I sit at the edge of the water, in grass so light in colour that it seems grey. Ringed Plovers skitter across the sand on the other side. Just a fortnight more, and then I have to return to London. I don’t even know now where I put my violin. Something is moving in the bush beside me. I keep as still as possible. A hazel dormouse, or some other kind of dormouse, off and away before I can properly see him. A bumble bee lands on my calf, its fat little feet tickling me.
Countless small birds emerge from the scrub, first the Sparrows, then the Goldfinches, a Redbreast, a Wagtail, a Wren—they’re taking a look at me, like villagers who come out to greet a newly arrived guest, and then they carry on with whatever was keeping them busy. This shining land is not ours. Because I keep completely still, the birds behave exactly as they would otherwise do. I’ve learned more about their behaviour in ten days here than during all those years in London. Because people are so full of their own importance, they don’t see other creatures correctly—yet simply to describe their behaviour with precision would place everything in a different light.
A Woodcock lands in the grass. Clouds shift white across the water. My reluctance increases with every step down the dyke.
The staircase is full of smoke. I let my feet feel their way down the narrow stairs, skid a little, try not to breathe, it’s a question of seconds, not minutes, the last steps, the front door, no key, I pound and pound and call out, cough, someone’s screaming on the other side of the door, pounding, screaming. I take shallow breaths, in, out, in, out, can’t breathe any more.
Wood, a slam, a man’s voice, an opening. Air.
I don’t know if I was making some kind of sound, but the woman opposite me—dark-blue stockings, a little cloche hat in the same colour—glances up from her book and gives me a disapproving look. I’m not as well groomed as I was on the outward journey. And much less concerned about it. I give her a smile. She purses her lips and pretends to carry on with her book. Her husband is looking at the landscape. His white moustache bobs to the rhythm of the train. He’s humming.
I take my little black notebook out of my bag, yawning. The ceremony is at ten o’clock, and it will take me at least an hour to get to the church. To try and shake off my sleepiness, I make sketches of the woman and the man. When we reach Blackfriars, I put the notebook away.
The city greets me with rain. And after three streets I know that I’m wearing the wrong shoes. I stop walking at the first bus stop I can find. My umbrella knocks against someone else’s, a man in a hurry. The streets are shining, showing an upside-down city that is constantly broken by traffic. Machines rumble in the distance, a military band that never comes closer. For the whole bus journey, jammed between damp coats and voices and hair, I play a violin part in my head to drown out the sound. It smells of people, of human bodies.
Joan is standing on the pavement outside the church. She’s smoking and only spots me when I get closer. She embraces me, holding the arm with the cigarette behind her. “Gwennie. So good to see you.” Her eyes look sad.
“Isn’t Barry here?”
She shakes her head, takes a last puff from the cigarette. “He’s on reconnaissance, in France. They’re expecting all sorts to happen. I’ll go in with you.” She stubs the cigarette out, links arms with me; for a moment we truly are friends.
The steps are made of marble and are slippery with rain. Joan loses her footing, but my arm steadies her, prevents a fall. She smiles at the door as if nothing has happened.
“How are things in the hut? Doesn’t the silence send you crazy? It would drive me up the wall. Billie said she wouldn’t be able to stand it.”
“I like peace and quiet.” The stone floor of the church has been worn smooth by thousands, tens of thousands of feet, past and present together, silently supporting all those years.
“Me too, but not isolation.” She looks at herself in her compact mirror, combs her grey hair into shape with her hand.
Stockdale enters, arm in arm with a long-legged girl—a young deer, a hind, that must be Deborah. He waves, but shows no intention of approaching me. Behind him is Joey, the double bass player, as rosy-cheeked as ever; Emile, the bassoonist, is talking to him, his voice over-reedy for his body. People greet each other, always looking across each other’s shoulders to check if another acquaintance is arriving, someone more important.
We sit down in the third row, by the aisle. I greet people on all sides, take off my shoes to massage my feet, under the bench, under the old wood, the rack for the prayer books. I prod through my stocking, making a hole in the blister. It stings. Joan is chatting to the man beside her, one of Billie’s uncles.
I cough. My fingertips are tingling. At first I try not to notice my breathing, and then do precisely that. The church organ starts playing. People continue to talk for a few moments, and then fall silent and turn around. Billie is led forward by her father. She’s wearing a white dress, simple and elegant, trimmed with lace, and a white cap with a veil. I think of the water, the rain on the roof of the hut, about my article, and about Ollie the Blackbird, who came indoors this morning and perched on the table.
I can only breathe normally again when I’m in the train. I now understand why my father wanted to live in Wales, although he wasn’t at all suited to country life. It’s quiet in the compartment. I take off my shoes, take out my notebook to write. The sun outside is a red ball.
“Len?”
A dart hurtles from my eyes to my mouth to my heart, my diaphragm, my abdomen. “Thomas.”
He leans down, gives me a kiss on the cheek, sits opposite me. “Crikey, what a coincidence. I was thinking of you today. Where are you off to?”
“To Sussex.” I tell him about the hut, calling it a holiday cottage, and describe the river and the Ducks, the Blackbird in the kitchen, the grass, the light, the long days.
I don’t mention the old desire, which awakens in spite of me.
“So you really did leave.” His curls are a little longer than they were; he is less thin. “Can you manage without performing though? How do you get through the day?”
“How’s Donna?” I don’t look at him as I ask the question. I found out accidentally, from a newspaper announcement.
“Oh, Donna. Yes. Very well. Expecting. Who’d have thought it, hey? Have you seen this sky?” He moves his face into my field of view, catches my eye with his own. “And how are you?”
“None of your business.” I gaze out of the window, at the world waiting there.
“Too late. The story of my life.”
I look at him. “Oh, don’t moan. Your wife’s expecting a baby.” Half angry, half mocking.
He laughs. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. Still. Marriage. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps you are right.”
“I went to Billie’s wedding.”
“She married the Yank, right? How did it go?”
“As it should. In a church, everyone dressed to the nines. Joan had a good weep. Stockdale was there with his new lady friend. But it mainly felt strange and distant.” We’ve passed Haywards Heath now—buildings have switched to trees.
“These things always do.”