Trio

by Sue Gee

  ‘Captain Gibson was my fiancé,’ said Miss Renner, looking back at him, calm and direct. ‘His parents commissioned that window.’ And then, as a hand bell began to ring, ‘You never forget, you know.’

  The Frank Bridge was delightful: he hadn’t expected that. Miniatures for Violin, Cello and Piano, amiable, pleasing, unemotional. And he was glad of that for once, to be offered order and calm. As he closed his eyes and listened, he thought of Miss Renner, and her shining knight, dying in that bloodbath more than twenty years ago. No one, it seemed, had taken his place. Well – there must be women like her all over the country, half a generation of young men gone, and those who had loved them living on alone. But what a distinctive air she had: no wonder her pupils had thought so much of her, and their time together.

  The last bars sounded, there was a silence, the sense of a sigh. Then the applause began, and he opened his eyes. The windows of the church had darkened completely now, and the candlelit Trio in the chancel looked like something from Rembrandt. They took their bows. And as he joined in the applause he knew that his life was being enriched by all of this: he was clapping hard and wanting, like everyone else, an encore.

  Which the Trio gave them. ‘It’s the last movement of a Haydn trio,’ George announced, giving his bow a flourish. ‘But often played alone. You’ll see why. It’s called “Gypsy Rondo” ’. He smiled. ‘You’ll see why.’ He had recovered himself, it was clear, was buoyant and vital again. And what a dancing, joyful piece this was, the violin like a mad thing.

  More applause at the end, and then it was over, everyone gathering up their things and talking, making their way towards the west door. Someone had opened it wide; it was suddenly very cold. Pulling his coat on, Steven looked out and saw the first pale stars.

  ‘Here we are, here we are!’ George was leading the others up the nave, a coat round his shoulders, an opera scarf flung round his neck. The violin at his side, he looked every inch the musician. He could be – perhaps he should be – famous. Behind him, Margot and Diana were in wraps, Diana shivering exaggeratedly. Where was the cello? Heslop was carrying it. It seemed he always did.

  ‘Well now, what did we think?’ George demanded of Steven, as if he’d known him for years. Impossible not to warm to him.

  ‘We thought it was rather good,’ came a light dry voice.

  ‘Miss Renner! You’re here!’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re coming back for supper?’

  ‘If I’m asked.’

  ‘You’re asked! Of course you are. And you, too, Mr History Teacher. Master, perhaps I should say.’

  For a wild moment, as Steven laughed, he thought: Are you flirting with me? And then, as Margot put out a hand and said lightly, ‘Oh, yes, do come,’ he forgot everything, and took her hand in his. ‘Thank you. That was really lovely.’

  There were other people gathering in the kitchen: people he’d seen at the autumn concert, and who introduced themselves now. Jonathan Gill. Hugo and Imogen Raeburn. The Lindsays. Used as he was to learning new names every year, with every fresh intake of boys, he struggled now to keep hold of all these as everyone talked away. Was it Jonathan, whom people seemed to call Jonty, pouring Diana a drink?

  ‘Super, sweetie. Just what I need.’

  ‘You look gorgeous, Di.’

  Was Hugo the one whose sister had gone to the Royal College? She wasn’t here now, was she?

  Margot had run him up to the Hall. ‘May I?’ she’d asked, as they crossed the starlit churchyard. The moon had risen: the shadows of Heslop tombs lay over the grass.

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

  Ahead of them, Heslop was putting the cello into the back of the Model T, Miss Renner already in the front. Diana and George and the violin were cramming into her little two-seater. Doors slammed around them, headlamps came on.

  ‘Look!’ called a voice. ‘Look at that owl!’

  ‘Diana’s parents aren’t coming?’ Steven ventured, seeing ­Embleton tug open the door of what must be a Bentley, wondering once again at the wealth behind Frank, who surely could do anything he wanted, but had chosen to come home and teach.

  Margot shook her head as they got in the car. ‘Mr Embleton and my father don’t really get on nowadays. It’s a shame, when we’re all so close.’

  ‘You children, you mean.’ He shifted his legs, too long for this little car. ‘You young things. That’s how George would put it, isn’t it?’

  She smiled, turning on the ignition. ‘You’re getting to know us all. I’m so glad you enjoyed the concert.’

  ‘I loved it,’ he said, and as they pulled out from the verge, and he saw her smile deepen, he felt their closeness in this tiny space. The headlamps came on; they sped after the others, fast down the darkening lane.

  Now, in the warmth of the kitchen, everyone drinking and talking, and he needing a role, he said: ‘Let me help you,’ as she bent to take plates from an oven, and found himself piling them on to the table, putting out knives and forks with Imogen Raeburn, and carrying dishes of baked potatoes to the table, where people had taken their places.

  ‘This is what I like to see,’ said George, leaning dangerously back in his chair, waving his drink. ‘People at work.’

  ‘One day you’ll break your back, George Liddell,’ said Miss Renner, from her seat at the head of the table, and he tipped it forward again, grabbing the edge. Everything shook. Everyone laughed.

  ‘It’s only simple supper, I’m afraid,’ said Margot, as Jonty Gill came over to help with the stew.

  ‘A Mrs Barrow supper,’ said Heslop, pouring more drinks. ‘Diana, my dear, your glass is empty.’

  She passed it, she flashed him a smile. ‘You mustn’t make me drink too much!’

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’ He poured carefully. ‘There, how’s that?’

  ‘Perfect.’ She raised the glass to him, to her lips. ‘Thank you.’

  The candlelight lit her lovely face, the cloud of fair hair and the milky white skin of her neck. Heslop turned back to the others.

  ‘Who else would like another glass?’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Emily?’

  Miss Renner shook her head. ‘Not for me, thank you.’

  Jonty was bearing the stew across from the range – ‘Mind out, everyone, clear a space!’ The dog took a keen interest in this procedure, nosing about hopefully.

  ‘Good dog, good dog.’

  Steven bent to fondle his ears. ‘Not for you, I don’t think.’

  ‘Basket!’ said Heslop. ‘Basket!’

  The dog padded over to the corner, sank in with a sigh. Margot sat down next to Steven. For a moment their arms brushed.

  ‘Now, then,’ said George, getting to his feet. He reached for the ladle and gave it a flourish. ‘Pass your plates, dear people.’

  ‘But where’s Frank?’ asked Imogen, reaching for a baked potato. ‘We never see him these days.’

  ‘Frank has other fish to fry,’ said someone, and Steven, reaching to take his plate, saw the ladle above it go still.

  Then: ‘He’s mad about politics,’ said Diana. ‘We do find it all such a bore.’

  A ripple of sympathetic smiles ran round, but then:

  ‘My dear,’ said Miss Renner, shaking out her napkin. ‘When will you ever grow up?’

  Despite the endearment, her tone was sharp, and Diana flushed. There was a sudden silence. At the other end of the table, Heslop said quickly: ‘I’m sure Miss Renner didn’t mean to upset you, Diana.’

  Miss Renner did not respond to this, and Diana bit her lip.

  ‘I just think—’

  But whatever she thought was unspoken. She reached for her glass.

  ‘At school—,’ said Steven, surprising himself by addressing the table, ‘—at school we admire Frank a lot.’ He picked up his k
nife and fork.

  ‘We all admire him,’ George said brightly. ‘Now then, who’s next?’

  ‘Yes, do get a move on,’ said Margot, patting his arm. ‘We’re all starving.’

  Supper was over, everyone gathered in the drawing room, curled up in armchairs or sprawling on the sofa. A few little concert chairs took up the overspill. Candle and cigarette smoke drifted through the room, Imogen and Diana brought in tinkling trays, and went round offering coffee in tiny cups. Outside the un-shuttered windows the garden was lit by stars and moonlight.

  ‘Cream? Do help yourself.’ Diana had recovered herself. She stood before Steven, perching on one of the bentwood concert chairs, and bent down with the tray. ‘You look rather uncomfortable on that thing.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Her scent wafted over him as he lifted the cream jug. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You must think me an awful fool,’ she said suddenly.

  He was taken aback. ‘Why do you say that?’ He put the jug down again. She straightened up, and the taffeta rustled.

  ‘Miss Renner ticked me off, didn’t she?’ She bit her pretty lip again. Then: ‘She used to tick me off when I was little, always telling me to pay attention. I think she thought I was the dim one. Perhaps she was right, I don’t know – I don’t care about politics and things. But I am a serious person.’ She looked down at him gravely. ‘I’m serious about my music.’

  If the candlelit Trio in the darkened church had made him think of Rembrandt, Steven thought now that Diana was a Botticelli nymph or angel: that halo of spun-gold hair, that skin, that dreamy gaze.

  ‘I know you are,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave him a smile which made him think of Frank: ravishing, meant only for you. ‘I mean – we all hardly know you, but you seem so nice. I’m glad Frank introduced you.’

  She was utterly beguiling. And then she was moving away, offering coffee to the Lindsays, and as his eyes followed her he saw someone else watching her intently: a man with his back to the fire, as always, the dog at his feet, as always.

  Margot was up at the piano, turning over scores. She found something, put it up on the stand and began to play. Steven didn’t know what it was, but then he knew so little. But as a tender, elegiac theme wove in and out of the murmuring talk, the chink of coffee cups, he saw Heslop close his eyes.

  Margot played on. At length it ended; there was a scattering of applause.

  ‘Lovely, Margot, thank you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She turned on the piano stool. ‘Guess.’

  Nobody could.

  ‘It’s Elgar.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  Margot looked over to the fireplace. ‘You like it, don’t you, Father?’

  ‘I do,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I always think of Elgar as mighty, don’t you?’ said Hugo Raeburn. ‘Great big symphonies and things. What’s it called?’

  ‘Dream Children.’ Margot got up, and George, rising from his chair, said: ‘Ah, yes, that was us.’

  ‘You were a nightmare at times, George Liddell,’ said Miss Renner from across the room, and everyone laughed.

  ‘A nightmare? Me?’ He sat down at the piano, started to play. And now something quite different filled the room, romantic and yearning.

  ‘Blue Moon . . .’ sang Imogen, and then: ‘Oh, I do love this.’

  Cigarettes lit up, people began to hum. George played on, moving from romance to ragtime, everyone happy and relaxed. Steven saw Jonty Gill move a little closer to Diana on the sofa, saw her move away with her dreamy smile. Then the clock in the hall struck ten, and people began to get up.

  ‘Time we were off.’

  Coats, hats, car keys. Thomas Heslop out to the stable yard: he’d run Miss Renner home. Affectionate goodbyes. George, at the piano, called out: ‘Goodnight, everyone!’ and Steven got to his feet: if he left now, he’d just catch the last bus from Morpeth. He could walk from Kirkhoughton, if he had to. Should he ask Margot for a lift? Should he ask someone else? Or might he, perhaps, stay on for a little? Might they both like that?

  Voices came and went in the hall.

  ‘What a good evening.’

  ‘When’s the next concert? You must let us know.’

  ‘Bye!’

  Out through the porch, dashing across the terrace in the cold night air. Car doors slamming in the drive, engines started up with a crank shaft. He went to the window and watched. The garden was bright with moonlight.

  ‘There she goes! Jump in!’

  ‘Bye! Bye everyone!’

  And suddenly the place was empty. There was only the cedar, casting its great dark shadow over the lawn, and the moonlit outline of the swing. He went out to the hall. Where was she? Behind him, in the drawing room, George was playing something sleepy and slow. The hall fire was sinking, candles burning low. From the kitchen he could hear the clatter of dishes. It must be Diana clearing up, for here was Margot, coming in from the porch, closing the front door behind her. He stepped forward.

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘Here I am.’

  It felt such an intimate, natural exchange, as if between two people who had wanted one another for a long time. And as she turned to draw the long green curtain across the door the words flooded up from the past—

  ‘Here I am.’

  In bed with him, starlight over the moor at the open window, kneeling up before him, pulling off her nightgown—

  ‘My love . . .’

  He was shocked. It was as if a door had been pushed open by the wind: she had gone, she was returning, the door swung to and fro. Perhaps it would always be like this, and how was he to live?

  The curtain rings rattled, the long folds brushed the floor.

  ‘Steven?’ Margot turned to look at him, all at once so hesitant. And the door to the past swung to, and again he saw that little girl here in the hall, the sweep of the staircase above her leading to a shadowy landing, the clock beginning to strike above her, as it struck the quarter-hour now: deep and sonorous, the pale moon’s profile rising high, trailing those dusky clouds.

  She said: ‘You’re thinking about your wife.’

  ‘I was,’ he said slowly. ‘And now I’m thinking about you.’

  She stood very still. He stepped forward, put out his hand. She took it.

  He drew her into his arms, brushed her lips with his. Once, twice.

  A car turned into the drive and went slowly across to the stable yard.

  ‘Your father,’ he said, releasing her, as the dog came at once up the passage from the kitchen, and stood by the fire, waiting.

  ‘Yes,’ said Margot, and he felt her tremble. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’ And she went to the curtain to draw it back again. He was trembling, too, flooded with feeling and desire.

  Behind them, the music ended. George’s footsteps sounded across the drawing room floor, and stopped abruptly.

  ‘I must go,’ said Steven, as the car door slammed in the yard, for how could he stay here in this state, with everyone around, and her father about to come in? He kissed her quickly again, saw her eyes close. ‘I’ll write to you,’ he said, releasing her, and then George was all at once asking about cocoa, and the front door banged. In came Heslop, bringing a draught of cold air.

  ‘Coulter, you’re still here, I’m so sorry. Let me run you into Morpeth.’

  Part Five

  1

  And now, each morning: the watch for the post. Margot ran down the stairs, opened the front door on to the dewy garden, greeted old Barrow as he trudged in from the lane, pushed up the heavy sash windows – let the house be wide open! Let her hear the crunch of gravel, the postman’s wheeling bicycle—

  ‘Morning, Miss Heslop.’

  ‘Good morning!’

  She took in her father’s letters, o
ften foolscap, often from the bank, and set them beside his place at the dining room table. She took the plain white envelope, with its Kirkhoughton postmark, up to her bedroom; she sat at the desk her father had given her, so many summers ago, and picked up her mother’s slender paperknife.

  Dear Margot . . .

  My dear Margot . . .

  She looked out over the glistening lawn. Birds sang their hearts out. As Emily Renner had done, many more summers ago, she pressed a white page to her lips.

  And Steven, getting off the bus each May afternoon, the days longer and lighter now, crossed the road and lifted the lid of the wooden letter box. No longer just family letters, though those still came between his visits to Cawbeck and Birley Bank. Not just a letter from Andrew, now and then, in Edinburgh. Heavy cream envelopes waited for him, day after day. He slipped them into his jacket pocket, climbed the track, saw the sheep and fat lambs spread out everywhere, grazing contentedly; smelled the heather, warm from the sun. Once, at a distance, he saw the Fusiliers again, tramping down towards the river.

  Dear Steven . . .

  My dear Steven . . .

  He read sitting outside on a hard kitchen chair by the door, as Margaret had used to sit, sewing curtains and a tiny quilt, while he sawed away in the woodshed. The call of the curlew came bubbling up, the sun began to slip down the limitless moorland sky. The view went on for miles.

  Come and see me! wrote Margot.

  Should he invite her here? It was something he still could not contemplate. But could he go on visiting the Hall without giving something in return?

  It grew cooler; he went inside, tried to imagine her moving about the kitchen. It didn’t feel right.

  I’ll come, he wrote, sitting at the table with the door still open to the evening air. Last summer he had written to ­Margaret, over and over, aching for her. Now, he was writing to a living woman – living and wanting him. And he wanted her – he was astonished by how much she lived in his thoughts. Tell me when I should come . . .

  He lit the lamp, and moths came in through the door. He made supper, got out his marking. At school, everyone was preparing for the summer exams: the big ones and the-end-of-year ones. And at school, where Margot still came in once a week to teach, she and he hardly spoke to each other. They smiled, and sometimes his guts turned to water. They went past; sometimes they lunched with Frank, who’d returned full of energy, but no one would ever have guessed they were anything more than distant colleagues.