by Angela Huth
‘I do worry about you,’ said Grace. ‘I don’t know why, but I do.’
Lucien poured himself another cup of tea. It then occurred to him that he should fill Grace’s cup. But it was too late. The pot was empty. Grace tried to imagine what was going through his mind as he realised his moment of inconsideration.
‘Sorry’ he said.
‘I didn’t want any more.’
‘So: what are you going to do when I’ve gone? Back to the flowers?’
‘I don’t much feel like painting today.’
‘Pity. Because you’re very, very good. See? From what you showed me, I’d say you have bags of talent. More than most. You shouldn’t waste it. Get on with that book. Finish it. You’ll be surprised at the reaction–’
‘Oh, go on,’ said Grace. ‘You exaggerate. As I told you, I’ve a minor talent, perhaps. Nothing more.’
‘Who says talent can’t grow?’
‘I don’t believe it can. Technique can improve and improve. But actual talent, that actual fire of ability which is given to a few people in unequal measures–I don’t believe there’s any way in which that can be made to expand.’
‘Just shows you’re not aiming high enough,’ said Lucien. ‘In my judgement, and I admit I’m no expert but I do have an eye, you’re pretty bloody good. You should carry on not just half-heartedly but with all your energy. See?’ He gave one of his fist bangs on the table. He looked convincing.
Grace, completely calm now, felt invisible feathers ruffle proudly round her. No one but Lucien had ever encouraged her in her art, or even been interested in what she was trying to do. William was faultless in his politeness, of course; made some play in showing interest. Jolly good, you carry on with the good work, my Ace, he would say, on the rare occasions Grace approached him for an opinion. But she could tell there was no depth to his interest, no real belief that his wife’s painting was anything more than a useful little hobby, something to occupy her mornings at home. And here was Lucien, the uncouth stranger and new friend in her life, giving her genuine encouragement. At such moments she felt overwhelming affection for him, chided herself for ever thinking she would like to be rid of him for good.
‘You’re very kind,’ Grace said, more primly than she intended, ‘to take such an interest, to give such encouragement … Nobody else …’ She trailed off, fearful of disloyalty.
‘Course I’m interested. You’re a wonderful woman come into my life, heaps of talent, gives me all these mega breakfasts. You’re the sort of woman I’d like to find. Bit younger, I suppose …’
They both laughed. They both fell silent. Then Lucien spoke quietly.
‘So: did you get my message last night?’ ‘What message?’
Lucien tipped up his head. Grace could see the straining muscles of his neck. He gave a long, low howl in perfect imitation of a wolf. Even here, in the warmth of the post-breakfast kitchen, lights on, windows shut, Grace felt a blade of ice razoring down her spine.
‘Lucien … I don’t believe it. It was you.’
‘Me: the said wolf!’ He banged his chest, grinning. ‘Now there’s a talent I’ve always had: animal noises. Anything from an elephant to a guinea pig, honest.’
Grace, seeing his good humour, realising he obviously thought of the whole thing as some kind of joke, fought her natural indignation. Determined not to sound admonishing, she spoke in a tight, controlled little voice.
‘You gave me a terrible fright,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t think what it was.’
‘You can’t have thought it was a real wolf? Escaped from a zoo?’
‘The thought crossed my mind. One doesn’t make much sense, woken up in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what it was.’
‘Well, sorry and all that if I alarmed you. It was meant to be a message.’
‘A message?’
‘Just a little signal from me to you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t know William was away, did I? You didn’t say he wasn’t coming back after the concert. I thought I’d give a few howls, hope you’d come to the window. You’d see me. Or at least know it was me. William would be in bed asleep, and I’d have managed to send you a message. I thought that was a nice idea. A secret that would be between us.’
Grace frowned, feeling the return of uneasiness.
‘I’m not sure I …’
‘No, well, the plan didn’t quite come off, did it? You alone, the howling scaring the shit out of you … didn’t work out as planned.’
This was not one of the occasions when Grace found Lucien’s coarse language refreshing. This morning, in her disturbed state, it repelled her. She could not begin to comprehend the motive behind Lucien’s curious ‘message’, and wanted nothing more than he should go, now, at once. Leave her alone. He gave her a look possibly intended to be apologetic. Grace saw it as sly.
‘What were you doing, anyway, prowling around at three in the morning?’
‘Night walk. I walk a lot at night. Good time to think. Can see you don’t approve.’
‘You can walk all night as far as I’m concerned. But I suggest you don’t go making wolf noises under anyone else’s window. Could get you into trouble.’
‘Would I? Come on, Gracie. Take that look off your face. I’m sorry the whole thing was a mighty cock-up, and it won’t happen again. There. Am I forgiven?’
He turned his eyes on Grace so appealingly like a small boy forced into contrition but still convinced of his innocence, that she smiled despite herself.
‘You’re forgiven,’ she said. It was always easier to forgive. Lucien clasped his hands as if in prayer.
‘In that case, you might grant me a favour. Could you spare me a few biscuits for my lunch? Lobelia’s in one of her moods at home, so I don’t want to go back there till she’s calmed down. And I left my wallet …’
Grace, eager to encourage his departure, rose and went to the larder. As she stood by the shelves, contemplating which of the packets Lucien would most like, she heard his chair scraping very slightly on the floor. She stood quite still, intent on listening rather than choosing biscuits. Some instinct told her Lucien was up to something, not merely rising from his chair. She thought she heard a movement by the dresser–a rustle of paper–but could not be sure. She snatched a small packet of chocolate digestives and went quickly back into the kitchen. Lucien was in his chair. He had the air of one who had never moved. Imagination getting the better of me, thought Grace. Put it down to my jumpy state.
She handed him the biscuits. Lucien stuffed them into his pocket, thanked her and hurried out, leaving her no time to enquire when he would be coming again. She wanted to warn him that tomorrow, William just home and tired from his trip, would not be a good time. But she was too late. Standing at the sink, she waved through the window at his back view, wondering how any one man could play such havoc with her feelings in under an hour.
Then she turned back to the dresser, picked up the papers she thought she had heard move. Underneath them was the egg basket, full of brown free-range eggs that were delivered especially once a week for William. Lodged between two of them lay the lost jade cufflinks. Grace picked them up very gently, as if they were breakable as the eggs themselves. She looked at them in disbelief.
Murder, William was beginning to realise, in the mind of one who was not basically evil, was a slippery subject. Time was going by and so far nothing had been achieved beyond one pathetic attempt with crushed peanuts in a curry that had given Grace unusual pleasure. The idea of throwing Grace over a Dorset cliff when they went to stay with Dick was a pretty horrible one, and there was no absolute guarantee she would die. But unless he could think of something better, subtler, he reckoned he would have to give it a go.
The trouble was, whenever he tried to put his mind seriously to the matter of how to dispose of his wife, his thoughts scattered hopelessly, frantic as leaves in a wind. It was a subject upon which he found it impossible to concentrate. Th
is very fact, he concluded, might be his conscience at work, urging him to abandon even considering his nefarious act. But some devil within him persisted: driven by his all-consuming love (was it love? a question he must attempt to answer very soon), the flotsam of thought concerning the murder of his dear wife floated day and night through his mind. Only when he was playing did it disappear.
After William’s strange encounter in the bar with Bonnie, whose news of no current boyfriend had so raised his spirits, there was little of the night left. He managed a couple of hours’ uneasy sleep and woke to find the curtains of the soulless room bleached by a bland and foreign light. Still four hours till another of the ghastly mauve breakfasts, six hours till the dreaded drive into the country to see the church.
William decided it would be a good idea to employ his time by thinking very hard about the Unspeakable. Calmly he would confront himself with difficult questions, and try to answer them. With any luck, he might arrive at some firm, sane decision. He shut his eyes.
Do I love my wife Grace? he began.
Completely. As much as any man can love a wife.
Do I love young Bonnie?
I suppose it’s love, though it doesn’t feel like the love for Grace. It doesn’t even feel like the love I felt for Grace when we were young.
Are you happy with Grace?
I am. I always have been. I always will … be.
Then why do you suppose, being so extraordinarily fortunate in your marriage, that you should want to swap your wife–either hurting her or killing her–for a young girl (a very attractive, sweet young girl, yes, yes) about whom you know little?
Can’t really answer that.
Try.
It’s not an unusual syndrome. Happily married man (or woman) sees something beyond the safe confines of his or her life, and is irresistibly drawn.
Even if it’s impractical, foolish and cruel to act upon this feeling?
Yes.
Mid-life crisis, perhaps?
Don’t believe in any of that rubbish. Crises come every year of your life.
I know comparisons are odious, but perhaps we should do a little comparing. It might make you see sense.
Very well. I’m prepared to try anything.
What is it that fires your love for and devotion to Grace?
Pretty well everything. She’s as near perfection as you could hope for in a woman. Gentle, kind, considerate, imaginative, unselfish, strong, funny–the list would go on for ages.
Exciting?
Well, not as exciting as she used to be, obviously. But then nor am I. The dimming of excitement on both sides, in a marriage, is perfectly reasonable. To be expected.
In all your years of marriage have you ever looked at, or been attracted to another woman?
Never. Hand on heart.
So: harder question. What is it you love–if it is love–about Bonnie?
Everything I’ve ever seen, though I admit that’s not been very much. Most of all, I suppose, her talent. She’s an extraordinary musician. When we play together … I’m not going to describe what happens to two people joined together in the playing of a profound piece of music, but its power can leave one weak with gratitude, helpless. The nearest thing I know to ecstasy.
When did you first realise the depth–if it’s depths we’re speaking about–of your passion for Bonnie?
The day she came to my house and we played some Mozart duos together looking out over the garden. There was snow.
Do you think she has any idea of your feelings for her?
I’m pretty sure she knows I like her. And admire her. She probably sees me as a funny old thing, but age doesn’t come into the bond of music.
William: let’s be sensible. Is there any reason to suppose that the swapping of the tried-and-tested and altogether remarkable Grace, for the untried, talented young Bonnie, is a good idea?
That is a question … to which I shall give further thought on the way to the church this morning, and whenever I have a free moment.
Be practical, too. Have you considered if Bonnie would be party to your plan?
I have.
And?
That’s another matter for further cogitation. In many ways she’s older than her years. She’s aware of the … music between us. I daresay she could be persuaded. I think she’d know that in me she’d found a man whom she could trust.
Trust? But you’re planning to murder your wife.
That’s a plan that’s been floating, I agree. Pretty mad. Probably won’t ever come off. Can’t unfortunately see much alternative.
If you’re really set on the insane plan of leaving Grace, you could go for something conventional, like divorce. Thus you’d avoid prison–for surely one as inept at murder as you, would be found out within moments of the act–and be able actually to be with Bonnie. Should she want you …
True.
Then why -?
I’d find it very hard to leave Grace. To explain to her. Murder might be easier.
Then stay with her. Abandon for ever all the evil thoughts that have been consuming you, and return to thinking of Bonnie merely as your delightful new viola player whom the Elmtree was lucky enough to have found.
That’s the trouble: I can’t go back to that.
William: two final, difficult questions.
Thank God we’re nearly through. This is all a dreadful strain. Is it desire you feel for Bonnie?
(Long pause.) That comes into it, yes. (Another long pause.) Well, yes, I suppose I can’t deny her presence has a deliquescent effect. I long to … But I love her company, too. She cheers me up. I love her playing -
Yes, yes. Now, finally -you would agree your plan is that of a man unhinged, temporarily (let us hope) insane?
Of course I agree to that.
You would agree, therefore, that the only possible thing to do is to come to your senses? Abandon the evil thoughts–in such an essentially good man they’re no more than bad dreams that have somehow lodged in your waking fantasies. Let logic, kindness, human charity return to their rightful place, dousing these insane fantasies like a blow torch -
No need to get poetic here. What you’re saying is, give up all thoughts of Bonnie, stay happily married to Grace.
That’s precisely what I’m saying.
Well, this has all been quite useful, I have to admit. Not an easy business.
Then you’ll try.
I’ll try.
Good luck.
Thanks.
When this dialogue with himself came to an end William leapt out of bed with unusual bounce and went to the window. He drew back the curtains and looked over the roofs of Prague, feeling pleased with himself. It had all gone rather well. A conclusion -the conclusion in his heart he wanted–had more or less been agreed, and now all he had to do was carry it out. At the moment he felt strong in his resolve. After all, no one had any inkling what had been going on in his tortured mind for the last few weeks: there was no explaining to be done to anyone but himself. All he had to do was screw his determination to the sticking place … remember to get Grace her favourite scent at the duty-free, return to normal. Shouldn’t be too difficult for one of his inner fortitude. He drew himself up to his full height, re-knotted the cord of his pyjamas. Grace had always believed in his inner fortitude, and she was a woman of no mean judgement.
Two hours later William was putting his good intentions into practice. Had he not had the serious discussion with himself, he would have made sure his place in the minibus was next to Bonnie. In the back seat, with Rufus or Grant, their arms, thighs, bodies might have had occasion to touch. He would have felt sick from–well, whatever it was that bedevilled him when he was close to her.
As it was William made sure he was the first to reach the minibus, and took the seat next to the driver. He gave no reason for this unusual placing–Rufus was accustomed to taking the front seat whenever they drove together. Rufus’s look, when this privilege was denied him that Prague morning,
was one of astonishment and irritation. But William didn’t care. Both men kept their silence.
On the drive through uninteresting Czech countryside–it put William in mind of many of his least favourite places in England -he concentrated wholly on thoughts of Grace. What was she up to now? Her painting, he hoped. Dear head bent over a sprig of hybrid holly or a helleborous rose. He must remember to encourage her to complete this book with all speed. It had been in the making a good many years, and he didn’t want it to die on her. He would suggest a little celebration when it was finished: drinks and supper with the Quartet and a few friends. Perhaps he would compose an aria for her–she had, on occasions, remarked that she wished William was a little more like Schumann, writing pieces for his loved one. Well, William would compose a little song for Grace and get Bonnie to sing in her sweet voice … No danger there, a public occasion. He hadn’t composed anything for so long. The publication of his wife’s book would be an opportune moment.
It was more likely, William thought, that Grace was nowhere near her paints, but making plans for meals for the weekend. When he had been away, she always made a special effort to welcome him with his favourite puddings–Guards pudding, queen of puddings, steamed orange pudding. William’s stomach ached for such comforts. The Czech breakfast, as usual, had been the inadequate little squares of plastic strawberry jam flattened on to bread so hard it endangered the teeth. He was hungry. Hunger and lack of sleep had spurred, too, some other kind of longing. He kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. Not for anything in the world would he allow himself to turn round and let his eyes pry on Bonnie in her jeans, and the sloppy jersey which slunk round her breasts. No. What he thought of was Grace in the bath, his Bonnard Grace, his dearest Ace, toes mushrooming through the foam, nipples (faded nipples, in truth) no longer upright but pointing at an endearing angle towards the familiar wadge of her stomach. Faced with this picture, the uncomfortable feeling mercifully faded.
The minibus pulled up in front of the Kutná Hora Church. The driver hurried to open each of the vehicle’s doors, elated by his own gallantry. He smiled and shrugged, pointed at the church, tapped his forehead.