by Angela Huth
At this very moment Laurel was about to exert her natural leadership (as she saw it). She’d had quite enough of Bonnie talk, thank you very much (and would make quite sure they never attended another Elmtree boring concert, thus avoiding the danger of running into the fat cow with her fancy sleeves). The subject had to be changed: only pudding and coffee to go.
‘I’ve just discovered tiramisu,’ she said, ‘and my goodness do I recommend it. Yummy’
No one took up her suggestion. She sulked through the long business of disparate puddings, which were eaten in weary silence. But with the coffee William sensed a faint return of energy, though his head was spinning: diners, white tables, carnations in fluted vases, aproned waiters–all were dancing towards the ceiling. Feeling it incumbent upon himself to make an effort–well, Jack would certainly be paying a lot for the terrible evening–William gripped the edge of the table and turned to his son.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
Jack frowned, not understanding.
‘Back to Hammersmith, natch,’ said Laurel. She was proud of being a resident in the borough of Hammersmith.
William kept his eyes on his son. ‘No, I mean in life,’ he said.
Jack, who had drunk almost as much as his father, was phased by the apparent seriousness of this question. He looked at his watch.
‘Good heavens, Dad. I’m not sure this is the perfect moment to answer that. I was about to get the bill.’
William was delighted Jack was unable to answer. He was not in the least interested where Jack and, God forbid, Laurel, were going in life: he hadn’t planned the question, merely released odd drunken words to break a long silence. All he wanted was to get home, go to bed. To his relief he saw that Grace, his darling Ace, was of the same mind: she was gathering up her bag, patting her lips with the napkin. The wonderful thing about their rare excursions out together in the evening was that Grace took care of the driving. There would be no bother about that. He could put back the passenger seat, sleep his way down the motorway, confident of their safe return. Grace’s competence in so may areas fuelled William’s love for her. He knew his good fortune in such a wife.
‘I’ll do the tip,’ said Laurel, peering at the bill. She took a twenty-pound note from her bag, the gesture a mixture of the discreet and the ostentatious. ‘Well, it’s been a lovely evening, hasn’t it? We should get together more often.’
William could feel Grace’s firm hand under his arm, helping him up. In many ways it was a pity she had to die, he thought. As he took his first step on the swaying carpet, the chandelier, which he noticed had become more lively in its movements as dinner progressed, was now intent on actually targeting William. It swung viciously towards him, horrible little candle-lights blinding him. If it hadn’t been for Grace’s quick reaction–she leapt ahead of him to protect him from its blow–he could have been cut to pieces.
‘Steady now,’ Grace was saying, ‘you almost fell.’
‘Only falling for you, my Ace.’
Behind him William heard Laurel’s sneering laugh, and the crude word, typical of her, tipsy. Still, so long as he could make it through the jostling tables–which, with Grace supporting him of course he could–the evening would be over. An hour from now he’d be in bed to sleep beside his wife, perchance to dream of Bonnie and the peanut plan.
On the occasions the Handles were confronted by people who wanted to know the secret of their happy marriage, Grace and William were unable to be of much help. Forced (reluctantly) to think about it, they supposed there was some art in simply observing the other one, and reacting accordingly. For the most part there was a mutual desire to avoid any sort of row or confrontation. There was an even stronger desire to avoid analysis of their lives, the eternal thrashing out and ‘talking through’ their problems, their thoughts, their feelings–the popular contemporary pastime they so abhorred. To Grace and William it would be distasteful, exhausting: there were better ways in which to pass precious time. In this, they were aware, they were branded as the very old, very British school of stiff upper lips. If pressed, they did not mind adding that tolerance of each other’s singular ways was a help to marital harmony. But they would never admit, in the name of loyalty, exactly what these ways were.–The ritual of the battle with the bed, for instance. Over the years this had become a smooth operation in which Grace happily accepted her dormant part. William expected, and received, and was grateful for her nightly co-operation.
Grace’s contribution to the whole process was vital, but not taxing. Her only duty, on nights that William came home late from a concert, was to listen to the weather forecast. Thus when he returned she could report whether it was to be warm, cool or bitter: and he could judge whether it was a two, three or four-blanket night, or a night of maximum precaution against freezing conditions, when an eiderdown would be added to the appropriate amount of blankets. If Grace for some reason failed to hear the forecast, though William would never go so far as to chide her, his dithering about as he tried to guess at the nature of the night–blankets whipped off and on accompanied by much sighing–was manifestation of his distress. He was also made unhappy by the rare occasions when he had had to leave early in the morning and there was no time to perfect the bed before his departure. Then, he would come home to find Grace reading among crumpled sheets, knowing it was not worth making any attempt to straighten them herself. At such times, not liking to ask his settled-looking wife to get out of bed, William did his best to put everything to rights around her. This was not easy. Grace gave up trying to read, lay passively while the top sheet was slung over her head, blankets were twitched in pursuit of symmetry, and her feet and knees were pushed almost flat as William tucked everything in to the desired tautness. Grace was used to all this and made no complaint. Her happiness lay in William’s pleasure when, as master of the bed, he had once again managed to orchestrate pillows, sheets and blankets to his satisfaction.
On the drive home, the night of the dinner with Jack and Laurel, Grace wished very much that William’s early departure to London that morning for a meeting with his agent had not meant that the bed was left unmade. In his inebriated state, the customary process would be certain to go less smoothly than usual. Grace, tired herself by the strain of the evening, dreaded it. All she wanted to do was to go to sleep as quickly as possible. She would have been quite happy to throw herself straight down, careless of the bed’s turmoil. But that would have distressed William beyond measure.
To Grace’s surprise, when they arrived home, William’s equilibrium seemed completely restored. His nap in the car–with whimpery little snores that registered his rare consumption of so much red wine–appeared to have sobered him completely. In contrast to his hesitant steps across the restaurant, he bounded up the stairs with an eagerness that Grace failed to understand. At the sight of the rumpled bed he smiled in peculiar glee, as if its restoration was something he could hardly wait to start upon, despite the lateness of the hour.
‘Did you listen to the forecast in the car, my Ace?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t, no. Didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Ah, well. Never mind.’
William went to the window, opened it. A shrill blast of cold air stabbed into the warmth of the room. Grace shivered, cursing herself for not having listened to the radio. William licked a finger, stuck it out of the window. Then he turned, convinced.
‘More or less freezing, I’d say. Four blankets.’
‘Eiderdown?’ Just occasionally, Grace liked to humour him. He took her suggestion seriously.
‘I’m of the opinion that won’t be immediately necessary. But if it gets cold later on, I’ll deal with it.’
Grace knew from experience that any judgement of William’s in which the word ‘opinion’ was expressed meant he was unsure, and doubts meant restless nights of leaping up and down to experiment with more or fewer blankets, battling to achieve a perfect temperature between the sheets. Wearily, she began to undres
s. William shut the window and took up a contemplative position his side of the bed. He surveyed it with a concerned look of one studying a much larger object–a building, or a ship–whose reconstruction required inordinate skill. But after some moments of silent cogitation, seeing Grace struggle to undo her necklace, he broke off his reflections to help. This was uncharacteristic. Normally, nothing could deflect William once he was embarked on his plan for the bed. In her surprise, Grace found herself discouraging him. She could not bear the thought of procrastination, for no matter what charitable reasons. She longed only for bed.
‘I can manage.’
‘No, no. I’ll just …’ William put on his glasses, turned Grace towards the bedside light, shuffled inefficient fingers among the strands of paste pearls that he had given her long ago. He could feel the warmth of the skin of her neck, soft as kid gloves. He fumbled unnecessarily with the pretty clasp, a paste aquamarine set in a frame of smaller pearls. He wanted to keep his fingers there, ascertaining the vulnerability of the neck he knew and loved. An impatient jerk of Grace’s head urged him to undo the clasp. He handed her the small fountain of pearls that trickled from his hand, still warm, their foggy shine quietly luminous in the poor light.
‘Thanks,’ said Grace.
Then, before she could move away, she felt William’s hand return to her neck. Oh Lord, she thought: a sign. Surely, tonight, both tired, so late, the whole palaver of bed-making still to come, it would be better to sleep as soon as possible. William had an early rehearsal in the morning. But she stood quite still, said nothing.
Beneath his fingers William could feel the top joint of her spine, the small dips each side of it. Then he stretched his hand to encompass the indeterminate place between the bottom of her skull and the top of her neck. The muscles, sinews, whatever they were, felt tough beneath the skin. He wondered how difficult it would be … He put his other hand under her chin. Her neck was now in a collar of fingers that tightened very slightly. Grace moved her head, puzzled.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Your pretty neck, my Ace. You always had such a pretty neck.’ He laughed, releasing his fingers. He needed words to cover his confusion, some way to disguise the slight unsteadiness of his hands. ‘It’s funny about necks, isn’t it? There’s the onset of the dewlap, isn’t there? The droopiness that betrays … but they don’t get thicker, do they? Have you ever thought of that? There’s no thickening of the neck, as such, is there?’ His voice was rising, shrill. ‘No middle-aged spread when it comes to the neck?’ He turned away from her, began to pick up pillows, shake each one hard, then smooth its linen case. He was aware of Grace’s patient little smile, a slight sigh: no doubt she was under the impression the effects of the good red wine had not yet worn off. ‘And you see what I was thinking, undoing your necklace,’ he blundered on, ‘was that your neck hadn’t changed one jot, in circumference that is, since we first met … has it? Still the same delicate little … stem that I saw arranged in that crimson velvet collar when you were eighteen–’ ‘- Twenty. William, are you all right?’
‘I’m in very good shape.’ He could have squeezed that little neck till the life went out of her, bruised the creamy skin that in all honesty showed only the slightest puckerings of middle-age. He tweaked at a sheet.
‘Shall I help you with the bed?’ Grace asked.
‘Good heavens, no. Whatever for?’ Strangling was obviously out of the question, though. Grace, the same size as William and possibly as strong, would fight for her life, fling him to the floor, send for a doctor and have him sectioned.
‘I just thought …’ Grace was off to the bathroom, undoing buttons.
Besides, William thought, he would not want to employ physical violence on the woman he loved. He replaced a pillow. Suffocation! That was a thought. But it was said doctors could always tell if someone had been suffocated. Tomorrow, on the train journey to Manchester, he would think more calmly. The matter of murder, which in some curious way did not strike William as at all peculiar to be contemplating, would require an intense passage of concentrated strategy … though the train might not be the ideal place. The others would be there, and there would be the distracting thought of spending the night under the same hotel roof as Bonnie. Good Lord, though, thought William: this time tomorrow night–well, anything could be happening.
A few moments later Grace was in bed reaching for her book. (However late, she liked to read a few pages each night.) William took stock: it was one of those awkward occasions when he would have to do his best to make the bed round her–always a frustrating process for them both. As usual William could not quite bring himself to ask her to get out, and his slight hints as to the convenience of such a measure seemed to go unheard. Tonight the pillows were luckily fine–his shaking and smoothing had distracted Grace’s attention from his disturbed state most conveniently–but the rest was a shambles.
As Grace concentrated on the silent turning of her pages (she had learnt that almost any movement put William off his stride), her husband anxiously paced the perimeters of the bed, tucking, smoothing, checking, intent on important calculations in his head. The nightly challenge–so very much harder when Grace was in the bed–was to leave the blankets on his side slightly untucked but orderly, and the blankets on Grace’s side tucked trimly and tightly, without losing a general sense of balance. Grace shifted very slightly: put down her book, switched off her bedside light.
‘Look what you’ve gone and done! Pulled it all over. Now I’ll have to realign
‘William! I’m tired. Why not just leave it? We’ll survive one night of not-quite perfection.’
William, on his knees on the floor, arms lost between base of bed and mattress–a position that always put Grace in mind of a farmer helping a troubled ewe give birth to her lamb–suddenly stood up. When the occasion called for it, no one could accuse him of a lack of magnanimity, and the guilt of his neck thoughts was still heavy upon him.
‘You’re right, my Ace,’ he said, ‘we’ll probably manage.’
His acquiescence was so mild, so unusual, that had Grace not been falling asleep it might have troubled her.
‘Grace,’ said Lucien, ‘I want to ask you a favour. I’m in desperate need of cash. Just a small loan.’
It was ten o’clock next morning. William had left soon after eight, having risen at six thirty in order to give himself unhurried time to deal with the bed. He liked to feel that when he was away Grace would enjoy its perfect state as much as when he was there. Unfortunately, time had outwitted him, and for all his careful planning he had had to rush his packing and breakfast. In his confusion he had left behind his birthday cufflinks from Grace. For some reason they were on a plate on the kitchen table. Lucien was fiddling with them, rubbing them between finger and thumb as a man exercises worrybeads. His restlessness made Grace uneasy.
‘I’d never ask unless it was urgent,’ he added. ‘You know that.’
‘For something particular, then?’ Arguments shifted within Grace’s weary mind. Lack of sleep had made her light-headed, unable to make a decision with her usual fast conviction.
Lucien shrugged, gave her one of his most endearing smiles.
‘You could say that.’
‘How much do you want? Without going to the bank I’ve only a bit from the housekeeping in cash.’
‘Whatever.’ Lucien put the cufflinks back on the plate. Grace picked them up, opened a drawer in the dresser.
‘Don’t want to leave these lying about,’ she said, vaguely ‘I’ll never learn to lock the back door.’ She shuffled about in the drawer, returned to the table with four ten-pound notes. A look of disappointment dulled the expectation that had enlivened Lucien’s expression, but he stuffed them quickly into his pocket. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have.’
‘That’ll help.’ This was said so heavily Grace was made fully aware her forty pounds would not be much help. ‘Thanks,’ he added, after a while.
Grace, mildly curious as
to the reason for Lucien’s request, did not want to discuss the transaction any further. She knew that any news concerning William was of little interest to Lucien, but in her haste to change the subject she could find no other choice.
‘William had to leave very early for Manchester,’ she said. ‘A concert. Overnight stay’
‘You mean … he’ll not be back tonight?’
‘No.’
Grace saw Lucien registering this information. He pressed his lips together, gave a slight frown.
‘Don’t you mind being in this great house on your own?’
‘Not at all. I’m used to it.’
‘I might look in,’ said Lucien. ‘Check you’re OK.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but not necessary. Really. I’ll be going to bed straight after the news.’
‘Hint taken. I know when I’m not wanted.’ He smiled agreeably. ‘But don’t you mind your old man going off for a night to Manchester with this new bird, this viola?’
‘Of course not. They’re all going, all the players.’ Grace heard herself sounding more prim than stern. Sometimes Lucien was too cheeky, overstepped the demarcation line between the generations. She was inept at dealing with him on such occasions. ‘When they’ve a concert somewhere too far to get back afterwards, they stay the night. I think they rather enjoy it.’