by Angela Huth
‘Lovely lovely,’ said Bonnie. ‘Wish you’d play for us all afternoon.’ William’s mind flicked to time in the recent past when such words from her would have thrilled his afternoon, reverberated through a wakeful night, strengthened amorphous hope. Now they were merely gratifying, did nothing to endanger stupid fantasy. He could look quite calmly on Bonnie at last. The loathsome event of real murder, beside which his own ridiculous fantasies so appalled him, had stripped Bonnie of her powers. He still loved her, though. God, he loved her, as she might have guessed from his Mozart solo …
‘Top form,’ said Rufus. ‘Wish I could play like Handle at his best.–I say, sorry I’m late. Tyre trouble.’
‘Let’s get on, shall we?’ William’s playing had done little to dispel his feeling of disquiet. He was impatient to dull the slight edge to the gathering: an edge he could not define precisely, but felt its keenness. The others, aware of his impatience, hurried to their places. The struggle with the unfamiliar Bartók began, and the day was lost in effort, concentration, equal moments of frustration and of joy.
When the rehearsal was over Grant suggested a cup of tea. By now William’s inklings of trouble had vanished. He thought only how odd it was for the naturally inhospitable Grant to make such a suggestion at the end of a perfectly normal rehearsal. They sat round the chaos of his table–open maps spread wide, books, gloves, biscuits, full ashtrays–William opposite Bonnie, whose face (a little wary, it occurred to William) was a mosaic of reflections from the bluebells. Beautiful, she was. But how good it was, knowing she could no longer inadvertently torment him. William pulled himself up in his chair, strong in this knowledge. He was enjoying the tranquillity that comes from a still heart. He was enjoying the warm evening air that came through the open door.
Grant, at one end of the table, poured China tea into the usual grim-looking mugs. The thought came to William that the cellist was embuing the simple act with some premeditated lightness of touch, as if acting out a scene which he had judged should be without solemnity. William watched carefully, intrigued. (Later, reliving the tea ceremony, he regretted not observing Grant even more acutely.)
Grant sat.
‘Well,’ he said, eyes on one of the smaller maps he was attempting to fold, ‘I think the time’s come to break some good news. Bonnie and I are going to get married.’
In the second before rapid blinking of his eyes began, William saw Bonnie’s face, cracked into a thousand pieces by the reflections of the flowers–celebration flowers, he now saw–she had clumped in the jug between them. He clasped the loose corduroy stuff of his trousers, felt the fanning of lashes on his eyeballs. Rufus, dear Rufus, thank God, jumped in with the right words of congratulations.
‘And what dark horses, if I may say so,’ Rufus added. ‘William and I never had a clue.’
That was indeed the truth, William reflected, tightening his grip on his trousers.
‘Yes: well–surprise. What a surprise. My congratulations, too.’ William willed a smile to part his lips and wondered if the hoarseness of his voice was noticeable.
Bonnie was laughing, blushing, exchanging looks with Grant. Grant, to William’s relief, made no move from his seat to give some public demonstration of love for his bride-to-be, but went instead to the fridge for a bottle of champagne. Bonnie fetched glasses in a trice. Funny, thought William, he had often wondered how she had always known where to find things in Grant’s kitchen. Never had he suspected the reason.
They drank to the future of Grant and Bonnie, and to the future of the Elmtree–the future, now, of the–what would it be? Bonnie’s eyes glittered under her dancing fringe, her dimples flashed with a steady rhythm. William could not remember her ever looking more enchanting.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ she kept asking.
‘Amazing,’ agreed William, devoid of new words of his own.
‘You’re the first to know outside the family.’ She smiled, with this bonus piece of information, first to William then to Rufus. ‘July tenth is the wedding day, in my aunt’s house at Marlow. The garden goes down to the river.’
‘Marlow?’ Further dismay struck William at this news. He’d always harboured an irrational dislike for Marlow and the Thames valley.
‘Marlow.’ Bonnie was firm. ‘Whatever have you got against Marlow, William–?
‘Nothing, nothing …’
‘Here, have some more champagne.’ She filled his glass. It would have to be a very slow journey home, he told himself. ‘It’ll be perfect,’ she continued. ‘High summer. And you know what we’d like?’ She now gave a blatantly flirtatious look, this time first at Rufus, then William. (She’d always been so good at fairly dealing out her winning ways, William remembered.) ‘We’d love it if you would play at the reception. I mean … would you?’
‘Of course,’ said Rufus. ‘No greater pleasure.’
‘Willingly,’ agreed William, in barely a whisper.
‘And how,’ asked Rufus, unusually eager, ‘did all this come about? Right under our noses, and we never guessed a thing?’
‘Ah,’ said Grant.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Bonnie. ‘First day. Very first day. The audition. One look at Grant, and I thought it’d be a miracle if I managed to play at all, I was shaking so much.’ Funny I never noticed that. I could have sworn she was wonderfully calm. William, pondering, managed a smile. ‘All I could think of was, that’s the man I’ve been expecting. Corny rubbish, I know, but there it was. I recognised Grant as the man for me. By the end of the first concert–you remember? Slough? Rain?–I knew I was in with a pretty good chance …’
‘And you, Grant?’ Rufus was asking all the questions William could not manage.
‘I’m not sure I remember with quite Bonnie’s pinpoint accuracy. But I suppose by Northampton I felt pretty much the same.’
Northampton: but that was where we drank coffee in the late, empty station after Bonnie missed the train … William glanced tightly at Rufus.
‘But you never let on–not a sign, not an indication.’ Rufus’s incredulity reflected William’s own, though he had no intention of confessing this.
‘Of course not,’ said Grant. ‘We wanted to make absolutely sure before we chose the right moment to tell you. We couldn’t possibly have shared it from the beginning with the two people we work so closely with, see most days. That would have been a terrible imposition, wouldn’t have worked.’
‘Exactly. It wouldn’t have been fair,’ added Bonnie. ‘We all know the rules. If something’s going on between two people in a small group it shouldn’t intrude in any way. Just as if one person is affected by another–say my love for Grant hadn’t been requited and I’d been miserable–then for the sake of the others it should be kept entirely private.’
‘Quite,’ said William.
That’s what we believed,’ said Bonnie. A flutter of pride, at having behaved as Bonnie would have wanted, passed through William. ‘Heaven knows, it was difficult. There were some close shaves.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Rufus, with some glee. ‘All amazing, how you managed it. Iris’ll be delighted.’
‘We did manage never to lie,’ said Grant. ‘You pushed me a bit, William, on the way to Bournemouth. But I avoided an untruth.’
William gave a fraction of a smile to acknowledge Grant’s skill in that matter. And in how many hotel rooms did I imagine Bonnie was asleep on her own? But despite the buzz of shock in his veins, William judged the revelations much easier to deal with than they would have been before the murder.
‘I must be on my way,’ he said. ‘Grace will be so pleased.’ He stood up, fingers on the table.
‘Course, one of the things that made it easier for us was that you and Rufus are so wonderfully uncurious, unsuspicious, head in the clouds most of the time, hearts and souls in your music whether you’re playing or not … ‘Bonnie petered out, seeing William’s face.
‘Probably right there,’ said Rufus, sparing William the need of a reply. �
�Married couple in a quartet … How does that strike you, William?’
William paused, searching for words. This was not the time to work out his feelings about such a proposal.
‘Don’t see why not,’ he said at last. Champagne bubbles swarmed through his head, hampering clarity.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Grant. ‘We’ve all sorts of ideas, how things could work out in the future. When we’ve all got a moment we could discuss … Put to you our thoughts.’
William nodded. He shook Grant’s hand. Grant and Rufus shook hands, too. Bonnie kissed both William and Rufus on the cheek. Then the group of them, Rufus and William carrying their violins, went to the door. William glanced back for a second before stepping outside. His eyes stopped on the table bright with flowers, then moved on to the small distant semi-circle of music stands. Already the barn looked different. That was the magic of change. The power of news was bound to shift familiar, solid things.
Bonnie put an arm round his shoulders.
‘You’re the one I should really thank, dear William,’ she said. ‘You’re the one whose decision to take me on counted.’
‘Nonsense,’ said William, freeing himself gently from her lest her touch, in this vulnerable moment, might work its old magic. ‘It was a joint decision.’
‘And isn’t it all absolutely marvellous?’ Now her arm was round Grant’s waist. ‘Hasn’t it turned out amazingly?’
‘Perfection,’ was the word William used in answer, aware of its steeliness, its precision, its distancing.
On the way home he began to hum the Mozart violin concerto from where he had left off playing earlier. He timed it so skilfully (slowing almost to walking pace round the gentlest of bends) that he reached the last note as he turned into the drive. The accomplishment of this rather minor achievement–perfection on a different scale–gave him such satisfaction that with greater ease than he had supposed possible he went round into the garden, that temperate evening, and broke the news of the engagement to Grace. She, as he had rightly predicted, was full of wonder and delight and observed that, for so well matched a couple, the chances of a happily married life were high.
Bonnie and Grant were married on a day of high summer. Looking back, William was able only to recall fragments of the occasion. He remembered the lusty singing in the church, where the thickness of Norman stone deprived sunblades through roseate windows of their heat. Bonnie: far from clear, she was, in a crown of gyp-sophila, and her usual long wide sleeves, pure white this time. He remembered the look on Grant’s face as he tried to steady his excited wife down the aisle, while a trumpet triumphed through the magnificent Purcell, and the church bells rang out. Then there was the gathering of guests, mostly unknown to William. Their glances snagged on each other as they hesitated across the lawn which ran, as Bonnie had promised, down to the river. The women wore those bright, herbaceous colours that the English deem suitable for weddings. The men, their buttonholes tufted with carnations set in wisps of greenery, seemed unusually interested in the happiness of the bride.
A buffet lunch had been set out in a small marquee. William and Rufus were the first to arrive there. They stuck close together, struck by the powerful smell of lilies and warm canvas. They refused glasses of champagne from wandering trays, lest it affect their performance. Unhungrily they picked at small sandwiches to fortify themselves for their professional role at this summer wedding. William remembered feeling the need for fortification. He remembered noticing his own nervousness reflected in Rufus: they both fingered their silvery ties and worried at their buttonhole carnations. William tried to calm himself with thoughts of thin rain, drowsy bees, crumpets–autumn things. The pictures did little good. He was grateful for the shade and emptiness of the tent, and of the closeness of Rufus.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking quite a bit,’ said his old friend. ‘When the time comes for you and me to take a final bow, Bonnie and Grant would be a pretty good pair to run the Elmtree. Not much problem finding a couple of violins, I wouldn’t have thought. Plenty of young talent about. And they’d carry on in the tradition of the Elmtree, I’ve no doubt of that.’
‘Could be,’ agreed William. He could see it all: Bonnie making free with her bows, Grant agreeing to an extravagance of encores. Still, those were minor considerations. Rufus was right. When their present run of luck was over, and they had to face departure, it might well work. But now wasn’t the time to think about it.
‘What will you be doing this week?’ he asked.–There were no concerts arranged until after Bonnie and Grant returned from their honeymoon.
Rufus’s hand hovered in a distracted manner between brown and white stuffed rolls. He, like William, was puzzled to discover that even after all these years of performing in public, the idea of playing at the wedding had caused a certain nervous tension.
‘Iris and I are going to Norfolk,’ he said. (It was William who had recommended the place, years ago, for which he remained particularly grateful since he had become so interested in the plight of birds.) ‘We’ll take some long walks round those great fields. Corn’ll be cut. Hope to come across a few skylarks.–And you?’
‘I’ve no plans,’ said William.
When they had finished their sandwiches the two violinists went outside, joined the crowd round Grant and Bonnie. William dreaded his turn to kiss the bride with a kind of empty, dry dread: but it passed off smoothly. He was aware only of a brief zephyr of Bonnie’s usual summery smell, her cheeks soft as rose petals, her eyes smiling through the swarm of dot-like white flowers, small as insects. Grant’s hand, when William shook it, was damp, and his tie was immodest–he should have come to William for sartorial advice, William reflected: the cellist’s taste in clothes had always been on the leeward side of vulgar. But he looked so damned pleased with himself. It was not the moment to voice reservations.
‘Back in a moment, I’m going to set up the music,’ Grant said to his wife, when he had finished patting Rufus on the shoulder. But Bonnie, her veil tangling with the white clouds above them, did not seem to hear.
Grant led William and Rufus to their chairs, placed with the music stands, in the shade of a small beech tree. They took their time getting out their instruments and placing their scores–hands working automatically, while their eyes flitted across the flutter of the wedding party. There had been several enjoyable evenings when the four members of the Elmtree had had long discussions about just what William and Rufus should play. Bonnie, very definite in her opinions, had been adamant they should include some of the Mozart duos she and William had played that winter morning, despite the fact that they were meant to be for violin and viola. William had found it hard to agree to this, but as there was no protest he could name, he nodded with a gallant show of enthusiasm. In the end, the first and second movements of the Bach Double were decided upon: perhaps, it occurred to William, Bonnie had some idea of how difficult the Mozart duos would have been for him, and was grateful for her change of mind. When they came to the Bach, Bonnie declared, she would leave the wedding guests to come and sit at their feet and listen.–Once the final choice had been made, William and Rufus had further enjoyable evenings, just the two of them, practising.
As they tuned their violins William let his eyes meander more slowly among the guests, their dresses and hats bending and swaying a little in the odd gusts of a warm breeze. He pondered on these strangers–a part of Bonnie’s life he knew nothing about. Some of the men were probably of past importance: which ones? Which ones had loved her? And did they still? Were there any hearts beating with a faint, reluctant, bitter-sweetness, like his own?
William’s hopeless questions were interrupted by the sight of Jack and Laurel. Even from this distance, William could tell, they were not best pleased. Laurel’s offers of any amount of cut-price honeymoons had been politely turned down by Grant and Bonnie, who were bent on a secret destination in Scotland. Laurel had taken their refusal badly. Jack, in a spurt of loyalty, had felt it necessary to m
ake several telephone calls to William, pressing him to persuade the couple to change their minds. William had refused to do any such thing. His obstinacy, as Jack saw it, caused a further rift. There had been no communication between father and son for a couple of weeks. From his unseen position William continued to gaze upon the unappealing couple that Jack and Laurel made. He could see Laurel tugging at Jack’s arm, pointing to Bonnie. He could guess what she was saying, and turned his eyes from the pair with a sigh.
William looked now upon Grace and Iris, who kept as closely together as had he and Rufus earlier. They were enjoying themselves, enjoying the view of the river. (Not even on such a day could William’s own prejudices about the vicinity of Marlow be overcome. Grace had chided him on the journey to the church, but it had made no difference.) Grace, from this distance, still appeared to be a pleasing-looking girl: her face was freckled with straw-shadows from the brim of her hat, which dipped beneath the weight of a real Louis Odier rose. She smiled her sweet smile about the place, gave William a merry wave. Grace: his dearest Ace. How good she was. She seemed to have got over the murder business surprisingly well: no apparent nightmares, no expressions of continued regret at her own absence on the day of the killing. The whole loathsome episode was not forgotten (never would be, could be). But at least they had managed to cast it aside, and in the continuing of their normal lives some unexpected strength had formed.
William kept fond eyes on his wife, arm now linked to Iris. He saw her move quickly to one side. She, sooner than anyone, realised a path was magically clearing for the bride. Bonnie, William observed, was making her way towards the beech tree. To him and Rufus, no doubt impatient for the music to start. She was almost running, pulling at a backwash of tulle like a small, eager boat. She was smiling, beautiful, happy. Grant, some paces behind her, was hurrying to catch up.
William and Rufus exchanged glances.
After so many years of playing together, there was no need of words between the two founding members of the Elmtree Quartet. They poised their bows, made comfortable their violins on their shoulders. William gave Rufus a nod so brief it would have been imperceptible to any musician less attuned to his friend’s economy of gesture.