Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

  ‘Has no one been able to help?’

  ‘No one’s been able to help because he’s not prepared to cooperate. He’s not interested in changing. He seems to get a strange kick out of his weird life. I have a horrible feeling he’s–well, as you can imagine, spurred by drugs. I never ask, of course. I never admonish him. I’ve been trying to keep up my role of the one person who is consistently kind and understanding, no matter what. The only way I’ve ever succeeded has been to assure him that my love is unconditional. It doesn’t get me–or him– anywhere. He just takes advantage.’ Her position in the chair had slumped a little now. She gathered the thin revers of her cardigan across her chest, looking as chilled as Grace, still in her coat, was feeling.

  ‘Christmas,’ Lobelia went on, ‘this Christmas. All had gone relatively well for twenty-four hours. He gave me a pot of cyclamen–I hate to think where it came from. We were just in the middle of our Christmas lunch–I’d cooked non–Christmas things because he hates that sort of food–when suddenly he got up, face like thunder, said he couldn’t stand any more and walked out. He only came back this morning, still wearing my present of a nice jersey. He didn’t mention anything about your coming this afternoon, that’s why I was taken aback by finding you here. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t think of it,’ said Grace. Pity for this wretched woman had seized her body, tightening her chest so that it was hard to breathe. ‘Compared to you, my experience of Lucien is nothing: but I’ve become used to his unpredictable ways. And, like you, I’ve seen his other side, so many times. His sympathy, his interest, his encouragement. It has to be said I’ve grown very fond of him.’

  The women’s eyes met again.

  ‘I love him,’ said Lobelia. ‘I love him whatever …’ She kept her silence for a moment. ‘I try endlessly to work out where it all went wrong. His father walked out when he was six. They got on so well together. Perhaps it was something to do with that. It must have been something to do with that. Desertion. Betrayal. The standard results.–His father went to live in Australia. No contact with Lucien ever again. You can understand …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I did my best. But a woman on her own can’t hope to be both mother and father. When he began to go off the rails there was no one strong enough to discipline him. One thing led to another. And his hate for me, the woman who caused his father to leave, as he sees it, seemed to grow. I’ve failed him completely. But I can never give up hope. I can never give up believing that one day something will finally snap and he’ll be magically changed back into a normal, loving son

  ‘Meantime,’ ventured Grace, ‘aren’t you afraid, living with him? I mean, your safety … Do you ever consider that?’

  ‘I’m used to his rages.’ Lobelia shrugged. ‘He’s violent sometimes, but never towards me. Throws things about, bangs doors, abuses me in obscene language–but never causes any harm. I’m used to him. Perhaps what might appal other people has become the norm for me. Of course I live in fearful anticipation, wondering what he’ll do next. But no, I’m not afraid of his attacking me. I don’t think he’d ever do that. I’ve no worries about my own safety.’ She paused. ‘But you: what about you? I hope he hasn’t made your life too much of a misery? Threatened? Stolen?’

  Grace slowly shook her head. She had no intention of adding to Lobelia’s troubles by telling of her own experience of Lucien’s misdeeds.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been aware of his unpredictability, his short fuse, his confusion and despair, sometimes. I think the constant adding to the stories and descriptions of you have been the only major deception … so puzzling. Perhaps it was his way of getting sympathy from both of us. But, as I said, I’ve grown fond of Lucien. He would come round, listen to me playing the piano, look at my rather minor little paintings … be full of encouragement. Often he was such good company. The difference in our ages seemed not to matter to him at all. You could say that he brought quite a … sparkle into my rather quiet life.’

  Lobelia looked briefly gratified. Perhaps she had not heard a word in her son’s favour for many years.

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I’m relieved. And now we’ve met, now he’s negotiated to blow his fantasy, what will happen, I wonder?’

  ‘Perhaps, together, we could be of some real help,’ suggested Grace, aware of the feebleness of her remark. Two ordinary, well-meaning women were not the stuff of aid to one as disturbed as Lucien.

  ‘Perhaps we could,’ agreed Lobelia. Grace could see she had little faith in the idea either. ‘At least there will be no further point in his spinning ridiculous tales about the two outrageous women, Lobelia and Grace.’

  Both managed a small smile.

  ‘We should keep in touch,’ said Grace.

  ‘We will. It’s wonderful to have met you, to know you’re so near if anything … But we must be absolutely sure not to let him think we’re in collusion behind his back. That would drive him over the edge.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace. She stood up, suddenly longing to be out of this dark, sad room. Wanting to be at home with William, muttering over his tea about the Bournemouth concert, unaware of Lucien’s betrayal raging in her heart. ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer,’ she said.

  ‘Please come again,’ said Lobelia, standing too.

  ‘Perhaps you’d come round and visit me one day? Lunch, or whatever would be convenient.’ She very much liked the idea of seeing Lobelia again: the possibility of friendship. But a look of confusion, fear, passed over Lobelia’s face.

  ‘I haven’t had much of a social life for years,’ she said, lightly. ‘But yes: one day, perhaps. I‘d enjoy that. Thank you.’

  In the dust of the hall Grace saw that she was several inches taller than Lobelia, who glanced nervously towards the front door.

  ‘I daresay we’re both in a state of shock,’ she said, quietly, ‘having discovered–’

  ‘–what we’ve discovered. Yes, I daresay we are.’

  There was a moment of touching awkwardness (as Grace thought later) when neither of them knew what kind of farewell was appropriate. Kissing the other on the cheek passed through both of their minds. But being women of a certain age and constraint, even the bond of Lucien was not enough to force the gesture of friends (as the young, these day, are wont to employ after only moments of acquaintance) into the meeting of what were, after all, still strangers. They held out tense hands at the same moment, shook briefly, but with a firmness that confirmed Grace’s hopes of a future friend was not the stuff of fantasy

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Handle. And thank you.’

  ‘Grace. Please call me Grace.’

  ‘Well–goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Outside it was dark: mere frames of light round curtained windows. Streetlights shone glossily on to the bare branches of cherry trees, in their iron cages, that were planted randomly along the pavement. The cold cut into Grace’s body, ignoring the thickness of her coat. She hurried home–almost ran.

  There, she realised the extent of her lateness. She had intended to be back long before William, and had failed. Guiltily, she removed his tea things from the kitchen table. Where was he? She wanted to tell him about her extraordinary afternoon now, not wait till supper. But even as the idea struck her, she knew it was foolish. He hated to be disturbed when he was working, and she imagined he was struggling over something to do with Bournemouth.

  Automatically, Grace took carrots from the fridge, began to chop them. Her hands were trembling, clumsy. Lucien: how could he–? How could the man who had inspired that sparkle have been planning all along to rip her to pieces? However could she– surely a reasonably good judge of character–have been taken in by him, regarded him in many respects so highly? How could she never have been really afraid of him? The unease she had felt in the past was as nothing to the depths of the trepidation that shook her now. Released from her self-imposed composure in front of the pathetic Lobelia, Grace wanted to bellow her anguish, to beg
William to protect her should Lucien ever appear in the house again.

  She gave up on the carrots. Dragged herself upstairs, no longer caring about William’s annoyance at being disturbed. But when she reached the top floor she heard him playing. This was so unusual, his playing in the evening, she paused to wonder if anything had gone amiss in his own afternoon. A bad time at the dentist, perhaps.

  Grace stood on the small landing outside his door, listening. She did not recognise the piece, but it was in a minor key. The sad melody kept disintegrating, like cloud. The notes, muffled through the door, rose and fell and chased each other warily, as if afraid to catch each other and destroy the pattern of despair. No: she could not go in. William must finish his piece innocent of her presence. They had always respected the other’s privacy in their various, rare times of suffering.

  Grace turned to retrace her steps downstairs. But then, halfway down the top flight, she sank on to a stair and buried her head in her arms to weep unheard against the music. Her misery stretched wider and wider, like ripples in a pond of sluggish water. The discovery of Lucien’s insanity was bad enough: the thought of expelling him once again, completely from her life, which surely she now must do to protect herself and William from danger, was very much worse. It might even be impossible, she thought, as William played on and on.

  11

  An observer looking through the Handles’ kitchen window later that night would have been struck by the appearance of normality. Grace had bright–if wary–eyes: no trace of tears left. William, having returned from some amorphous land in which music magically restores, now showed no sign of the disappointment or self-condemnation at his own clumsiness that had racked him that afternoon. One of the great blessings of a marriage in which words are so few is that signals are accepted, unquestioned, respected. So if Grace had any intimation that William was troubled–the very slight shaking of his hand persisted–she had no intention of asking why. Equally, if William suspected Grace’s own afternoon had been in some mysterious way ruffled (and he did wonder at a certain flickering in her normally steady smile) then the decent thing was to keep his queries to himself. Unlike Jack and Laurel, who were forever ‘putting their feelings on the table and thrashing them out’, as they called it, Grace and William had learnt the luxury of privacy. Such was their trust in each other that jealousy never imposed. The code of behaviour that had established itself over the years, untroubled by analytical discussion, worked very well for them. They both knew, however, that should something that could not be shouldered alone enter either of their closed lives, then some indication to the other would not come amiss.

  Grace considered this as she prodded at her sponge pudding. She had no appetite. William was helping himself extravagantly to custard. Grace judged the receptivity of his mood: the events of the afternoon pressed so hard upon her she felt compelled to recount, in a vague and general way, what had happened.

  ‘At last,’ she said, ‘I’ve met Lobelia, Lucien’s mother.’

  ‘Ah! That’s where you were,’ said William. ‘Unusual name.’

  ‘I was curious, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Meeting Lucien’s mother would not have been something that lit my own curiosity, but I quite understand yours. I mean, considering your high regard for her son.–Interesting, was it?’

  ‘Not at all as I expected. Lucien had given a very false picture of her.’

  ‘Never imagined he’d be much concerned with the truth.’ ‘Far from the appalling woman he described, she was rather nice. Cowed, gentle. I liked her.’

  ‘Any possibility of her becoming a friend?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That would be good, my Ace.’ William was intent on more custard. ‘I mean, there’s not a rich mine of friends round here, is there? Perhaps this Lobelia woman could fill a gap. Be very convenient, living so near. As for young Lucien, he seems to have stopped using us as a free café. Good thing too.’

  ‘In many ways.’ Grace did not bother to conceal a small sigh. She could see that William’s concentration on the subject of Lucien and Lobelia was waning fast. She felt she had failed to lay strong enough clues. But some instinct stopped her from admitting her sense of trepidation: her desire for William’s assurance that, if Lucien came round again, he would be there to protect her. Equally she felt incapable of confessing the perverse feeling that, despite her horror at Lucien’s behaviour, she could not bear the idea of not seeing him again. And if friendship with Lobelia meant that Lucien–by his own hand–deserted her, then that potential friendship might have to be sacrificed.

  ‘Bournemouth: I’m driving down with Grant,’ said William, after a long silence in which his thoughts scurried eagerly away from Grace’s favourite topic of Lucien–a topic now unfortunately enlarged to include his mother.

  ‘Oh?’ Grace stirred herself. ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘Rather a good plan. Grant and I haven’t had a moment together for ages.’ A further plan was so tentatively etched in his mind that he could not be sure of its outline. But its very existence meant that William looked forward to the drive with Grant.

  ‘What about Bonnie?’

  ‘Making her own plans. Taking a train from London, I think she said.’

  ‘Poor old Rufus. His car in this weather.’

  ‘Rufus’ll be all right. He’s bringing Iris in her car. She always loves Bournemouth. Wants to retire there.’ Bonnie danced before him, confused in the custard–smiling down at him as she stood before her grim little fireplace, mourning the loss of the dogs (for which, surely, he’d shown more than enough proper sympathy). Perhaps he had underestimated her friendliness, her regard for him. Perhaps, though not even conscious of it yet, at the back of her mind the idea that life with a violinist she declared she admired greatly was nudging its way into existence. The thought cheered William immensely. Tomorrow, facing her at rehearsal, he would make yet further sympathetic noises about the dogs, gradually worm himself into her heart. He might even suggest, if the concert went well as usual in Bournemouth, they open a bottle of champagne in the hotel bar afterwards. He had heard Bonnie telling Rufus of her fondness for champagne.

  ‘Anyway …’ he said. ‘My Ace.’

  ‘If Lucien ever appears here again one morning … please tell him he must go.’ Finally, desperate, Grace quietly exploded. William merely raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Happy to see him off, any time. The rotter. Glad you’ve come to see what a worthless rotter he is.’

  ‘William. He’s … ill. Don’t you see? I just want to make sure.’ She glanced round the room at their collection of things, remembering the cufflinks.

  ‘Anything you say, my Ace. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m at your service.’ He gave a small, distracted smile. William, said Bonnie in his mind, here I am, yours. For some peculiar reason he was beginning to feel more optimistic. He knew he would be able to face Bonnie at the rehearsal next morning with a look of outward calm, and real progress might surely be made after the Bournemouth concert. ‘You’re a good woman,’ he added, after a while.

  Grace was pleased with the compliment, but puzzled, too: they were not words William had ever employed before to cheer her. But then he was in a slightly distracted state–no doubt about that. Worrying about Bournemouth, she presumed. But in the gentle flurry of clearing the supper things, and returning to her own thoughts of the afternoon, Grace soon forgot that William had addressed her so oddly, and smiled at her with a smile that looked as if it was destined for somewhere far beyond her.

  William enjoyed travelling in Grant’s car. It was large, with soft comfortable seats, almost armchairs, very warm, and quiet. It occurred to him that perhaps he and Grace should turn in their rough little model for something more like Grant’s stately chariot, although neither of them would be capable of driving it with suitable aplomb.

  The other pleasure was Grant as a travelling companion. He kept his eyes on the road, drove with a mixture of caution and dash that William c
ould only admire. Also, he did not see the necessity of conversation unless something of real pertinence occurred to him. Indeed they listened to the whole of the Prague Symphony before either of them uttered a word. It was Grant who broke the silence, and he happened upon the very subject William was wondering if he could bring up in an innocent manner.

  ‘We’ll be at Bournemouth station in plenty of time to meet Bonnie,’ he said.

  ‘That’s good. You’re a nippy driver.’ William studied the profile he knew so well: large eyes, Roman nose, amused mouth. He had one of those timeless heads seen both in Greek statues and at contemporary bus stops. Something of a wild Roman about him–he’d be the only member of the Quartet who would look good in a toga–and yet something of the reticent Englishman, too. Grant was good–good in the biblical sense, which was something William admired profoundly. You could rely on him in a crisis (he had been a great help at the Christmas party). You could count on him to put others before himself. His foibles were trivial: disorganised (his imperviousness to the mess of the barn William could never understand). He was sulky, sometimes, stubborn; more awkward than was necessary when it came to the chair provided to sit upon at concerts up and down the country. As a cellist he was no Rostropovich. But, unhampered by ambition to be a star, his concern always to do his best as part of the Quartet–there, he could not be faulted. When finally some woman captured his restless heart, thought William, she would be unusually fortunate.

  ‘What was she doing in London?’

  Grant shrugged.

  ‘Don’t ask me. She doesn’t keep me in touch with all her plans.’

  Had he said any of her plans, William would have felt happier. As it was, he was stung to think some of her plans were imparted to Grant. Almost none of them did she tell him. But he was being ridiculous.

  ‘Can’t imagine her life, really, outside her time with us.’ He calculated this innocuous little opener might produce a nugget of information.