“Are you happy?” Words like clumsy boats, running aground long before they reach the shore.
“Contented.” He doesn’t look at me.
We talk until he gets out at Burgess Hill to visit a friend. I see him enter the small white wooden station building. Not so long ago this would have opened it all up again. Now the train simply moves on, past fawn-coloured cattle and fields full of sheep, hedges, bare twisted trees, Wivelsfield, a pond. The red in the sky has turned lilac, then purple, then dark blue, the shadow of the earth silhouetted against the pink, and now it’s become a blanket full of stars, little openings that let the light shine through.
I tune my violin. We’re playing Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony. Stockdale has made a revised version, to cut down on its length. I wipe rosin onto the bow. They were delighted to see me, as if I’d been away three months instead of three weeks. As if I’m the same person I was three weeks ago. “Maestro?”
He looks up at me, annoyed, holding his finger in the score.
“Could I have a word with you?”
“Can we do that later? When we’re finished?”
He doesn’t see my nod. He’s turned his head already.
Priscilla opens the window. The way she moves it’s as if she’s a much older woman. The odour of the green room mingles with the scents of late summer, the grating strings with distant voices and the noise of the city. I yawn, go in search of a coffee. From the passageway I can see into the foyer: ladies in evening gowns, men in dress suits, barmaids, smoke. I feel nothing at all—no enthusiasm, not even that nervous tension bordering on fear.
I play as well as ever. It feels like a betrayal.
I leave the building with Stockdale. “I want to stop.” Ash-tree leaves spin around on the street in a little whirlwind.
“Yes, you’ve said something like that already. You can’t have it both ways. But you will finish this season, won’t you?”
I glance sideways, can only see irritation in his face, not our shared history.
“If you wish.”
“I wish nothing. You signed a contract.” He quickens his pace, lets two other people come between us, before he catches up with Deborah. I don’t know what I expected.
I run a few steps, till I’m beside him again. “But the contract only finishes next year.”
“Then we’ll have plenty of time to find a good substitute.”
“I want to leave earlier than that.”
He asks Deborah if she’d like to go to the bar.
“Harold, I’m extremely grateful to you for everything. But it’s enough now. You have nothing to gain if I no longer play well.”
“We’ll discuss it some other time.” He takes Deborah’s arm and coaxes her across the street. Joan comes and walks with me. “What was all that about?”
“I want to give it up.”
She’s clearly taken aback. “Completely?”
We cross the road, nipping swiftly past a bus that stirs the air behind my back. More body, less spirit, that’s what I’m becoming.
Joan keeps questioning me, clearly happy about the space I’ll leave when I’m gone: less competition—I’m one of the oldest members, one of the best players.
The wind ruffles coats, freshens my face. I tell her I intend to study birds, explain how I’d set up my research.
“Right,” she says, and frowns a little, then laughs to let me know she means well.
During the night the wind dies down, as if something has yielded, something that the world accepted far sooner than me.
STAR 9
At the end of June I tried to tempt Star back. All the youngsters had flown the nest and summer had really begun. The birds once more had time for other activities. Star ignored me and did not wish to accept any peanuts. I had clearly insulted her by chasing her off when she was treating Dusty so unkindly. Not until August did she become more approachable, and when she had come for a nut a few times, I again attempted to interest her in counting. One morning I tapped three times on the screen near the window. It gave her a shock, because I had used the same noise to drive her away from Dusty. She immediately flew off, scolding me loudly. I decided not to tap any more and enticed her purely with peanuts, which after a little while she accepted again from me. My friendship with her was more important than the experiment, and perhaps we could begin afresh the following year.
One chilly morning in September she tapped, of her own accord, four times on the window frame, and then I rewarded her with a nut. But afterwards, when I tried to give her a number, she gave no reaction. The next morning I tapped five times for her. She swooped towards me, threatening, then scolded me from the window ledge for a long time.
1938
“Bird Cottage,” I say to Theo McIver. “That’s what I’ll call it.”
“There are certainly plenty of birds,” he says. We’re in the sitting room, which is neither too big nor too small—there’s enough space for a table and four chairs, a sofa in front of the fireplace, and a piano. The bookcases can be put against the wall on the kitchen side. Theo has just shown me the bedroom, which looks out onto the orchard. The bathroom has to be retiled, but the bath—with its claw feet—is in good condition. There is a little terrace in front of the kitchen. The garden that surrounds the house is sufficiently large. The hedge has to be trimmed, the grass must be mown, the trees are all in good condition. There is enough space for a vegetable garden, although I don’t know if that’s a good idea with the birds. “My old man let things get a little run-down over the past twenty years, but that’s reflected in the price. It’ll cost you something to have renovated, but it’ll still come out cheap.” He draws his hand through his blond curls and grins.
“Neighbours?”
“Doris lives over there. She’s an old widow.” He points to the small dwelling to the left of the house. “On the other side of the lane are the Hendersons, in that little house in front of the woods. Fine people. And far enough away not to bother you. This used to be a farm; the land went all the way to that hedge over there, but my father sold that plot after my mother’s death.”
There are dark, heavy clouds above the Downs. “Would you live here?”
“No, I like living close to other people.”
“The village is ten minutes’ walk away.”
“Exactly.” He gives me a triumphant look.
“Well, you’ll never sell a house like that.”
He laughs. “This house doesn’t need my help to sell it. Everyone’s keen to live here and the price of land goes up each year. There was a man here yesterday, looking for a holiday cottage. He’s a serious buyer, but I’d rather sell it to someone who’ll make it their home.”
We walk back with each other along Lewes Road to South Street. Just before we reach the crossroads where he has his grocer’s shop, it begins to pour. He opens the door, the bell tinkles. “Would you like a cuppa?”
“Yes please.” I wipe the drops of rain from my forehead and follow him through the little shop to the space behind the counter.
“Mary, this is Gwendolen. She’s interested in Dad’s house. Gwendolen, this is Mary, my wife.”
A young woman, with exactly the same kind of curls as Theo, gives my hand a gentle shake. “Awful weather, isn’t it? I was hoping you’d make it back in time.” She stands up and I see her belly.
“Your first?”
Theo gives a proud nod. “Wonderful, eh? You’re not married?” He gives me a curious look, then is shocked at his own question. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“You’re allowed to ask. The right moment didn’t come along. Things turned out differently.”