Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

  ‘Bloody awful business,’ said Rufus.

  ‘Exactly’ said William.

  ‘Brandy, or anything?’ asked Grant.

  ‘Perhaps later, thanks.’ There was no finer group in the world than these, his players. Their understanding, his love for them, rendered him almost speechless.

  ‘Let’s get back to the third movement,’ he said. ‘Time’s getting on.’

  When the rehearsal was over, Bonnie came with William out to the car.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Dazed, William realised it was now too late and too complicated to correct his answer.

  ‘What d’you mean? You must be in a state of shock.’

  ‘Daresay I am. But I was thinking–well, not about the murder. Anyhow, thanks.’

  Bonnie put her arms round him. Her summery smell was intact, but distant as a horizon, no power to affect. She kissed him on the cheek. But she was somehow irrelevant. William felt the chill of her irrelevance wash all over him.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

  William nodded, blindly. A moment later he drove away.

  He arrived home to find Grace had been harassed by reporters all afternoon, both on the telephone and at the front door. She had kept up a non-committal front, she said, giving away nothing. But she feared they would distort the few words she had said. She was exhausted, and angered by their persistence. William, furious on her behalf, begged her to leave them to him. If they returned, he said, he’d deal with them in no uncertain terms.

  Later that evening two detectives arrived to take statements from William and Grace. The process was long and wearisome, but uncomplicated. Lucien had confessed–apparently with some relish–to the killing of his mother, and was to be charged with murder. It was all pretty straightforward–black and white, really, said the detective, finally switching off his mini-recording machine. Just one of those horrible things in this ugly world. The Handles would, of course, be called as witnesses at the trial, but that was likely not to be for some time. It occurred to Grace to enquire if she could visit Lucien while he was on remand. But then–no, she thought: she could not bring herself to go that far in understanding, even if he was not responsible for his actions due to some quirk of the brain. What she must do now, in order to live with his memory, was–well, she was not yet quite sure. But now that she had had her bout of weeping, and the detectives had gone, life must go on.

  ‘Concert tomorrow, then,’ said William. ‘I’ll be leaving late morning.’

  ‘The Beethoven?’

  ‘The Schubert A minor, too. Went quite well this afternoon. Despite.’

  Grace put the guard in front of the fire.

  ‘Would you like me to come?’

  ‘Would I like you to come? Why not, my Ace?’ Her presence would not affect him one way or another, and it would please her to feel she was pleasing him.

  ‘I will, then,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll drive you.’ This would mean there was no necessity, tomorrow, to start wondering what she should do about her book: follow the advice of a murderer, and finish it, or abandon the whole project with its uncomfortable associations. She needed time to think about how to occupy the clear, fearless days ahead. An evening spent listening to William’s inimitable rendering of some of Beethoven’s late quartets might inspire ideas. It might also unravel the incredulity within her–Lucien, her friend, a killer: Lobelia, her potential friend, dead.

  Grace went to the kitchen to turn out the light. She saw that on the wall calendar she had written LUNCH LOBELIA in capital letters under Friday. The words had been written in such hope. Grace took a red pencil and crossed them out. Then she followed William upstairs. His readjustment of the bed was unusually perfunctory. Grace did not know whether to take this as some sort of sign of future change, or whether the events of the past forty-eight hours had driven him to the kind of exhaustion that blasts all care for the routines of every day

  The telephone rang early.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said William. It was Jack.

  ‘Dad? We see you’re famous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ William, with the help of pills, had slept deeply. Yesterday was only just beginning to lumber back into his mind.

  ‘Story in all the papers. This murder. Famous musician rushes to the scene … Lucien Watson, close friend of the violinist William Handle–all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Christ,’ said William. ‘The bastards. Mr Watson was no friend of mine.’

  ‘Must be quite exciting, being in the thick of things, though. What’s it all about?’

  ‘Hardly exciting.’ Heavens, what a foolish oaf Jack was, apparently jealous of a few moments of disagreeable fame. ‘Extremely unpleasant, the whole thing. A neighbour’s psychopath son stabbed her to death. As you can imagine, your mother and I had quite a day of it yesterday. We don’t want to go over it all again today.’

  ‘No. Well. Quite. Understood.’ Jack paused. William sensed there was awe in his son’s silence. ‘Still, fame at last–’

  ‘Come off it, Jack.’ He could see all too easily what Jack was thinking: years of life in the Quartet, and only discreet reviews by way of recognition. Then a neighbour is murdered and suddenly real fame is upon him.

  ‘Can’t do you any harm,’ Jack blundered on, ‘audience-wise. Mark my words, there’ll be a rush on tickets for your next concerts. Anyway, I’m sorry, Dad. Wretched thing to be involved in. If you ever feel you want to talk it through–’

  ‘Very unlikely,’ snapped William.

  ‘Laurel and I have a good friend who’s a counsellor, highly skilled in this sort of thing.’

  ‘I do not want anything to do with a counsellor, Jack. Your mother and I, as you should know by now, are perfectly capable of getting through life’s occasional unwanted surprises on our own. We’re not the sort of wimps who resort to counsellors.’

  ‘Well, then perhaps it’s the sort of moment you and Mum should go away somewhere, deal with it all. Go to ground at least till the hubbub’s all over. I’m sure Laurel could get you some very good terms–Spain, Greece, whatever. You only have to ask.’

  ‘We’ll stick it out at home, thanks. Besides, we’ve a busy programme. Concerts most weeks almost till Easter.’

  Jack gave a small laugh. ‘Daresay you’ll find yourselves booked up till Christmas, so famous now–’

  ‘Oh shut up, Jack,’ said William, and put down the telephone.

  A conversation with his son was never a good beginning to a day and William, having briefly felt the benefits of his good night, now found himself in extremely bad humour. The telephone rang constantly: he refused to answer it. A side of smoked salmon, along with a note from a tabloid newspaper offering several thousand pounds for his exclusive story, was pushed through the letterbox. The downside of fame was weighing heavily.

  ‘This is unbearable,’ said William, mid-morning to Grace. ‘We’re off somewhere nice for lunch, my Ace: then we’ll drive straight on to Windsor, meet the others there. Here, we’re prisoners in our own home.’

  Twenty minutes later they left the house in mackintoshes against a light rain. They experienced a tiresome moment as several photographers snapped at them, calling to them to turn this way and that–William paid no attention. Grace was to drive, as she always did when they went out together. But William was stabbed with a sudden moment of vanity. He felt he could not be seen by these rotters from the press to be driven by his wife. There was no chance to convey his change of mind to Grace. Confusion was added to confusion as he pushed her from the driver’s door, indicating she should take the passenger seat. Silent eye messages between husband and wife–What? Why? Do as I say!– provided further photographic opportunities to the scoundrels jostling against the laurels. Then, deflected by the shouting and the flashlights, William’s exit from his own front door was not the smooth get-away he had hoped for. The maltreated little car juddered into the road, narrowly missing the most provocative of
the photographers–the only thing, in a wretched morning, that brought any joy to William’s heart.

  In the papers next day there were pictures of the Handles in a woebegone state by their car.

  ‘Can that be us?’ asked Grace. ‘We look so old and dotty. And your mac, William. You really must …’

  But then the story fizzled out. It was a horrendous but straightforward murder case–no mystery. Nothing further to report, or even speculate about, until the trial.

  Grace was one of only three people at Lobelia’s funeral, a bleak little occasion in an overheated modern church. As she looked upon the coffin, Grace could only feel the intense pity of it all: an innocent mother whose suffering at her son’s hand, both during her life and in her final moments, was too dreadful to imagine. What an end to a sad, puzzled, lonely life. For herself, Grace could not help regretting that the promise of a real friendship had been slain before it had a chance. But she had always been one to count her blessings, and as she walked home she thought of her own good fortune, most especially in her husband of so many agreeable years: William, at this very moment at home, waiting for her.

  He greeted her in a dither of barely contained pleasure.

  ‘Stephen has been getting calls all morning for engagements,’ he said. ‘Where’s the diary? The Elmtree, my Ace, is about to experience something of a renaissance.’

  Grace was glad of his news. A week had passed since Lobelia’s death, and the shock was subsiding. Both Handles were still a little frayed, jumpy, incredulous, but with considerable fortitude were fighting for their own particular misgivings. William still sensed the relief of Grace’s escape–something he felt might never leave him. Grace was beginning to accept the idea that Lucien’s killing was not her fault. She, too, experienced the headiness of relief: the fact that Lucien would never appear at the kitchen window again was a blessing she appreciated each new morning.

  Once the funeral was over, Grace and William shared a feeling that it was time for something cheering to happen. Stephen’s telephone call was the turning point. Then, as they knew it would, normal life resumed.

  13

  To William’s annoyance, the story that Lucien was his friend, not Grace’s, was never corrected. And it was his picture–a very old one he had never bothered to change in programmes, more hair, less wrinkles–that appeared in many papers. William also found it irritating that Jack’s prediction had been right. Brief fame, although irrelevant, had brought a surge of musical interest. The diary was more crowded with engagements than it had been for some years. Concerts were full, sold out in advance. To William’s disgust, he was even greeted by autograph hunters at many artists’ entrances of the concert halls. Although it now seemed the worry of the Elmtree’s future could be postponed for the moment, William felt the distaste of the reason: the burst of interest, he assumed, had nothing to do with the quality of their playing, everything to do with prurient audiences. It was sad to reflect that even the followers of chamber music had a baser side: but it was apparently true. William knew that Grant, Bonnie and Rufus joined him in these feelings, though they said nothing. Sometimes he detected, at rehearsals on dark days, a certain grimness in their concentration: a feeling of duty rather than of joy. He could only hope this air would eventually fade, and once the demand for appearances waned again (which, in the natural rhythm of things, William knew it would) the four of them would more frequently return to their old, lighthearted though always punctilious way at rehearsals. Meanwhile, extra engagements meant adding to their repertoire. It was a busy spring.

  For Grace, too, there was more work than there had been for many months. After much deliberation she had decided that no matter how evil Lucien’s deed, there still existed in him good, and she had witnessed that good. He had encouraged her in her work, which no one else had ever done, and had faith in her. Therefore, in private tribute, she decided to take his advice–stop procrastinating, and get down more seriously to finishing her book. She made the effort, and the discontent with her ability began to diminish. She knew she would never turn into a painter of real talent and inspiration, but her competence was a comfort. She enjoyed her mornings’ work.

  These days, she did not allow herself to reflect too often on the murder, and her relationship with Lucien that preceded it. In his absence before his final insanity, she had both missed him and feared his return. Now, aware of her own narrow escape, relief that he was safely put away was the overriding sensation. To be stripped of daily fearfulness, having lived with it for so long, is a relief like no other. Grace found her gratitude for safety became almost tangible: and no less rewarding was the appreciation of long-forgotten peace of mind. As for Lobelia … Grace was surprised how deeply she mourned a friendship that had been snatched away before it had a chance to begin. She felt the helpless pity for the wretched woman’s life, the agony she must have suffered being terrorised by her son. Had she lived, and their friendship grown, they would never have been free of the threat of Lucien. In his paranoia he would have seen them–now friends–as his enemies. So large and troubling complications had been avoided by Lobelia’s death. The horror of it all left Grace shaken, but the knowledge that she was freed from a life-draining triangle was some comfort. She believed that a quiet, disciplined life, profoundly rattled, is able to settle back more easily to normal than a life devoid of regular form. Grace felt this process gradually take place. Naturally she kept her sadness, her regrets, and her determination to be less blind in the future to herself. They were not the sort of subjects she and William would ever venture to discuss. Nor did they mention Lucien or Lobelia, characters in a disaster that was now mercifully over. Gratifying work and easy silence returned abundantly. William, for his part, was glad to see that Grace appeared to recover remarkably quickly from the whole horrendous episode, and seemed cheerful and content. He determined to show more interest in her progress, give her some encouragement, just as soon as the extraordinary new pace of the Elmtree died down a little in the months to come.

  The day in mid-May which William was never to forget, was from the beginning full of small signals which he chose to ignore. It was only in recollection he saw them more clearly, wondered why he had not let himself be warned.

  The weather was so mild he took off his jacket, which made driving to the rehearsal much easier. Unhampered by tweed sleeves, steering was not a problem and he made less enemies than usual on the way to Grant’s barn. This gave him a feeling of rare satisfaction. He began to think everyone on the road shared his benevolent mood, inspired by the purity of the blue sky, and the brightness of the green leaves. William looked forward to the morning playing one of Bartók’s more dissonant quartets (which he preferred not to play in winter), and the afternoon when, after a long time, they would return to Haydn’s Sunrise, which was to be included in a June concert in London.

  Beside him, on the passenger seat, Grace had placed a bunch of scarlet tulips for Grant–‘to cheer up the barn,’ she said–neither a comment nor a gesture she had ever made before. William did not remark upon this. Since the murder, the abundance of Grace’s kindly gestures had increased, and he understood.

  William carried the flowers into the barn feeling rather foolish. Their brilliant heads drooped against his Viyella shirt–dependent, neurotic sort of flowers, he thought, casting their coloured shadows. Besides, he had never before, in their entire working life, considered the peculiarity of making a floral gesture to Grant. He had not had the heart to spurn Grace’s idea, but the whole matter made him uneasy.

  Grant was at the kitchen table studying road maps. He looked up, smiled at the odd sight of the flower-bearing William.

  ‘Rufus has just rung to say he’s dealing with a slow puncture. But he’ll only be twenty minutes late.’

  It was in a way, then, all just as ever. But some invisible feeling in the air alerted William.

  ‘Fine.’ William dumped the tulips on the table, pleased to be rid of them. ‘Grace sent you these.’ />
  ‘That’s good of her.’ Grant looked faintly surprised. ‘Please thank her for me. Bonnie’ll find a jug.’ He was making notes. ‘Planning the summer holiday. Not that far off. Complicated round trip–I’m not much good at maps.’

  ‘Oh? Where to?’ William asked. He was further unnerved, though could not think why.

  ‘Here and there. Not entirely sure. Decisions, decisions. My head’s reeling.’ William swallowed. Grant was behaving a touch oddly. He was no planner, and no keen lover of Scotland, as far as William knew.

  ‘Grace and I once had a good time in the Shetland Isles,’ he said.

  ‘Probably won’t get that far.’

  ‘Lovely little hotel on the edge of a voe, miles from anywhere. I could recommend–’

  Bonnie came through the door. She wore a blue shirt that matched a bunch of bluebells she carried in one hand. She looked over Grant’s shoulder at William, nodding towards the tulips.

  ‘Did you bring those?’

  ‘Grace sent them.’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  William frowned.

  ‘What sort of coincidence?’

  Bonnie shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. So many sudden flowers.–I had a lovely walk in the wood. Up in the Chilterns.’ This was to Grant.

  ‘Well, I’ll be setting up.’ William was struck by a sudden need to distance himself from Grant and Bonnie and all the damned flowers.

  When he had tuned his instrument, he started to play a passage from Mozart’s violin concerto in D major. This he had not planned. The notes had just sprung from his fingers. Beyond them he was vaguely aware that Bonnie was gushing water into jugs, pushing the swan-necked tulips into some form of languorous arrangement. Then she turned her attention to the bluebells, plumping up a fountain of blue heads above a jug whose yellow shone lamp-like down the length of the barn. Through half-closed eyes he saw Rufus at the open door. Rufus paused to listen to the violin music for a few moments, as he regarded his oily hands. He nodded, then moved towards the sink. William stopped playing, mid-phrase.