Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

  ‘My brother,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ God, the relief. William could see that if this room was all he was going to be shown of the flat–and as it was far from a grand mansion of architectural delights, to ask for a tour would not be appropriate–he would be unable to find many clues. Bonnie handed him a cup of tea, a plate and biscuits. ‘You’ll enjoy Bournemouth next week,’ he said. ‘We’ve a wonderful following there. Always a marvellous audience. The Dvořák … They love that.’

  ‘Have you come here to talk about Bournemouth?’ Bonnie pushed back her fringe. For a second there was a flash of wide, pale forehead and the ice-coloured eyes. Teasing, William thought.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Funny thing is,’ she said after a while, ‘outside your music I know nothing of your life, despite a few hints in Prague.–You and Grace. Can’t imagine it.’

  The idea of her trying to imagine it was surprising. It brought a measure of comfort. It meant that during some of the long hours that he had spent thinking of her, she had been thinking of him.

  ‘Grace and I, we’ve been married a long time. Very happy and all that. She’s a woman in a million. All the same …’ He clasped his hands, raised his shoulders with the effort of an attempt to say what he desperately wanted Bonnie to know. ‘All the same, I’m gravely alone.’

  There was a moment’s silence in which Bonnie looked as if she wanted to laugh, then restrained herself.

  ‘Gravely alone! I know what you mean, though gravely probably applies more to you than to me.’

  ‘Quite. I can’t imagine you grave.’

  ‘But you can imagine me happily alone?’

  ‘I suppose so. I hope so.’

  ‘Because that’s what I am.’

  Whither, now? He had dared, she had almost understood. But they seemed to be slithering off the path. He must play for time, return more gently.

  ‘You’re set up nicely here,’ he said, feeble in his attempt.

  Bonnie shrugged.

  ‘Haven’t done much yet, as you can see. Not sure I can be bothered. I don’t see myself here for ever.’

  ‘You’re thinking of moving?’

  ‘Nothing definite. But I think of this as a temporary place. It doesn’t feel like anywhere permanent, does it?’

  William shook his head, which was spinning. The room was becoming a quicksand into which he felt himself sinking. Did Bonnie mean that her time with the Elmtree was temporary, too? That she was thinking of moving on? But to question her further would be to risk an answer he had no desire to hear.

  There was a long silence.

  Then William said: ‘Do you ever think about Clara Schumann?’ ‘Not much, why?’ Again Bonnie halted a smile. William’s switches of thought confounded her, amused her. ‘That poor woman. I think about her a lot.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, she wore herself out, didn’t she? Wore herself out loving. But it was Brahms I feel really sorry for.’

  ‘He gave her the rough time, didn’t he? Wouldn’t commit himself, used her, dropped, her, used her–’

  ‘Oh, all that. I don’t deny that.’ William sighed, braced himself. ‘But the Julia Schumann part of the story …’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Clara’s daughter. He’d known her as a young child. Watched her grow into a glorious young creature, apparently. Brahms was obsessed by her. Couldn’t do anything about it, of course, because of Clara.’ There, he’d said it. Some inspiration had produced this introduction to what he wanted to say. Bonnie looked interested.

  ‘Old man’s lust?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Where’s the dividing line–lust, love? Such cases are always sad. Though I don’t know why they’re always assumed to be nothing but lust. Love is often the driving force.’ He said this lightly, with a smile. Bonnie responded–unless he imagined it, in the fading light, with a slight deepening of her pink cheeks. His inspiration now seemed to be failing him. Here was another impasse, and he had no idea where to turn next.–‘But you, Bonnie: what’s in store for you? How do you see your future? Any plans?’

  Bonnie laughed. She probably had no notion of the importance of his questions.

  ‘How can I possibly answer such things? I’m far too young to be sure of concrete plans. All I know is I just want to go on playing and playing, getting better. I take each day as it comes–don’t you remember doing the same, when you were young?’

  William took two slow sips of tea, stung. He glanced at his watch. Time was running out.

  ‘Daresay I did, though I remember always being rather boringly precise about what I imagined was to happen next. You could say I was old even when I was young …’ He smiled again, attempting to win her back on his side. Not having planned a strategy had been foolish: things had not gone the way he had hoped. There had been no indication of reciprocated feeling–and now he was lost. Soon he would have to go. Just one more question, jokingly put …

  ‘But your heart–not engaged? You must have hundreds of young men queuing up for your favours …’ God, he sounded so old. Intrusive, too, despite the lightness of tone. But this time Bonnie laughed with a depth of good humour.

  ‘Honestly, William! Do you ask your son all these questions? But, no, right, I’ll tell you. You’re sitting next to the love object that most engages my heart.’ She looked at her viola. ‘OK? But I promise you one thing, in case it’ll bring any comfort. If ever things change, and I have to leave the Elmtree, I’d give you masses of warning, I promise.’

  ‘That would be very kind.’ But that was not what he meant at all.

  ‘As it is, that’s far from my mind. But you could replace me in a flash, no trouble.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘You’d be irreplaceable.’ William’s hand suddenly shook so hard he had to put down the cup.

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, but not true.’

  ‘You’ve probably no idea how high a regard I … we all have for you.’

  ‘And you’ve probably no idea how much I realise how lucky I am to be part of such a quartet. Beyond my wildest dreams, honestly.’

  ‘Your only trouble is that you’re so damn beguiling I sometimes want to–’

  The telephone rang, cutting him off. Bonnie leapt up. On the way over to answer it she patted William affectionately on the shoulder. As soon as she picked up the receiver she giggled. William put his head in his hands. He could not be sure if she had taken in his last crumbled declaration–and if she had, was she affronted, amused, pitying, what?

  ‘N–o,’ Bonnie was saying. ‘About five, I should think. Come about five.’ She put down the receiver and returned to the fire, but not to sit. William glanced at his watch: twenty to the hour. He must go before she was forced to suggest his leaving. He stood, drooping in his failure. Bonnie did not urge him to stay. In the skidding of her look, the flicking of her skirt, he observed a slight impatience for him to be off. Her next visitor was the one that mattered–of that there was no doubt. His thanks, their farewells, were brief.

  ‘It was lovely that you came, William, really … any time.’ Kisses on both cheeks again. Then the sad journey down the stairs, the melancholy of knowing he had achieved nothing, messed up his chance. Plainly it would take much more work on his part to persuade Bonnie where her free heart (could that be the truth? he wondered) could come to rest. He must gather his strength, his patience: think more clearly about how to win her, how to do away with Grace …

  The streetlights were on, their beams shimmying down into an evening mist. William unlocked the car. He saw the back shelf still crowded with the garage flowers he had forgotten to give her–probably a good thing. Might have been over the top, caused her more embarrassment. Waste of money, but still. Grace wouldn’t want them … He’d have to stop and throw them over a hedge on his way home.

  William drove more je
rkily than usual, invoking the rage of more than the usual number of motorists. He tried to turn his weary mind to the comfort of the warm, familiar kitchen that awaited him at home. Scones, perhaps. Strawberry jam. Grace. His dear, innocent Ace.

  But he found the house in darkness. She was out–where, for heaven’s sake? It was unlike her not to be back from shopping by five thirty. As he turned the key in the door it occurred to him that this final nail in his despondency was more than a little peculiar, considering his ultimate plan was for Grace to be gone for ever. At approximately the same time that William was waiting outside Bonnie’s door, wondering what to expect, Grace stood outside Lobelia’s house in an identical state of nervous anticipation. She rang the bell, waiting to be faced by the vulgar, hedonistic woman she had heard so much about.

  Lucien opened the door. Grace was immediately surprised by his scarlet jersey, new and expensive looking: very unlike him. Perhaps, Grace thought, he did not sell every present from his mother. Her look rose from his jumper to his face. He stared at her with dead eyes, as if he had just woken and did not recognise her.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said at last, and indicated she should come in.

  There were no lights on in the narrow hall that Grace had seen on her charitable visit. Mournful wooden panelling and shut doors made it near dark.

  ‘She’s in there, or will be,’ said Lucien. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall. ‘Go on in. I’ve got to go out.’ He moved towards the open front door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ Grace knew he would scorn such conventional politeness, but dreaded the awkwardness should he disappear with no word.

  ‘You’ll recognise each other.’ He gave the faintest smile and was gone, banging the door behind him.

  Grace stood at a loss in the hallway. The rudeness of him, she thought. For a moment, angry, she contemplated leaving, too. It had been his idea, this meeting: the least he could have done was to have introduced her to his mother, made a little polite small talk before leaving them on their own. But to leave now, the arrangement having been made, would be as badly behaved as Lucien. Grace went to the door he had indicated, knocked, and went in.

  The room was empty. No lamps lit in here, either. It took Grace a while to accustom her eyes to the dim geography of the room, lighted only by a darkening sky over a narrow garden outside. It was a cheerless place: too many dark armchairs herded together like animals before a storm, shoals of tasselled cushions clinging to the sofa, a reproduction of Landseer’s Stag at Bay over the fireplace. Grace unbuttoned her coat, wondered what to do. Lucien had not alerted his mother to her arrival: maybe, in his perverse mood, he had not even told her the time Grace had arranged to be here.

  She sat on one of the Dralon-covered chairs. On a small table beside her there was a photograph of an enchanting small boy in a silver frame. Lucien, she supposed, and sighed. How on earth had such a sweet innocence turned to … whatever it was he had become now? Ten minutes passed very slowly.

  Then there was the sound of footsteps upstairs. Grace stood, doing up the buttons again. She faced the door. It opened. The woman who stood there was backlit by a single light in the hall that she must have switched on. Grace could only see that she was small and thin, in her mid–or late–sixties. Probably the housekeeper, she thought. From what Lucien had said, Lobelia did little in the house herself.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Grace Handle, Lucien’s friend. He told me Mrs Watson wanted to meet … He arranged that I should come this afternoon–’

  ‘You’re Grace Handle?’

  ‘I’m sorry–weren’t you expecting me?’

  The woman came into the room, shutting the door behind her. She touched a switch. Balloons of cautious light spread from various lamps.

  ‘I’m sorry to sound so unwelcoming. No, I wasn’t expecting you. Lucien is always a little imprecise about when things are going to happen. He simply said one day you would come.’ Her small mouth twitched. Grace could now see her clothes: all grey, a crochet cardigan over a demure silk blouse.

  ‘And you … are?’ Grace was still fighting to establish the woman’s identity. Perhaps she was an elderly relation living here: someone Lucien had failed to mention. The woman clasped her hands, looked puzzled.

  ‘I’m Lobelia, Lucien’s mother.–Won’t you sit?’

  Grace’s own amazement was reflected in Lobelia’s small, pale face. United in their disbelief, both women stared at each other in astonished silence before finally sitting in two of the armchairs that faced each other. Grace was the first eventually to break the silence.

  ‘I have to say this is very strange. I was expecting … someone quite different.’

  A frown gathered on Lobelia’s forehead. She dabbed at it with one hand, and made an effort to replace it with a weary smile. ‘As was I,’ she said quietly.

  ‘There can’t be any confusion, can there? It’s the kind of thing that makes one think one is losing one’s senses.’

  ‘A feeling I’ve lived with for many, many years,’ said Lobelia. ‘Do take off your coat, or is it not warm enough in here? I’ll get some tea in a moment. But I think we should just … establish the truth of the matter first.’

  ‘I think we should.’

  Lobelia sat very upright, tiny in the huge chair, hands clasped on her grey flannel knee, ankles crossed. She reminded Grace of a nineteenth-century governess.

  ‘The fact is–and forgive the surprise I’m afraid I could not hide–I imagined someone so entirely different … that it’s difficult to believe you’re the Grace Handle I’ve been hearing about for so many months.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘The woman Lucien had described a thousand times is a tyrant, no less. A–hussy: could that be the word? Vulgar, loud, demanding … He said he met you when you came round collecting for some charity.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Grace. Her chest had become so tight it was hard to expel the words.

  ‘And in those few minutes you became totally … obsessed by him.’ Lobelia looked down at the floor. ‘Please forgive the word, and all its connotations. But it’s the word he used, over and over again. She’s deranged, Mother, he used to say. After me every moment. Once, he even suggested the police should be called in–protection from the nuisance you were causing him.’

  The women’s eyes met.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Grace. ‘And yet I must, because it’s very close to all he told me about you.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘It would be painful to tell … But in essence I was under the impression you were a fiend of a mother–cruel, uncaring. There was some man he referred to with considerable dislike–’

  ‘Some man?’

  ‘Some … friend. A certain consumption of drink was mentioned.’

  ‘Drink! Oh my God. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. There’s been no man friend in this house for thirty years. There’s nothing to drink but sherry for the vicar’s occasional visits. What was he saying?’

  ‘There must be some explanation,’ ventured Grace, kneading so hard at her wedding ring that it hurt her finger.

  Lobelia took a small linen handkerchief, thin as a wisp of ectoplasm, from her cuff, and dabbed at her nose. Her eyes were dry, but beaten.

  ‘There is,’ she said. ‘There’s an explanation, but no solution.’ The handkerchief was refolded, put away. ‘There are many modern names for his trouble. As far as I’m concerned he’s just mentally ill. Mad.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Grace, after a long silence. She knew she must concentrate only on Lobelia. This was no moment to think of herself.

  ‘I’ve lived with the hell of it since he was twelve or thirteen. He’s been seen by everyone you can think of: in and out of those curing places. Nothing’s done a scrap of good, made a jot of difference. It’s rather–well, worn me down.’ Lobelia flattened her hands on her knees. ‘The trouble is, I’ve never been able to give up hope, to accept the fact there is no h
ope. So often, you see, he’s almost convinced me he’s as sane as the next person–as sweet as they come. Funny, considerate, touching … then at the flick of some invisible switch he becomes someone else, an enraged, frustrated, wild creature it’s hard to recognise.–He’s a congenital liar, always has been. The truth does not exist for him. It’s not a concept he’s ever been able to understand. In many respects I’ve learnt to recognise the lies: but even after so many years he can catch me out … In the case of you’–she looked straight at Grace–‘I initially thought he was making it up, all these stories about this wild woman who lived down the street. But the stories were so consistent, went on for so long, with such venom, that I thought there must be something in it. Perhaps I could help, I thought, by meeting this raving Grace. That’s why I suggested a meeting. Long ago I suggested it.’ She paused to give a difficult smile. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘the thought of us here, so astonished by each other, is causing him a lot of amusement …’ She was bitter, dry.

  ‘I imagine it is.’

  ‘Tea–I’m so sorry. Can I get you something?’

  ‘No, thank you. Really.’ Swallowing would be impossible.

  ‘When he comes home this evening there will be that hyena laugh all over the house–that dreadful, dreadful laugh. Manic. And his animal noises. Sometimes he howls like a wolf.’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘If he comes home,’ Lobelia went on. ‘Often he doesn’t. Often he’s away for days–weeks sometimes. Comes back with no warning, stinking clothes, thin as a rake, never says where he’s been. He’s always in need of money. If I refuse him he …’ She looked round the room. ‘So many of my ornaments gone. All the silver. But what can I do? Turn him over to the police? Turn in my own son?’