Easy Silence

by Angela Huth

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked Grant.

  ‘Signing autographs still at the bar.’

  William gave a snort.

  ‘Shouldn’t encourage that sort of thing.’

  ‘Come off it–just for one evening. It was fun. You said so yourself–several times.’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose it was fun.’ William was loosely soldered to the floor. He swayed a little. ‘Well, thank you, Grant. Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ Grant smiled at both Handles and left the room. Only one so keenly attuned as Grace, to the slightest hint of inebriation, could have noticed the uncertainty in his own step.

  William turned to his wife, tugging at his bow tie. It missed the centrepoint of his collar, and went scuttling towards the other ear.

  ‘There was no need to come,’ he repeated, finally fed up with the tussle round his neck. ‘Nothing but fun, old dance tunes–you saw for yourself. Nothing but that sort of thing going on. I mean, I wasn’t up to anything with Bonnie.’

  At this admission of innocence Grace, on her way to help William, came to a halt. She decided to control her laughter.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘I said there’s nothing between … just because we spend a night under the same hotel roof.’ There was a buzzing in William’s ears, a sensation of drowning. What the hell had come over him, mentioning Bonnie? Putting thoughts into Grace’s head? He gave a twisted smile, accompanied by a sudden leap of his eyebrows, to indicate he was pulling her leg, indulging in a late-night joke. ‘I mean, no hanky-panky. Nothing whatsoever, my Ace.’ By now he spoke so quietly Grace had to strain her ears to hear him.

  At that point Grace laughed so suddenly, and with such force, William found himself tottering to the bed, where he sat down heavily.

  ‘The very idea! You and Bonnie! You and Bonnie! I can’t believe you thought I had any suspicions and had come to spy on you!’ She moved about in her laughter. The jersey scratched more uncomfortably at her chest. William was pleased to see he had afforded her so much amusement, but was puzzled as to why she should find the idea of him and Bonnie quite so funny. ‘I’ never heard anything so absurd, William!’ she went on. ‘Bonnie’s a beautiful, talented young girl: you’re a wonderful musician too, but near retirement, old… Can you imagine Bonnie thinking of you as anything but a father figure? Your joke is so far-fetched it’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Really?’ William was battered by his wife’s noisy response to an admission he had not meant to make. But in the whole confusion of the latter part of the evening there had been no time to wonder at her motive for turning up. In a muddy way he had wondered if it had been due to some vague suspicion of his inadmissible love–guilt, the dark twister, at work. His only concern had been quickly to deflect her from the truth–and it seemed he had gone the wrong way about it. He cursed himself for ever having mentioned Bonnie and his innocence. ‘I’m glad you find it so funny, the very idea of some young girl regarding me as anything other than a–’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  At last there was silence between them. William wanted to get up, shut himself in the white cube of the bathroom, lull himself back to sobriety by the rhythmic brushing of his teeth. But he had no energy to move.

  ‘Why did you come, then?’ he asked eventually. A quick glance at her face. Solemn, now. Pale.

  ‘I was afraid Lucien might decide on one of his visits. I didn’t want to be alone in the house when he came.’

  ‘Lucien? Oh, that. Him.’ Grace could see William struggling to remember old preoccupations, the normal world of minor anxieties light years away from this gilded room. ‘You never liked the Dvorak,’ he said at last. ‘If I’d thought you’d like the programme I would have invited you.’

  ‘No: I never come to Bournemouth.’

  ‘Nor you do.’

  Grace went to the mini-bar, helped herself to a miniature bottle of whisky. William looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Well, you’re right. You’re safe, here,’ he said with a vague wave of his hand. Come to think of it, Bonnie was safe, too, in her room. Elbows in the air, perhaps, sleeves swinging as she struggled to undo her zip.

  Grace sat down in the overstuffed chair of olive nylon velvet. As she sipped cautiously at the drink she watched her dear King of the Bed confront the challenge before him. Once he had managed to pull himself upright, he regarded the hotel bed for a long time, hands on hips, assessing. Despite the alcoholic fuddling of his brain, no deficiency in its making escaped him. Imbalance of sheet and blanket, meanness of the corner turns, inadequate weight of eiderdown that would have to be supplemented with blankets hidden in some drawer or cupboard … Grace watched as William battled with these things. There followed a strange performance as sheets slipped through his infirm hands, refusing to obey his instructions. Pillows lobbed on to the floor. Mahogany cupboard doors were flung wide as spare bedding was searched for: a pile of blankets toppled from a high shelf on to his head. He floundered, moaning, cursing.

  Grace, from her position in the armchair, following his every move, did not smile. The ridiculous figure William made did not bother her, annoy her, amuse her. She was only glad she was not home on her own, and that she had been able to dissuade William of his daft illusion of the very possibility of something going on with Bonnie. Drink, on the rare occasions he overstepped the mark, did not make William a wiser and better man.

  Grace did not know what time it was when eventually he sank on top of the bed in a twist of blankets. They had not succumbed to his regimentation so, finally exhausted, he had silently given up. Grace had no intention of trying to undress his recumbent figure, though she did remove the white tie. In the morning … well, knowing William’s dignity would somehow be reinstated, they would order a lovely room-service breakfast before driving home.

  Grace drew back the curtains and saw the moon was so low in the sky it sat on a plate of its own reflection in the sea. Strangely, she did not think of Lucien, only of her need for sleep.

  But she did not sleep well. Unused to several drinks, ungrounded by the spontaneous visit to Bournemouth and the strange behaviour of the members of the Elmtree, she relived the evening over and over again–a harder-edged version than the reality bounced off her skull, keeping her awake. When first light appeared, before the noise of traffic began, Grace heard the faint brush of sea on the shore. High tide, she supposed, and was tempted to dress and go for a walk–paddle, even. But then she pictured William waking in his rumpled clothes, cold and confused, wondering where she was–and changed her mind.

  Instead she made her way into the claustrophobic bathroom, ran a bath, filled it with sweet oil that turned into a cloud of iridescent bubbles. This isn’t me, she thought, as she lowered herself into them, scarcely breaking their fragile crust. This is Katharine Hepburn in a third-rate film. Luxury. An unusual episode plucked from normal life that will make us laugh when we remember it. William will see how funny it all was. Oh, how we’ll laugh … She trailed a hand through the hillocks of miniature rainbows, in her drained, dreamy state half expecting Humphrey Bogart to put his head round the door.

  The head that did come round the door was a terrible sight: hair standing up like electric wires, eyes strung with red veins, skin pale and shining as a peeled onion. William had discarded his jacket but had given up a struggle with his braces which, slipping from his desolate shoulders, just kept a grasp on his half-mast trousers. He shambled in.

  ‘Thought I heard you.’ He put a shaky hand to his temples as if to silence his thoughts. Moved nearer the bath. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About five thirty.’

  ‘Early, then. We were late last night.’

  ‘You were.’

  It was this kind of grasp of things, this not giving in to self-pity caused by foolishness, that Grace would always admire.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked.

  William sat on the three-legged stool, gazed down at his bubble-covered wife. Something vaguely came t
o mind.

  ‘Fine.’ He touched the other temple. ‘I’ll be even better after breakfast.’

  He registered the forgiveness in the reddened face that sat, decapitated, among the bubbles. She was a good woman, Grace. Uncommonly understanding. No doubt of that. Curiously languorous, this morning, too. William had been expecting questions, explanations. There was none. Instead, she said:

  ‘I read somewhere recently that a very easy way to kill someone was simply to lean over a full bath and pick up their legs. They can’t struggle like that. They can’t keep their head above water.’ With one finger she made a small passageway in the bubbles.

  For a moment William could see a ribbon of her skin beneath the clear water. The vague idea stirred again. Why was it that so often long-married couples could guess at each other’s minds? But there was no time to reflect on what Grace had said. She was offering him a last chance to act, and unless he took it he might never again have either the will or the energy for a further attempt.

  ‘You mean like this?’ he said, with something close to a laugh (a back-up laugh, as he saw it, so that if he failed he could say it was all a joke). With no forethought, no coherent plan, he leant over the bath. He plunged both arms into the bubbles, felt for Grace’s legs, lifted them (how surprisingly heavy they were) with a supreme effort. The legs came crashing up, streaming with bubbles that melted fast as snow in sun. A few stuck in clusters of unshaven hair before they burst … Down went her shoulders. Her head disappeared completely. Bubbles raced to fill the gaping wound of water into which it sank.

  In the next moment of absolute silence William realised he had succeeded at last. This was it. Grace drowned. Water-logged. Dead. In a moment he would haul the body back up through the bubbles, further soaking the shirt sleeves that clung to him. He would pull from behind her shoulders. Having seen a similar incident in a thriller last week on television, he knew that was the easiest way. Then he would ring for help. ‘Quickly! My wife has had a terrible accident …’ Distraught words would come ringing out.

  He looked down at the water swaying over the corpse, and felt a tear in one eye along with a sense of panicky triumph. Then he found himself ashamed, but smiling nonetheless, at the silly sort of thought that comes to a man in a crisis–would a bath towel be an appropriate shroud?

  Two, perhaps three seconds passed. Then the steamy quiet in the murder place was broken by a gurgling noise. Suddenly Grace, emerging from the bubbles, was struggling like a wild thing. She kicked. William lost his grip on her legs. They slipped from him. He felt a blow from a foot on his jaw. He had not calculated her strength, or his own lack of it. Once again, as on the cliffs, he realised he was no match for her. He reeled back, tipping up the stool, landed on the wet floor. Grace’s head appeared over the side of the bath, purple face, hair a black net clamped to it. She was screaming. William began to scrabble up on to the stool. Oh dear: nothing for it but to give up. He attempted a laugh, to make sure she realised it had all been a silly joke. She was appearing like a volcano in reverse, sliding up out of the bubbles, ungainly breasts resting on a ledge of rainbows that were now thinning like sleet attacked by rain.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Grace shouted–William had never heard her shout so loudly. But then, more quietly, ‘Trying to kill me? William!’ His name was uttered with a dying fall. William felt his heart clench with remorse. He managed another minor laugh.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It just occurred to me to disprove a silly theory.’

  ‘I could have drowned.’ She was shaking her head, digging fingers into her ears.

  ‘Of course you couldn’t have drowned. I wouldn’t have let you drown, my Ace, would I?’

  Grace looked up at him with a wonderful smile.

  ‘I don’t suppose so. I don’t suppose you’d be much good at living with guilt–or without me. Though sometimes I have the feeling I’ve no idea what goes on in your mind. Pass the towel, will you?’

  Her sudden calm, her benign expression, William found more unnerving than her previous roaring. He had an uneasy feeling that this near-death experience, if that was what it had been, had in some way been a watershed (in all senses of the word) for Grace. Perhaps she was unconscious of this herself. But to one who had observed her (from time to time) for many years, it occurred to William that the experience had provided her with a weird satisfaction, an unusual elation. Perhaps, after such a long and mostly silent married life, the funny little drama, the shouting, the pretence of danger had released something within her. He hoped to goodness that it would not mean, henceforth, a change in their customary reticence. He did not relish the thought of Grace switching from a character who kept her thoughts decently to herself, to one who believed they might be of benefit to her husband.

  ‘Here you are, my Ace.’ William passed the towel and retreated. He had no wish to see her lively form emerge from the waves, reminding him of the flesh structure that padded out her dear old clothes, scarcely noticeable in their familiarity: to look upon what went beneath them, this morning, would be more than he could bear.

  Alone in the bedroom William took off his damp shirt and trousers, put on his dressing-gown, stood gazing out of the window at sky and sea that looked as if they had been knitted together with dull wool. A gull screeched, hurting his head. Triple images would be no good at calming his battered state this morning: it would have to be sounds. He summoned to mind the cooing of wood pigeons, the trill of a Scottish mountain burn, the second movement of Schubert’s Fifth Symphony. But to no avail. The appalling pain of mushrooms swelling against his skull, pushing into the paper of his skin, worsened. He sat on the rumpled bed, in which he had had no more than a few hours’ sleep, hands hanging between parted legs, eyes closed.

  Grace crept in to dress. She did not want to disturb William, or pain him with the necessity of conversation. She returned to the full support of the armchair, placed her hands on its arms, wondered how to pass the time till seven, when they could ring for breakfast. William, briefly opening an eye to ascertain her position in the room, caught sight of her damp hair and was put in mind of shredded beetroot. He quickly shut his eye again against the disagreeable image–already, he realised, he was suffering his punishment. God’s wrath was in the loathsome picture of the wife he loved. But he knew that once his head had recovered she would look herself again.

  Each in his and her own way, William and Grace found comfort in the silence that came so naturally between them. They let it engulf them, familiar with its restorative powers, until a chorus of gulls outside jarred their peace, and Grace stirred herself to order porridge, kippers, coffee. She knew that William would be obliged to eat them. It would be part of the pretence that he was not suffering, a further part of the act Grace held in high regard. By the time they arrived home, late morning, their grip on normality would be complete. The episode in Bournemouth would be snuffed out as if it had never existed, the hum of daily life would resume untroubled.

  William saw these things passing through his wife’s mind as she ordered the gargantuan breakfast with quiet glee, and the pain in his head moved to his heart as he thought of Bonnie. So close–just down the corridor, sleeping deeply, no doubt, against the gulls’ cry. But for him, now more than ever, out of reach, out of bounds, a possibility no longer.

  12

  The following morning, at home, head now light and clear, William took the unusual measure of going to his study before breakfast. He wanted to lean against a wall, make sure of his bearings, steady himself. He was exhausted by the Alpine range of hopes and disappointments over Bonnie: he needed rest, calm. Besides which, a tide of reasoning was beginning to approach: the melancholy thought that even if he made another foolish attempt to get rid of Grace, there was still no reason to hope that Bonnie might want him. Come to think of it–and coming rationally to think of it was not an agreeable prospect–Grace in her great wisdom had probably been right … absurd … Bonnie’s a beautiful young girl … can you imagine her thin
king of you as anything but a father …? Grace’s voice persisted in his head. He could not shut it out or ignore its sense. Music might solve things, though he had not the energy to take up his violin. (Somehow, before the Beethoven concert the day after tomorrow, he had to pull himself together.) He put on The Trout because the CD happened to be in the player. Then, leaning against his favourite wall, opposite the window, he settled to listen to the sun dancing through water, the fish engaged in its mellifluous acrobatics, and the ache of Bonnie’s absence, the hopelessness of ever being able to show his love for her, was eased a little by the musical water. When at last he left the room to go downstairs, he was conscious that it was with the gait of an old man. He was bowed, stiff, shuffling. Safe at home, it would nonetheless be a hard day to face.

  As he reached the hall the telephone rang, drilling the silence. William picked it up with an irritated swipe. He did not like people to ring before nine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Bonnie.

  ‘Of course I’m all right.’ William steadied himself with one hand on the banister.

  ‘No need to sound so cross. You looked pretty rough yesterday. I just wanted to make sure–’

  ‘I’m fine. There was no need. Good night’s sleep put me back on track.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I mean, it was an unusual sort of night, wasn’t it? But really good fun. Think we all enjoyed ourselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William. He wanted never to hear the word fun again.

  ‘See you at the rehearsal this afternoon, then.’

  ‘Oh Christ, I’d forgotten that. I thought it was tomorrow morning.’