It Had to Be You (25 page)

They wandered back slowly from the restaurant through a London that had been transformed by the fine weather, past restaurants and pubs and cafés that were spilling out onto the pavements. Everywhere people were strolling and talking. If they had been better dressed it could almost have been Italy. James found himself wondering how much the cold and gloom of the British climate had contributed to the nation’s character. Had upper lips only been stiff because they had been frozen? Would global warming free up the people of this strange island for one last brief era of junketing before the apocalypse came to wipe them off their planet?

The great, amorphous city was alive with noise, with chatter, with laughter, much of which sounded coarse, and with singing, most of which sounded drunken. It seemed as if nobody else in the great wen was facing any sadness the next day. James felt, as he had so often felt, that he was out of step.

Even in the shady ground floor of the house it felt warm. There was no breeze. James opened a bottle of chilled white wine, dropped three ice cubes into a glass of water and put it on the piano for Charles. Stanley plonked himself onto the chaise longue, Max sat tactfully in the straightest of the chairs, Philip sat beside Valerie on the sofa, and James took the high-backed armchair. Nobody spoke. Charles had often played, in this room, over the years, but this was different. The atmosphere was just slightly eerie, somewhat artificial, as if they were posed for a photograph. James sensed a sudden tension in the room, a stiffness, an embarrassment, as if they all thought what a wonderful and utterly suitable idea this was, but all wished that it wasn’t actually happening.

Usually Charles just plonked himself at the piano and began. But on this emotional evening he had felt the need to leave the room to compose himself, so now he had to make an entrance. But the living room of a Georgian terraced house in Islington is not the Albert Hall, and the family looked at each other and had no idea which would be the more absurd – the applause of a massed audience of five or an entrance in total silence. They opted for a smattering of embarrassed applause. Charles gave a little bow and a half-smile.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think that the music speaks for itself, but for those of you who do not know Schumann’s piano concerto …’ he stared at Stanley as he said this, and then gave a little, less severe look towards Max ‘… I need to explain that it was written for his beloved wife Clara, a better pianist than he, though a less good composer. It’s an emotional piece, subtle and elegant, written for a woman he loved. What could be a more effective memorial for a woman like Deborah? I wish I could have an orchestra here to give the full effect of this marvellous piece, for the musical conversation between piano and orchestra is one of its great strengths. Sadly, however, though a successful businessman, James isn’t rich enough to be able to afford a house with a large enough room. What I am playing tonight is really just my patched-up version of the piano part, but I think it carries the spirit and meaning of the piece, and I like to think I have given it its own unity, its own integrity. Lady and gentlemen …’ he smiled at his pedantry, ‘… Schumann’s piano concerto.’

He sat at the music stool, stroked his beard thoughtfully, pulled down his cuffs, wiggled his fingers, held his hands just above the keys, appeared to go into a trance, and began.

James was absolutely determined to listen to the music to the exclusion of everything else, to savour every moment of his brother’s brilliance. But listening to music is a talent in itself, and he didn’t possess it. He knew that the music had emotional meaning, as opposed, he assumed, to narrative meaning. He felt that he must let himself go blank, devoid of thoughts and above all of words, so that he could just feel the emotions, but he found that he couldn’t feel an emotion without knowing and describing to himself in words what that emotion was. Birds, he believed, could do that. Animals, he was certain, could do it. Why not he? He heard himself saying to himself, Ah. This is optimistic. Oh, now a touch of fear creeps in. And then the floodgates of his mind were open. He found himself looking at the other listeners and wondering how they were reacting. On the surface Philip seemed all sensitive concentration, but for all James knew he might have been wondering where to go on his holidays. He felt like an inferior being, lacking artistic understanding, solidly unmusical, and consoled himself only with the thought that this was not obvious to anybody else. He found himself watching Valerie, and he had a feeling that beneath her bourgeois serenity a great battle between pride and resentment was being fought. He noticed that Max’s eyes were closing and opening, closing and opening, closing and opening, as he fought a long agonising battle against jet lag. For minutes at a time James hardly heard the music. Then he would jerk himself back to it, as if he also was fighting jet lag. He would try again to empty his mind, and fail. Then he noticed that Stanley was fast asleep, utterly oblivious to this great performance. There was Charles playing his heart out, playing superbly (how did he know that it was superb? Did he know enough about music to know that it was superb?) and, out of his audience of five, one was fast asleep, one was fighting jet lag, one was reflecting on the fact that one was asleep and one was fighting jet lag, one had heard it all a thousand times before, and only one, Philip, was really appreciating it (he hoped). It was in danger of becoming a fiasco. Then Stanley snored, just once, loudly. His snore woke him up. He looked round the room, having no idea where he was, remembered, grimaced, saw Valerie glaring at him, sat up straight, listened with exaggerated attention. Charles hadn’t appeared to hear the snore, he powered on, delicately, subtly, strongly … well, James was certain that he was being delicate and subtle and strong. Within about ninety seconds Stanley was fast asleep again, and Max was losing his battle against sleep and embarrassment. Now James could hardly concentrate on the music at all, for fear that Stanley would snore again.

At last what should have been a joy, a memorable artistic experience, was over, and he had hardly experienced it at all.

There was a moment’s devastating silence, then Philip called out, ‘Bravo,’ and began to clap. James clapped too, Stanley woke with a jerk and clapped vigorously, Max also came to and began to applaud in a slightly embarrassed way. Valerie joined in the clapping and smiled, but James didn’t think that her eyes were smiling.

Because there were so few of them they clapped for slightly longer than was necessary, and Charles bowed and bowed again and bowed yet again, and James felt certain that there were tears in his eyes.

‘I … um … thank you,’ said Charles. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I … um … I don’t want to risk boring you …’

‘Never,’ called out James. He felt he had to.

‘… but if you’re up for it I would like to play one more piece. It’s—’

‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Stanley. ‘I’m not a late bird any more, and I’ve had a long journey and a big dinner, and I am bushed. That was wonderful … wonderful, Charles … simply wonderful … I enjoyed every minute of it, but I am for my bed.’

He clambered awkwardly out of his chair.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Max, ‘but the jet lag is beating me. I’m absolutely gutted, Uncle Charles. To sit here and listen to you playing the piano just for us, what an experience, but my eyes kept closing, I’m knackered.’

‘I understand,’ said Charles, looking as if he didn’t understand at all, looking quite angry in fact. James couldn’t remember ever seeing Charles angry before. ‘I understand. Any more would be too much. I’m over-egging the pudding. It’s probably a fault of mine.’

‘No, please,’ said Philip. ‘I think one more piece would be just great.’

‘James?’ prompted Charles.

‘Yes, it’d be wonderful, Charles. A privilege. I’m not looking forward to trying to sleep …’

‘Well, that’s what I thought.’

‘And we are all perhaps a little bit overwrought, not surprisingly …’

‘Well, that’s what I thought.’

‘And so I think conversation is a little bit of a dangerous activity tonight.’

‘Well, that’s what I thought.’

‘So, please, play for us.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

My God, how much more sure do I have to say I am?

‘I am sure.’

‘Good. That’s fine then.’

‘Well, if you’ll excuse me,’ said Stanley, ‘I’ll see you in the morning. If the waters haven’t risen and swamped Islington.’

He left to a chorus of ‘goodnight’s and ‘sleep well’s. As he reached the door he met James’s eye and flicked his head in the direction of Charles in yet another meaningful glance.

‘Stupid bugger,’ said Philip the moment he had gone.

‘Absolutely,’ said James, ‘but if you really want to do something to raise awareness of the risk of global warming, you could do worse than to use him. Put him on the telly, saying, “You’re all going to drown, you bastards, and you deserve it.” He would at least shock people, and, human nature being what it is, we are tragically ready to get bored by do-gooders.’

‘Well, I’m off to bed too,’ said Max. ‘And I’m really sorry. I feel mortified.’

‘Oh, don’t,’ said Charles. ‘It’s only music.’

James wished Charles hadn’t said that. And he wished Max hadn’t said that he was mortified. He was twenty-two. He was too young to be mortified. He was too young to use words like ‘mortified’.

‘Um … well spoken in the restaurant, Max. Fantastic,’ said Philip.

Max mumbled his thanks and made an awkward exit, suddenly looking the young, inexperienced man that he was.

‘Now are you still absolutely sure?’ asked Charles.

‘Yes,’ said Philip with emphasis.

‘Right. Well, I thought it might be rather interesting to compare Schumann’s concerto with another concerto written by a man who admired and was frankly influenced by Schumann’s concerto. I refer, of course …’

James loved that ‘of course’. Charles knew that there was no ‘of course’ about it to anyone but himself.

‘… to Grieg’s piano concerto. Again, emotion, feeling, subtlety, but this time expressed in a Nordic way rather than a Central European way, or are such regional differences only in the imagination? Let’s see, shall we? And of course once again you are not getting the full effect, we haven’t an orchestra, but once again I venture to say that I think I can make it into some kind of artistic whole. Lady and gentlemen – well, at least the men are still in the plural – let us say, “Lady and Brothers,” Grieg’s piano concerto.’

There are only three of us, thought James. This time I cannot afford to let Charles down. This time I will concentrate utterly, I will be sensitive to every nuance, I will be worthy of my brother.

There were tears in Charles’s eyes. I’m sure of it. Of course he won’t have slept with Deborah. Stanley’s a wicked old man, unhinged, twisted, on the way to being deranged, why should I even listen to him?

Concentrate on the music. Oh, Charles, your playing is so lovely. Oh, I so wish I could do that. And this is a lovely slow piece, elegant, passionate, building towards a climax, so Nordic, or is that just my imagination?

Valerie doesn’t look like a woman who’s getting much.

What kind of an unsubtle thought is that, in the middle of a piano concerto? I am utterly unworthy of your music, Charles.

But she doesn’t look loved.

It was Charles that Deborah was going to so eagerly with her red shoes. He knew it. He’d been blind. She had been planning to go on his musical tour with him. Or maybe there had been no tour, maybe the tour had just been a cover. He’d had to go on it anyway, or be found out. He’d been spending nights in lonely beds in European capitals, crying for his lost love in a way that James could not. Stop it. Back to the music. Concentrate.

He closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, tried to let his mind go blank, and suddenly there it was, filling his head, at last his head was filled with nothing but the music, rich, beautiful, powerful, spiritual, strong, rising to a climax, ending.

It was over. He’d heard almost none of it. He clapped like mad.

Philip was clapping like mad too. But Philip had understood it. Perhaps all along it ought to have been Philip that he should have wanted to be.

It had never occurred to him to want to be himself.

Charles took his bows and they clapped and clapped and Valerie said very firmly, in case Charles was contemplating an encore, ‘That was a lovely little concert, Charles.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Philip. ‘Well, I must be off back to Leighton Buzzard.’

‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said James.

At the door Philip said, ‘Well, that was wonderful.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘A great artist improvising on the work of two great composers, and all in your living room.’

‘Incredible.’

‘A privilege to be there.’

If only I had been.

‘Absolutely.’

James held out his hand. Philip shook it and then, impulsively, hugged his brother for the second time.

Now at last the tears flowed. He shook with silent sobs, soaking his pillow. The bed stretched vast and empty on both sides of him. He felt lost, tiny, utterly lonely. Now at last he missed Deborah with every bone in his body, as he waited for his final temazepam tablet to kick in. He put his arms round where she should have been, and gave the air a kiss that was meant for her.

He was woken by the phone at ten past eight. At first he thought it was his alarm ringing and tried to switch it off, but then he realised that it wasn’t switched on. Then he grabbed at the phone and knocked over his glass of water, soaking the edge of the bed. Not a good start to a difficult day.

Not a good omen.

He managed to pick up the phone just one ring before it would have gone onto the answerphone.

‘Hello.’

His early-morning voice sounded like a hoarse crow’s.

‘Hello, James, it’s me.’

This was too much too early.

‘Helen!’

‘Have I woken you?’

No more lies. There was no need for lies any more.

‘No. I’m at my computer, checking on my emails before anyone else gets up.’

‘James, I’m ringing to apologise for all the awful things I said yesterday.’

‘Oh, that’s all right.’

Oh, that’s all right? What sort of a reaction is that? Come on, James.

‘It’s not all right. It was dreadful of me. What sort of woman must you think I am?’

‘I know what sort of woman you are, my darling.’

Ouch. My darling? No. It’s with just having woken up, but really, that’s dangerous.

‘Oh, James, I miss you.’

I miss you. No. Well, I do, but at the same time I know that I won’t. But, James, whatever you do, don’t say it. Look what that ‘my darling’ has done. It’s made it intimate. It can’t be intimate. It’s over. I didn’t want it to be over. I wouldn’t for the life of me have ended it if there was a chance that it wasn’t over.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Thoughts are sort of flashing around, sort of not quite yet sorted out.’

Say something to show that it’s still final, James, something to deactivate that unwise ‘my darling’.

‘Anyway, thank you for phoning and saying that, Helen. We had five great years. I really don’t want it to end in bitterness for either of us.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of coming and ruining the service. I couldn’t.’

‘I know.’

He hadn’t known. The relief flooded in

‘James, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I think I can understand your … um … I don’t know how to put it, really … your thinking on this. Your fear.’

‘My fear?’

‘Yes. That a great affair, a fantastic sexual adventure, would slide into an ordinary sort of marriage, an affectionate existence. We had an intensity that can only exist when you’re up against it, in snatches, in crises. The excitement we felt was a drug. We’d die without it. When you said “my darling” just then I thought, maybe there’s still a bit of hope. There isn’t any, is there?’

Hard not to prevaricate. Hard not to say, I’d never rule anything out. No. Be strong.

‘No, I don’t honestly think there is.’

Oh, God.

Go now. Ring off. You’ve said enough. It’s over.

‘I’ve … um … I’ve decided to try to be positive.’

Good. That’s good.

‘Good. That’s good.’

It was a relief for once to be able to say what he was really thinking.

‘Don’t think I’m getting over you or anything. Don’t think I’m happy. I’m devastated.’

‘I know, and if I say, “I’m sorry,” it sounds pathetic, but I am.’

‘But I already feel that this is a watershed for me. I’ve … um … I’ve decided not to hang about. I’ve …’ He was surprised to hear a touch of coyness entering her voice. ‘You remember I talked about a man I met in Germany.’

‘Gunter from Ulm who was so charming and Continental and sophisticated.’

‘Don’t mock, and my God, you have a memory. Well, I’ve written to him and I …’ Her voice began to crack. ‘Bye, James.’

She rang off hurriedly before the tears began.

James stared at the phone, put it to his lips, kissed it, then slammed it down abruptly. Then he made love to Helen for the last time, fiercely, briefly, nostalgically. Afterwards he felt flat and soiled. It was extremely unpleasant to feel flat and soiled after sex, but on this occasion his very flatness, his very soiledness – was there such a word? – gave him a brief sensation of excitement. He had done the right thing. A new life lay ahead.

He pulled himself to his feet, ambled over to the window, and drew back the curtains on yet another glorious sunny morning. The calm of the Georgian street matched a new feeling of calm in his heart, a feeling of which he was a little ashamed, because he knew that it was caused by his knowledge that Helen wasn’t coming, that his behaviour was not going to be revealed to the congregation, that his reputation was not going to be destroyed in front of all those he knew and loved. A strange, almost optimistic feeling crept over him, a feeling that something important would happen today, something would change, and that, hard though it was to imagine it on such a day, it would be a change for the better. Then the worries that had consumed him before the sleeping pill took effect returned. Would Stanley let the side down? Would he break down during his eulogy? And, above all, would Charlotte come, and, if she came, how would she look, how would she behave, how would she be?

The house was quiet. Nobody was up. All four of his house guests had travelled yesterday, and travel is tiring. He’d have liked a shower, but the noise of the pump might wake somebody up, and he wanted them to remain silent for as long as possible. The morning of a big funeral is an excruciating time. The minutes pass slowly. Tension rises remorselessly. Everything has been arranged. There is nothing to do. To be sad is to pre-empt. To be happy is to be insensitive. No mood is appropriate.

If no mood is appropriate, it must be good to let one’s mind go blank. As he began to prepare breakfast, James managed just that, achieving with ease what he had so dismally failed to manage while listening to Charles’s playing last night.

To float around in one’s dressing gown, to prepare breakfast for one’s guests, that was a luxury. James the Provider. There are few more comforting roles. He laid the distressed pine table in the kitchen thoroughly and slowly, putting out butter, jam, two kinds of marmalade, two kinds of honey, a basket for toast, jugs of orange juice, tomato juice and mango juice, two types of cereal, two brands of muesli, a jug of semi-skimmed milk, a jug of soya milk, salt, pepper, mustard, brown sauce, bowls, plates, knives, forks, dessert spoons, teaspoons, napkins. On the marble worktops he put eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, tomatoes and mushrooms, all ready to be cooked. On the Lacanche cooker with its five hobs of different sizes and its gas and electric ovens he placed all the pans necessary for the cooking of a full English breakfast. He was more than James the Provider. He was James the Widower whose Competence would Astonish Everybody. He was James the Bereaved whose Stoicism was Admirable. He had roles to play, and he would play them very slowly. With a bit of luck breakfast would last most of the morning.

Breakfast had lasted a long time, and much of the rest of James’s morning had been taken up with showering and shaving and getting dressed in clothes that reflected the tragedy of the occasion but were not excessively sombre. He had tried to tell as many people as possible that Deborah hated the sight of large numbers of people dressed in black. He himself was wearing black trousers with a striped shirt, a dark but not black tie and a burgundy jacket.

Then people began to arrive. The caterers came first, ready to prepare a light snack for those who were coming to the house before going on to the crematorium in procession behind the hearse.

‘I wonder if I could have a quick sandwich,’ suggested Charles. ‘I’m going to get down there early. I need to compose myself.’

‘An appropriate term,’ commented James.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Valerie, and it was a statement, not a suggestion. ‘I see so little of him, James. I have to grab him when I can.’

James could see that Charles didn’t want her to go with him, but didn’t know how to say this, and soon they were off in a taxi, absurdly early, it seemed to him.

Soon after they had gone, Fliss arrived, with her husband Dominic, who was an industrial relations consultant. James found him unimpressive, but he must have something. He was in demand across half the globe.

‘So sad,’ said Dominic, as he shook James’s hand with that slightly sweaty handshake that James dreaded. James always wondered if all his flesh was slightly wet and, if so, how Fliss could bear to touch him. ‘I felt so helpless, James, that was the awful thing. Fliss needing me, and there I was in bloody Indonesia.’

Unfair to take it out on poor old Indonesia, thought James absurdly.

He led the way into the living room.

‘Stiffener?’ he suggested. ‘Sherry, wine, whisky, gin? Long, harrowing day.’

Dominic glanced at the clock, which was showing two minutes past eleven. He hesitated.

‘Or is it too early?’ prompted James.

‘No, no,’ said Domnic hastily. ‘I don’t think one would do any harm. Sherry, please. It’s a terribly underrated drink, but it’s going to make a comeback.’

‘Fliss?’

‘G and T would be good.’

‘Coming up.’

Smelling the drink the moment it was poured, Stanley clumped downstairs and accepted a whisky. Max soon appeared and asked for a beer. James reminded him that they would be a long time out of range of a toilet, and he changed it to a whisky.

‘I’m really upset about my hair,’ said Fliss, and Dominic raised his eyebrows towards heaven. ‘My girl’s on holiday, and the other girl just doesn’t understand it at all.’

‘It looks really good,’ said James.

‘That’s right. Tell her,’ said Dominic. ‘Not that she’ll listen.’

‘It won’t make much difference to Deborah, that’s for sure,’ said Stanley.

There was a rather dreadful silence, to which Stanley seemed oblivious. He raised his glass.

‘Well, cheers, or is that not what one says on these occasions?’ he said.

To James’s relief the doorbell rang at this moment. It was the Essex lot, the Harcourt clan. Fliss’s and Deborah’s brother Chris, his wife Tessa, and Malcolm and Monica Harcourt, the parents of Deborah, Fliss and Chris. Malcolm and Monica, known affectionately throughout Essex farming circles as ‘The Ems’, were extremely bronzed after their holiday. Malcolm apologised for it, and James had to agree that it made them look out of place. They always did, with their old-fashioned, patched-up clothes, but today the inappropriate suntans made them stand out even more than usual. There was no room for any gradation of grief on those teak outdoor faces. Malcolm had passed the two farms on to Chris now, though he still helped, and indeed had a great deal to do at harvest time. The holiday had been in preparation for this ordeal, for ordeal it had become to Malcolm, and there were people who said that Chris put too much upon him at his age. James noticed that morning that, beneath the suntan, there was the first faint hint of frailty in Malcolm.

As the Harcourts entered the room, Stanley gave a low whistle and said to Max, ‘Pure Viking. Amazing. Well, not the younger woman. Strong touch of the Norman there, if I’m not mistaken.’

Max smiled inwardly at Stanley’s phrase. He didn’t think Stanley ever really thought that he was mistaken.

As James poured the drinks for the Essex lot – whisky for the men, sherry for Monica, dry white wine for Tessa – the last of the calm that he had managed to build up over breakfast melted away. He felt an icy blast of danger, the danger that before the day was out the family would discover how much less than a perfect husband he had been. And this brought him back to Helen and the knowledge that, while her generous phone call that morning had been a huge relief and blessing, its very generosity was kick-starting his feelings of guilt again.

Then Philip arrived having fetched Mum, and the little gathering was complete. Conversation proved somewhat sticky, and James chucked a polite stone into the silent pond.

‘How’s the harvest looking?’

‘Bad,’ said Chris.

‘Always he says, “Bad.” He’s such a pessimist,’ said Tessa. She still had the black brooding beauty that had once made her a frontispiece for
Country Life
. She came from a County family and was always quick to point out that the County wasn’t Essex. ‘I am not an Essex girl,’ she would say without humour. She had three dogs. People said that she loved them more than she loved Chris, and that she loved money more than she loved them. People said that she was disappointed that Chris wasn’t more ambitious and grasping. People said that it was her meanness that prevented Chris from hiring harvest help and easing the burden on his struggling father. But then people said a lot of things. James had once dreamt that he was making aggressive love to Tessa, on a piece of waste ground strewn with rubble, in a city ruined by war. Ever since then he had tried not to look at her, and he was trying not to look at her now.

‘Well, if it’s a bad harvest, it’s obviously bad,’ said Chris, ‘but if it’s a good harvest, the price will collapse, so that’s bad too. All harvests are bad now, thanks to our friends the European Union and the British Government.’

‘If the temperature rises three degrees, there won’t be any harvests at all,’ said Stanley.

‘Thank you for that,’ said Chris.

There was an uneasy silence. Philip decided that it needed to be broken, and said the first thing that came into his head. Also, it has to be admitted, he was rather fond of showing that he knew about things in other people’s fields.

‘I heard that it looks like a wonderful year for barley.’

His remark was not the soothing influence that he had anticipated.

‘Our family
can
talk about other things than crops, you know,’ said Fliss.

Mum leapt in now, and James was briefly proud of her, even though he did think that her bright, almost garishly yellow outfit was carrying his instruction not to be sombre slightly too far.

‘We saw two bullfinches in a garden just after Philip had driven out of the flats,’ she said. ‘They really are such beautiful birds.’

‘Don’t talk to me about bullfinches,’ said Chris. ‘Destructive little buggers. Strip an orchard in an hour.’ He caught sight of Tessa’s face and realised that he was not living up to her standards of social grace. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hollinghurst,’ he said. ‘That was rude of me. But my friend Rod from agricultural college had such trouble with them on his fruit farm. They helped to ruin him. I’m not rational about bullfinches, I’m afraid.’