He walks off in the rhythm we were just playing, slowing himself down at the door, so that he finishes at exactly the right point.
Joan comes and sits beside me. A Seagull flies past again. I hardly ever see them here. Perhaps they can’t find enough to eat by the coast. “Do you think my tempo isn’t right? In my opinion, it’s his tempo that’s wrong.”
I turn towards her. “Perhaps you should discuss that with Stockdale, not me.”
“He blows his top so fast.” That tic again.
I try not to sound irritated. “It’s always like that. He gets cross, you lose confidence, and then it goes from bad to worse.”
“But do you think I’m playing it right or not?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I think the truth lies somewhere in between.”
Priscilla joins us. “Do you think the weather will hold? Ken and I want to go sailing this weekend.”
Joan thinks it will get colder. I move to the window—always the same kind of chitchat. Priscilla is really nice, with her rosy cheeks—apple cheeks, as Olive would say—and her flaxen hair, and she’s amusing, and I like Joan too, so I don’t know why I’m feeling so annoyed. Two bobbies are walking past outside. I tap my fingers restlessly against my leg: ‘Nimrod’.
I don’t want to go straight home after the rehearsal. The city is too loud today. Late spring is heavy in the elm trees in Battersea Park: song, blossom, chubby little Blackbirds and Sparrows, an empty eggshell here and there. Young people walk past me—laughing, flirting, quarrelling—this is the best season for dreaming. Soon it will be too hot and the thick, grimy air will thrust us further out of the city. An older couple are sitting on a bench, coats closed, in spite of the heat. She takes his hand.
There’s a group of students walking in the gardens. They stop by the Memorial sculpture, some of them sketching the figures in their books. Thomas also loves this monument. I carry on, past the bees in the Old English Garden, past the lake, till I reach the old oak tree where the Great Tits are nesting. There is a little bench opposite, far enough from the nest not to disturb them. It is a while before the parents arrive—I can’t see the nest itself, it’s near the top of the tree, in a little hollow. I take my notebook out of my violin case. I’m writing an article about the song of Great Tits. I’ve read a number of studies on birdsong over the past few years. Its structure has been intensively researched, but very little has been written about its meaning. So whenever I have a few hours to spare I go to this place in the park, and note down the songs and calls of a particular group of birds, at the same time recording their relationships and interactions. By the end of the spring I hope I’ll have gathered enough information to make a really good piece of work.
One of the young Great Tits flies out of a lavender bush a little further on, lands right by my feet and hops towards me. “Hallo, little one,” I say to him. He tilts his head, takes another step forward, but then swiftly flies away again.
“Lennie?” Thomas is lying on his back, smoking.
“Hmm.” A boat sails past. I can see the old man at the tiller very clearly. He can’t see us.
“Would you like to marry me?”
I move from the window to the bed. Wind shifts the water, the swell making the boat bob. I sit down beside him and place my hand on his wrist. “No.”
“Are you sure?” He sits up. “I could buy a house, a real house. We’d be happy.”
“Have you been talking to your mother?” I close my hand around his wrist, open it again.
“That’s not the reason. We’ve been together so long.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“We’ve known each other so long now.” He takes my hand. “I love you.”
“Well, I love you too. I just don’t want to get married. And certainly not to you.” I caress his red curls.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You too. Why do you want this again, all of a sudden?”
He sighs. “She wants me to get married, to start a family. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise you can whistle for your money.” My tone isn’t indignant—I knew it. He remains silent.
“I’m not going to play along. Sorry. If you really want to get married, do so, but ask one of your other girlfriends.”
“But you’re the only one. The only one I love. We’ve known each other so long now.” A pleading look from someone who really is too old to play the little boy any more.
“Seriously, Thomas. You know just as well as I do that we should never live in a house together.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
I’ve told him about the legacy. “Has she given you an ultimatum?” I ask.
“A year, and then she’ll stop my allowance.”
I laugh. “You’ll have to pull out all the stops, old chap.” He lets go of my hand, turns away from me. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I should have been much clearer from the start. That you were the one, not the others.”
He’s trying hard, harder than last time. I take a cigarette too, light it, and inhale deeply. He’ll look for someone else, a pretty girl, young, pliable. He’ll marry her, have children, and will keep seeing me till it’s no longer possible, or until I no longer wish it.
We smoke in silence. In silence I get dressed.
He follows me to the door.
“Did you really think I’d say yes?”
“I don’t know.” The answer that people give when they don’t want to say something else. He opens the door for me. In his eyes I see the reflection of the road behind me.
On the path along the Thames women are strolling in short-sleeved frocks, men without their overcoats. It’s going to be another hot day. Flowers bow to the sun. In the spinney in front of the station boys in short trousers are playing with little stones, knees brown with dirt, sand on their hands. Children. Scenery. I’m walking here and could just as well be walking somewhere else. People look at me, then forget they’ve ever seen me.
There’s a throng of people at the station entrance—is it eight o’clock? Nine o’clock? The day has begun. It has long been light. I could take a train—I have enough money now—go to a hotel on the coast, for just a night, or two, the violin in its case by the door.
On Friday I’m playing in a premiere. I still have to practise. I quicken my pace. Someone is singing in one of the houses. A bus drives past, but I overtake it when it halts at a bus stop. The water in the river beside me is flowing back to the boat. The plane trees by the path were here when we first walked this way. All those footsteps sealed in the asphalt. The park, the cemetery—and it’s only when I reach the school again that I hear people, not just the cooing of Pigeons.
I knock at the door. Jenny opens, morning miss, a little nod, a curtsey. I go up the stairs two steps at a time. The Great Tit he sketched for me, on a brown paper bag, still hangs by the window. I take up my violin and play to the Great Tit. The music streams through the open window, is drowned by the sounds of the city.
Dodie opens the door. I crouch down in front of her. “Hallo, cheeky. Is your Mummy at home?” She says nothing in reply, but fixes her eyes on me, her pale little face looking very serious.
Thea calls out from the back room. “Len? Come in. I’m feeding Lila.” Joey comes to take a look at me too. I squeeze past them through the passage, bending my head to avoid the washing.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess. We just don’t have enough space.” She gives me a broad grin as I enter. “Well, what do you know, she’s dropped off now.”
I stroke Lila’s cheek. She’s a person already, although not fully.