by Morag Joss
Joyce sniffed and rearranged her thin lips over her teeth, a signal that Andrew now recognised. She was going to speak. ‘Well, it would appear that not quite all of your famous Georgian Bath is famous for its elegance,’ she said, looking out. ‘Just what are these people trying to achieve, going about like that?’
It was the kind of critical yet impersonal remark, delivered with that self-satisfied, superior, Scottish nasality that had in just over a week brought Andrew close to reviewing his position on handguns.
He sighed with open exasperation. ‘I expect most of the people here are either students or traders. Perhaps they’re achieving having a good time being themselves, being nice, ordinary people. I think you would find,’ he said, trying not to hiss, ‘that most of them manage to achieve keeping jobs and homes and relationships of their own.’
There was a crusty silence. Joyce said, ‘You’re not fond of me, are you? I can tell, you know.’
It was the most direct thing Andrew had heard her say, but he was not going to give her the satisfaction of a straight answer. The car ahead was moving now. As he put his car into gear and followed, Andrew said, ‘Why do you drink?’
She did not reply, and began to rummage pointlessly in her handbag. As far as she was concerned nothing had been said.
‘You opened that cupboard, didn’t you? Not on the way to the Ladies’, because you hadn’t been in yet to check that there was nobody in there. On the way out. You checked the Ladies’ was empty and then opened the cupboard because you thought there might be something to drink in there, didn’t you?’ Andrew’s voice was quiet but not gentle. He edged the car forward.
‘That’s your theory.’ Joyce sounded so offended that Andrew knew he was right and, perversely, knew also that because they both now realised it, there was nothing else to be said. Warning her off the booze again would be a waste of breath. The silence which followed became permanent, and by the time they had reached the cause of the hold-up, some nonsensical roadworks where a traffic island was being prettied up with fake cobbles, Andrew had lapsed back into his own thoughts. He didn’t care where Joyce’s mental travels had taken her to.
Because once he had got Sara out of the house this evening he was hoping that he might succeed in getting her to stay with him at the flat for a night. If Joyce was happy to rest alone at Medlar Cottage for an afternoon, couldn’t she also be left to feed herself and put herself to bed? He was irritated not just by how little she ate of the food Sara prepared for her, but by her habit of repeating that she ate ‘like a bird’. Sara had now forbidden him from mouthing and drinks like a fish over her head, but he now considered sourly that it would be an easy matter for one evening to leave a dropper of milk and a couple of worms for her in the fridge. He and Sara could buy some food and a bottle of wine and have the evening, a long, balmy one, to themselves. He would cook. The cooker in the flat worked, or parts of it did, albeit with an accompanying alarming smell (perhaps a salad would do, though). Really, the place wasn’t that bad. All right, it was still an unloved, chilly box that he was supposed to be doing something about, but they could sit outside (ignoring the traffic noise) until late, and then he could make it better with candles. Yes, all right, he admitted it, the place was a dump next to Medlar Cottage, which he missed. Mostly he missed, since Joyce’s arrival, not being able to make love in every room of the house. The absence of Joyce was the only thing his flat had going for it, at least until he got round to doing something about it (he would, he would) but he would make much to Sara of that undeniable attraction.
For Joyce had the knack of infiltrating an atmosphere so strongly with her own hangdog authority (she was even doing it now, in his car) that even empty rooms in Medlar Cottage seemed now not so much unoccupied by her as vacated only seconds before. And he was finding that she cramped his style not only as a lover but as a musician. How could he play the cello with her in the house, when he could imagine so easily what her tight-lipped, dismissive comments on his musical abilities would be? Thinking of it, he could practically hear the berating scratch of her consonants crackling in the air from room to room. And if he was being over-fanciful, which was what Sara said, then no flight of imagination was required to notice and silently object to Sara’s confiscation of all alcohol in the house. He thought, with quiet savagery towards the silent Joyce beside him, of the empty wine rack and the empty shelf in the fridge to which he now mentally added other distasteful, daily reminders of her occupancy: the smell of Complan in the kitchen, pink, ragged lipstick prints on the edges of tea cups, used tissues down the sides of armchairs and that handbag, which stank of face powder, on the stairs. Not to mention the dog.
He coughed and tried unsuccessfully to pull his mind back round to work. Bridger had taken Joyce’s statement with gloom, and though it pained Andrew to do so, he had sympathised with him. Had there been grounds to suspect her guilty of the murder, conviction would not have been difficult, for a drink-deprived alcoholic eventually grows confessional about most things. But the time of Mrs Takahashi’s death seemed to rule Joyce out. He supposed he disliked Joyce so much that he could almost wish she had killed her. He certainly wished he could blame her for the mess he had made of things on Sunday with Mr Takahashi, or Professor Takahashi as he was supposed to say, but not even his powers of self-justification would rise to that. Joyce was merely contributing generously to the sum of things not going very well.
* * *
SARA GREETED James in the gazebo overlooking the garden with concern that was mixed with gratitude for his thoughtfulness in arranging for his needs to be met by others. After more than a week of caring for Joyce and the strain of pretending to Andrew that doing so was not easy but Basically Absolutely Fine, she was not merely exhausted but more aware than was comfortable of her constitutional inability to nurse someone like Joyce with any degree of true grace. It was also constitutionally compulsory for this awareness to leave Sara feeling guilty and inadequate.
The Sulis seemed, on the face of it, to be doing a splendid job. James was stretched out on a recliner in the shade of the rose-covered gazebo. He was alone, the climb up here through the terraced garden behind the house presumably proving too much for other patients. He was wearing a white dressing gown with ‘Sulis’ embroidered in loopy writing on the front, and a thin blanket lightly covered his legs and feet. The Guardian, some books and a jug of some fresh-looking cold drink sat on a small table next to him. But despite it he looked almost as unhappy as he did unwell.
‘Fine bloody friend you are,’ James growled. ‘What kept you?’
‘I’m here now so stop moaning. You’re not a good colour,’ Sara said, sitting on the edge of the empty recliner alongside and peering into his face. James looked as if he were about to give a bright smile to show how mistaken she was, but did not. Instead he smiled with closed lips and said, ‘Glad you came. I’ll be fine just as soon as I’m out of here and had something decent to eat. I’ve given it a try and I don’t like it and I’m not staying. You’ll pack for me, won’t you? There isn’t much. I would have done it already but I’ve been a bit light-headed.’
‘Pack?’ Sara exclaimed. Surely if Medlar Cottage became James’s personal recuperation ward, Joyce and Pretzel would have to go? She took less than a second to weigh up the merits of one against the other as house guests. But she was also wondering how James could be contemplating leaving when he was clearly so ill. But how could she find the strength to withstand those beseeching, unhealthy eyes?
James, seeing her difficulty but not understanding the reasons for it, at once adopted the mental stance of one who wants something so badly he refuses to ask for it. He raised both hands, showing his palms. ‘Sorry. Forget what I said. Never mind.’
‘It’s a lovely place, this, James. Why would you want to leave? It’s so peaceful. You’d never even know it was here, from the road. All those trees. And you can see for miles.’ Sara picked up the book. ‘What are you reading Coleridge for? You must be ill.’
‘Reading it for? For? It’s Art, sweetheart. It’s not for things. When did you get to be so brutally prosaic?’
‘I think that life with PC Plod must be draining the poetry out of you, Munchkin,’ James said, smiling evilly. He took the book, opened it and leafed through it. ‘Here’s one just for you—it goes “My pensive Sara!” It’s called the “Eolian Harp”. Want to hear it? And yes, I’m ill. I suppose.’
‘No, I don’t. And I wish you wouldn’t be rude about Andrew. And I’m not pensive, I’m shattered. Honestly,’ Sara muttered, ‘I wouldn’t mind staying here myself. I don’t think I am very well. And I’ve got Salzburg in a few days, and you wouldn’t believe what else I’m having to deal with.’
James would have laughed if he hadn’t thought it would hurt his stomach. Oh, Sara, Sara. Barely a minute into a visit to a sick friend and she’s telling you she’s shattered and unwell. You had to love her, sitting there twisting her dark, shining hair in her fingers, her big eyes looking if anything more beautiful for the touch of sulk and self-pity in them. Pure, unreconstructed diva that she could sometimes be, you had to love her because she was born to play the cello and did so with brilliance, sensitivity and passion as well as, of course, the international recognition that suited her natural glamour. She could be sensitive also in friendship, as well as fierce, selfless, loyal and bloody funny. But James had seen that unless her considerable intelligence or emotional luck intervened in time to prevent it, it could sometimes appear that she was also born to conduct her love affairs in a manner that was clumsy, distracted, impetuous and extreme. And up to a point she understood this about herself, so you had to love her, and in any case she somehow made you, anyway.
‘You do seem a bit tense,’ James said. ‘Andrew trouble, is it?’ In James’s private opinion Andrew and Sara were in for trouble, sooner or later.
‘Yes, I suppose it is. Partly,’ Sara sighed, loyalty mixed with dismay. ‘I didn’t tell you on Tuesday. I thought we should concentrate on getting you in here. But he’s got an awkward case, a man they should have charged with murdering his wife. He’s Japanese. A professor. He was here for a conference and he killed her, Andrew’s sure of it.’
‘Why is that difficult? I mean, any more difficult than usual?’
‘There’s not enough evidence. The bloke practically admitted it but they can’t use it as evidence because he hadn’t been cautioned before he said it. And now his lawyer has told him not to repeat it, and Andrew’s in a permanent fury about it.’ She did not add that his fury, because it was directed mainly at himself, was all the fiercer and more painful to watch. ‘Then there’s all the guilt about his children, and Valerie being vile. Then the question of that flat he bought and hardly ever uses. And I don’t know where any of it leaves me. Do you know, I don’t even actually know whether we live together or not?’
James sighed. ‘Oh, he’ll sort it out,’ he said, without much enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps you’re too involved. Perhaps you should just try letting him get on with it. You’ve got other things to think about, after all. What about your Dvořák? I missed your Prom, sorry. How did it go?’
‘And Andrew says this man, the husband, is the only real suspect and the forensic evidence isn’t conclusive. I mean, if one of his hairs is found on her cardigan, it doesn’t prove he killed her. Anyway, look, I don’t want to talk about Andrew’s problems. What about yours?’
‘Look, there they go,’ James said, raising a hand to point. ‘That’s Jane and some Welshman, forget his name. Down there.’ Sara looked down across the garden and saw two figures in robes identical to James’s make their way round a pretty stone fountain towards what looked like a miniature parthenon, partly obscured by trees, at the end of a broad grass walk to the left of the house.
‘Nice fountain.’
‘There are fish in it. They’re the only meat in the place.’
‘Where are they off to now, those two?’
‘Oh, down to the pool. That place that looks like a temple. It’s all marble inside. Listed building. It’s divine. They’ll be there all afternoon, lying around.’
‘Is that part of their treatment?’
‘Supposed to be. Rest is important, apparently, as is nutrition. All those tricks with massage, hydrotherapy, yoga, the dog’s bollocks, they’re quite pleasant, but I think they’re mainly just to pass the time.’ He snorted. ‘That’s all it is. Waiting till you feel better. That’s what they’ll be doing round the pool now, just lying waiting till they feel better.’
‘Why aren’t you, then? Sounds nice. You are rather isolated up here.’
‘Exactly. Isolation is better any day to the conversations they get you into. They want to tell you everything, and to hear everything, too. Medically, I mean. In forty-eight hours I’ve heard more words for bowel movements than any reasonable person could need in a lifetime.’
‘And just how are they, by the way? In your own words?’
This time James managed a proper smile. ‘Tired, but apparently I’m meant to be. Hungry, which I’m also meant to be, according to Dr Golightly.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Didn’t you love Dr Golightly, Munchkin?’ He sighed stagily. ‘He almost makes all this stuff sound sensible, and it certainly works for him. He really is rather gorgeous. So I’m resting my system, apparently, and rediscovering a healthy mind and body balance, after the imbalances imposed on it by stress and my modern Western lifestyle habits. And as soon as my system is on its way to being rebalanced, then—get this—then I’m allowed to do art therapy.’ A snarl had entered his voice. ‘Only I’m not staying.’
‘Yes, you are. And I have to say,’ Sara said, ‘that it doesn’t sound too bad to me, for a week or two. Quite pleasant, sensible, even.’ When James did not reply she turned her attention once more to the view. The foreground stone and greens of the garden fountain and the treetops above the swimming pool temple stretched away to the golds, greys and blacks of the city’s spires and roofs, and the blue August hills beyond.
‘Poussin,’ she murmured. ‘Reminds me of Poussin.’
‘Hmm,’ James concurred. ‘Roasted with lemons. Skin all crispy. Chive and garlic butter …’
‘I meant,’ Sara said sternly, ‘Poussin the artist. Nicolas Poussin. Blue backgrounds. Greens in the foreground. Trees, classical ruins. Arcadian vistas.’
‘Big cavorting nymphs. Naked shepherds swigging from the keg. I should be so lucky. Fuck Poussin.’
‘James, you’ve got to try. You’ve got to get well. It is a beautiful place, try and appreciate it.’
‘Fuck Art. Fuck this place. I’m hungry and I want to go home.’
‘You promised Tom. You promised.’ Tom would expect a call from her. Was she going to have to say that James had been more unwilling and uncooperative, as well as more ill, than she had ever seen him before? But he was looking at her now with something of his usual expression, knowing he had gone too far.
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ he said, softly. ‘I’ll stay. I will.’ Sara looked at him without trust. ‘I will. I’ll try, I’ll even do the art therapy. Munchkin, I’ll wear a smock and a black beret and paint you our own fucking Poussin, if it’ll make you happy.’
Sara laughed and said as convincingly as she could, ‘Art therapy might make a change for you. You might even like it.’
‘I might. I’ll have to find something to do if I’m not supposed to be playing the piano. Although,’ he lowered his voice, ‘they’ve got quite a decent piano here, a baby Blüthner. I sneaked a little go.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to give everything a rest? Tom said you hadn’t packed any music.’
‘I didn’t. I only tinkled for a bit and anyway there’s a nice lot of music here already. The last music therapist left some of her own stuff behind in the piano stool—tons of it actually—and they haven’t got an address to send it on to, Yvonne says, so there’s any amount of Schumann, Schubert, Brahms and all that.’
‘Oh, yes. The one who left.’
‘Yvonne
didn’t like her. Same as the art therapy, self-expression for the untaught. Yvonne says I’m lucky to escape. Banging and whanging away on recorders and percussion, finding their voices, imagine. She kept getting her name wrong. I remember now—her actual name was Alex Cooper and Yvonne kept calling her Alice and she didn’t like it. According to Yvonne she was tight-arsed, couldn’t take a joke. Anyway the music therapy’s suspended. Alice Cooper only lasted three weeks.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Hated the living-in, Yvonne says. She went without giving notice. Dr Golightly was furious.’
‘Living-in? You mean to say there’s a vacancy here for a live-in musician and all they do is give a few lessons to complete beginners?’
‘More or less, yeah. So? I hope you’re not going to suggest I take them on. I’d rather die.’
She stood up. ‘James,’ she said, ‘stay here. Don’t move, I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘What are you—Sara?’
She was already five yards down the path when she turned. ‘Nothing. I’ll only be a minute. Just a little suggestion I have for him.’
James felt a little of his weary gloom dissipate, but not much. Unable to find enough curiosity to call after her to tell him what her little suggestion was, he lay back again, closed his eyes and listened to the birds, a fair number of which, he thought, he could cheerfully eat. With or without roasted lemons, crispy skin, chives and garlic butter.
CHAPTER 17
I’VE BROUGHT YOUR tea. Joyce? The thing is, Joyce, we do have to talk about a few things. I’m afraid I’m doing the Dvořák again.’
Joyce rose from the pillow looking askance and surprised in the offhand way that she had perfected since her arrival. ‘Oh dear, are you? That’s a great pity, in my view. It needs work.’ She pronounced it WURK. Sara curbed a temptation to throw the tea over her head.