Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

  By the time he reached the end of the andante cold sweat clenched his brow, his ‘heat-oppressed brain’, and he had not the heart to go on to the scherzo.

  William’s friend Dick was not a man with any interest in comfort. His cottage, once belonging to generations of coastguards, was so close to the water that storm waves frequently flew up over the walls and sizzled down the chimney. The thickness of its walls ensured that no hurricane could destroy it, but provided no warmth. Inside, there was a greenish smell of damp. A few haphazard rugs were scattered over the stone floors. Their mottled reds and blues had clashed into each other, turned into an inky aubergine. Their edges were worn down to a lace of crossed string ribs, pathetically bared. The slumped sofa and two armchairs, both of which looked as if they had crash landed many years ago and had not the heart to right themselves, were covered in old rugs gloomy as the carpets. Despite a fire in the grate, it was bitterly cold. Grace did up her second cardigan and wondered if they could find an excuse to reduce the length of their stay.

  But William was fond of his old friend Dick and was determined to make light of the cottage’s shortcomings. He rather enjoyed short spells of acute discomfort so long as they were on British soil. They made him appreciate all the more the comforts of home. He stood in front of the fire warming himself, unaware that its limited warmth extended to only one bottom at a time. Outside the small window the wintry sea, horribly close, bashed at rock and shingle. Dick, he was pleased to see, was pouring sherry from an old bottle that obviously spent most of its time undisturbed, dusty sentinel to a small gathering of minute glasses.

  ‘So, William, old man … what news from the larger musical world?’

  Dick handed over a glass. The sherry looked solid, like an amber stone. William did his best to smile, felt his mouth slide in a lopsided manner. He hoped he appeared to Dick nothing more than a little stiff and cold after the long journey.

  ‘We did the Haydn in G major at the Christmas concert. Went down quite well. I remember you liked that …’ He mentioned Haydn, of course, because it was a secret link to Bonnie. The thought of her warmed him more than the sherry. Dick looked puzzled.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You did, Dick. I remember distinctly. I’ve a special fondness for the Haydn Op.77 No.l, you said. Love all three of the late quartets, you said …’ William felt completely mad, had no idea what he himself was saying.

  ‘Did I really?’

  ‘You did. As a matter of fact …’ William now paused, giving himself just time to calculate the danger of his next remark, ‘Haydn’s been the cause of a spot of bother. Our new member of the Quartet isn’t drawn to the music–resists it, almost.’

  ‘Bonnie? Really?’ Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘You wouldn’t have thought so, from the way she played the other night. She was brilliant.’

  ‘Don’t tell me your new member’s a woman?’ In his shock, Dick passed a glass unsteadily to Grace, making the sherry sway

  ‘I’m afraid she is.’ William gave a small chuckle. He wondered what would happen if he suddenly shouted: And I love her! ‘We didn’t look for a girl, of course, as you can imagine. But in the event she turned out to be by far the best candidate.’

  ‘Good heavens. Could cause you a lot of bother.’

  Grace laughed. You could only laugh at such prejudice.

  ‘Not so far. But I warned her: any trouble, and you’re out, I said.’ His head spun so fast between truth and untruth that there was no hope of making sense.

  ‘Very wise,’ said Dick.

  ‘I suppose the only trouble she could cause,’ said Grace, ‘is if she actually set up with Grant. You seemed to think they may be … well.’

  ‘Early days yet,’ said William tightly. Grace’s remark re-chilled the heat on the back of his calves, which had been building up slowly. But it was his own fault, he knew. Shouldn’t ever have planted the idea in the first place. Better never to be the first to mention Bonnie.

  They lunched in the icy kitchen: cabbage and sausages. William had no appetite. He looked across at Grace, smiling bravely against the cold, and felt the unease of the knowing who look upon the innocent. This could well be her last meal. He wished it could have been of a higher standard. She would have liked a bread-and-butter pudding. William was running through all her favourite puddings in his head when they heard the whiplash of rain against the small window. The grim sea view outside was now obliterated by mist through which thick slanting water stabbed against the cottage.

  ‘Pity,’ said Dick. ‘There goes your chance of a walk. Better tomorrow.’

  ‘Pity,’ agreed William. The reprieve for twenty-four hours was a mixed blessing. The extra time in Grace’s company was of course a bonus: on the other hand it would be a relief to get the foul deed over and done with.

  ‘But I can cheer you with good news,’ said Dick. ‘One Perdita -Perdita Beccles–is to join us for supper tonight. My betrothed.’ He looked from one to another of the Handles with a tentative smile. ‘That is, we’re to be married in the spring. We met in the choir. She has a lovely voice. You’ll like her. Wonderful wife material. Just what a man needs. I’m aware of my luck …’ As he trailed off Dick lifted his glass of flat lager, as if intending to propose a toast to his absent wife-to-be. But then he thought better of it and took a noisy gulp.

  That is good news,’ said Grace, with another of her genuine smiles.

  ‘Very, very good news,’ added William.

  ‘A man needs a wife. Especially in a place like this.’

  William and Grace nodded, joined in complete appreciation of that fact. But only a small part of William’s being rejoiced in his friend’s good fortune in finding wife material in such a God forsaken place as this: for the rest he worried how the long, cheerless afternoon would be spent in the wind-battered guest room in the eaves. Grace–whose good behaviour was exemplary–would listen to Dick’s wedding plans, and with any luck take a hand in preparing the supper.

  Perdita Beccles arrived promptly at seven in a rain-darkened mackintosh, carrying a paper bag of apples whose rosy sides protruded through the sodden paper. The bag burst at the moment of entrance. The fact that everyone then scurried about chasing the apples that bobbed along the floor was a God-sent aid to the introduction, William reflected. This was a perfect cover for his dropped jaw, his look of amazement.

  William had had no idea quite what to expect of his friend’s choice of wife. The mean thought had occurred to him that a woman of some forty years who lived in a small coastal village and sang in the choir would automatically fall into a type: a type that represented safety and security, wonderfully lacking the dangers of an attractive face. But on the other hand the beautiful name Perdita gave rise to thoughts of Bonnie-like nubility, tossed blond hair, incandescent skin. It would be an irony, he thought, if into Dick’s brave solitude some kind of minor goddess had walked.

  But once the apples had been hunted down and safely trapped in a hideous bowl, William was able to observe that this definitely was not the case. Perdita Beccles came from the first part of his imaginings. She was a large woman: huge, pastry-coloured hands, huge feet in gloomy shoes. Her red hair was cut in a childlike bob. She had one of those nervous smiles that even as the lips begin to spread suffer a change of mind long before the full width has been gained, and flick back to a position of tremulous repose. Well, she was nervous, poor woman, William supposed. Here to make an impression on her fiancé’s old friend, the well-known (had Dick thus described him? William wondered) musician and his wife … understandable. But she was obviously nice. Niceness flew off her. She dispensed the solid-looking sherry efficiently, her big hands making the glasses look small as thimbles. When she strode across the room her permanently pleated skirt flipped nicely about her knees … Nice had so many definitions, William remembered, most of them far from the general lustreless meaning understood today. Recalling one of his snippets of arcane information, it came to him that in the seventeenth century, nice m
eant slender, thin, unimportant, trivial … not at all what he meant about Miss Beccles.

  ‘Pity about the weather.’ She was addressing him, handing him a glass of amber.

  ‘Rotten luck, yes.’

  ‘Missing your walk.’

  ‘It’ll be fine tomorrow,’ said Dick. At the sound of his voice Perdita Beccles blushed. William warmed to her.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s often like this.’ William appreciated her pessimism. ‘Still, you must go up the cliffs. Whatever the weather.’

  ‘We will, we will,’ said William with a shudder. He had the ridiculous impression that she could read his thoughts, this huge, nice, red-haired woman: could tell just what William would be getting up to high on the cliffs. Should a murder trial take place she would stride nicely into the witness box and declare that she had known, the night before, exactly what William’s plans had been. She had seen into his mind.

  The kitchen, at supper time, was slightly warmed by candle power: Perdita had lighted several fat church candles (she was able to acquire them wholesale, she said). Draughts from the curtainless window bent their flames every which way, making shadows fly about the walls, tempering the ugliness of utilitarian pots and pans, crude china. An anorexic chicken was carefully divided, a mush of cauliflower passed back and forth, tepid gravy poured, surprisingly good wine sipped. Grace (who seemed to be enjoying herself more than she could possibly have imagined, which was good, considering this was likely to be her last night on earth) listened to Dick and Perdita’s stories of life in the village choir, and they in turn took a wonderful interest in the progress of her book. Behind William’s own expression of vivid interest in all that was being said, his mind seethed with speculations upon his old friend and Perdita Beccles. Was there passion, there? he wondered. Apart from Perdita’s initial blush, and a small pat on the shoulder Dick gave her in reward for his plate of food, they seemed unmoved by each other. William glanced at Grace, cheeks burnished by the wine, eyes crinkled with interest, still-pretty lips ready to leap into a smile of appreciation. He remembered her when they first met: her translucent skin, her energy, her laugh. He wanted to touch her all the time. Her absence drained him, her presence invigorated him. It had remained thus for the first decade of their marriage, and when the daily excitement began to dim the pleasure of companionship and understanding made a substitute with which William had no quarrel. It wasn’t till he met Bonnie he realised that he must have been missing the thrill, magic, spark -whatever it was between man and woman that makes glorious chaos of every day. Unconsciously, he must have been waiting for its return.

  And now all his love and desire for Bonnie was so overwhelming that his dear Grace had to make way for her … Did Dick and Perdita feel such ungrounding sensations? William doubted it. They were, of course, middle-aged, the time when unmarried people in search of a spouse are driven by considerations of a practical nature–mutual interests, agreement of where to live–more than blood-curdling passion. But William reckoned that Perdita and Dick stood a good chance. He noticed small, bluff looks of contentment that passed between them, a certain light in Dick’s eyes that had never been there before. And once supper was over they were at one in their desire for a little musical entertainment. Back in the sitting room the fire was stoked up, and Dick opened the lid of an old, upright piano. It bared its stretch of yellow notes, challenging. Dick shuffled through a pile of music. Perdita, almost gaily, handed William his violin, which he had forgotten to take upstairs.

  ‘Very well, just to oblige,’ he said, for this sort of spontaneous music was not something he would ever encourage.

  Dick began to play ‘Linden Lea’. William joined in, the notes coming back to him from somewhere far in his past–school perhaps. Dick’s fine baritone voice filled the room. A few bars later the sound was marred by Perdita’s contribution. She had one of those caricature choir women’s voices, penetrating, harsh. But she was smiling, happy, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

  William glanced at Grace. She sat by the window. Behind her, old curtains–boiled so often their flowers struggled in a colourless fog–moved in the draughts. She was staring at the fire, her body tense in the act of listening. If she had looked up and caught William’s eye she would have smiled. He could tell her opinion of the whole quaint evening matched his own, and she was enjoying herself. That was a very good thing indeed, he thought once more. In a pause between verses the wind, freed of the competitive music, whined at the cottage walls like a petulant singer previously ignored. Did the others feel the strangeness of the evening? William wondered. Or did it emanate solely from his own wicked heart?

  By the next morning the sea had battered itself into a dour swell, the waves no longer spuming with angry frost, their edges scarcely chipped. A grey, rainless sky, still, but patches of intense light indicated the sun was struggling to emerge. Just the day for a good walk on the cliffs, Dick said at breakfast: he was sorry he and Perdita would be unable to come because of their duties in church. Unless they should all go together after lunch …? When William saw Grace wavering over this idea he was quick to remind her that they did not want to miss the best of the day, have the view obliterated by the early dark of a winter afternoon.

  Grace agreed immediately. Her speed in agreeing with him when she (almost always) saw the sense of his point was another of the things he loved about her. They drove the few miles to West Bay, parked the car. When they had last visited the place many years ago when Jack was a boy, it had been high summer, crowds of people, blue sky, ice creams. Now there was no one about. Deprived of their summer tenants the blocks of flats were dolorous, curtains drawn. Kiosks were boarded up, torn posters, four months out of date, waved from the walls of closed shops. The clapboard restaurant in which they had once enjoyed an evening of fine fresh cod had the eyeless, empty look of an upturned boat deserted on the shore.

  ‘I don’t know about this,’ said Grace. She shivered, looked down at William’s feet. ‘Were we right to come? You’re wearing your slippery shoes.’

  ‘So I am.’ William laughed. There would be a bit of hard work, rekindling her enthusiasm for the walk, but if he made it sound like a challenge it shouldn’t be too difficult. ‘I do believe I’ve forgotten my boots, too. But never mind. I’ll manage.’

  ‘Perhaps we should just go along the beach.’

  ‘No, no. I’d come a cropper on the stones.’

  ‘Very well. But don’t blame me if you fall.’

  The irony of Grace having hit upon his exact plan was almost too much for William to bear. He took her arm for support. If all went well there would be no time to blame her, because in her struggle to pull him to his feet she herself would slip easily over the edge. It was a simple, excellent, foolproof plan. Accident at West Bay. Wife of famous violinist falls to her death … The headlines danced across the raw grey sky.

  They turned towards the cliffs–vast, shaggy precipices, their rocky sides the dun colour of wet sand. They reminded William of pictures he had seen of Egyptian rockface; there was a foreign imperiousness about them, nothing endearing, like the white cliffs of Dover, or the tufted cliffs that guard Sussex coves. They had doubtless seen many an unhappy soul fly from their heights to death on the hard shore below. There were probably human bones to be found among the skeletons of dead gulls, were someone to start digging through the stones.

  ‘Steep climb,’ said Grace.

  ‘Good for you,’ said William.

  They stood looking at the high cliff ahead of them. In summer it had been covered in thick blue-green grass, the kind that reflects sunlight so brightly that it looks slippery as oily water. Now, under the winter sky, grey light was attached to every blade. It was threadbare grass thinly flung over the earth and rock beneath, and caused William to shiver.

  ‘You’re cold,’ said Grace

  ‘No, my Ace. Am I ever cold?’ A blast of wind from the sea snagged at his trousers, flattened the creases against his calves. He ached to be in his
study, violin beneath his chin, shuffling through the piles of music looking for something to play against the inclement weather, Grace safely downstairs hard at one of her puddings.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  As a drowning man is said to see his whole life pass before him, so William, as he puffed up the slope beside his wife on their last walk together, saw fragments of the many walks they had taken over the years. Mostly they had been in Britain: Brancaster beach in December, its loose cover of over-sand, usually swept on erratic journeys by winds of varying strengths, pinned to the heavier stuff beneath it by a netting of frost. Yellow sky–Van Gogh yellow, Grace had pointed out, ever accurate when it came to colour–throwing paler yellow shadows across the tight sea. Not another soul: width of horizon and height of sky all to themselves. Grace’s fingers, the ends that protruded from the mittens, were blue with cold but she said she did not feel it. William took each hand in turn and blew on it. He remembered thinking that when there was no music, then to be in a silent place with Grace was all he could ever ask.–There was Mull, a miniature shell-shaped cove of pink sand where small oaks grew among the rocks, and sheep had found something to graze upon. And the beach near Lisadell in Southern Ireland, where primroses overstepped the boundaries of their copse and flared in the sand. There, Grace had put her head on William’s shoulder and said that for two whole days she had been able to put the worry of the teenage Jack from her.–Sometimes they had been abroad–walked through fields of lavender near Apt, and the crowds of dancing sunflowers which, through half-shut eyes, seemed to be advancing towards the sun with rush-hour fervour. Grace thought them strangely ugly. And from such brightness to the grey streets of the unsung city of Milan, pausing to rest swollen feet in the crypt of St Ambrogiano, where the skeleton of the saint exuded a whiff of ancient life in his ecclesiastically burnished robes. They were alone with the saint–so often on their walks they were blessed by being alone. It was in Milan on a foggy morning, in an empty gallery, William had come across the small Leonardo painting of Il Musico: a young man holding a score. To his delight William realised there were actual notes on the score–no lazy smudge of paint, and had taken out his notebook and copied them down. At home, he played them–they amounted to nothing very much, but it had been an interesting exercise which he had confessed to Grace. She had laughed so hard tears plumped up her eyes. She said it finally proved she was married to an eccentric genius.