Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

‘Sounded pretty good to me.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not.’ She almost smiled. Lucien was fiddling with the sea salt in its crystal bowl. He dug into it with the miniature spoon, making small hills which he then flattened and began all over again. ‘As a child I was mad keen. I’d practise up to three hours a day, getting up early so as to get in the time before lessons started. What I really enjoyed was tackling pieces way too difficult for me. It took me six months to get through The Hungarian Rhapsody.’ She turned her back on Lucien, played the first few notes with one finger. ‘I did it in the end, though never really well.’

  ‘Sorry about this,’ said Lucien, when Grace turned back to him again. He had spilt a good deal of salt, was pinching it up between thumb and finger to put it back in the bowl. ‘Did you have a good teacher, or something?’

  ‘Terrifying. A Miss Spark. My hands would tremble so much I could scarcely play, so she’d yell and scream and beat the piano with my notebook full of furious instructions she’d made in the last lesson–which made it worse, of course. But somehow she pushed me to get things right in the end, inspired me to go on, be better. I suppose she was a sad old thing really. Not much in her life besides teaching dull pupils, or feeding the birds in her cottage in the Malvern hills. When she got angry, which was several times a day, she went purple as a damson–the colour took hours to drain away, so you hardly ever saw her normal skin.’

  Lucien smiled. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have put up with all that shit.’

  ‘It was all worth it because when she sat down to play–various pieces for me to choose from–I knew why I wanted to go on. When she played, all the pent-up indignation vanished. Her crimpy little fingers whirled along with such joy I was left speechless, time after time. Also, the piano I learnt on was marvellous, the best I’ve ever played. Steinway grand. It had a little silver plaque nailed to the lid saying George Bernard Shaw and Edward Elgar played duets on this piano. They’d been friends of the headmistress in her youth.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Lucien again. ‘The company you keep. Play something else.’

  ‘What would you like? I’ve a very limited repertoire these days.’ ‘Couldn’t give a toss.’

  Grace spun quickly round and began a Chopin nocturne. Lucien stopped playing with the salt. When the piece came to an end he said: ‘Pretty good. You shouldn’t have given it up. You could have been a concert pianist, couldn’t you?’

  Grace closed the lid of the piano.

  ‘No. Never. My last ever lesson with Miss Spark, just before I left school, she asked me what the future had in store. I said I’d like to be a professional pianist. She kept quiet for a very long time, all this plum colour rushing to her face again–her arms, her chest, her hands, everywhere. I thought she was going to burst. Then she said: “If you want my honest opinion, Grace, I don’t think you should raise your hopes too high in that direction. You work very hard, you’re very able and you feel the music strongly. But you haven’t got that extra whatever it is that makes one pianist tower above others so powerfully that the whole world wants to hear him or her play.” Then she said: “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but I had the same ambition as you when I was your age. But I knew quite positively there was no hope. I was an accomplished pianist, but I never had that extra God-given talent that you need to make it as a concert pianist … So I decided to teach. And, well, it’s been a pleasure most of the time, though you might not think so the way I’ve raged against you to push you as far as I knew you could go …” I thanked her for her advice, and took it. She was right. After college I began to teach. I was a teacher when I met William.’

  Lucien slipped off the table. He patted Grace’s shoulder. She had rarely known him so mild.

  ‘I’d never have guessed. –Are you going to make me a cup of tea?’

  ‘Sorry: I’ve been going on.’ In the kitchen, 114 she began to make the tea. ‘Once we were married, I gave it up. William tried to dissuade me, but he didn’t try very hard. Besides, I was keen to get on with something that would make use of my love of botany. Quite by chance I found I was a reasonably accomplished flower painter, too.’

  Lucien looked at her, struck by the shadow of bitterness in her voice.

  ‘You’re great, Grace,’ he said.

  Grace laughed. She brought tea things to the table.

  ‘How’s the new girl doing with the Quartet?’

  ‘I don’t remember telling you about her.’

  ‘Well you did.’

  Grace settled herself opposite Lucien.

  ‘I believe she’s doing well. They seem to think they chose the right one. This is only her second concert tonight. What about you? Why aren’t you raging on as usual?’

  ‘I’m never angry when Lobelia’s away’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Don’t know. Didn’t ask. She’s back tomorrow or the next day. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s off with this new bloke she’s seeing.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘How do I know? Only saw him once. She didn’t exactly introduce us, did she? Didn’t go that far. Tall, fat, baldish. Revolting, I thought. Still I’d be grateful to anyone who’d take her off my hands. In pharmaceuticals, he is, she said. High up in pharmaceuticals. Whatever that means.’ He ate a chocolate biscuit. ‘Anyhow, I’m starting work tomorrow’

  ‘Oh? That’s good.’

  ‘Walking dogs round the park every afternoon. Some old biddy’s prepared to pay me a tenner a time. What d’you think?’

  ‘Well: why not?’

  ‘Only till something comes up. I mean, better to walk earning than to walk not earning.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You’re a good woman, Grace. You don’t judge me.’

  ‘I’ve no reason to judge you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be judged. Not till I’ve got it together. In my own time.’ He suddenly stood up, the charm fleeing from his face. His eyes had shrunk. His hands shook–he stuffed them into his pocket when he saw Grace noticed. Defensively he looked round the room as if suspicious its contents were about to attack him. Grace wondered if he was going to pick up a plate and throw it. He had done that once before, no explanation.

  ‘I’m off, things to see to,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the music.’

  He left behind half-drunk tea, tranquillity scattered. His sudden switch from calm to inflamed had unnerved Grace. She had no heart to return to the piano, or the book, or even the ironing. She counted the hours till William’s return, and tried to put Lucien from her mind.

  The Elmtree Quartet arrived in the hall in Northampton–originally a Methodist chapel, a place they had often played–more or less together. Long ago they had abandoned the idea of driving in convoy, an arrangement which would have exacerbated William’s neurosis about driving. At one time there had been discussion about buying an estate car large enough to accommodate players and instruments, so that they could all travel together. But what with the financial outlay that would involve, and the arguments it would cause about who should drive, and which was the best route, none of them was convinced by the idea. They were used to the eccentric arrangement of each one being responsible for himself. Though it often caused anxiety and frustration, it was doubtful now that it would ever change.

  William always dreaded the seating rehearsal part of a concert day, the assessing of platform, space and general comfort. It was when Grant (silently) and Rufus (muttering) became their most disgruntled. Andrew used never to complain, though his tight face sometimes conveyed the pain that a minor imperfection of the location caused him. William himself, too, kept his silence for as long as he could. When his patience ran out, and he could be bothered, he would berate them. But William was not a man for confrontation, and his scolding was so mild it was scarcely noticeable. By the time he had mustered energy to chide the grumblers, they had taken up their instruments, were ready to go despite the many impediments to their performance. It was all part of the Elmtree ritual with which they w
ere familiar, and acted out from habit several times a week.

  In the Northampton hall Grant observed the utter uselessness of the seats the moment he clumped on to the stage. He picked up the chair in his place, shook it violently as if it was a disobedient dog.

  ‘Remember? Same trouble last time, last March. How do they expect a man to play a cello from a thing like this? Bloody ridiculous.’ He banged it down on the floor. It made an awkward squawk. The noise alerted Rufus to possible problems. He was the one with the keenest ear for sound quality, and with a small tilt of his head, raising his best ear towards the ceiling, would hold himself responsible for judging the depth of trouble that faced them. Today, curiously, eyes pinched, mouth a short line of disapproval, he said nothing.

  Bonnie picked up her own chair, turned to Grant.

  ‘Would you like to swap with mine? It looks a mite heavier.’

  Grant glared at her.

  ‘They’re all the same. Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out. Always the same effing problem. Total lack of vision among the chair-providing classes.’

  Bonnie laughed and took her place.

  ‘Calm down, Grant,’ said William, who had no wish to appear unhelpful. ‘I’ll get Bob to find you something better.’

  Grant looked at William in amazement.

  ‘What’s all this? Coming to my rescue so soon?’ He turned to Bonnie. ‘He usually lets me sweat it out a bit.’

  Bonnie smiled: polite rather than amused.

  ‘Well,’ said William, mildness concealing his fury. Such disloyalty from Grant was surprising. And now Rufus, he could see, was about to erupt, too.

  ‘Problem here,’ pointed out Rufus.

  ‘Oh God,’ said William.

  Rufus ran a finger along the lip of his music stand.

  ‘Edge seems to have been a bit damaged in transit. Know anything about it, Grant?’

  Grant, being the only one with a car big enough to accommodate them, was the one who transported all four mahogany stands. At the end of every concert each player took his stand apart and put it in its cover with infinite care. Grant loaded the bundle into his boot with equal attention, and unloaded them at each destination. He felt keenly the responsibility of this job, and carried it out in a manner that meant scant possibility of damage. All the same, Rufus could not quell his suspicions. Never a concert day passed when he did not examine his precious stand with the eye of one who suspected it might have suffered mysterious harm.

  ‘Have to admit I did take a corner at thirty-five mph,’ said Grant, seriously. ‘I suppose that could have been the cause.’

  William saw him wink at Bonnie. Rufus snorted, unamused.

  ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Feel.’

  Grant moved over to Rufus. He enjoyed indulging the old boy. Rufus ran a finger along the edge of the stand’s lip.

  ‘Pretty rough,’ said Rufus, ‘or am I imagining it?’

  Grant, enjoying his own solemnity, also ran a finger along the wooden lip.

  ‘Very rough, I’d say. Bound to be a distraction.’

  ‘Bit of sandpaper might do it.’ Rufus was now worried. ‘Anyone got a piece of sandpaper?’

  ‘No one,’ said William, ‘has a piece of sandpaper. Come along, now’

  ‘Bob’s bound to–’

  ‘When I ask Bob to find a better chair for Grant, I’ll also ask him if he can find a piece of sandpaper for you.’ William marvelled at his own patience.

  Grant had turned back to Bonnie.

  ‘Normally’ he was saying, ‘Rufus’s problem is the width of his ledge. Seems to be OK for the rest of us, but not for Rufus. Won’t hold his pencil–’

  ‘My mute’s the problem,’ said Rufus, ‘not to mention my resin.’

  Grant looked at Bonnie. ‘You may have noticed that while mutes and resin traumatise Rufus on concert days, at rehearsals it’s not only pencils, but also the size of the rubbers.’ He spoke with mock seriousness. ‘We do what we can. We give him the narrowest little rubbers we can find by the dozen–birthdays, Christmas, Elmtree anniversaries–’

  ‘They’re no good,’ said Rufus.

  ‘He still has trouble,’ said Grant.

  ‘Come along, gentlemen,’ said William again. Out of the corner of his eye he observed Bonnie was looking bemused.

  Grant took his seat. He leant back, slung his huge legs apart, squirmed in a way designed to test the strength of the chair. There was an instant crack, a splaying of four spindly legs. Grant flung himself to the ground like a ham actor in a minor tragedy. From the floor, he looked up at Bonnie.

  ‘What did I tell you? Bloody stupid chair.’

  ‘Now come along, gentlemen, time’s getting on,’ said William. He was exasperated by the amusement Grant was causing Bonnie. He called for Bob, the deputy manager of the hall, who was unstacking chairs for the audience. While a new chair was being found, and a piece of sandpaper for Rufus, Grant continued to lie beached on the floor, propped up on one arm, looking up at Bonnie confident of the attractive figure he made–a sort of playboy pose, he imagined. Ridiculous. Undignified. Very unlike Grant. And indeed William, who felt his own sensitivities were more acute than those of his suddenly show-off cellist, saw that Bonnie, behind her polite look of interest, was more embarrassed than amused.

  ‘Get up, Grant,’ he brought himself to say at last.

  Grant lumbered up on to his new, firmer chair, and finding it adequate made no further comment. His sense of humour, usually forthcoming in difficult circumstances, did not ever extend to the matter of chairs that failed him in concert halls all over Europe. Perhaps it was to cover his grumpiness before Bonnie that he had gone through all the foolish acting up on the floor.

  As Rufus continued to dab at the offending lip of his stand with a small piece of sandpaper, which in his unskilled hands had no effect, William allowed himself an intense look at Bonnie. She was wearing jeans. He must have seen earlier in the day, just didn’t notice. Jeans and a T-shirt. Well, fine for rehearsing. But the thing that struck him was her footwear: red peeptoe sandals through which twinkled toenails painted a metallic green. The sort of shoes in old wartime photographs of forties film stars. But the nail polish … Would Bonnie be changing her footwear for the performance?

  William felt faintly sick. It occurred to him that he had never had a talk about sartorial matters to Bonnie. At the audition none of them had thought to ask what sort of dress she had in mind that would be in keeping with their own white ties. Grace had berated him for that. You must insist on a dress code, she had said. The girl could turn up in anything. But at the rehearsals with Bonnie before their first concert together, William had not found an opportunity to bring up the subject. Had Bonnie, then, sported her saucy peep-toes, he might have been jolted to enquire what sort of evening dress she was planning. But at those rehearsals she had appeared in black trousers and black suede boots (he remembered thinking they looked rather expensive) and the matter of dress had gone from his mind. At the concert in Slough she appeared in so ordinary a long black dress he could remember nothing about it, and the whole problem of possible sartorial awkwardness dissolved.

  Now, he saw a message in the outrageous shoes. The new viola player seemed to be saying that she had no intention of conforming to convention, and every intention of wearing what she liked. William swallowed. He hated the idea of having to curb her, perhaps argue with her, or even cause offence by criticising something that was not strictly within the bounds of his responsibility. But the Elmtree, with its reputation, could not afford to be made to look foolish by the choice of its new member’s shoes … No, he would have to take her aside. Put it to her gently. God forbid.

  His eyes rose from her feet. Her chin rested eagerly on her instrument with a certain tilt that was becoming familiar. She reminded him of a winter robin, beady-eyed, waiting for a worm.

  ‘I think we should begin, gentlemen,’ he said, then cursed himself for his mistake. He could no longer refer to his fellow players as ge
ntlemen, with the addition of Bonnie, for fear of being accused of some sort of ism. He hoped he hadn’t offended Bonnie. Oh dear–perhaps he better not have the shoe talk after all … ‘Let’s begin with the Britten,’ he floundered.

  ‘Wretched sandpaper hasn’t helped at all,’ said Rufus, ruffling through his music. Several erasers fell to the floor.

  ‘I’ll give this chair just one chance,’ muttered Grant.

  ‘Ready, everyone?’ William glanced round. Bonnie tossed back her fringe so that for a second William saw that her large eyes were almost colourless: ice eyes, he thought. But not ice hard. They crinkled as she returned his look with the smallest indication of a smile. She did not seem at all offended by the reference to gentlemen. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed. Perhaps there would be no need to apologise. Perhaps …

  He gave the nod. They began to play.

  At seven o’clock Grace was about to draw the curtains when the telephone rang. It was Jack. He usually rang once a week, duty call.

  ‘Oh, Jack.’ Grace wondered if he could detect the lack of excitement in her voice. She had never outgrown her youthful sense of anticipation when the telephone rang unexpectedly. When the caller was not some vaguely imagined surprise, she was guilty of a flatness in her voice.

  ‘I see in my diary it’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow’

  ‘That’s right.’ Her own present to William was wrapped and hidden, waiting to be placed on the breakfast table before he came down in the morning.

  ‘I was thinking: celebration. How about we come to one of his concerts with you, then all go on for something to eat?’

  Grace paused.

  ‘Mother?’ Since he was a small child Jack had always addressed Grace as Mother, though behind her back he referred to her as Mum. Recently his girlfriend Laurel had discovered from her therapist that this was some form of protest. ‘Mother, are you there?’

  ‘I was thinking. I mean, why not? Except you suggested the same thing last year, you remember, and somehow it never came off.’

  ‘I had to go to Amsterdam.’

  ‘So you did.’

  ‘Well, how about it? I’d be willing. Over to you.’