet able to conceal his passion for one of them.
To make matters more difficult, this year there was to be an addition to the party On the evening that Grace quietly made her list of food (and Grace, it occurred to William, had been particularly quiet these last few days) there was a telephone call from London.
‘Hello, William. Laurel speaking, Laurel here.’
‘Hello, Laurel.’
Long pause. Perhaps he hadn’t sounded as welcoming as she had anticipated.
‘Everything all right with you? Long time no see.’
‘Everything fine.’
‘Brilliant. We’re rushed off our feet as usual. Everything happening, time of year, you know how it is. The travel business goes mad with parties. Anyhow, Jack wants a word. I’ll pass you over.’
William made a disgusted face at Grace, who smiled in return. It was the first time she had smiled all evening.–He could hear hostile whispering at the other end of the receiver. Then his son Jack came on the line.
‘Hello, Dad. Long time no see.’ God, they even spoke the same revolting language. ‘How’s things? Doing all right?’
‘Fine, Jack, fine.’ William wondered what the final point of this call would be. ‘Just back from Prague,’ he added, making an effort.
‘Prague? Good heavens. You do get about. You should have booked the group through Laurel. She’s got some great saving opportunities to Prague, she was saying only the other day.’
‘Next time, perhaps. I’ll bear that in mind.’ After all these years Jack should know that bookings were done by Stephen who used his own excellent travel agent. But William could not be bothered to explain that yet again …
‘Now, Dad, here’s the thing: your Christmas concert. Remember we came a few years ago? Well, Laurel and I were wondering if you’d like us to put in an appearance? How about that for an idea?’
‘Good God …’
‘Mum was telling me the other day it was your turn for the supper. We always enjoy your wine, her food. How about it?’
‘Well,’ said William.
‘We could even stay the night if you like.’
‘It won’t be that late.’ Resistance to the appalling idea was running through William’s body like lead. He stood more and more upright till he was completely at attention, stiff, cold.
‘No, not by our standards, do see. But if we stayed we could have a drink. Of course, if it’d be a bother on top of everything else, if you’d rather we didn’t, then–’
‘No, no. I mean yes. Of course it would be fine. Your mother and I would be delighted.’
‘Can’t say you sound that enthusiastic.’ Jack gave a twisted laugh. ‘But we thought what a lark it might be. I’d like to talk to Grant again–and what’s the other one, Rupert - ?’
‘Rufus.’ Jack had known Rufus for years.
‘Rufus, yes.’ A distinct pause. Then a controlled lightness of touch. ‘And the girl, Bonnie. We haven’t met Bonnie yet, have we? She looked a jolly good sort to me.’
So that was it. Jack, for all his so-called love for the dreadful Laurel, wanted to keep his hand in. Try out his attractions on Bonnie. The thought made William feel so sick he found it hard to speak.
‘Bonnie will be there, I hope,’ he said at last.
‘Some boyfriend in tow?’
The impertinence of all this. In his fury a plan came so fast to William’s mind that there was no time to consider its wisdom. He would lie.
‘It seems,’ he says, ‘that Grant and Bonnie … well.’
‘An item, you mean?’
‘A what?–Look, I would ask you to be discreet about this, Jack. It’s not something any of us mention. It’s nothing to do with us, their private arrangement. I know no details. It’s just something we’ve observed, we accept, and we wait without questions until we are told.’
‘Right. Keep your hair on, Dad. I’m not that interested. Just said it would be nice to meet her.’
‘Quite. So we’ll see you at the concert, then. I’ll leave tickets at the door.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Bye for now.’
‘They want not only to come to the concert, but to stay the night,’ William said to Grace. He moved his arms, trying to shake off the rictus.
‘That’s all right. What was it you were saying about Bonnie and Grant?’
In a long moment’s silence, William considered. Again, in general deviousness he was now stepped in so far … Besides, it would be no bad thing if Grace, too, was under the impression that Bonnie and Grant -
‘They seem very fond of each other,’ he lied.
‘Rather suitable, I’d say. Though whether, in a small group–’
‘They’ve admitted nothing yet, so I can’t worry about that sort of thing till they have.’
‘Of course not.’ Grace returned to writing her list. ‘As for Jack and Laurel, I’ve an awful feeling they’re going to make use of the occasion to announce their engagement.’
‘Bet you anything you’re wrong there,’ said William. ‘They’re too busy for that sort of thing. With any luck we’ll escape ever having to be Laurel’s parents-in-law.–I say, my Ace: that’s a very small helping you’ve given yourself. Anything the matter?’
Lucien kept his word. He did not appear again and Grace increasingly felt the loss of him. She thought she might send him a Christmas card, but then realised that might be tempting fate. Much though she would like to see him from time to time, she had no desire to return to the state of perpetual anxiety his visitations had caused her. So she did not post the carefully chosen card, and concentrated on organising the party after the charity concert. William, as usual, was averse to discussing any of the arrangements. He liked to leave it all to her, and was always pleased with the result.
In the days before the party Grace had noticed he was more withdrawn than usual. Jumpy, twitchy. He spent longer than ever tweaking sheets and deciding on the number, and exact positioning, of the blankets each night. And then he slept badly. Awake herself for many hours in the night, listening for the return of the wolf (whose signal, if it came, she would this time appreciate), Grace felt him tossing about, snatching at the bedclothes he had so carefully arranged earlier. Such a pity, Grace reflected, that the very idea of his own son’s presence affected him so badly, for surely it was the thought of Jack and Laurel at the party that was causing him such agitation. But there was nothing she could do about that. She had tried often enough to make him understand that disappointment in your children is to do with your own aspirations for them, that they themselves have no interest in reaching. William should be glad Jack was doing so well in accountancy. He should stop regretting the fact that his son had not pursued a youthful talent for chemistry and become a doctor: or even his youthful facility for picking out tunes on a guitar, and become a musician. William was irrationally depressed by the dullness of Jack’s job, combined with the heavy weight of Jack’s ambition to make his fortune. He could not bear the fact that Jack–never a very lively or endearing character–now communicated in wince-making clichés in the belief that they gave importance to his utterances. William, so pernickety about language, so worried about its corrosion, was increasingly allergic to psychobabble, marketing babble and all the other contortions that the English language suffered these days: it was no wonder he was so reluctant to agree to get-togethers with Jack and Laurel. Their way of speaking reminded him of the new and ghastly trends of ‘Cool Britannia’, of which he wanted no
part. It offended him so deeply that in their presence he found it hard to conceal his disapprobation. Their company was tedious and unmelodious. And it was mostly Laurel’s fault. Before her entry into Jack’s life father and son had, in a limited way, got on well enough. Laurel had been the cause of Jack’s slippage into the deadliest kind of self-satisfaction. Though Jack himself, as he once told Grace, loved her for the confidence she had given him. Laurel … Grace could see her flaunting some dreary little diamond ring at the party, boasting of special economy fares to the Caribbean for their honeymoon. She shivered, and pulled back her share of the blankets very gently, so as not to provoke William’s ire over the unhappy state of the bed.
But Grace was the first to admit her fears were ill-founded. Perhaps to make up for their undisguised boredom last time, Jack and Laurel behaved well at the concert. If they had brought calculators or travel brochures to pass the time, they refrained from using them. They sat in the front row, with Grace, Rufus’s wife and Grant’s mother, and gave every appearance of enjoying the music. There was no ring on Laurel’s finger, Grace noted, as Laurel clapped excessively at the end of each piece. So they were to be spared the announcement of an engagement, thank God, thought Grace, and began to enjoy herself too.
William, from his seat on the platform, briefly took in the row of disparate relations, then cast his eyes towards Bonnie. He wondered if she would repeat her excellent performance of the Haydn that she had produced in the rehearsal, or, bored now she had achieved William’s praise, fall back into mechanical playing.–But she did not let him down. She played faultlessly, enjoying herself, flaunting her new liking for Haydn. Her elbow danced so hard the velvet sleeve slipped higher than usual up her arm, and her hair swung and glinted under the stage lights. At the end of the piece she turned with a smile of triumph (as William saw it) to him alone, and he smiled curtly back. Their shared secret, which the audience could not guess at, blasted William’s concentration. Shuffling through his music for the Schubert in A minor (Grace’s favourite quartet, chosen on purpose) he glanced down at the front row again. Unlikely Laurel would have enjoyed the Haydn. Amazingly, she was clapping hard. So was Jack. His eyes, William could not fail to see, were on Bonnie, penetrating the velvet quite brazenly. William swung round on his seat, glared at his son. The applause stopped. There was a moment’s puzzled silence–so menacing was William’s look, no one could have failed to notice it. His reward was to observe a deep and ugly flush suffuse Jack’s face. Jack then turned to Laurel with a stupid, guilty grin.
