by Angela Huth
Rufus nudged William’s elbow.
‘Get on with it,’ he whispered.
William gave the signal. They began to play the Schubert. Grace, puzzled by Jack’s enpurpled face, wondered what had caused William’s apparent anger. Her eyes trailed over the players, dipping and swaying, locked in their music. She then looked towards the Exit door at the side of the platform. She watched it open slowly. A head peered round, scanned the audience. Within a second it was gone.
Lucien.
Dear God, Grace thought. He’s back … Lucien’s back. What had he in mind now? In the heat of the hall she felt herself turn very cold. What was he up to? What was his new plan to torment her? Grace kept her eyes on William. She hoped to be lulled (and also invigorated by its occasional intimations of stormy weather) by the andante, which she loved so much.
At the end of the concert Jack and Laurel hurried out with Grace to drive her home, so that everything could be finalised before the others arrived. It was clear their good behaviour at the concert had caused them considerable strain. As soon as they arrived at the house they made straight for an opened bottle of William’s claret, and drank two glasses very quickly Grace was left to manage on her own.
In her scurrying to arrange food and light candles she had no time to ponder further on the extraordinary flash-sighting of Lucien, and half thought it might have been a figment of her imagination. But the effect was in the trembling of her hands, her clumsiness lighting the tree. On her knees searching for the switch she crashed into the lower branches so hard that the coloured balls flashed and swayed dangerously. Laurel, scarlet cheeked, squealed.
‘Take a care, Mother,’ shouted Jack. He made his single contribution to the evening by heaving his mother to her feet. Once she was upright he slapped at the pine needles on her shoulders. ‘Keep your hair on,’ he added. ‘Not exactly a large party. Nothing to worry about, is there?’
Grace wanted to cry. She wanted to run away, leave them all to it. She said nothing.
When the others arrived they marvelled at her efforts: the table full of food, the smell of a stew of long-marinated meat and herbs, the baskets of Christmas roses propped up against holly, the candlelight. William poured wine, Bonnie delivered the glasses. An efficient team they made, he thought. It occurred to him the evening might not turn out to be as bad as he had anticipated. As the guests drank quickly and seemed interested in talking to each other–in the odd way that people who know each other well suddenly do at parties–this feeling grew. His only concern was for Rufus’s wife, Iris. A narrow woman in a nervous little dress, he noticed she kept to the less bright parts of the room, not speaking, but appearing to listen. When someone pushed the door further open and light increased, Iris stepped quickly back into relocated shadow. She took care to avoid the Christmas tree–fearful of reflections of the glass balls on her quiet grey skirt, perhaps, thought William. ‘She never likes to stand out,’ Rufus had once confided. There was no danger of her doing that tonight. William made his way over to her. Flushed by Bonnie’s presence in the room, he felt the concern for one less fortunate than himself that came from the certainty of his own secret love.
‘My dear Iris,’ he began, ‘why not come and sit by the fire?’
‘Thank you, William. I am a little chilled.’
It was no wonder Rufus was so constantly attentive to his wife. She looked too frail to last many winters. The idea of her death was unsettling. What would happen to the Elmtree should Rufus become a premature widower? Iris’s pathetic little hand, fretted with high, blue veins, shook as she held her glass. William swore to himself that never again would he scoff at Rufus for ringing home so often.
Perhaps it was a couple of glasses of his own good wine, combined with Bonnie’s presence (Bonnie’s existence), that heightened William’s sympathy for a woman to whom he had paid almost no attention, and showed nothing more than polite interest, for so many years. Whatever the reason, he determined to sit next to her for a while, concentrate on her completely. He ushered her to the sofa by the fire. Slowly, she sat. But before William could take his place beside her, Grant pushed his tiny old mother, turtle head emerging from a shell of shawls, down into the cushions. Grant’s tangible impatience caused him to push the old lady too hard. She fell stiffly back, and seemed unable to rock forward.
It was one of those moments when several things happen very fast. In retrospect they become a fluid stream of flashing lights, their order not quite clear, but their significance underlined by the main discovery of the moment.
William glanced round the room. No sign of Laurel. Everyone else happy. Grant hurried out of the door holding two empty bottles. William was left to tilt his mother to a forward position. Having accomplished this small charitable gesture, he exchanged a smile with Iris–in a smaller flash he remembered how beautiful she was when Rufus first met her–and heard Iris enquire after the old lady’s health and comfort. His proposed seat now taken, he placed himself of the arm of the sofa next to Iris, and gave every appearance of attending to the valetudinary conversation taking place beside him.
In truth his attention was caught by Bonnie and Jack, who sat in small chairs (brought down from upstairs) turned to face each other in the window. The drawn curtains–a swirl of tulips unnaturally plunging and soaring across stretches of nasty blue, which William had always disliked–were the backdrop to Bonnie’s familiar evening shape of black velvet. Set against the mad flowers, was her expression troubled, eager, amused? William could not be sure. Jack was half-hidden from William’s view by the Christmas tree. But he could see his son’s shoulders were hunched in a show of intense concentration. As a child Jack had always hunched himself over whatever the object of interest–his trains, a comic, a fancy penknife. As a grown-up the position was familiar when he concentrated on a wine list or the Financial Times. Now, he was horribly hunched towards Bonnie.
‘Once you’ve had your stomach out–you’ve nothing to fall back on,’ observed Grant’s mother, to no one in particular. ‘Don’t you agree?’ She stretched out a hand, still muffled in shawls, to touch William’s knee.
‘Oh, I do.’
‘It’s all part of the process,’ Iris added.
Her mysterious observation faintly intrigued William, but nothing could detract from his study of Bonnie and Jack. Jack was the speaker. Low voice, but William could detect a few words.
… came, not expecting anything … don’t suppose … ever been so moved …’
‘Really?’ A sweet surprised smile from Bonnie, innocent of the rubbish she was being fed.
‘And … I don’t know … mind me saying, Bonnie, the sight of you … the most beautiful violinist I’ve ever seen, and do you know what?’ Here Jack leant further towards Bonnie, whispered something in her ear. She pulled back at once, laughing, blushing.
This was intolerable. William stood. Grace caught his eye.
‘Isn’t it time to eat?’ she said. ‘Get everyone to help themselves.’
‘Where are Grant and Laurel?’
‘I don’t know about Grant. I asked Laurel to take the brandy butter out of the fridge.’
With a quick glance at the window–Bonnie and Jack were stirring, standing, pulling apart reluctantly as wet wool, William thought–William left the room. With burning face he hurried to the kitchen. There he found Grant and Laurel, eyes locked, by the dresser. Laurel, holding her (third or fourth) glass of wine in one hand, was picking invisible fluff from Grant’s collar with the other. Her face was a lustful scarlet, and shining.
‘… and I could get you at least fifty per cent reduction to Corfu, off-season,’ she was saying.
Grant, on William’s entrance, turned, startled. He had the dappy look of one who had for a brief moment seriously been attracted to the idea of a cut-rate Greek holiday
‘Great,’ he said, to no one.
Laurel touched his hand.
‘You’ve only to give me the signal.’
‘Laurel!’ Willi
am shouted so loud he surprised himself as well as the others. Laurel, still webbed in her dream of a conquest of a client (possibly more, the handsome brute), turned to him with no flicker of guilt. Her eyes were dreamy, stupid.
‘William?’
‘Grace told you to get the–’
‘I did.’ She nodded towards the table and a bowl of brandy butter. William clasped his hands, desperate. Things were completely out of control. And he must get back now, see what further outrage his son and colleague were up to–though not for anything would he leave Grant and the appalling, predatory Laurel on their own. Grant, for all his size, wouldn’t stand a chance against Laurel.
‘It’s time to eat,’ he said. ‘Back in there.’
Something of his perturbance must have penetrated Laurel’s insensitive skin, for she hurried out, head high, secret smile to Grant.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Your daughter-in-law’s a fast mover.’
‘She’s not my daughter-in-law and I hope she never will be.’
‘I sympathise there.’
‘I’m sorry if she embarrassed you.’
‘Takes more than a tacky little travel agent to embarrass me, worry not.’
They looked at each other with the understanding of old colleagues who have weathered many years of minor incidents that have no lasting effect on the whole.
‘Let’s eat, then.’
‘I’ll offer Laurel a sausage on a stick, see if I can send her a little public message.’
‘Behave yourself, Grant.’
Back in the sitting room Bonnie was sitting on the floor talking to Iris and Grant’s mother. Jack was standing by the tree, plate and fork in hand, eyes on Bonnie’s back. Rufus was attempting to engage Laurel in conversation, but she was digging without interest at her Elizabethan stew, puzzled by her lover’s moody look. Rufus got little response.
Grace, always a thoughtful hostess, saw to it that everyone’s plates were piled. But she herself could conjure no appetite. She found it very hot in the room. Stifling. She had only sipped half a glass of wine, but the candle flames and tree lights were all bending and swaying as if in a wind. She moved uncertainly towards William. He was standing alone by the piano, a bleak, bemused look on his face. But then William had never enjoyed being a host. And this evening, for some reason she could not clarify in her mind, Grace was beginning to agree with him. Parties were no fun for those giving them, particularly when the guests were both disparate and difficult.
‘You all right, my Ace?’
‘Hot. Isn’t it very hot in here? I’m going for a breath of air.’
Grace slipped out of the room. She stood for a few moments in the hall, arms crossed under her breasts, hugging herself. She listened to the thin weave of voices, the occasional laugh. She studied the huddle of alien coats on the hooks. She longed to know if Lucien’s appearance was a signal, and meant he would be here in the morning.
Grace moved towards the front door. It was one of those high-waisted Edwardian pieces of design, with stained-glass panes at the top–the bust–that cast multi-coloured patterns on the floor when the sun pushed through. Such doors, in their demureness, reminded Grace of nineteenth-century dresses.
She found herself opening it. She stood by the narrow margin of cold damp air, grateful for its relief. Outside, three parked cars shone with damp, and the laurels, entangled in a dim moving fog, were indistinct shapes, no detail of leaf or branch. Grace shivered. About to shut the door, she looked down. On the step was a milk bottle surrounded by a circle of six tangerines. A feather of folded paper was sticking from the neck of the milk bottle. Grace bent and picked it up. Unfolded it. She read its message by the light in the porch. Happy Christmas, it said.
Grace stood there, reading the scrawled words again and again. Eventually she gathered up the carefully arranged tangerines, and took them to the kitchen. In her excitement she dropped them on the floor, watched them roll towards various points and under the table. No sooner had she knelt to retrieve them than Rufus came in carrying empty glasses.
‘Can I help?’
Dear Rufus! Just as William had felt unaccountable warmth towards Iris, Grace was conscious of an extraordinary beneficence towards Rufus, simply because he was inadvertently caught in the slip stream of her own delight.–He was much more efficient than her, catching the rolling tangerines, handing them to her to arrange in the fruit bowl.
‘Very nice evening,’ he said. ‘You always do these things so well.’
‘Very modest,’ said Grace. ‘But thank you.’ She did not care a damn if he noticed her blush, her dithering, her general sense of ungrounding. From now on she would enjoy the peculiar gathering. Thrilled by the knowledge that somewhere out in the shadows Lucien was, or at least had been lurking, she knew that she would now enter into the spirit of the evening. For her, the party had only just begun.
Perhaps, sifting all these things in her mind, she had the look of one preoccupied: for Rufus made no effort to engage her in further conversation. He went back to the dining room. Grace remained leaning against the sink luxuriating in one of those times when, at your own party, you can snatch a solitary moment, not having to speak or attend to anyone. In the quiet space of an empty room it can almost seem as if it was a normal evening and the guests did not exist. Grace was in a semi-trance of contentment. Then, she heard a shout.
She made her way back to the others, peeped round the door.
She saw what everyone was looking at in a freeze-frame moment. Laurel and Grant stood face to face in front of the Christmas tree. Grant was cramming a large sausage into her mouth, too fast for her to chew. There was absolute silence except for a glugging, a strangled giggle, from Laurel. Her scarlet cheeks bulged from side to side, her eyes flew about. Near to choking, she put her hands against Grant’s chest to steady herself rather than to push him away. For all her discomfort Laurel managed to convey she was enjoying the scene: centre of attention, shocking everyone.
‘Leave off, Grant! You’ll choke the girl.’
Grant turned briefly to his mother, whose squawk of warning broke the spell. He laughed.
Grace’s eyes flew to Jack. He put down a plate of half-finished food. The gesture was heavy with menace. He moved solemnly towards Laurel and Grant. On his way, passing close to Bonnie, he briefly touched her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Grace tasted bile in her throat.
Jack snatched the sausage from Laurel’s mouth, flung it carelessly across the room. It knocked over a glass. Then he hit Grant hard on the cheek. A hollow, watery sound. Spectators gasped in its wake. Iris clasped Grant’s mother’s hand.
‘It was a joke, you idiot.’ Grant held his cheek.
‘Some joke.’Jack moved a pace nearer his target. His first punch had been very minor compared with what he had in mind.
Jack! What are you doing?’ Laurel pawed at him, trying to push him away from Grant. She was making a dreadful noise. He brushed her away, clenched his fist, landed another strong thump on Grant’s nose.
Grace saw blood stream across Grant’s face like a warning flag. There was a ragged chorus of screams, alarmed pleas to stop. People were shifting, moving about, embarrassed, not knowing what to do. William, hands held up like a man surrendering, was pushing past Rufus to reach his son. In the moment of confusion Grace noticed how pale were his palms, the skin grained like rice.
‘Stand back, Dad,’ shouted Jack, ‘I’m not finished.’ He held up a fist again. William, relieved by the command, gladly obeyed it. He’d felt he had to make some gesture of defence–though who to defend was a moral problem. There was small likelihood of his being very effective in stopping a fight between two men considerably larger than himself.
But Grant, several inches taller than Jack, had had enough. One feeble jealous hit he could have accepted without reciprocating. A bloodied nose was a different matter. He lunged at Jack–unsteady on his widely placed feet–and managed to spin him round at the same time as clubbing him on the side of the hea
d.
Jack fell heavily against the Christmas tree, knocking it over. He lay among its branches, blood from Grant’s fist smeared across his cheek, one eye swelling. Fragments of coloured broken glass were scattered on his dark jacket. Several unbroken balls hovered on the floor, each one with its tiny window of light reflecting a particle of the scene. They were quickly smashed by chaotic feet. Jack groaned, others screamed. Laurel sobbed into the curtains, pulling the tulip material round her like a cloak.
‘Do something, someone!’ she groaned, but offered no help herself.
Grace saw William and Grant take Jack’s hands and pull him into a sitting position on the floor. Grant’s blood gushed on to Jack’s trousers and the carpet. Bonnie took Grant’s hand, led him out of the room. Grace could not decide who to attend to–Grant was hurt worse than Jack, but Jack was making more fuss.
‘Thish has all got out of hand,’ he muttered. Sitting there in the mess of blood and chips of glass, he looked both pathetic and revolting. Grace hated her son at that moment.
‘Let’s get him on to a chair,’ suggested Rufus, who seemed to be the only unperturbed man in the room.
‘What were you doing, bashing up Grant like that, you bastard?’ screamed Laurel from her curtain cocoon.
