by Angela Huth
At the end of the piece there was further overwhelming applause, but this time the players scarcely stopped to nod before hurrying after William.
He found Bonnie beside him in a long passage, anxious.
‘Have to hurry if I’m going to catch my train,’ she said. She folded back one of the sleeves, looked at her watch. A wide band of the green, dimmer in the passage light, was exposed.
‘Wonderful sleeves,’ said William.
‘Aren’t they? Antique satin I found somewhere. Feel.’
She took one of William’s hands, lay it for an infinitesimal moment on the stuff, soft and downy as feathers. He thought of kingfishers, linnets, greenfinches, moss.
‘I’ll give you a lift to the station,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite. It’s on my way’
The station was directly opposite to his route home, but Bonnie had no inkling of the lie. Grant came out of the men’s dressing-room, already changed. William drew himself upright, as if to look less guilty. Guilty of what, for heaven’s sake? Stopping two seconds in the passage to compliment Bonnie on her sleeves?
Grant came right up to Bonnie, patted her on the shoulder.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was a bloody miracle. You played like an angel.’
Bonnie was far more pleased with this compliment than she had been with William’s trivial comment on her sleeves. She thanked Grant with a heavenly smile. William cursed himself. He should have been the first one to congratulate her on her remarkable performance.
‘Want a lift to the station?’ Grant asked. ‘I pass it.’
‘Thanks very much, Grant. But I’ve just said yes to William. It’s on his way, too.’
Grant gave William a long look in which his surprise, out of loyalty to his old colleague, was indicated only in the almost invisible raising of one eyebrow.
In the car Bonnie said: ‘I think if we hurry a bit we might just make it.’
‘Very well.’ With Bonnie beside him, William’s concentration was slipping. She smelt strongly of some flower. ‘Is that scent you’re wearing bluebell?’ he asked.
‘Daisy, actually’
‘I knew it was something wild.’
‘William: the lights have changed.’
‘My goodness, so they have.’ Some idiot behind them was hooting.
‘That means we ought to go.’
Firm of purpose, William attacked the gear. The engine stalled. Sweat poured down behind his ears.
‘I don’t think you like driving very much.’
‘No.’ They shuddered off at last.
‘Still, we’re nearly there. You’re doing well.’
Her kindness burst like a sunflower within him, warming, giving him strength. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her pick up a plastic shopping bag into which she had stuffed the velvet dress. He had not the heart to tell her there was at least another mile to go, complicated by traffic lights, one-way systems and every kind of impediment to speed.
They reached the platform just as the train was leaving. William was too distraught to think clearly. He had let Bonnie down and must be seen to do something. Still in his white tie and tails (knowing he was not a speedy dresser, he had decided not to change for fear of delaying Bonnie), he plucked his handkerchief from his pocket and ran some yards after the train, waving, to no avail. He was stopped in his tracks by the guard.
‘Bad luck,’ said the man.
‘Can’t you do something?’ panted William.
‘Like what?’
‘Stop it?’ He saw that the train was toy-sized in the distance by now, and Bonnie was laughing.
‘I can’t, no,’ said the guard, who was enjoying himself. ‘Whoever you are,’ he added.
‘Have we a hope of catching it up at the next station?’
‘Don’t suppose you have. Unless you drive a Porsche.’
‘I don’t, no, thankfully’ William’s knees were trembling. The command he knew he could summon on a concert platform seemed to have evaporated completely, here, on the empty station platform. Bonnie beside him looking as if she was convinced he could solve the problem. ‘Well, I don’t know …’
‘The last train’s in an hour’s time,’ offered the guard. He wandered away, the novelty of the scene having worn off.
That’s cool,’ said Bonnie. She was beside William, hand on his trembling arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a coffee. I’ll wait. You must go. I’ll be fine.’
‘Not on your life.’ William backed away from her. ‘It’s all my fault, I’m so sorry. The least I can do is stay with you, get you a drink.’
Bonnie, seeing his determination, did not argue. They sat at a small plastic table in the café, the objects of the place bared in all their ugliness under strip-lighting. William waited for the man behind the counter to finish shuffling an arrangement of rolls bandaged in clingfilm, and show some interest in his order. Eventually the man looked up.
‘What, you a ringmaster, or something?’ He sniggered.
‘One tea, one Diet Coke,’ said William, with great dignity. For a few moments, in the pleasure of realising he was to spend an hour alone with Bonnie, he had forgotten about his clothes. The man reminded him of his own absurdity, but he did not mind. In his present heightened mood he was protected from all slings and arrows. He looked over to Bonnie, chin resting on her hands, eyes on the empty platform. What a girl, what a girl … What should he say to her? How should he begin? It would be foolish to waste the single hour with small talk.
He fetched the drinks when the man behind the counter showed no signs of performing that part of his duty. Then he moved towards Bonnie, carrying the tray with the same rigid pessimism as he held a steering wheel. But encouraged by her enchanting smile, he felt he might have been crossing the floor of the Café de Paris bearing champagne. He took the nasty little chair opposite her, arranged the tea and Coke on the nasty little table, scarcely bigger than a plate, between them. Bonnie’s delight seemed out of all proportion to the gesture.
‘Thanks. Great. I say, that was really good, the concert, wasn’t it?’
‘It was good, yes.’
‘What d’you think happened? I mean, I felt the sympathy of the audience was almost tangible. It’s not often as powerful as that.’
‘It’s certainly not, no.’ William sipped the disgusting tea to give himself time. He decided to go for lightness of explanation. He moved one side of his mouth, prelude to a smile. ‘I think it must have been something to do with your sleeves. The audience was captivated by them.’
Bonnie laughed.
‘I thought you were going to say it was something to do with my playing.’
‘It was probably that, too. You did so well, though as you know we’re all equal in a quartet.’
‘That’s not quite true, though.’ Bonnie looked at William shyly. ‘You’re an outstanding violinist. Don’t know why you’re not world famous.’
‘No! Really’ William, not often called upon to be modest, was uncertain how to handle compliments of this kind. ‘I’m just a regular player. Love my violin.’
‘One day, I’d like to hear you play by yourself
‘I’m sure that can be arranged …’ Dear God, it could. William’s eyes left Bonnie’s, fearful she might see in them the turmoil in his heart. He envisaged the scene they made as if from the platform on the other side of the rails … man of middling years in white tie and tails, beautiful young girl who some might take for his daughter, heads haloed by strip-lighting, horrible little café their pathetic backdrop, all another world from the station scene in Brief Encounter …
‘When did you know you wanted to be a violinist?’ Bonnie was asking. ‘I always like to know the precise moment when a decision strikes someone like lightning. When there’s no doubt any more.’
Well, he could answer that.
‘My father was an architect, worked at home. Passion for Wagner. Said Wagner was his inspiration. So we had The Ring bla
sting through the house all day. Did nothing much for me. But he drove my father to design more and more bus shelters with winged roofs–nobody ever wanted them. I think the music was some sort of consolation. Anyway, one day he took his portfolio up to Manchester, where he was going on one of his wild-goose chases. Knowing he’d be away for a whole day I asked my mother if she’d put on something she liked. She hunted through a small pile of old seventy-eight records that she took from a cupboard–a hidden store, I think. I’d never seen them before. She put one of them on the old gramophone–one of those radiogram things in an elaborate case of polished walnut–you’re too young to know what I mean. Anyhow … “You may not like this, son,” she said, “but it’s the nearest I know to sublime.” It was one of the Beethoven late quartets.’ William paused, let his eyes meet Bonnie’s again. That was it, really. I was six. Said I wanted a violin. The music frightened me so much I knew I had to …’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I didn’t know what I had to do. A few weeks later, my seventh birthday, they gave me my first violin. Some benevolent old man in the neighbourhood commissioned my father to design a crazy summer-house, so I was able to have lessons
‘Goodness,’ said Bonnie, quietly.
‘I do remember very well that feeling of absolute certainty. It was as frightening as the music’
‘Know what you mean. Certainty can be frightening.’
‘And you–how did it happen to you?’
Bonnie shrugged. ‘I was always fiddling around on the piano, from a very young age. My mum used to play, Blues and stuff. Then when I was about ten I was walking down our road, a hot summer, and heard this music coming out of an open window -radio on very loud. Wow, it was something, I thought. I just stood by the privet hedge, waiting till the end, feeling daft just standing, listening. Then to my horror a fierce-looking man came out of the house, asked me what I was doing, hanging about. Don’t think he believed me when I said I was waiting till the end of the piece -think he thought I was a young burglar or something. Anyhow, he said, “Dvořák’s Cello Concerto, now you run along.” So I ran home, saying the word Dvořák to myself over and over again so as not to forget it. When I got there I told my mum what had happened and said I now knew absolutely definitely what I wanted to do: I wanted to play the cello. She said don’t be so daft, the cello’s much too big. So I said, being perverse, well a violin’s much too small–course, I hadn’t a clue what size a violin was. So she said why not try something in between? About six months later I played a solo viola piece, can’t remember what it was, in a Christmas concert. Got a write-up in the local paper … And that was it. Certainty. Just carried on.’
‘Well,’ said William.
‘Boring story, really’
‘Not at all. Another Coke?’
‘No thanks. D’you know what I’ve been thinking?’
‘I don’t know what you’ve been thinking, no.’
‘That it would be much easier, now I’m with the Elmtree, if I got out of London. I hate the place anyway. If I found somewhere much nearer to the rest of you there’d be no more of these sort of problems.’ She nodded towards the empty platform. ‘Grant says he knows a neighbour with a top flat to let. Might go and look at it.’
At the thought of her already having discussed her plans with Grant (when? when?) something shifted painfully within William.
‘That’s a good idea,’ he said, aiming for brightness.
They talked about the advantages of her moving, the convenience of Grant’s barn, the forthcoming concerts. The hour was gone. William accompanied Bonnie to the train door, patted her shoulder.
‘You’re a star, William,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow, three o’clock. Drive carefully’
William seemed to remember he had once heard Laurel calling Jack a star: perhaps it was a compliment often used by the young. All the same, he felt himself spinning about the station, dazed, inebriated, hopelessly looking for a telephone. He had to ring home. Grace would be so worried. He found one at last.
‘My Ace, oh my Ace. Sorry not to have rung before. Got dreadfully held up–an amazing concert. Two encores.’
‘Two encores?’ She sounded calm, unworried.
‘I’ll tell you all about it. I’m on my way now. Don’t wait up.’
‘I’m in bed already.’ Grace laughed, her long rippling laugh that was part of William’s being.
‘Back in an hour.’
All the way home, a slow and peaceful journey aided by a full moon, William thought not of Bonnie, who had done such peculiar things to his heart this evening, but of Grace. How good their life was. How inestimably he loved her. What a remarkable woman she was–a woman in a million. How he sometimes took her for granted, perhaps. And why, suddenly, this evening, was he accosted by so many loving thoughts?
Grace was asleep when he crept into the bedroom. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. She did not stir.
He got into bed as quickly as he could, turned out the light. He always loved those moments of total darkness before sleep came. They produced so many surprises, possibilities. Tonight the last bars of the Schumann sang through his head, bars of twinkling lights: and there was Bonnie, dipping and swaying, flashing her funny green sleeves. She was the last thing he remembered.
3
William passed a troubled night. Weird dreams, restless limbs. Lack of sleep affected him badly. He had to make some effort to go downstairs wearing his usual morning face–an expression, Grace had once said, that indicated his inner harmony with life.
On the breakfast table there was a small present, and several envelopes that did not look like bills, one in Grace’s handwriting. For a moment, in confusion caused by fatigue, William thought he had been caught out by some trick of time, and somehow Christmas had leapt upon them. Then he remembered.
‘Happy birthday,’ said Grace.
‘Oh my Ace, oh my darling girl. You never forget.’
Grace, as she put a pot of tea beside him on the table, kissed him lightly on the temples. Every year Grace gave William cufflinks for his birthday, and every year William lost at least one of them, if not the pair. This was hardly surprising: he had to wear them at least three evenings a week. Hurrying to change after a concert, eager to be home, it was all too easy to mislay socks, a white tie, cufflinks, studs, pens and other bits of the paraphernalia that haunt the life of a travelling musician. So although an element of surprise had been missing in Grace’s present for many years, it was always received with gratitude.
William drank his tea. He needed strength, calm before tackling the envelopes. Grace sat opposite watching the gathering of his forces. She longed to ask him about the encores, and what time he had got home. But even on his birthday it would have been untoward to break their unspoken rule of silence at breakfast. The questions would have to wait till lunch.
The first card was from Laurel: distant view of the Matterhorn with glittery stuff representing snow. The second from Jack: the millionth reproduction of The Skater. William had once told his son that he had seen the picture in the National Gallery of Scotland as a child, and given it ten out of ten. Jack must have stored this fact in the back of his efficient chartered accountant’s brain, and thought he couldn’t go wrong. He had sent it on at least three birthdays in the last ten years. Last, Grace’s card. As he slit the envelope William glanced up at her dear, eager face. For as long as he could remember she had been looking at him like that, a look of undimmed expectancy, humour, love. How can I be so lucky? he asked himself, as he did many times a week.
Grace had painted a single flower for him, a thistle. William put on his glasses. He hadn’t seen one of her thistles before. She’d done it awfully well, of course. She had real talent. The downy stuff … you could almost feel it. When at last she finished her book, it was bound to be a bestseller.
‘Must have taken you hours, my Ace,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely, thank you so much.’ He opened the card to read the message written in gold ink. His throat constricted. Grace’s si
mple declarations of love always affected him physically–a sign, he knew, that his own love was equally profound, though he was less able to give it expression. He ate a piece of toast.
This unusually drawn-out breakfast was causing Grace some agitation. For the last few days Lucien had been arriving earlier than usual. She dreaded his poking his head through the kitchen window this birthday morning.
‘The present,’ she said, pushing a small parcel wrapped in floral paper across the table. She looked at her watch. ‘Stephen rang last night, wants you to call before nine.’ Stephen was William’s very fierce agent.
‘He does chivvy, that man, doesn’t he?’ William picked up the small box, began ineptly to unwrap it. Grace cursed herself for having been so lavish with the Sellotape.
At last it was free of paper. William lifted it close to his face, feigning excitement. Get on with it, please, thought Grace … Lucien.
William opened the box with the caution of a man half expecting something to spring out at him. There, very close to his eyes, lay a pair of small cufflinks of deep jade set in gold. The green of the stones was the green that had had such power last night. Though in the dullness of the kitchen it was a lightless green–the stones resembled very old eyes in which light no longer reflects.