by Angela Huth
‘I bet they do.–Don’t their nights away worry you?’
‘Not in the slightest.’ Grace frowned. ‘Why should they?’
‘I mean, I daresay it didn’t used to be a problem–they’re not the age group to go in search of a bit of skirt after a concert. But since they’ve been joined by this new young girl–well, you know what men are, given the opportunity’ He gave a nasty laugh. Grace ignored his tone, smiled.
‘Don’t be silly. Bonnie’s a lovely young girl. Young enough to be daughter to all of them–well, perhaps not Grant. No: luckily I’ve no worries there. William’s usually so exhausted after a concert he doesn’t even join the others for a drink in the hotel bar. Straight to bed, that’s William. Always rings me last thing.’
‘Ye of great faith.’ Lucien smiled again.
‘I trust my husband totally, yes,’ said Grace. She did not like the direction of the conversation. It was almost as if Lucien was taking pleasure in trying to alarm her. ‘Always have, always will.’
‘Quite right, too.’ He was teasing now. Perhaps he had been teasing all along. ‘My bet is you’re a wife in a million. If I could have a wish, it would be to meet a younger version of you.’ He stood up. Grace laughed with relief this time.
‘You say the daftest things,’ she said.
Lucien patted the pocket of his jacket.
‘I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can. Just got to get a few things sorted.’
‘There’s no hurry.’
‘Thanks again. See you tomorrow’
When he had gone Grace realised it was past eleven: too late to get down to her painting before lunch. She decided to take the opportunity to walk to the bank, replace the borrowed cash. Lucien’s silly teasing had ruffled her. She needed air, exercise, deflection from foolish thoughts.
By the time she arrived at the bank, calm returned. She knew that there was no need to worry about William: it was Lucien who was the cause of anxiety in her life. Why had he suddenly needed money so urgently? The question was too disturbing to contemplate for long. She told herself to give up thinking about the matter, nothing to do with her. All the same, in case Lucien was in need of another loan, she cashed a large cheque. It was one of the moments she felt willing to help him in whatever way she could. Other times her most passionate wish was for him to disappear for ever. These conflicting desires caused her irritating confusion. The time was approaching when, to re-establish equilibrium, she must make a decision about the future of relations with the strange, unnerving, though also endearing Lucien. She could not call on William’s help–his opinion of Lucien was obdurately low, would never change. This was something she would have to deal with entirely on her own, and the thought of having to weigh it all up caused her great heaviness of heart.
Alone in his hotel room in Manchester, William felt powerless in the disagreeable silence common to such rooms–silence compounded of nylon carpet, central heating that makes you choke for air, the deadening impact of mass-produced furniture with its easy-to-wipe greasy shine. He sat on a pink armchair, hands sprawled at rest on its arms. It was covered in a bristly fabric more appropriate to toothbrushes than chair covers, which pricked his fingers. The headache that had been troubling him all day had not abated, despite a quantity of aspirin.–To William, headaches were visible things: fungi. The least bad were small, scarcely visible plants in the undergrowth of his head, their own heads pushing against a temple or eye. The worst were the kind he suffered today–obscene, many-headed things whose curly edges thrust against his skull until he thought the very skin would break. Sometimes they shifted, pushing their malleable humps upwards as if to crack the top of his head. Or they would move sideways, leaning so heavily against the socket of his eye he would be forced to groan out loud. Then, for no apparent reason, the mushroom would give up its attack. William would watch it wither down in his head till it was no larger than the dot that used to appear on a television screen before close-down. Once he had tried to describe the agony of the larger fungi in his head to the doctor, fearing they might be portents of a brain tumour. The doctor had chuckled, and praised William for his lucid description of the common headache. They then fell into an interesting discussion on the difficulty of describing the exact nature of pain, and the impossibility of conveying the abstract.
William shut his eyes, neck now irritated by the back of the scratchy chair, and sensed the fungi in his head swell, move, press, pinch. He felt uncommonly depressed. With a headache such as this surely it would be difficult to give of his best in the concert due to start in under two hours. On top of that dispiriting thought, the disappointment of the whole day returned to him. He had been looking forward to it–the proximity, for twenty-four hours, of Bonnie. The faintly nefarious excitement of being away from home for the night–although at this moment he would have done anything to be in his own armchair by the fire, Grace fussing round him with camomile tea. (She was the only person who understood about the fungi, perhaps because of her talent as a botanist.) On the train journey, where he had entertained imprecise thoughts of shuffling along carriages with Bonnie to the buffet car to buy her a cup of tea, she had hidden her face behind newspapers the whole way, and declined several offers of refreshment. Grant, listening to his Walkman, had been lost to them all. Rufus had slept, while William had stared in acute depression at the rain-blasted landscape through the windows.
At the rehearsal Grant and Rufus had been at their most irritable while Bonnie, unusually silent, had twice requested to make an urgent telephone call. A friend of her mother’s was ill, she explained. But she did not look very worried. William’s disbelief added to his general discomfort. What was going on in Bonnie’s life? Was some undesirable young man pressing her in some way?–As she hurried back to the platform the second time, full of charming apologies, a sense of urgency stabbed William. He would have to hurry with his plan, put it into practice as soon as possible. or it might be too late. It was unlikely a girl of Bonnie’s exceptional attractions would remain alone for long.
The sense of urgency was still with him here in the chair, chafing him inwardly as the fabric chafed his skin. On a tray beside him an indeterminate sandwich shrouded in clingfilm, and a pot of tea, remained untouched. He had no appetite. The others had gone to a trattoria for a pre-concert supper, another thing he had been looking forward to, but in the event could not face. William raised his hands to his temples, and pressed. As he did so, the fungi faded, the pain released him. A picture re-entered his mind, horribly bright: peanuts.
With a new surge of energy William leapt up, pulled on his mackintosh and hurried out of the hotel. Rain was pouring down, thick as ash. It cut into his tired face and quickly drenched his hair. He ran a few yards down the road, hopeless mackintosh cracking about his knees, to a newsagent he had earlier observed. It was still open: warm, untidy, a smell of faintly rotting fruit, the ugly gauze of neon light falling over its small world. William was convinced there would be packets of peanuts for sale. He picked up a local evening newspaper which he did not want, to swell the bulk of the real purchase he had in mind–or perhaps to dim his guilt–then asked for peanuts.
‘We are out of peanuts, very sorry.’ The thin, sad Asian shopkeeper shrugged apologetic shoulders.
‘Out of peanuts?’ Incredulous, William searched his pocket for coins for the newspaper.
‘We’ve had a run on peanuts.’
‘Out of peanuts …’ Thwarted, William’s exhaustion returned. He had no energy left to look further for peanuts on this vile night.
‘You can never tell what people will be wanting.’ The shopkeeper’s face, bluish in the savage light, conveyed a disappointment, in letting down a customer, that looked close to his own, thought William.
‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter at all. It’s of no consequence.’ As he handed over the coins he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked round: Bonnie.
‘Just dashed in for a packet of fags,’ she said.
S
he was wetter than William. Her hair was clamped to her head, divided into crab-claw curls that gripped her sparkling face. In the threadbare shop she was the rarest of customers, an illumination: William could see such facts register in the Asian’s face. His own heart began to dance.
‘What a night, isn’t it? Packet of Marlboro, please.’ She turned to William. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you wanted to rest. -Why don’t you come and join us for coffee? It’s just round the corner, the café. Very good lasagne we’ve just had.’
‘I’d come to get some peanuts but they’re out of them,’ William heard himself saying. He knew he was unable to accept her invitation, but was at a loss, in his confusion, as how to refuse her.
‘You’ll not get through the evening on peanuts,’ Bonnie laughed.
‘I’ll be–’
‘I really can’t persuade you?’ She was impatient. William shook his head. ‘Well then, see you at the hall.’ She was gone, shaking her head, scattering raindrops from her hair. The shopkeeper smiled.
Defeated in his desire for peanuts, William also sensed a certain relief. If there were no peanuts currently available, he would have to postpone his plan for a while. In the end he would have to be constructive, but he was not looking forward to working out the fine details of Grace’s demise. In the meantime, the prospect of procrastination for a while longer restored his strength. He was not ashamed of his performance at the concert.
When it was over the members of the Quartet walked back through Manchester’s wet streets to the hotel, a cheerless establishment chosen by Rufus in the interests of economy. They gathered in the bar, furnished with more bristling chairs that grazed the thighs, and lit with crude pink lights. Ropes of gold tinsel swung randomly from ceiling to pillar to windows, reminding that Christmas was not far off, though their tired sparkle caused William to think they might well have been in place since this time last year. He could imagine, mid-July, what a tedious task fetching a ladder and dismantling them would be. Better to leave them up all through the year …
Bonnie was taking orders for a round of drinks. She snapped off his aimless thoughts with a pressing question about exactly which kind of whisky he wanted. Then he went to telephone Grace. Some indistinct thought occurred to him that it would be better to ring now than later.
‘Oh, William: how did it go?’
‘Fine, fine. Goodish audience.’
‘Good. How’s–?’
‘Raining up here. Pouring.’ Changes in the weather made the only changes in their ritual conversations. ‘Any news your end?’ William thought he detected a pause fractionally longer than usual.
‘No. Nothing’s happened. I was just on my way to bed.–You usually ring later.’
‘Just thought I’d ring before we had a nightcap.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Dear, darling Grace. Deception is so easy. ‘So anyway, we’re taking the eight o’clock train back. See you late morning.’
‘Lovely’ Now there was a definite pause. ‘Have you been thinking of me?’
William slammed his free hand on to the small shelf by the telephone to steady himself. He felt a drift of sweat crossing his face: his shirt stuck patchily to his chest. The question, so surprising as to be alarming, threw him completely. Grace had never asked such a thing in her life. It was not the sort of question they would ever ask of the other one, knowing full well the answer. It was the kind of superfluous enquiry they would laugh at, had they ever discussed it. The reason for it William could not imagine -unless, with her acute instinct, Grace had been reading his mind. He managed a little laugh.
‘Of course I’m thinking of you. I always do, don’t I, my Ace? What a funny question.’
Grace laughed too.
‘It’s just been a very long evening. I don’t know why. Put me in a sentimental mood or something.’
‘My goodness. Very unlike you. But you’ve put on the alarm?’
‘I have.’
‘Then sleep well, my Ace.’
William replaced the receiver before she had a chance to say more. He saw he left on it a clammy imprint of his hand. God, he needed that drink.
Back in the bar, Grant and Rufus were sunk deep in their armchairs, eyes heavy-lidded. Bonnie was on the edge of her seat, black velvet skirt rippling over the nasty carpet. She looked anxiously at William.
‘Whatever–? You look awful. Here.’ She handed him a glass of double malt. William dreaded to think what it must have cost her. ‘Also–I’ve got something for you.’ Smiling, from behind her back she produced two small packets of peanuts. ‘There! Though I can’t think why you’d want them–’
‘–No, you couldn’t.’ Shaken again, William sat heavily beside her.
‘All that salt. Terribly bad for you.’
‘I know, I know. Thanks all the same.’ William slipped the peanuts into his pocket. He took a large sip of the exquisite whisky. ‘Thanks for this, too.’ He vaguely lifted his glass in her direction, a man whose frailty of indecision was in combat with the strength of his anticipation. Forcing his eyes from Bonnie’s lively face, he turned to Rufus, whose eyes were now tightly shut. It occurred to William that his friend looked unusually tired, and suddenly old -though perhaps it was just the dreadful lighting that enhanced his years. In his perturbed state William wondered once again how many years of good playing were left to the Quartet … Surely Bonnie would not want to stay for long with this group of men so much older, less vigorous than herself? And then what? William could not bear to think of the whole wretched process of auditioning again, and probably having to settle for someone in a different sphere from Bonnie.
Rufus opened his eyes.
Think I’ll turn in,’ he said. ‘I’m knackered.’
With an attempt at brightness, William smiled at Bonnie. The last thing he wanted was that any of them should indicate to her signs of weariness.
‘Never seems to affect his playing,’ he said.
‘Think I’ll follow Rufus,’ said Grant, quickly swallowing the rest of his beer. ‘Chance to finish my Dick Francis.’
The two men got up to go, thanked Bonnie for the drinks. For a moment William thought he saw a look pass between Bonnie and Grant–some message? Was this a plot–humour the old boy with a drink or two, then come along to my room? Was- this what Grant’s eyes were saying? The idea of a third-rate hotel assignation was particularly repugnant: William quickly put it from him, again blaming the lighting for his suspicions, and sank back into his chair. At least he had Bonnie alone to himself for the duration of his whisky. Perhaps after that he could prolong the precious time by offering her another brandy.
As soon as the others were out of sight, Bonnie leant towards William and patted his knee.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
Her touch had lit a fuse in his thigh. It ran riotously upward causing weird, weakening sparks of outrageous desire, love, confusion all through his body. He found it hard to speak calmly.
‘Something of a rough night last night. After the concert our son Jack and his girlfriend took us to some fancy restaurant, plied us with very good wine We got home much too late.’
‘Then you mustn’t be late tonight.’ She stroked his hand with one finger, in the mindless way that she might have stroked a kitten, and pushed up his cuff to look at his watch. Her finger whirled briefly on the skin of his wrist. It was almost unbearable. Was this some kind of message? What was Bonnie doing–teasing? William squirmed very slightly in his chair, hoping she would not notice the discomfort she was causing. He tried to concentrate on calming himself down. He thought of pigs’ trotters, the sinking of the Titanic, the repeal of the Corn Laws.
‘No, you’re right, I mustn’t,’ he said faintly.
Bonnie removed her hand. The brisk way she did this–no hint of wanting to linger now she had seen the time–pointed to the disappointing truth: she was absolutely innocent of any delicious intention. Simply being kind to her fellow player, her boss, was al
l she had in mind.
‘You’re wearing my cufflinks,’ she said, pleased.
‘Of course. I’m very fond of them.’ Had William been quicker off the mark he would have attempted to tell her, in a dignified and understated way, just what the cufflinks meant to him, how he … But her thoughts had flown elsewhere.
‘D’you know what? Some fan left me a note tonight.’ Bonnie was very pleased with herself. ‘Does that often happen?’
‘Grant sometimes gets notes from classical groupies. Well, handsome fellow in a largish way. Seems to have something for the girls. A few years back, I have to admit, Rufus and I sometimes had the odd invitation.’ Now his own honesty betrayed him. In such a confession, he himself was indicating his powers of attraction were over. But Bonnie, intrigued by the thought of her own fan, did not seem to register the admission.
‘Someone called Euan,’ she said. ‘Depressing handwriting, but wanted to know what I thought about when I was playing? What went through my mind? Could I enlighten him?–Could I, indeed?’ She laughed. Then he was into all the rubbishy stuff about my looks. How could anyone so sexy–he wrote the word in red ink–be a serious musician?’ She blushed. William laughed.
‘All very old lines,’ he said. He was feeling calmer now. But just for safety he called forth another trio of passion-quelling images: turnips, pug dogs, Grace’s aged slippers. ‘Whatever you do, don’t respond.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I don’t want my new viola ravished so soon.’
Bonnie did not seem to notice the lie. Her innocence made his own longing the harder to bear. But he saw that here, by chance, was the opening he’d been awaiting. Now was the time to ask her something of herself. Did she have anyone -?
‘But it’s an interesting question,’ she was saying. ‘What goes through our minds when we are playing? Can you answer that?’
‘No,’ said William quickly He loved her serious face.
‘I enjoyed the comic bits of Disney’s Fantasia as a child. But even then I found the serious parts too crude, too neat somehow.–I don’t exactly think of anything, but pictures come to mind. When I was a child of seven or eight I heard the Pastoral for the first time.’ Bonnie hesitated. William put on his best listening face. Damnit, Grant wasn’t the only one who knew the power of really listening. And this would be no pretence on William’s part, of course. He wanted to hear all Bonnie had to say. He would be happy to listen through the night. He nodded. She continued. ‘My mum said whenever she heard it she saw cows galloping across summer fields, their tails in the air. I’ve always thought of that ever since. The idea seemed to breed further pictures–but it would sound too foolish, describing them. Haydn’s the only one who produces nothing for me so far. I love him intellectually, but find there’s no vision there. Still, I’m struggling. I realise it’s my fault, not his.’