by Angela Huth
William, looking at her across the table, felt the only things he knew about her were her smile, her warmth (which was extended indiscriminately) and a little of her music. She was without doubt an unusually talented viola player–by now they all realised this -and the Elmtree would have to be careful not to lose her to a solo career. But he knew nothing of her life: her pleasures beyond music, her taste in food, the books she read, her family, her lover, lovers … These thoughts terrified him. He stood up, suddenly unable to go on looking at her twisting the long ends of her red scarf. The not-knowing was an agony he had never experienced before. He felt weak, shaky. But managed a smile as he thanked them all again.
To his amazement Bonnie got up too, and followed him through the dark rain to his car, asked if she might get in for a moment. William unlocked the doors with an unsteady hand. What on earth was this all about?
Once on the seat beside him she was very matter of fact -brusque, almost. Perhaps she wanted William to know straight away that she had nothing more than a business matter in mind. She handed him a small transparent envelope.
‘I couldn’t be the only one not to give you anything,’ she said.
William let the present lie in his open hand. It was too dark to see what it was. He weighed it, his hand moving up and down. Time, he wanted. Time. The rain battered against the windscreen. He could smell her: daisies again.
‘Happy birthday’ Bonnie switched on the overhead light. William poured out the contents of the bag–pity about the light. He had liked the dark. Two small silver objects fell into his palm. Cufflinks. They were an abstract, irregular shape. Hideous modern things, as far as William could see. Much like small bits of frozen gristle.
‘My sister designs jewellery,’ Bonnie explained.
‘They’re very fine. Thanks most awfully’ The beastly little lumps swirled about in his hand. He could never like them, but because Bonnie had given them to him he would keep them for ever. Make sure he never lost them. ‘You really shouldn’t have, you know. I mean, we scarcely know each other. Only a few weeks …’
Bonnie laughed.
‘Last night you disapproved of my sleeves, and I saw you had horrible cufflinks. I thought the least I could do … seeing you’d had faith enough to take me on …’
‘They were just cheap things. I’d lost my good ones.’
‘Well don’t you lose these.’
‘I won’t. I won’t.’ William could see the complications ahead. Two pairs of cufflinks, now: the official and the irregular. He’d have to think about how to deal with that one. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Think I’d better be getting back.’ Bonnie switched off the light again.
‘Back to London?’
‘There’s still a bit of Sambuca to be finished. It’s good stuff, isn’t it?–Yes, then London.’ She gave a luxurious sigh. They saw Rufus come out of the barn, lighted for a moment at the doorway, then hurrying towards his car bent against the rain. He was always anxious to get back to his wife Iris, a semi-invalid, as soon as possible. He waved. William imagined Bonnie and Grant alone in the barn, drinking. Grant might go so far as to light the fire. What would they talk about? William contained his own sigh.
‘So.’ Bonnie turned, leant towards William, kissed him on the cheek so lightly and fast it was as if a feather speeding by in a breeze had touched him and was gone. She was out of the car and running back to the barn: the seat beside him was more empty than it had ever been. This was a tangible emptiness, a most dreadful emptiness he had never imagined could exist. He put his hand on the seat, still faintly warm from Bonnie. This was madness, this was illness–or perhaps just punishment for alcohol in the afternoon. Whatever the cause of the tumult within him, William knew he must take a grip.
He started the engine. Thought of the rhubarb crumble. Thought of his wife’s pleasure on his return. His beloved Grace, his dear, dear Ace, whom he’d loved for so long. The weekend, till Monday’s rehearsal, stretched like an endless black desert before him. There was an intolerable sense of loss, or losing. Confusion. He did not want to lose. He must take a hold on himself now, stop imagining Bonnie and Grant in the barn … hurry home, be with Grace, hum the whole way through the first Razumovsky, be with Grace as soon as possible … He accelerated, suddenly taken by the idea of driving at speed. The concentration would help deflect the tricks of his imagination. He prayed that God would be on his side, and there would be few other drivers on the road.
In fact, once embalmed in the warmth and comfort of the house, Grace all attention with her special birthday smile, the moments of madness receded. He took the (right) decision to tell her about Bonnie’s cufflinks, and they both laughed when he showed her the nasty little things.
‘I shall have to wear them occasionally, so as not to offend her,’ he explained.
‘Of course you will.’
On the Saturday afternoon he and Grace made a bonfire of swept leaves in the garden, and it seemed to be a perfectly normal off-duty weekend. Battering heart and tingling limbs had all calmed down and a partial clouding of Bonnie’s face came as a relief.
Then, on the Sunday evening, a surprising and unexpected thing happened. She rang. Not his private number upstairs, which he had given her at the first rehearsal, explaining it was his business number, but the main house telephone. Grace answered it in the kitchen, came to tell William the news in the sitting room, where he was reading the paper by the fire.
‘Bonnie Morse on the telephone. She says she’s going to be very near here tomorrow, visiting someone. She says could she ask herself over before you have to go off to rehearse? Seems there’s nowhere to go once her appointment is over. What do you think?’
William scratched his head. He wanted to convey a hint of doubt. Mustn’t appear too eager.
‘Well, why not? All right with you?’
‘Of course. Fine. I’d like to meet her.’
‘Suggest she stays for a bite of lunch with us, then we can drive off in convoy’
‘I will.’ Grace left the room. William threw the papers on the floor, pulled at his nose, sniffing: a habit when he found himself in several minds. The extraordinary idea of Bonnie coming here of her own volition was both exciting and reassuring. Exciting for reasons he had no intention of articulating to himself: pleasing because he was sure once he could see her with Grace, the two women here under his own roof, that would resolve everything. Extinguish his pathetic little fantasies, put the pieces back together. Finally stop the rocking of the boat.
‘She’s coming about twelve,’ said Grace, on her return. ‘I must say, she sounded like a thoroughly nice young woman.’
During a wakeful night William determined not to answer the door to Bonnie, but to be hard at work in his room. She and Grace would thus have a chance for a short exchange without him, and Grace would then bring her upstairs. He had hoped that it would be a bright morning–his studio was at its best with morning sun flung over the shabby old furniture, books and piles of scores–but the weather was disappointing. Solid dark bruise of a sky, flat heavy light. The weather forecast predicted the possibility of snow.
Alone in his room after breakfast, William went through his daily ritual: its precise moves were always the same. They formed a reassuring beginning to the structure of the day. First, he shifted a pile of scores on to his desk, picked out the score he had decided upon on his way upstairs, then returned the pile of music to the floor, but not to the same place it had come from. Thus he provided for himself a small game of hide-and-seek for each morning: his own private way of enlivening his brain first thing. Next, he moved his music stand from wherever he had left it the day before, near to the window. That was the place he always played, looking out over the garden and his neighbours’ variously designed roofs. But the stand only kept its place for the duration of his practice. When he left the room it had to be given a change of scene–in a corner, by the sofa, whatever. He sometimes reflected how odd were his solitary ways, but imagined he
was not alone in such peculiarities. We design patterns of behaviour for our own security, our own comfort, he thought–patterns that could be derided by those who have no need for the comfort of routine, but are imperative to those who rely on them.
Music stand settled happily by the window, William began Massenet’s Meditation. This was not a piece in their repertoire that he needed to practise, but wanted to play in the hope of calming himself. He lifted his bow, began the lilting melody that always brought to his mind the scattering of incense, thinning as it rose. Eyes shut most of the time, alone but temporarily safe in the cavern of the music, he did not notice at exactly what time during the morning it began to snow.
Once again there was a reason for Grace to postpone her work. With Bonnie coming to lunch she wanted to make a little more effort than usual. By nine thirty Lucien still had not appeared so she began a haddock quiche. Just as she put it in the oven, and was about to go to the desk, Lucien put his head through the window. His hair and shoulders were covered with snowflakes so fragile that only their outer rims were visible
‘Freak day’ he said.
‘You’re late.’ Grace tried not to sound annoyed.
‘Does that bug you? I’m bloody frozen.’
‘Come on in. But you can’t stay long. Bonnie Morse is coming to lunch, and I must do an hour or so before then.’
The wet soles of his feet made marks on the kitchen floor. He sat at his usual place, accepted a mug of tea, then asked for toast. He was in a taciturn mood again this morning, but ate hungrily. Grace wondered when he had last eaten, and what it had been. The food and drink eventually spurred him to speak.
‘I gave in my notice. The dogs,’ he said. ‘Two days of that was more than anyone could take. Went round to the old bat this morning, told her what I thought about her dogs. She didn’t seem to like my opinion, screamed bloody murder at me, said how could she be expected to have a mind at peace in her taxing executive job - those were her very words–when her chows were shut up all day? I said not my problem, lady, and got out quick. So that wasn’t a good start.’
‘No.’
‘Then the snow.–You look in a jitter. Don’t worry, I’m off in a moment. I know when I’m not wanted.’
‘Don’t be silly, Lucien. I’ll make more toast. Are you going to try the job centre?’
‘Am I ever? Completely and utterly useless. You know how many times I’ve been there? Nothing. Nothing suitable. Ever.’
‘What, then?’
Lucien lifted his head, closed his eyes, ran his dirty hands all over the stubble skin of his face, fingers moving like a pianist. Grace had seen him do this before. It signified concentrated thought.
‘This time, no more mucking about. This time I’m going to have an idea that solves the whole thing. Do something that gets me excited right up to here.’ He opened his eyes, slashed a hand across his neck.
‘Well that’s … good. But what sort of thing?’
‘Don’t ask me that. I don’t know yet but I will know soon. But I’m talking the big time.’ He shut his eyes again, envisaging something beyond Grace’s comprehension. She looked steadily at the pathetic figure he made: thin, unwashed, jumpy, defensive, bleak. How could he possibly imagine that anyone in any area of ‘the big time’ would be prepared to give him a chance? He suddenly thumped the table with his fist. ‘That is, if Lobelia doesn’t bugger it all up for me again, like she did last time.’
‘What did she do?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not one of those who think it’s a good thing talking about stuff all the time. The social services people–at one time they kept sending round people to talk to me. Why don’t we talk it through? they kept saying. I said I don’t want to talk it through, thanks very much, you stupid old cow, so you might as well go. It’d bore me rigid going on about my pathetic childhood, and it wouldn’t do any bloody good. So you might as well bugger off and don’t send anyone else round. Course, they did. But none of them got anywhere.’ Lucien finished his tea, stood up. ‘I like talking about other stuff.’ He was silent for a moment. Still. ‘I like talking to you.’ He gave Grace one of his disarming smiles. ‘Smells good, whatever you’ve got in the oven.’
‘I’ll keep a piece for you.’
‘Maybe I should find a girl. One who likes cooking.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Once I’ve got myself sorted, I’ll start looking.–See you.’
Lucien let himself out into the snow. It was coming down thickly now, and covered his thin clothes and bent head within a few yards.
William heard Grace and Bonnie coming up the stairs at five past twelve–he checked his watch. They came upon him so suddenly he had no time to compose himself into an aspect of nonchalance. They opened the door to see him dithering by the window, like a man at loss, violin in one hand, bow in the other. Bonnie, in her instinctive way, made it easy for him.
‘William! I say, it’s wonderful up here. Your ivory tower.’
Grace, smiling, muttered something about lunch being ready at one, and left the room, shutting the door behind her. So they had exactly fifty-four minutes.
‘I rather like it,’ said William, feebly, ‘I must say’
Bonnie moved to the window.
‘Nice being able to look down on your garden.’ She touched the music stand, glanced at the Massenet score, smiled. Could she guess why he had chosen to play it? ‘This is where you play?’
William nodded. ‘Good view on a clear day.–You’ve brought your viola.’
Bonnie put the music case on the floor.
‘I never leave it in the car. Take it with me everywhere.’
‘Won’t you … sit down?’ William felt the constriction of his unease. ‘Shall I make you coffee? I’ve got all the paraphernalia up here, look, it’s easy–’
‘No thanks. Grace gave me some.–She’s lovely, your wife.’
Bonnie’s eyes were moving round the room, over hill and dale of all his private things that could be of no interest to anyone, that no one had probably ever looked at with such curiosity–interest?–before. None of the other players had ever been in this room–their occasional meetings at the house were conducted downstairs. Grace only ever put her head round the door and smiled at the general chaos. Molly the cleaning lady swiped at things unfeelingly with a duster once a week. But no one had ever looked, in the way Bonnie so pertinently looked. William felt himself moved by her apparent understanding of why things were like they were.
She bounced over to the ailing sofa, pushed up a pile of papers to make room for herself, sat.
‘D’you mind?–You know what? I learnt something extraordinary from Grant yesterday after you’d gone. You know I told you it was Dvořák’s Cello Concerto that had got me hooked on being a musician? Well, turns out it was the same piece that inspired him originally, too. Isn’t that an odd coincidence?’
‘Very odd,’ agreed William. It was also bad news. The fact that they had this in common was a worrying link. They might, God forbid, see it as some kind of sign, attribute to it an importance that did not really exist. William’s spirits dipped. There was a long silence. ‘You’ve been visiting a friend nearby?’ he said at last, dully.
‘Yes. In Reading. A very old friend.’
Now was not the time to enquire further. One day, in jocular fashion, William would gird himself to ask her questions about her private life. When he knew her very much better. He sighed. Bonnie instantly looked up, pale eyes half-moons beneath her fringe, and gave him a sympathetic smile.
‘I rather hoped,’ she said, ‘this could be the time for you to keep your promise, play to me.’
William was taken aback. He had forgotten his promise. Did he actually make a promise? He certainly had had no plan to play anything today. What could he …? Besides, this didn’t seem like the right time.
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that, Bonnie. I wouldn’t like you to hear me at far from my best, and I haven’t pract
ised a solo piece for ages.’ Her smile waned. ‘Tell you what, though: why don’t we play something together?’
Even as he asked the question William was aware he had gone too far: proposed something from which he could not retract. And yet he knew if she accepted his invitation–and it was clear she was about to do so–he would be entering dangerous territory, a forbidden place full of consequences too dreadful to contemplate, should he be so foolish …
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ she said. ‘How about one of the Mozart duos? There’s one I used to play with my teacher at college …’
William rummaged through one of his Mozart piles, Bonnie took out her viola. Some immeasurable time later they were both standing by the window, instruments poised. Outside, roofs, hedges, bare trees were now crusted with white. Snow was falling thickly, but straight, so the glass of the window remained clear, sheltered by the eaves. It was all so strange, so unnerving, William feared he would not be able to read the music. Switching his eyes from the moving white outside the walls to his own room, he saw that they, too, were shockingly unfamiliar. He had always believed in the magic of change caused by the presence of a disturbing figure, and here was proof. Bonnie’s presence in this, his room, had caused havoc.
He forced himself to meet her eye. She gave a half-smile. He nodded. They began to play together, and the forces William had predicted would be his undoing began their potent work.
They had come to the end of a duo when Grace knocked on the door. The fifty-four minutes had also played their trick, and had disappeared so fast William could not be sure they had ever happened. During their playing a pale sun–which William took to be symbolic–had broken the dark sky. The snow had slowed and was melting even as it fell. They were packing up their instruments. Bonnie glanced at William’s stricken face. He would not catch her eye.