“Where are you going, man?” Luke said. He was leaning half across the table, among all the dirty plates and glasses, so that he could hold Charlotte’s hand.
Edward’s face assumed the faintly careworn expression familiar to Sigrid.
“I just remembered. I ought to ring the parents—”
“No,” Sigrid said. “Sit down—”
“Honestly,” Luke said, “honestly. Why spoil a really good evening?”
“But they’ll—”
Luke let go of Charlotte’s hand. He leaned sideways and put the hand on Ralph’s shoulder.
“I’ll do it.”
“What—”
“I’ll ring Mum and Dad,” Luke said.
“But—”
“In the morning,” Luke said. “Not now. We’re celebrating now. I’ll ring them tomorrow and tell them we were all together.” He squeezed Ralph’s shoulder. “Okay, bro?”
“Okay,” Ralph said.
Sigrid was leaning back in her chair.
“There,” she said to Edward, “there. Luke will do it. No need for you to do anything.”
She was smiling at him. He didn’t know when he’d seen her so relaxed. He smiled back, and lowered himself into his chair again. He picked up the nearest wine bottle and held it against the light. Empty. How had that happened? Better get another—
“I’ll get another,” Ralph said, taking the bottle out of his hand.
“They’re in the—”
“I know,” Ralph said. He stood up. “I know.”
Edward looked round the table. He said, “What’s happening?”
Sigrid was laughing now, and so were Petra and Charlotte. Luke folded his arms on the table, and leaned towards Edward.
“All change,” Luke said. He looked about sixteen, Edward thought, but a very welcome sixteen. He gave Edward the thumbs-up sign. “All change.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The light was fading fast. Every year, Anthony was increasingly taken by surprise at how, once summer was over, the evenings drew in so rapidly, and he had to adjust himself to a winter schedule of only being able to rely on natural light, if it was a bright day, for four or five hours. In the past, the winter had been his time of dissection and observation, reconstructing bird skeletons with meticulous reference to diagrams, and wiring them up as if these ghostly creatures were still stepping or pecking or turning in flight. The studio shelves were crammed with skeletons as well as those wired to the roof beams, mostly fractured now, a broken ossuary of past life, past movement. They were ghoulish in their way, particularly the eyeless, beakless skulls, but they were hard to throw away all the same, representing as they did all that learning, all that progress, evidence, if he needed it, that he could represent a bird in two dimensions because he knew exactly how its body worked in three.
Every early autumn, Anthony surveyed his skeleton collection, vowed to do something to at least rationalize it, and did nothing. Rachel said to him, annually, that it was most unfair on the boys never to attempt to clear out some of the deep litter of the studio, but just to slide round such a monumental task knowing it would inevitably fall to them, once Anthony was dead.
“They can chuck it all,” Anthony said. “All of it. It won’t mean to them what it means to me. And I won’t be there to mind what it means anymore. Will I?”
“But it’ll be such a depressing task for them. Bags and bags of bones. Why subject them to anything so gloomy?”
But they’re not gloomy, Anthony thought now, standing surveying the shelves as the early dusk thickened the light in the studio. Not gloomy at all. They are interesting, every one, and valid. They represented a journey for me, my journey. I never thought I could make a life and a livelihood out of being an artist, nor did my parents. But I did. I have. I’ve kept it all going, and brought up three boys, and educated them, because not only can I see, but I can, with this hand and this brain, translate what I see in such a way that other people can see it too. I can make birds live on paper. And these old bird bones, as Rachel calls them, were part of that process, part of the looking and looking, until you really understand how something works and can then reproduce it in a way, now, that I don’t even have to think about. He raised his right arm involuntarily, his fingers holding an imaginary pencil, and sketched something in the air. There you are, he told himself. There. The power of the unconscious mind. I’ve drawn a lapwing taking off, and I didn’t even have to think what to do before I did it. I knew. I knew, because there’s a lapwing up there, somewhere, on those shelves, and I expect its head has fallen off and it’s missing a wing rib or two, but once I knew every bone in its body and that knowledge is now as deep in me as my DNA. The boys won’t mind clearing off these shelves. They’ll get it. They’ll know that, if their mother’s kitchen was always the engine room of the house, of family life, this place was the lookout. It was in here, Anthony said, almost out loud, where we didn’t just focus on what had to be done—very necessary, admit that—but what might be done. And even if she’d rather die than admit it, I think Rachel knows that too, in her heart of hearts, and is afraid of it in her way, because it’s something she can’t control.
Like Ralph. Had they ever been able, really, to control Ralph? If he conformed, as a boy, it was because he wanted to, or it suited him, never because he felt the smallest necessity to be obliging. And because of this innate perversity, Ralph had always exercised a peculiar fascination for his mother. She didn’t—Anthony was sure of this—love him any more than she loved Luke or Edward, but she was, in a way, spellbound by him, always had been, this creature who had always lived on the edge of, or entirely outside, her dominion. So that when he did seem more pliable these last few years, when he had submitted to her brisk, practical organizing of his life—the marriage to Petra, the move to the house in Aldeburgh—there was bound to be a price to pay in the end. And that price had turned out to be the mess of this summer, the upsets in the family, the creeping sense—so evidently painful for Rachel—that they, the parents, were no longer at the hub of things, were not being visited as much, or told as much, or seen as naturally involved in whatever was going on. They were now, Luke had made it plain when he had telephoned yesterday morning, to be informed of everything that was going on, but they weren’t any longer central to the discussion of what should happen next. The three brothers, Luke had implied, in his emphasis on their heady London-weekend togetherness, now had their own priorities, the priorities of their lives, their children, their wives.
“We’re all here,” Luke said cheerfully. “We’re all spending the day together, all nine of us. Everyone’s fine. You’re not to worry. Everyone’s happy. Barney even walked four steps this morning. He’s a riot.”
It was Anthony who had picked up the phone when Luke rang. He was alone in the kitchen. He stood there, staring out of the window above the sink, while Luke described the evening before and how Ralph had had no idea that he would find Petra and his children at Ed’s house, how Petra has clearly come to her senses and done the sensible thing and just got on a bus, with boys and baggage. If Rachel had been in the room, she would have seized the phone and fired questions, but she was out, buying milk and matches and a crab for supper, if she could find one, and so it was left to Anthony to say, “Good. Good, lad. I’m so pleased, I’m so thankful—” and then to stand there, the phone in his hand after Luke had rung off, and think dazedly, “What was all that? What was it?”
When she heard, Rachel wanted to ring, at once, for confirmation. She had her phone in her hand, lifting it to her ear, when Anthony took it from her by force.
“No.”
“But I’ve got to, I’ve got to be sure—”
“Leave them!”
“I can’t, I must know—”
Anthony flung her phone across the kitchen. It hit the far wall and fell behind a chair, clattering against the skirting board.
“Leave them, I tell you.”
He waited for her to scream at him,
but she didn’t. She said, as if wrestling with tears, “I need to know if they’re okay—”
Anthony was breathing heavily.
“Never better. Luke sounded like he sounded on his wedding day.”
“But Ralph. Ralph and Petra—”
“Together. No need to suppose anything other.”
“But . . . but really together?”
“I don’t know.”
“I must know,” Rachel said, starting across the room to retrieve her phone.
Anthony caught her wrist.
“You’ll know when they choose to tell us. Not before.”
“Whose side are you on?” Rachel demanded.
“No one’s,” Anthony said untruthfully.
Rachel stood there for a minute or two, not making any attempt to move. And then she said with an effort, “If no one has rung by tomorrow night, by Sunday night, can I ring then?”
But Ralph came. They were clearing up a desultory lunch that had taken place with the welcome companionship of the Sunday newspapers when they heard wheels on the gravel outside.
“Who—?”
Rachel flung down the tea towel she was holding and made as if to dart for the door.
“Wait,” Anthony said.
“But—”
“Wait!”
She paused, almost quivering, like a dog thwarted of chasing after something unimaginably tempting.
“Whoever it is,” Anthony said, “we can see them here.”
It was Ralph. He was thinner than when they had last seen him, a month ago, and he had dark circles under his eyes, but he had an air of energy they hadn’t seen in him in ages. Beside him, Anthony could feel Rachel collect herself. She reached up to kiss Ralph’s cheek.
“My goodness, darling,” she said in an entirely normal voice, “a haircut.”
Ralph grinned. He lifted one foot towards her.
“And a shoeshine—”
Anthony said, not smiling, just looking straight at Ralph, “Where are the children?”
“At home.”
“In Aldeburgh?”
“Of course,” Ralph said. “Where else?”
“And . . . and Petra?”
“With them. Where else would she be?”
Rachel turned towards the table.
“Sit down. Sit down, and I’ll make some coffee.”
“Not for me, thanks,” Ralph said, “I’m rather pushed for time. I’m going back to London tonight.”
“Going back—”
“But we thought—”
Ralph said calmly, “I’ll be down next weekend. And the weekend after. Until we let the house.”
Rachel lowered herself carefully into a chair as if she had a bad back. She said faintly, “Let the house?”
Ralph took a chair opposite.
“Yes.”
Anthony leaned on the table.
“Could you explain—”
Ralph smiled at him. He seemed in a sunnier mood than Anthony could ever remember. He said, “Why else d’you think I’m here?”
“We don’t know,” Rachel said. She sounded close to tears again. “We don’t know anything—”
“You do,” Ralph said. “You do know. Luke rang you. Didn’t he?”
“But we don’t know enough—”
There was a small silence. Then Ralph said, “I’ll tell you.” Anthony straightened up and moved round the table to sit next to Rachel. He had an instinct to take her hand, and a conflicting one to show no reaction whatsoever. So he sat there, his own hands clasped loosely on the table in front of him.
“Tell us.”
“We’re going to let the house for the winter,” Ralph said. “I’m going to be in London in the week, and back at weekends, till we’ve let it. Petra is going to see the agent in the morning. Then we’ll go to London for the winter. We’ll find somewhere near Luke and Charlotte, playgroups for the boys; Petra can work a bit in the cafés and places round Columbia Road. Then we’ll come back to Suffolk for the summer.”
Rachel said, “You’re . . . leaving Suffolk?”
“For the winter, Mum. It’s called a compromise.”
“So you and Petra—”
“None of your business, Mum,” Ralph said pleasantly.
“Can’t I even know if you’re no longer planning a divorce?” Rachel cried.
Ralph tipped his chair back. He said carelessly, “No. We’ve made this plan. We’ll try it. We’ll see if it works.”
“But when will we see the boys?”
“When you come to London.”
“London,” Rachel said disgustedly.
“You’ll have to learn to like it,” Ralph said. “You both will. We’ll all of us be there.”
Anthony said slowly, “But Petra . . . in London?”
“Sure,” Ralph said. “Why not? She’ll find her feet again.”
“Does . . . does she like this plan?”
Ralph looked directly at his father.
“She suggested it.”
“And—”
“And,” Ralph said, “Sigi suggested you come to London and stay with them. Regularly. You’ll want to, anyway, when the baby comes, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Anthony said. He glanced at Rachel. She was looking fixedly at the far end of the table, the place where Anthony always sat when the table was full, full of people, full of food and noise and activity.
She said, with just an edge of sarcasm in her voice, “And Charlotte? Did Charlotte have a message for me, too, as to how I might live my life in the future?”
“She sent her love,” Ralph said. “She sent it twice, actually.” He stood up. He said, looking down at his parents, “Petra would send hers, too, if she did that kind of thing. But she doesn’t. You know she doesn’t. She never has. But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it. She feels a lot, in fact, she’s more honest than all of us in what she feels. True to herself.” He paused, and then he said, “We’ve got to learn to do things differently, both of us.” Then his gaze sharpened, and he said with emphasis, looking straight at his father, “Just as you and Mum have got to do. Differently. Okay?”
They sat there for a long time after he had gone, side by side at the table in the quiet kitchen. Various little village cries and calls filtered in from the outside, and a car or two went by, but inside the house it was like being under a bell jar, suspended out of time and the turning of the world. Anthony didn’t know how long they sat there, didn’t know if he was actually thinking or was just allowing his mind to float, unfettered, across what Ralph had said, and what he had implied. In either case, he was startled when Rachel said abruptly, “Well, I suppose I could revive the bed-and-breakfast idea.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“You know,” Rachel said. “Ages ago. I thought I’d do bed-and-breakfast in the summer. It would mean tarting up upstairs a bit. The bathrooms are the complete reverse of state-of-the-art, whatever that means.”
“Could . . . could you face it?”
She turned to look at him.
“Oh yes. If I have to. And . . . and now, maybe I do?”
He leaned sideways, and kissed her cheek.
“Good girl.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m admiring you—”
“Well,” Rachel said, getting up, “go and admire me in the studio. I’m going to spread the stuff out on the table, and think. I’m going to think how to do whatever it is the boys want us to do.”
“Just like that?”
“No,” she said. She gave a little smiling grimace. “With difficulty.” And then she said, “And you can do a difficult thing too. You can get rid of those bird bones.”
But I can’t, Anthony thought now. I can’t and I shouldn’t. Getting rid of them has nothing to do with changing this stage of fatherhood; it has to do with something essential in me, something that makes me who I am. Ralph said Petra was true to herself. I don’t know if that means merely unaffect
ed, or something deeper. But I am a painter of birds, in my true heart, and I need my bones.
It was full dusk now. There were oblongs of pale, filtered light from the high north windows, and smaller rectangles from the windows along the west wall, but the rest of the studio was softly dark, only the easel standing high above the surrounding bulky shapes of the furniture, like a crane on a building site. There was a board on the easel, on which Anthony had pinned a sheet of rough, handmade paper preparatory to drawing all the birds that came to the bird table that Rachel kept supplied outside the kitchen window, the robins and tits and dunnocks, even the occasional goldfinch, which he would draw in charcoal, then paint in watercolor, choosing poses that indicated where each bird intended to move next. Maybe he would include a wren. Troglodytes, troglodytes, nine centimeters long, nine grams in weight, two broods a year in little dome-shaped nests made of moss. Wonderful.
He smiled up at the shelves where the bird bones still glimmered faintly in the gloom. There’d be the wren up there too, what there was of it. He went slowly across the room in the darkness, avoiding all obstacles out of familiarity, and laid his hand upon the doorknob. He looked back. It would all be there in the morning, dusty and disordered to all eyes but his own, which saw it, either in reality or in recollection, as a place of evolution and a place of promise.
He went slowly across the gravel to the house. A huge yellow September moon had hoisted itself among the trees behind the roof, and there was a little sharp edge to the air, a little bite, that was as invigorating as brushing one’s teeth. The kitchen window was a warm golden square, and through it he could see Rachel bending over a sea of brochures and folders on the kitchen table. He stood and watched her for a while, his wife, the woman he had married, yet not that woman, as he was not that long-ago man.
He opened the back door. A surge of warmth came out to greet him.
“Anthony?” Rachel called, not turning.
He closed the door behind him. He remembered Ralph.
“Who else?” he said.
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