by Jonathan Coe
The trouble with happiness
On the evening of Thursday, 31 July 1958, Thomas waited for Emily outside the Grand Auditorium, at the north-western end of the Expo site. In his jacket pocket he carried the two tickets – dress circle, front row – that had been provided for him by Mr Radford and Mr Wayne.
Emily arrived slightly late, at four minutes past seven. She was wearing a light-grey cape, secured at the base of her throat by a single button, and beneath it, a black velvet evening gown. Her strange, angular grace momentarily took Thomas’s breath away. But he recovered in time to take her hand, and bring his lips to it in a gentle kiss.
‘Miss Parker,’ he said.
‘Mr Foley,’ she answered. ‘How very delightful to see you.’
‘The pleasure is all mine. Would you care to step into the bar for a glass of champagne?’
‘I can think of nothing more heavenly.’
The bar, like everything at Expo 58, was crowded. But Thomas was lucky enough to secure one of the last available tables, by a big picture window overlooking the Place de Belgique. He left Emily there for a few minutes and returned with two glasses of champagne. She took the glass from his outstretched hand but before drinking, she gazed for a few moments at the surface of the pale, effervescent liquid. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks dimpled into a smile.
‘I just adore champagne,’ she said. ‘I love to watch the way the bubbles dance in the glass.’
‘That’s why they make the bowl of the glasses so wide,’ said Thomas, with a worldly, knowledgeable air; then realized that he was dredging up some half-forgotten piece of information which he had never really understood anyway. ‘So that . . . so that all the bubbles don’t escape at once . . .’
‘Really?’ said Emily. ‘How fascinating.’
Thomas raised his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and silently reminded himself to be a bit more careful next time, when trying to impress her.
‘Cheers,’ Emily answered, and they touched glasses.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she continued, ‘for asking me here tonight. It was inexpressibly thoughtful of you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that Tony was supposed to be your date. But he left the two tickets with me, so I thought that to invite you to a concert which you might otherwise have missed was the very least I could do.’
‘It was a charming gesture. Absolutely charming. Of course, I was rather shocked to hear that Tony had left so suddenly like that. I’m sure it’s foolish of me, but I’m surprised he didn’t say goodbye. We’d seen a lot of each other, and we were getting on so easily.’
‘He’ll write to you, I’m sure. Tony’s nothing if not a perfect gentleman.’
‘That had been my impression, yes. Anyway . . .’ Wishing to divert herself from this train of thought, perhaps, she began to study the concert programme she had picked up in the entrance hall. ‘Who and what are we hearing tonight? L’Orchestre de la Suisse Romande. Conducted by Ernest Ansermet. Are you any the wiser?’
‘They have quite a reputation, I believe. For twentieth-century music, in particular.’
‘Really? Well, the words “twentieth-century music” send a shiver down my spine. Most of today’s composers have forgotten how to write a tune – if they ever knew. Let’s see what they’re proposing to inflict on us.’ She glanced down at the programme notes. ‘Hmm . . . Beethoven’s Fifth. Well, I guess we can all handle that. Debussy’s La Mer . . . Not too alarming, though I should probably have brought my seasickness pills. Now who’s this fellow? Arthur Honegger . . .’
Thomas shrugged. ‘New to me.’
“ ‘Arthur Honegger”,’ Emily read aloud, “ ‘is generally considered to be one of the most important Swiss composers of the twentieth century.” Talk about damning with faint praise . . . “His magnificent cycle of five symphonies offers a musical narrative of some of the most brutal and savage years in recent human history, a cry from the depths of despair which culminates . . .” Oh Lord, one of those. Rubbing the audience’s noses in the misery when he should really be trying to help us forget about it.’
‘One shouldn’t make premature judgements, I suppose . . .’
‘Indeed not, but doesn’t this kind of thing get your goat? It certainly does mine. What is an artist for, anyway? What use is he, if he doesn’t . . . elevate us, somehow? Perhaps I have a narrow view of things, but to me, an artist is someone who adds to the beauty in the world, he shouldn’t take away from it. Music that sounds like two cats fighting in a scrapyard, sculptures that look like someone’s accidentally dropped a heap of clay on the floor, paintings that give you a headache, with a couple of eyes on one side of the face and three noses on the other . . . ’ She checked herself and took a sip of champagne. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps you don’t like an opinionated woman. I do have a habit of speaking my mind. That’s one of the things you’ll find out about me if we . . . start to know each other a little better.’ Before Thomas had a chance to reply, a bell rang, signalling that the concert was about to start. They hastily emptied their glasses and rose to their feet.
‘Well, into the field of battle, then,’ said Emily, taking Thomas by the arm in a companionable sort of way. ‘Let’s see what Mr Honegger has to throw at us.’
Honegger’s tone poem of 1920, Pastorale d’Eté, was the first item on the programme. As the celebrated Monsieur Ansermet raised his baton, Emily watched with a steely look of suspicion and disapproval in her eye, but after hearing only a few bars of the music, her resistance melted away.
It began with a low, gently rocking figure played – or rather whispered – by the cellos. Very soon, above this, the central melody began to rise up on the French horn. Its long, slow, leisurely phrases were answered by high and subtly dissonant chords from the violins. Then the tune was taken up by the oboe, while a flute added floating, birdlike interjections: the whole tapestry of strings, horn and woodwind gradually knitting together into a complex, seamless whole which, even without the programmatic title, would inevitably have evoked the hazy timelessness of a summer afternoon. The main tune reappeared, and became even more insistent and seductive when it was taken up by the first violins, but the languorous atmosphere was then interrupted by a boisterous interlude in which a sprightly, instantly memorable tune – a folk tune, surely – was introduced by the solo clarinet, and for a few minutes the tone shifted to one of fleet-footed gaiety. After reaching the gentlest of climaxes this interlude was wafted away by the reappearance of the main theme, which by now was beginning to take on the character of an old friend: once again, it rose and fell, rose and fell, a soft, endlessly renewable conversation between the different sections of the orchestra; until it too faded into nothingness, amid the dying flourishes of gossamer-bowed violins, the last twilit birdcalls of flute and clarinet. As the musical distillation of a time, and a mood, it was perfection; or, as Emily said herself later that evening, as she and Thomas stood close beside each other in the Parc d’Osseghem, on the footbridge overlooking the lake which glimmered beneath the light of the yellow summer moon: ‘It was the sort of music that makes you think of all your childhood summers, don’t you agree? It took me back twenty years or more, when we used to visit a house belonging to friends of my parents. It was on the shores of Tomahawk Lake. Such splendid times we had there . . . It was uncanny, how he . . . evoked that place for me, while all the time I suppose he was thinking of his own summers in Switzerland. Paints a pretty nice picture of it, I must say. Have you ever been?’
‘Yes, I spent a summer there myself. Four years ago. Near Basle. I was thinking of that time, of course, while the piece was playing.’
‘Well, really, I take my hat off to Mr Honegger for that composition. I should never have been so rude about him. It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever heard. Now it makes me long to get out into the countryside, to sit beneath the sun, with a bottle of good wine and a basket of good food, and to
lie on my back and watch the clouds floating across the sky, with someone special sitting next to me, someone I could talk to all afternoon about nothing and everything . . .’
After thinking about this for a moment or two, Thomas said, daringly: ‘Well, of course, we could easily do that.’
Emily looked at him eagerly. ‘Meaning?’
‘We’re surrounded by countryside here. And it’s the height of summer. Why don’t we drive out somewhere – the next time you have a day off – and take some food, and take something to drink, and . . . make a proper occasion of it?’
Her eyes gleamed with delight at the prospect.
‘Could we really, do you think? That would be just wonderful. Such a treat. This place is a blast, all right, but it also gets to you after a while. I could do with a day out. Do you have a car?’
‘No,’ Thomas admitted. ‘But I can . . . try to arrange something.’
She clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, I’m looking forward to it already.’ And then, when Thomas had only just begun to savour the pleasure of having excited her so much, her next words snatched it away: ‘We could make a real party of it. Invite the whole gang along.’
‘The gang?’
‘From the night at the ballet. Perhaps Mr Chersky would like to come. And that exquisite little Belgian girl you’re such good friends with. I forget her name.’
‘Anneke?’
‘Anneke. And anyone else who wants to come. The more the merrier! Don’t you agree?’
‘Well . . . of course. The more the merrier, indeed.’
He had said what was expected of him; but the lack of conviction in his voice, he knew, was obvious. Emily said nothing in response, directly. But after a few seconds’ uncomfortable silence she said: ‘Look, Mr Foley, I know what I’m proposing is not quite the same as a picnic for two, but . . . I don’t want you to feel any sense of obligation towards me, just because your friend Tony has left me in the lurch, as it were. You’ve already done your duty, and I appreciate it very, very much. It’s been the loveliest of evenings, one I shall remember for a long time.’
‘I don’t consider it has anything to do with duty. I don’t see it that way at all.’
‘Well then, let me put it another way. You can consider your mission accomplished.’
Thomas thought, as soon as he heard it, that this was an odd phrase to use. Too clinical for words. But he brushed the thought aside; assumed it had something to do with American phraseology. The Yanks and the Brits barely spoke the same language, after all.
‘Anyway, it’s getting late,’ said Emily. ‘I need my beauty sleep. The hausfraus of Belgium will be turning out in their droves tomorrow to learn from my Hoovering skills, and I can’t turn up looking like a fright. That would earn me the sack.’
‘I really don’t know how you stand it,’ said Thomas, as they began to walk alongside the lake, in the direction of the Porte du Parc. ‘Demonstrating the same thing, day in, day out. Fielding the same questions from the public. Doesn’t it drive you mad?’
‘Oh, it’s no worse than getting a part in a Broadway thriller as the second maid, and having two lines, “Tea will be ready presently” and “I found this parcel in the front porch, madam”, and having to say them six nights a week, plus matinees on Wednesdays and Saturdays, for the whole of a four-month run. Of course, if I was ever offered another part like that, I’d leave Belgium and take it like a shot . . .’
‘Is that likely to happen?’
‘Well, none of us really knows how long we’re going to be here, do we? What about you? Are you in Brussels for the duration?’
‘I suppose so. Though the Britannia does seem to be running rather smoothly at the moment. More or less taking care of itself. I haven’t had very much to do, these last few weeks.’
‘Well then.’ She turned and looked him directly in the eye. ‘We must all savour our time here, while we can. Because it could all come to an end at any moment, and none of us can ever know when, or how.’ She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘That’s the trouble with happiness.’
Tooting Common
Thomas stood beside the dark oak table in his dining room, looking out over the back garden, a cup of sweet, milky coffee in his hand. It seemed unreal to him that he was back at home. His memories of the last few days were so vivid that they gave the suburban normality of Tooting the quality of a daydream. The drunken night at the Bolshoi ballet; the blindfold trip into the countryside in Wilkins’s car; the incredible revelations of Mr Radford and Mr Wayne; his evenings out at the Restaurant Praha, with Anneke, and the Grand Auditorium, with Emily: how could these bizarre adventures exist in the same universe as this neat vegetable patch, this disused air-raid shelter, this spectacularly tasteless goldfish pond now decorated (courtesy of Mr Sparks) with a fake bronze statue of an overweight cherub pouring water out of an urn?
It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, and Sparks had already paid a visit, to nose around and find out how he was getting on.
‘Morning, Foley,’ he had said, coming into the sitting room, where Thomas had been reading the newspaper, and plonking himself down on the sofa without even being asked. ‘How’s Belgium been treating you, then?’
‘Very nicely, thank you,’ Thomas answered, without putting the newspaper down.
‘Been reading about the Expo in the newspapers from time to time,’ Sparks continued. ‘Sounds like it’s all happening over there. Royal visits one day, movie stars dropping by the next. Sometimes I show the clippings around at work and say, “My next-door neighbour’s over there in the middle of that lot, you know.” Bit of reflected glory. Never did anybody any harm.’
‘Yes,’ said Thomas, drily and non-commitally, as he flicked through a few more pages. The British news stories he was reading – nothing but party politics, labour disputes and petty crime – seemed trivial beyond belief. Did he really live in this country?
‘Of course, it’s been very quiet here in the meantime. I dare say you consider it quite a backwater now, compared to Brussels. When are you going back? Tomorrow evening, is it?’
‘Monday morning.’
‘Really? Well, I’m sure Sylvia will be happy to have you for the extra day.’
‘Look, Sparks,’ said Thomas, putting his paper down at last and leaning forward emphatically. ‘I’m very grateful for the attention you’ve been showing to my wife. I’m sure you’ve been a great comfort to her. But please don’t worry yourself on her account, or indeed mine. She told me only this morning that she’s been coping perfectly well on her own. So kindly attend to your own concerns – looking after your sister, for instance, who I’m sure needs your company much more than Sylvia does.’
Thinking about the conversation now, he wondered why he had felt compelled to be so rude. Really, Mr Sparks was not such a bad sort, and besides, it was the sheerest hypocrisy to be worried about what Sylvia was getting up to at home, while Thomas himself had been spending so much time (however innocently) in the company of other women. If only he could talk to her about his Belgian adventures; if only he could tell her of the strange turn things had taken lately, and the delicate role he had been chosen to play. But the whole business was shrouded in such secrecy, and it was this, he was sure – this inability to discuss with Sylvia the most important things that were preying on his mind – that created this confounded distance between them. This coldness and lack of communication that had been evident since the moment he had crossed the threshold.
‘Did you have plans for today?’ Sylvia asked. She had entered the dining room silently behind him, and was now standing at his side.
‘Not really.’ He made an effort, and mustered a smile. ‘Perhaps there are some odd jobs you’d like me to do, while I’m here?’
‘There’s no need,’ she answered. ‘Your time is your own.’
The day dragged on, solemn and intermina
ble. Thomas’s mother arrived at about five o’clock. She had an overnight bag with her, and was also carrying, rather to his puzzlement, a small leather satchel which was battered around the edges and worn with age. He took the overnight bag upstairs and then showed her into the sitting room. She refused his offer of a glass of sherry (five o’clock was far too early to be drinking alcohol, in her book) and watched in disapproval as he drained his own glass in two large gulps.
Unable to bear the thought of a dinner consumed in silence, Thomas brought the wireless in from the kitchen, set it up on the sideboard, and tuned it in to an orchestral concert on the Light Programme. Gill was awake, by now, so Sylvia sat her up in a high chair at the table, opposite Mrs Foley. She served out helpings of steak and kidney pudding, mashed potato and runner beans for the adults. Thomas poured himself a glass of red wine, but the women would not join him, and drank water instead. While they ate dinner and listened to the music, Sylvia fed Gill mouthfuls of mashed potato and gravy with a teaspoon.
Afterwards Sylvia drew the curtains in the sitting room, to keep out the evening sunlight as they all started to watch Television Music Hall on the BBC. Thomas would once have allowed himself to be mildly amused by the antics of Richard Hearne as Mr Pastry, but this evening he was feeling less tolerant. And after a few minutes watching Jack Billings (‘With the dancing feet’) and Claudio Venturelli (‘Italy’s singing star’) he found he could not bear the inane cheerfulness of the programme any longer, and left the sitting room without saying anything. He stood out in the garden and smoked two cigarettes, tipping the ash vengefully into the urn carried by the overweight cherub at the edge of the goldfish pond. Then he went back into the hall, picked up the telephone receiver and dialled a number he had been keeping with him on a folded scrap of paper.
‘Ealing four-double-nine-three,’ a familiar voice answered.