Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

  At last Bonnie finished signing for her fans, and joined William and Grant. The three of them walked back to the hotel, Bonnie deliquescent, giggling, incredulous.

  ‘I’ve never known anything like it! What an audience! And then all those mad people wanting my autograph … I mean, I never thought the day’d come.

  ‘Pipe down,’ said Grant, nicely. ‘We don’t want your head swollen.’ He took her arm.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Grant. I know it’s a one–night wonder.’ She offered her other arm to William, who quickly took it. This, he felt, was the meaning of walking on air. He wondered how far the one–night wonder would go. ‘Look at the sea,’ Bonnie squealed, suddenly anxious to shift attention from her own success. All three paused for a moment–a rum little trio, as William thought–and obediently looked out at the ebony water, its shallow crests just lit by the moon and the lights on the front. They listened without speaking to the percussion of waves breaking on the shore, then moved on again, more seriously.

  For William, the emerging from darkness into light was always of particular significance, both metaphorical and physical. He had never grown accustomed to coming from the gloom of the subterranean passage of a concert hall into the shocking blast of the stage lights. So blatantly illuminated, he felt disagreeably exposed. His eyes were confused by the sudden change. It always took him some moments to dispel these feelings. (The others seemed not to be similarly affected.) But then he was a man who preferred shade to sun, shadow to revealing light. He regarded himself as one whose rightful place was in dark corners: not one who sought the limelight, or any other kind of light. In this respect he felt an affinity with Rufus’s wife.

  But there were occasions in his life when this diffidence about moving from darkness to light, far from playing its usual unkind tricks, delighted him intensely. He could never tell when this was going to happen. The bonus moments struck him unawares. They had not happened often, but the few occasions were unforgettable. The first he remembered was as a young child. He had hidden beneath a table, blind in the darkness made by a thick cloth. Eventually tired of his game, worried by the anxiety in his parents’ calls, he crept out into a room astonishingly bright with lights and candles, and glass balls on the Christmas tree, each one stamped with a tiny reflection of part of the room. He had not remembered the brightness when he had gone to hide. The contrast of five minutes in a black world had conjured the brilliance. The child William had sat there in speechless wonder as he was welcomed back.

  Another time, as a young man, he and a friend had swum into a large cave on the coast of a Scottish island. The adventure was less agreeable than they had anticipated. They perched on a wet rock inside the cave, listening to the thud of black water against its walls, then voted to leave sooner than they had intended. Outside, sun had put a blowtorch to a previously dark sky, leaving it shorn of all cloud. Instead, dazzling opal light stretched from the highest point of the heavens and flowed deeply down into the sea. Journeying back to the shore, William felt as if he was swimming through pure light. He secretly harboured the experience for many years–though several times he had been tempted to tell Bonnie–and often he relived the occasion when he was playing Schubert, who was to him a musician wonderfully capable of conveying light.–When he looked back on that swim, William recognised it as one of those times in a life that constitutes inexplicable importance. Something shifted direction within him that day. He was conscious that the vague possibility of making music his life changed, amorphously, as he swam back through the light, to something stronger: determination. The feeling grew from that day forth.

  On the evening of the successful Bournemouth concert William was unprepared, as always, for one of his dark–to–light experiences. Elated by the appreciation of the audience, he was also intoxicated by the walk back from the hall with Bonnie. She had kept an arm through his–the fact that her other arm was linked with Grant’s William regarded with no great significance. The sea air ruffled their hair and slapped at their cheeks. From the dappled darkness of the street–neither the moon nor illuminated windows nor street lights did more than perforate the real darkness of the night–they walked into the Cinderella world of the grand hotel. There, William found himself delightfully stupefied by the perfectly normal evening lights. It seemed to him that suns and moons and stars shone from every alcove, making watery rock pools of the patterned carpet. There was a sense of movement: liquid light, again, it was. And what tricks it played: burnished mahogany furniture rocked, as if on a gentle sea. Armchairs jigged, and the glass petals of chandeliers were turned to living flames. Nothing was still, nothing was dark. William rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ said Bonnie, interrupting the enchanting illusion. ‘What are you just standing there for? The bar! Let’s go to the bar.’

  She was still there, warm beside him, arm through his. Grant was no longer on her other side. Where was he?

  ‘Grant’s gone on to order the promised champagne in case you changed your mind.’–God, how the girl could read his mind: though on a night such as this he would not even toy with the idea of ordering any lesser drink.

  They moved together through the hotel lobby–William, stately, dazzled: Bonnie impatient. It was a moment or two, he realised, of pure, present happiness. So often such happiness is easily enough recollected in the past, or anticipated in the future. But rare it is to capture it at the moment of striking: hold it to you for a small measure of time before consigning it to recollections. What an evening, what an evening, thought William.

  The bar, when they reached it, was crowded–very different from the gloomy mauve place in the hotel in Prague. Rufus and his wife were seated at a table, guarding three empty chairs. Grant was making his way through the crowd with an opened bottle of champagne in a silver bucket (very good champagne, William noted with alarm). A waiter followed him with a tray of tall glasses. Bonnie, who had detached herself from William’s side so quietly it was some moments before he felt the chill of absence, now had her arm round Iris, expressing delight in her presence. (Christ: Bonnie’s friendliness was ubiquitous.) William lowered himself into a large armchair next to Rufus, who nodded with the gravity of a man determined to enjoy himself for the sake of the others.

  When a group who have participated in some binding activity reach the moment of celebration, there is often a dip in the proceedings, a sense of anticlimax. As they sipped their drinks William wondered, now the headiness of their success was over, what they would talk about–four people who saw and worked with each other most days, who knew each other so well. And Iris: she in her quiet, huddled way meant there would have to be some stricture on in-jokes and anecdotes about events unknown to her. It would be impolite to start explaining things to her–increase her sense of being the outsider. So, once they had drunk to their own good health and the future of the Elmtree (something William had no wish to dwell upon, despite feelings of optimism earlier in the evening), how would the celebration progress? In his still ungrounded state, William raised his glass and looked rather desperately at Grant. Grant did not let him down. He began to tell stories about his time in a youth orchestra–familiar to Rufus and William, new to Bonnie, who found them rather too funny for William’s comfort. But as a second, and then, glory be, a third bottle of champagne were drunk he, too, found Grant’s power as a raconteur was exceptional.

  ‘You ought to have gone on the halls,’ he mumbled to the spinning disc that was now Grant’s head. But as no one agreed–or perhaps they hadn’t heard this unsteady contribution–William turned his mind to the engaging of Bonnie’s attention. He put a half-empty glass of champagne determinedly down on the table. If he didn’t stop now, it would be too late to intrigue her with some idea so fascinating that she felt compelled to follow him to his room, listen while he philosophised, or confessed about the cave day, or whatever, for the rest of the night. If he didn’t pull himself together now, it would be too late to make a dignified approach to the curtains, and pull
them back to reveal the moon.–Had anything quite so ridiculous been his plan? He suddenly could not be sure … But he could hear himself laughing, loudly.

  ‘William’s letting his hair down,’ said Grant. Bonnie went over to him, smiling her agreement. She punched him gently on the forearm. In return, Grant squeezed her wrist. William stopped laughing, and looked away. When he glanced back again they had moved apart. By now Bonnie was talking to Rufus. Maybe the moment of familiarity with Grant had never happened. William could not be sure. Nothing was clear.

  But through the buzz of conversation he could hear the whine of poor-quality music. He turned. In an alcove where the bar met the larger reaches of the lounge, two musicians had taken their stand, a violinist, and a pianist. For some inexplicable reason they were dressed in a way that suggested matadors, or Spanish gypsies–high-waisted pink satin trousers, frilled shirts, and waistcoats of many coloured glass. Perhaps to distract one from their playing, William reflected: certainly to add to his confusion. Through the swirling of his head it occurred to him that others thought more highly of these musicians, currently slooping through ‘Some Enchanted Evening’. There was applause, private smiles as people remembered their own enchanted evenings. Then, heaven forbid, Bonnie was making her way through the tables of drinkers, viola in hand. What a one she was for snatching opportunities to show off. You couldn’t take her to a hotel bar without her leaping up to entertain, bring added life to the place. At the thought, William smiled to himself. While it was not in his nature to approve such behaviour, she performed with such verve and charm it would be hard to condemn her.

  Bonnie whispered something to the violinist as he finished his dreadful jiggling of the C string. He smiled, instantly flattered by the heavenly creature in velvet offering to join in. At this point William heard himself groan out loud as he noticed the warm, flirtatious way she made some suggestions to the fourth-rate violinist. Oh no, please God …

  Bonnie had no intention of looking at any member of the Elmtree for approval. She was enjoying herself. It appeared as if this was the kind of spontaneous fun that she believed every serious musician should allow him or herself from time to time. With any luck, she seemed to be saying in the wiggle of her hips, Rufus and Grant would join her. Even, perhaps, William. She glanced at his horrified face, smiled, and launched into ‘Let’s Do It’. Her fellow players, unused to her speed, dragged behind her.

  ‘Let it swing,’ she shouted, to encourage them to speed up. She wiggled her hips even more and shook her sleeves. And suddenly her new fellow players joined in her tempo, inspired. The music thumped. And William, looking round, saw an extraordinary thing: the dozens of people in the bar seemed to be enjoying it. People were standing. Some were clapping to the beat. Some were mumbling the words. Stranger still, Rufus–Rufus the quiet contained man–had joined them. He had got up, was bending his knees, intent on a kind of rhythmic bounce. Then Iris joined him. Pulling her shawl more tightly round her she, too, rose and joined the singing, with the prissy mouth movements of a singer in a Bach choir–but with a look of total enjoyment on her worn-away face. As for Grant: he was behaving like a weightlifter relieved of his weights–clapping his great hands above his head, jacket arms shooting up to reveal a vulgar set of glinting cufflinks William had never seen before, and certainly would have to speak about … Grant was bawling his head off, leading this motley choir in a verse of bawdy words. It was unbelievable.

  Even as he remained in his chair, middle-aged bottoms jumping about all round him, William felt the isolation of being the odd one out. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he pushed himself to his feet, clapped his dry hands, found his shoulders heaving in time, saw his feet slither agreeably on the carpet, felt the aching need of Bonnie in his arms, a dancing partner.–Bonnie herself, jigging about like a crazed puppet, was pretty out of focus: but William was able to observe very red cheeks highlighted with a glitter of sweat. Weak with love for her, William forced his gaze beyond her lest he should not be able to control the tears he felt encroaching on his eyes. While his feet dithered uncertainly about William made himself keep his eyes from Bonnie: he focused on the horizon beyond the bar, where crowds of jigging spectators jammed the lobby. There he saw something akin to Banquo’s ghost–an illusion made manifest from the fabric of his conscience. But it was no spectre in a woolly jumper. It was Grace. The familiar figure of his wife. Grace, it seemed, had come to get him.

  With the last remaining rational fragments of his mind, William was still just able to ponder on whether others saw her (if indeed they observed her at all) through his eyes: or if, as he gazed upon her in wonder and alarm, he was seeing her through the eyes of all these singing strangers.

  Grace stood completely still, both hands on the handle of her old black bag. She wore the skirt she had put on that morning, and a jersey for which William had never felt any fondness, with its yoke of Fair Isle pattern slung from one shoulder to another. Among all the sequins and satins she made a very plain figure. William aimed a blurry smile in her direction. He could not bring himself to stop his shoulder twists, and small rhythmic claps of his hands. In the confusion of conflicting feelings he realised that his heart raced towards her, loving. His dear Ace–so very unusual–had come to join in the fun.

  In her hurry to leave the house Grace had not thought of packing clothes suitable for an evening concert, or a drink in the bar of an expensive hotel afterwards. She regretted this as soon as she was met by the blast of central heating in William’s bedroom, but also she did not really care. In her flight from the potential alarm of a visit from Lucien, nothing mattered except the protection William could provide.

  After her bath, having given up all ideas of going to the concert, she enjoyed a room-service supper, pushed in on a trolley of silver domes that she lifted slowly, excited. The mixed grill and pommes dauphinois were something of a disappointment, as was the chestnut pudding with a name more delicious than the pudding itself. Still, it was all such a novelty, being waited upon, that Grace’s enjoyment, combined with her feeling of safety, flourished. She watched television till ten thirty, then decided to go downstairs. In her hurry to surprise William–she could not wait to see his face–she ran down the endless curving staircase, her progress silenced by the dense carpet, rather than take the lift. By the time she reached the first floor she could hear the music from downstairs, and smiled at the thought of how William and the others must hate having to listen to such stuff as they sat over their nightcaps.

  Grace pushed her way through the crowd. The heat was worse, here: it made the Shetland wool of her jersey prickle her chest. She continued to move her way slowly forward, observing that some of the drinkers, in their smart clothes, made a passage for her, as if they recognised an especial kind of species in need of its own furrow. The music was thumping some song from a fifties musical–Grace could not name which one. It was the kind of thing that puts silly smiles on people’s faces as they recollect past moments of their own romances finely tuned by memory.

  Then Grace came upon those she was looking for, and beheld a sight she had never imagined she would witness: there before her were members of the Elmtree String Quartet drunk. That is, she told herself, if not rolling drunk, then seriously inebriated, and apparently enjoying themselves. Rufus was dancing by himself–if you could call it dancing–shuddering like a bird shaking water from its feathers, eyes rolling behind his glasses. Grant, Tarzan of the crowd, held his arms high as if swinging from an invisible branch, while William seemed intent on small hops accompanied by painful-looking twists of his shoulders. His bow tie had made its way round his neck and was lodged beside one ear. As for Bonnie–in her place next to the third-rate pianist, she was murdering her beautiful viola as she tossed her head to the sloopy beat–fringe flinging every which way, light streaking over the moving velvet of her dress. What on earth …?

  Grace stood looking from one to another of the musicians. So unusual a sight rendered her helpless. She did n
ot know how to proceed, where to go.

  Then she was aware of applause, catcalls, people moving towards the bar again. Rufus’s hand was on her arm: dear, kind Rufus, always to be relied on in a crisis, even if he was not entirely himself tonight, due to unforeseen circumstances.

  ‘Grace,’ he said, ‘how nice you’ve come. Why don’t you join Iris on the sofa? Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Very good idea.’ Now, William was beside Rufus, more animated than sheepish. ‘Oh, we’re having such fun, my Ace, aren’t we? Very surprised to find you here but lovely, lovely …’

  Grace never received her drink because apparently her appearance signified some midnight chime that said time is up, and the fun seemed to be over. Bonnie moved away from the strangely attired musicians. Deprived of her presence, they lacked inspiration for another number. Grant was clumsily putting her viola in its case, Rufus and Iris had disappeared. Grace felt a sense of disappointment. Having caught the Elmtree in so unlikely a situation, she would have enjoyed witnessing a little more, to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. But she and William seemed to be gliding towards the stairs. William’s arm through hers was purposeful, though his smile skidded about in his dishevelled face.

  ‘Tremendous fun we’re having,’ he said.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘So good you decided to come, my Ace. Though there was no need.’

  They were climbing the massive staircase. The densely carpeted treads could have been a rockface, William had to search for each step with such difficulty. But Grant was just behind them. Grace was grateful for this, knowing she could not cope on her own if William should fall. Grant came with them to their room, took William’s arm through the door. William seemed both surprised and amazed by such nannying. He moved towards the window–a mere scrap of his now obsolete plan still left in his mind–bent on drawing back the curtains to greet the moon he was to have faced with Bonnie.