Bone China (37 page)

No one knew what might happen next. Only time would tell.

Henry too was surprised by how much he was enjoying himself. He waited, as one waits for a train that’s late. He was discovering there was more to Anna-Meeka than even he had first thought. He began to visit her once a week, in the evening, a bottle of fine wine tucked under his arm. Bringing his stories with him, ready for more sport.

‘I bumped into my ex again, today,’ he told her cheerily, pouring out some wine.

‘Really?’ asked Meeka, covering her glass with her hand.

Henry didn’t seem to notice.

‘She’s invited me to one of her big dinner parties. Aren’t you having any more wine?’ he asked again.

Oh my God! thought Anna-Meeka, staring at him. She’d remembered! Henry was showing off like her father. Unaware of her thoughts, Henry continued.

‘She has these black-tie dinners about once a month,’ he was saying. ‘She always wants me there.’

As for that laugh, thought Meeka. I know exactly who his laugh reminds me of. And she remembered how her uncle Christopher had behaved at her wedding.

‘Henry,’ she said, experimentally, ‘I know you were very hurt when your wife left you, but, you know, I think you’re simply stuck in your own groove.’

Henry was taken aback. He poured himself a drop more wine.

‘What was that you were playing, when I came in?’ he asked, changing the subject, knowing she was reluctant to talk about her music.

So, she composed music. As well as playing the piano. Hmm, he thought. That night, just before he left, shamelessly, he stole some of the sheet music lying around. He wanted to take a good look at it without Meeka knowing. The next day he exam
ined her composition. Pursing his lips, he sat down at the piano and played a few bars. He raised an eyebrow, playing slowly, groping his way, trying to illuminate the texture of the music, to understand the underlying structure of the composition. He could hear a number of voices, rising together and falling away one by one. Thinking about the music, following Anna-Meeka’s score, he made a few notes in red ink. Then he played it again, bringing out the tenderness within the melody. The sounds dropped note by note into his mind. Poco vivace and exuberant at first, then drifting into a brooding C minor. He could hear her voice through his fingers; her presence in the music. He felt a strong sense of her personality, lifting off the manuscript. The sunshine from the window fell softly like candlelight against the piano keys. There were small particles of dust moving slowly in the light, but Henry never noticed. He wore a strange lost smile of appreciation. An inner world of extraordinary integrity and balance was being revealed to him. The music came to its gentle insistent closure; after the last chord he did not take his hands away from the keyboard. He did not stir. It was as though he was under a spell. Staring out of the window, his face unusually serious, he wondered what he should do. Suddenly he was a little frightened. There was no doubt in his mind: the music was astonishing. She had not studied composition, her notations were not always correct. Yet the structure was clear. There was a tension within that went all the way through the piece, a connection that never once let up. Still Henry hesitated, not wanting to do the wrong thing.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, sotto voice, playing some of the phrases again and again, listening to the cadence and resolution, the way it developed both emotionally and intellectually.

‘Early twentieth-century English composers,’ he mumbled to himself.

And someone else. Messiaen, he thought, shaking his head, amazed. Probably she didn’t even realise it. An extraordinary woman, he thought. So much locked away, undiscovered. What on earth was she ashamed of that she wouldn’t speak to him about it? He wondered how much more she had written, knowing it was too soon to ask. Lost in thought, he began to play once more. Then he reached for the phone. What he really wanted was a second opinion.

Two days later Henry visited Meeka again. He had several plots to thicken. On this occasion he recited poetry to her. Browning and then Tennyson, and after that Yeats. Yeats always came last in his opinion. Meeka flattened her ears as a cat might flatten them when it was confused. Heavens! she thought, remembering her mother had been crazy about Yeats. What would she have said if she heard all this? Henry, observing her reaction, smiled with secret satisfaction. The thaw had settled in nicely. Of late his eyes were the colour of blue lagoons.

‘Oh no!’ said Sally Dance seeing the seriousness of what was happening. ‘I do hope he doesn’t get hurt.’

‘Listen, Henry, don’t keep mentioning your ex,’ urged his lodger. ‘She won’t find it amusing.’

But Henry didn’t seem to hear. He was preoccupied with thoughts of his own and was just off for a swim. At his age, he informed his lodger, he needed to keep himself in trim. Besides, it was time to invite Meeka to his house, for a candlelit supper.

Sally Dance and Pippa offered to bleach his tablecloth and make him a summer pudding.

‘We’ll eat alfresco,’ he declared, ‘beside the fountain and next to the statue of Venus.’

Lavender grew among the rosemary. The scents mingled with
the Dijon Rose petals falling softly onto the ground like confetti. Henry placed the speakers outside. They would listen to Bach, he decided. The backdrop was perfect.

Then disaster struck. Just as he was chopping the garlic for the
melanzane alla parmigiana
, the doorbell rang.

‘
Caro
Henry.
Ciao, caro!
’ said a voice.

Shit! thought Henry. Shit, shit! It was Francesca the flautist.

‘
Stai bene
, Henry?’ she said, slinking in.

Francesca followed him into the kitchen.

‘How sweet, you make-a my favourite dish-a!’And she started nibbling the cheese.

There was nothing for it, Henry gave her a large grappa and lured her into his study upstairs.

‘Now you just stay here, Francesca,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be long, well, not too long. I’m sorry to keep you out of the way like this, but I don’t have much time. It’s just a business meeting, that’s all, you know what these musicians are like…I must go,’ he added, as the doorbell rang. Hastily (he could smell the oven from where they stood), thrusting the bottle of grappa into Francesca’s hand, he rushed downstairs, taking care to close the study door, remembering to check his face for lipstick. He felt unaccountably hot.

It was an uneasy evening. Meeka had brought a dish that was perfumed with almonds and rose water but Henry’s food was burnt and the wine corked. He opened another bottle. Every time he glanced up at the house he could see Francesca prowling around. The light was on. What on earth was she doing? Henry reached for the bottle of newly opened wine, helping himself liberally.

‘My goodness, is that the time?’ he asked, yawning loudly, glancing at his watch.

He had an early start the next day. Meeka agreed; it was time
to go home. She had not drunk much but she decided to use the bathroom before she left.

‘No!’ shouted Henry, adding more quietly, ‘It’s just that the bathroom isn’t awfully nice, I mean, the light doesn’t work.’ The bathroom light had just come on; he could hear Francesca flushing the toilet.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Meeka, ‘I don’t mind.’

‘No!’ said Henry, standing up in alarm, barring her way back into the house. ‘No, I mean, why don’t you wait until I take you back? You can’t be that desperate? Can you?’ he pleaded.

Anna-Meeka was looking at him strangely.

‘Henry,’ she said patiently, as though she were speaking to a child, ‘may I use your bathroom please? You needn’t worry, I’m not going to pinch anything.’

Pushing past him she went into the house. Henry watched her go. Francesca, all kitten heels and not much else, watched from above as Meeka went, head down, determinedly up the stairs.

‘You
are
an idiot, Henry,’ said Pippa, shaking her head at his nerve. Why did he always ruin everything?

Sally Dance couldn’t stop laughing. ‘I could have told you that would happen,’ she said, wiping her eyes. She could hardly speak. ‘Oh, Henry! She must have been livid!’

Henry did not bother to answer her. He was still clearing up the mess. The
melanzane
was everywhere.

‘I’ve had enough,’ said Dill the lodger. ‘There are too many women in this bloody house.’

Henry said nothing. He would have to repaint the wall.

‘I’ve told you,’ said Isabella down the phone, ‘the man’s a madman! Get rid of him.’ Her mother was hopeless when it came to men. Perhaps she ought to come home and sort it all
out. No wonder Grandpa Thornton used to worry about her so much. ‘Get rid of him, do you understand? I’m going to ring you tomorrow to check you have.’

But Isabella had worried too much. She had forgotten how stubborn her mother was. She had forgotten what happened when her mother made up her mind. She had not heard her grandma Savitha on
that
subject. Anna-Meeka unplugged the telephone. She closed the curtains, and turned out the lights. Then she settled down to wait. Had her father been alive, had her mother been there, had her uncles been around, they would have instantly recognised the look in her eyes.

That October was the best ever. From Broad Street, behind the high blue-crested gates of the college, Michaelmas spread its autumn crocuses. The air thickened with damp bonfires and the beginnings of river mist. The Oxford skyline was tinted once again in gentle late-afternoon light, while the college walls near the Martyrs’ Memorial in St Giles shed their crimson foliage leaving a pencilled scribble of bare branches across the yellowing stone. Bicycles, moving like furious insects, crossed and recrossed cobbled streets, and evensong in the cathedral swelled with its term-time choir. Henry Middleton had had an astonishing summer. When he was not mowing Meeka’s lawn or tying her unruly honeysuckle back, he was playing on her beautiful piano. He took her punting on the river. He poured the finest champagne into his mother’s old crystal glasses and toasted her health. He pedalled across Oxford with flowers for her. He invited her to listen to him conduct Mahler and then he took her to dinner to meet his friends. He watched her smile. And he felt his heart turn over with a long-forgotten emotion. Sally Dance and Pippa were delighted. Like the roses, Henry was flourishing. Isabella watched her mother with amazement;
she had never seen her look so happy. She thought Henry was
so
sweet.

‘Oh Mum, he’s
lovely
,’ she said in astonishment. ‘He’s such a tease! And crazy about you.’

The house just now was filled with life. Cars parked outside, visitors came and went; Meeka and Henry played duets together on the piano laughing, and arguing with one another.

During the second week of term Henry Middleton took Meeka to a piano recital. In all her years living near Oxford, Meeka had never once ventured inside a college. Henry was delighted to be the one to take her. She had met the concert pianist Carl Schiller at a party with Henry. Now he had come to Oxford. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel. The women all wore black. Pippa Davidson was excited. Sally Dance had come too. She would not have missed tonight for the world. Isabella had come home for the weekend. She and Henry had become the best of friends. Several of Henry’s friends were present, including the music critic Adrian Taylor. Henry introduced Meeka to him. Even Dill the lodger came. He was glad Henry had painted the wall on the landing. It looked as good as new. Only a slight mark remained. Dill fancied that sometimes, depending on the light or the time of day, it glowed like an old war wound.

‘Wear one of your saris,’ Henry had said. ‘The blue-and-gold one, the one your aunt Alicia gave you.’

He had been unusually insistent. So Meeka wore the blue-and-gold sari.

The air quivered with a sense of expectancy. Meeka, sipping her wine, watched the audience as they arrived. She noticed Henry looking around the room and wondered when his Venetian friend or his former wife would pop up. But Henry, it was clear, was playing safe tonight. Sally Dance had brought her man with her. He grinned at Meeka.

‘How’re you getting on with Henry then?’ he asked loudly. ‘I hear he’s behaving himself these days!’

‘Shut
up
, Matthew,’ Sally hissed. When all was said and done, Henry was still her friend, even if he sometimes made mistakes. Besides, she did not want to ruin his big evening.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Matthew, who had no idea why he was here.

‘Shh!’ said Sally Dance. ‘You’ll see in a minute.’

Soon the auditorium began to fill up. Meeka gazed in delight at her surroundings, unaware of Henry’s anxious glances as he introduced her to some of his colleagues, some members from his orchestra, a journalist and a producer from Radio 3. A flash went off nearby and Meeka blinked. Conversation spun in the air. There were so many people who knew Henry. She lost track of how many hands she shook or how many of these women were Henry’s old ‘friends’. She wished she had not worn her sari. She almost wished she had not come.

‘Stop fussing, Mum,’ said Isabella as though she had read her mind.

Suddenly, for no reason, Meeka thought of her grandmother. The sari she was wearing had belonged to her once and she took some small comfort, a feeling of who she was, from the thought. Pippa Davidson, glancing across at Meeka and Isabella, was reminded of the dashing Mr de Silva. The family likeness was very apparent tonight. Sally Dance was busy watching Henry, magnificent in his dinner jacket.

‘He’s as nervous as a cat,’ she whispered to Pippa. Henry was fidgeting.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Pippa whispered back. ‘It’s making me nervous too!’

Sally giggled.

‘Stop it,’ Pippa said. ‘I can’t bear this suspense.’

The last of the audience took their seats. Then suddenly the lights were dimmed. Swiftly, with the speed of tropical darkness, silence descended in tiers around the room. Only a small spotlight illuminated the grand piano. Carl Schiller, fine-boned and delicate as porcelain, came onstage. He bowed once and sat down, pausing, looking down at the keyboard. In the dark his hands glowed white. All around the room the silence was velvet. Meeka felt her hands become moist with sympathy. Was this how her aunt Alicia used to feel when she had played in public?