Brixton Beach (45 page)

A
LL THAT WEEK AND THE NEXT
two after that Simon Swann felt as though he was a wind-up bird functioning perfectly well on mechanical energy, but absent in spirit. His staff asked him questions and he looked blankly at them. The patients greeted him in their usual subdued way with the mixture of fear and awe the occasion demanded. Tessa rang him once to inform him the builders had arrived and were at work. They were trampling all over her plants and she was convinced they were stealing the best roses.

‘I think it’s the younger one who’s the culprit,’ Tessa said. I’m certain he’s taking them home to his wife,’ she said crossly. ‘I need to catch him at it,’ she added.

‘It’s just a few flowers,’ Simon said mildly. ‘Does it matter?’

‘It’s dishonest,’ snapped Tessa. ‘Why doesn’t he buy his own, like the rest of us?’

Cressida wanted to speak to him and Tessa passed the phone to her.

‘There’s something wrong with my car, Daddy,’ Cressida complained. ‘The gears are sticking again.’

Simon placated her and promised to look at them when he got back.

‘Can’t you drive Mummy’s car till I’m next home?’ he asked when she continued to grumble.

‘That’s not the point!’ Cressida said, impatiently. ‘Tom hates her car!’

‘Well, tell Tom to get a car of his own, or else fix yours.’

‘Why? When will you be back?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m going to the opera on the twenty-fifth. Put Mummy back on, I want to talk to her.’

Cressida groaned.

‘The opera!’ she cried, handing the phone back to her mother.

‘I take it from that you won’t be here when the Richards come?’ Tessa asked waspishly.

Simon sighed.

‘You knew about the tickets ages ago! I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry! What good is that?’

It was the usual rejoinder.

‘Look,’ he said, reasonably, ‘put them off till the following week.’

‘No, Simon, I will
not
. If you’re going to the opera on Friday, why can’t you come home on Saturday? Cress needs her car fixed.’

There was a short pause.

‘I’m not coming home just to fix Cress’s car,’ he said, suddenly riled.

He could hear his daughter shouting in the background.

‘I think you’re being exceptionally mean to both of us,’ Tessa was saying.

That was how it had always been, he thought: Tessa and Cressida against him.

‘In any case, I’m working on Saturday’

The lie, taking him aback, slipped out with startling ease. The silence on the other end of the phone grew.

‘Put the Richards off until the following week or have them without me.’

‘Well, of course you never liked them,’ Tessa said.

There, it was out. All the knives, he thought, wincing, slightly. Soon they would be sharpening them. When would they start drawing blood? Taking a deep breath, he wondered what he could do to resolve it. Feelings he had not thought he possessed were clamouring inside him, crying to be let out. He didn’t want a scene but it was heading
towards him like a tidal wave. He had never quarrelled with his life until now. Wait! he told himself. Wait! Maybe he was mistaken. But it was no mistake.

He opened his computer. His e-mails remained unanswered from days before. Invitations to dinner, to play squash, his friend Ralph offering him two tickets to a concert, another invitation to give a paper at a conference. A colleague, writing to him from the States. A long letter from the editor of
The Lancet
with queries about the article he had submitted some months ago on pain relief. They were going to publish it. Next Simon listened indifferently to his telephone messages.

The days crawled slowly on. He hurried back to the flat in the early hours of each morning impatiently, wanting only to ignore the telephone, his mobile, his e-mails, everything. Wanting only to listen to his music and wait. Friday the twenty-fifth seemed a lifetime away. He rang Alice twice in that time. The first time was a few days after he had seen her last when, unable to bear it any longer and with a feeling of slight sickness, he dialled the number. What if she had changed her mind and couldn’t face the opera? After all, hadn’t she warned him that opera was outside her experience? What if she couldn’t stand the thought of an evening with a married man? The world was full of unattached men, he thought, his head swimming. Like a schoolboy, he plucked up courage and rang her. He let the phone ring and ring but there was no answer. Feeling let down, he went into the kitchen and cooked himself a boiled egg, opened the tin of anchovies he found in the cupboard and ate supper. Then he drank some whisky and listened to a recording of
Tristan and Isolde
. The old magic flooded over him so that for a while he was distracted. At ten o’clock, feeling unaccountably restless and depressed, he decided to go to bed but as he was cleaning his teeth the phone rang. Her voice sent him into paralysis.

‘I was in my studio,’ she said, sounding very young. ‘I didn’t hear the phone.’

‘You’re still working, then?’

‘I can’t sleep.’

There was a pause, as though she felt she had said too much. Unvoiced questions gathered in his head. But luckily she couldn’t see. Neither of them knew what came next. He wanted to say, he couldn’t sleep either, that all he had done was think about her, that if he had half a chance he would jump in a taxi and come over. But he said none of these things. Instead he told her about the music he had been listening to. It seemed safe to admit he was looking forward to Friday, so he said that too. He heard her laugh slightly, as though she was reading his mind.

‘I was on the radio again, yesterday,’ she said, ‘promoting the exhibition.’

‘Oh God, I completely forgot! How did this one go?’

‘Well!’ she said. ‘I was nervous thinking you might be listening. I hate the sound of my voice. But it was okay. I’m glad you forgot!’

Again she laughed. So my opinion matters, he wanted to shout triumphantly. Instead he too laughed, delighted. They talked for a moment longer. He told her about Cressida’s car and her reluctance to drive her boyfriend around in her mother’s car. He tried to make the story funny, determined to mention their names, not wanting her to think he was evading the situation they were walking into. But the story came out all wrong. He heard the slight hesitation in her voice and then he asked her about Ravi.

‘Have you heard from him?’ he asked quickly.

‘No. I don’t expect to for a bit. He rang me last week. There’s another two weeks of term left. I expect he’s busy’

Simon cursed his clumsiness. Was she comparing their different lives?

‘You could visit him,’ he said, trying to console her. ‘I could drive you up to Oxford and go off somewhere while you visited him?’

There was a startled silence.

‘That’s kind of you,’ she said formally. ‘Maybe one day’

Suddenly he felt worse than if she hadn’t rung him back. Had he said too much too quickly? What was she thinking? He told her a bit about his work but at the same time he was thinking anxiously about what was going through her mind. There was another awkward pause.

In the end, Alice was the one who finished the conversation, saying she ought to go to bed as she had an early start in the morning.

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asked, uneasy, now.

‘I’ve got to take another piece of work up to the gallery and Antonia has someone from the press coming to meet me.’

‘You’ll be famous!’ he said admiringly, and she laughed.

He was certain he was boring her.

‘Sleep well,’ he said.

‘Thank you. You too.’

Putting the phone down he remembered the first time he had met her and how she had withdrawn from him. He felt she had done it again. Now he wouldn’t sleep, he knew. Calm down, he told himself, this is getting out of hand. It’s too quick. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Going back into the living room he turned on the light in search of his recording of
Tosca
.

In Brixton Beach Alice washed her hands, scrubbing the plaster out of her fingernails. She didn’t know what had made her ring him. Staring at her hands under the running water she thought, Why on earth should this thing work out? Why had she told him so much about herself? She shook her head.
Child
, her grandfather’s voice came to her clear and real,
he is a very fine man
. It was possible, she thought. Best not to hope. Will he ring, again, she wondered?
Of course
, her grandfather said, mystified at her doubts.
I told you, this man is not like the other. And besides, the time is right
.

Neither slept well. On Wednesday Alice thought, Only two more days to go. She found it difficult to concentrate on her work and decided instead to go into Brixton. It was hot. Jumping on a bus she made her way to the top deck and sat looking down at the street. The branches of the plane trees brushed past. The bus was empty and Alice sat quietly lost in thought. Every part of the Brixton Road, she realised, was filled with memories of Ravi. But I feel so old, she thought. She smiled ironically, aware that it had been a long time since thoughts about her age and appearance mattered. They passed the park where
she had taught Ravi to ride his bicycle, running behind him, holding on to the back as he pedalled. Round and round she had run, laughing, her hair obscuring her view, while Ravi shouted at her not to let go. And the passers-by had stopped to smile at the girl, so young and small, with the dark flowing hair, teaching her son to ride. Simon Swann would never know that girl. She had vanished. The bus stopped beside another bus and she did something she hadn’t done for a long while. Years. She considered the face reflected in the window, scrutinising the ravages of time.

There’s nothing there to worry about
, her grandfather’s voice intercepted.
You’re still beautiful, child
. His voice came to her with the slap of waves carrying her youth with it.

But what shall I do? she asked him, wordlessly.

Nothing, Putha. Just be yourself
.

The long hot afternoon seemed deliciously filled with a sense of Simon Swann. Whichever way she turned, she felt his presence, rich with possibilities. Reaching Coldharbour Lane she stepped off the bus and headed for a record shop. Walking amongst the rows of CDs she found the section marked ‘opera’ and began to look through it, but she couldn’t remember the name of the opera they were going to. Frowning with concentration, she picked up one boxed case after another, not knowing what to do. A piece of music was playing. The voice was very deep and rich and melodious. Mesmerised, Alice listened. The singing was in Italian, she knew that much. On the counter was a notice that said what the music was:
La Traviata
. She was certain that wasn’t the name Simon had said. The music held her for a moment longer before it came to an end. Alice hesitated, wondering whether to buy it. At the last minute, superstition made her decide not to, but she wrote the name down. If he ever rang her again she would ask him about it.
If he rings?
chuckled her grandfather.

But he didn’t ring that day, or the following day either. Alice worked in her studio, chiding herself for her foolishness. Later in the afternoon the phone did ring and it was Ravi. Such was her focus on Simon that for a moment she was taken aback.

‘Can you look for something in the loft?’ Ravi asked, without preamble. ‘There’s a box with my school maths books in it. Can you post it?’

Yes, darling,’ she said. ‘When are you coming home?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m in a hurry, I can’t stop to talk now. I’ll let you know.’

And then he was gone, leaving her wondering again how they had become strangers. Alice went back to sanding the piece of wood she was working on. Then she began to lime it with a rag. A small coil of barbed wire lay on the floor. There were drawings strewn around, pinned on the walls. The work was looking good, but her hard-won equilibrium had been disturbed and she had to force herself to go on working. At six o’clock, just as she was finishing for the day, the phone rang again. It was a woman she knew only slightly, a local artist she had occasionally shown her work with. Alice waited politely for the conversation to finish. Her head was beginning to ache with the fumes from the solvents she had been using and also from hunger.

‘What about coming over tomorrow?’ the woman persisted.

Alice murmured her thanks and declined.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m busy,’ she said, wanting to get off the phone.

She felt dizzy and wanted to cry. After an eternity, the woman rang off. Alice went outside and cut some roses. It was as she was putting them into water that the telephone rang once more.

‘What are you doing?’ Simon asked, his voice very clear and close to her ear.

For a moment Alice could not speak. A constriction in her chest, a barely acknowledged longing burst inside her and she smelled the fragrance of old French roses, all in a bunch, in her arms.

‘Cutting roses,’ she said, and she described the pale creaminess of the flowers. She was breathless. Simon hesitated and then he laughed.

‘I’m still at work,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I will be here for some time, or I would suggest inviting myself over to Brixton Beach!’ he said.

She heard faint music.

‘I was worried that you might have misunderstood something I said the other night,’ he told her.

She could hear his uncertainty and felt relief flooding over her. With new confidence she told him about her trip to the music shop and her curiosity to hear what an opera was like. Simon was delighted.

‘Do you want to know the story before you go?’ he asked, and proceeded to tell her the doomed story of the painter Cavaradossi and his dark-eyed Tosca.

‘I once heard Maria Callas sing Tosca,’ his voice went on. ‘You know, I queued all night for a ticket and my God it was worth it! She was superb, brought the house down.’

Alice listened, not understanding but mesmerised regardless. Her life balanced on a knife-edge. A distant memory was disturbed as she listened to Simon Swann talk and she saw her younger self, listening to her grandfather telling her about his work.