I bring my violin with me and play for him; when we’re in bed together I read him my bird notes. There are tall trees on the quayside, with shrubs between, and if I wake up early in the morning I often go and sit on deck to listen and look. It’s not as loud here as in the city. I can hear myself think.
Thomas touches me, again and again, and when I walk through the city, when I play the violin, when I talk to others, it happens afresh, my body suddenly remembers things that make me redden. The body has its own memory, its own ideas about what is important.
“My compliments,” Stockdale says after the first concert when Thomas is in the audience. “You’re really hitting the nail on the head now.”
Thomas is waiting for me at the door. He’s smoking a cigarette, looking towards the end of the street, tapping the fingers of his empty hand against his trousers. I stay watching him like that a moment, then open the door. He laughs, drops his cigarette, takes my face in his hands. “Beautiful,” he says and suddenly I doubt that he means it, that he actually means everything that’s happened, that I mean it too. I thank him and see myself standing there, not young any more, and certainly not promising, and only when he kisses me is this feeling broken, and I see him again.
In November Olive comes to London. She’s staying with me. Mrs Sewell has made up the guest room for her. I see her standing in the crowds in Waterloo Station, looking nervously from left to right, like a Crested Grebe. “Olive!” I raise my hand; she searches, spots me. “Over here.” She smells just the same as when I last saw her. I take her suitcase from her. “It’s a fifteen-minute walk. Are you tired? Do you want to take the bus?”
“I’m happy to walk. I’ve been sitting for the whole journey.” She gives my face a sidelong glance. “You look marvellous, Gwen. Are things going well for you?”
I feel caught out, mutter that everything’s all right.
She doesn’t notice, or doesn’t let me see she’s noticed. I tell her about the city, the streets, the houses, the busyness, the orchestra and the new pieces we’re playing. She is smaller than I remember, more fragile, and her voice seems softer. “How are Papa and Mama?”
“Not too bad. Papa has finally finished his collection about the war. And he’s back to his usual self, meddling in everything. Mama is just the same as ever.” She looks sidelong at me. “It upsets her that you hardly ever write.”
“But she’s always reproaching me.”
“You shouldn’t have left home then.”
I shake my head. The irritation I haven’t felt for years is suddenly back again, in full force. I take a deep breath. After all, it’s not Olive’s fault.
“What about you?”
She shrugs her shoulders, looks away.
“Olive. Are you in love?”
“Perhaps.” We cross the road. She tags behind, as if I’m the leader.
“What’s his name?”
“Timothy.” She takes a deep breath. “He’s fifty. And he’s married.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“His wife is ill. Mental problems. She’s in a special ward at the hospital. I met him there, when I went with Dud for his physical therapy.”
“Does he love you too?”
“It doesn’t matter, Gwen. I shouldn’t have said anything.” That evening she comes to the premiere of Beethoven’s Ninth. When the concert is over we go to the hotel bar with the others.
“It’s so good to see you here at last.” Stockdale is standing too close to Olive, who sidesteps away from him till she’s standing by the wall. “Both the Howard sisters. Together again, finally.” He gives her hand another kiss. “How are your parents?”
“Very well. Father has just finished his new collection.”
“It will be worth the wait.” He drains his whisky in a single draught. “I’ve rarely read such an original poet. He has not achieved the fame he deserves, but posterity will judge differently.”
Olive is drinking sherry, greedily, like my mother. Someone taps my shoulder.
“Len.” A kiss.
“Thomas. This is my sister, Olive.” His hand is on my arm.
“Pleased to meet you.” He kisses her hand. “This is Stella.”
A blonde girl in a black velvet dress, no older than twenty, steps out from behind him. Her eyes are lined with kohl. She laughs like an actress.
“And who is Stella?” I ask.
“We’ve just met each other.” He laughs apologetically. “She’s studying at the Art School, too. Sculpture.”
I search his face for an explanation, and, when I can’t find one, for a reason.
“Anyone for another drink?” He laughs a little, cheerful, frank, nothing the matter at all.
As he’s standing at the bar, Olive leans towards me. “Is that him?” she whispers.
I nod.
“Who’s the girl?”
“No idea.” A girl, one of the many girls whose existence I knew of, or suspected, and suspecting is different to seeing.
Olive scowls. I pick up my glass from the table and take a large gulp. The champagne tastes sour, although no one else has said anything, so perhaps it’s something to do with me.
Stockdale holds out his hand and Olive steps onto the dance floor. She moves her body just a little too fast. Stockdale lags a fraction behind, tries to shift her into the right rhythm. They make a jerky couple.
Olive is in high spirits on the way home, and more open than usual. She links arms with me. “Sore feet. Pretty shoes, but no good for walking.” She’s wearing my new high heels—I can’t play if my feet aren’t flat on the ground. “That chap, Thomas. Awfully good-looking. Are you in love with him?”
“Yes.” It’s too dark to see her face; the moonlight falls over her ear. She doesn’t probe further. “It’s different here,” I say. We’re walking along the Thames, we’ll turn left before we reach his boat. “Thea, the cellist, you know, has already had five boyfriends. Only Priscilla is married. But even she had an affair with a trumpet player, before I joined the orchestra.” But Patricia is married. Perhaps she’s had children by now.
“But is it him who doesn’t want to marry, or you?”
“Neither of us wants it, I suppose.” We look carefully before we cross the road, even though it’s night now, and there’s no traffic. Like children, cautious in a city so much bigger than they are, that doesn’t care about them at all.
“Anyway, congratulations.” She laughs. “He’s much handsomer than Paul, remember?”
I don’t tell her she’s drunk, and join in her laughter a little. The pavement is uneven and I keep a tight hold on her, otherwise she’ll fall, with those heels on. Olive tells me about Timothy, that his wife will perhaps die soon, that it would be awful, of course, and yet she still hopes it will happen—her voice is as comforting as the sound of the sea. I try to follow what she’s saying, but my thoughts keep prowling in the region between what actually is and what might happen.
“So what exactly is going on with you and that girl?”
“You’re not jealous, hey? I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t be jealous?” He puts his rinsed brushes back in the jar, with a little more force than necessary.
“I’m only asking.” Letting someone in means letting something go, means letting yourself go. It doesn’t mean clinging, or hoping. To desire someone always means you have to let them go, because there’s always a space that doesn’t belong to you, a space inside the other person, where you can’t be. It also means being able to lose someone and accepting that, because something exists that’s more important than anything else. According to him, at least.