Below, sounds of movement came from the river. Watermen maybe, he thought, and he wondered where they were going, or coming from. He thought of another river, distant, even its name new, pronounced as if a third syllable lay between the I and the w, soft and hidden. Salween. He whispered it, and then, embarrassed, quickly turned to see if he was alone. He listened to the sound of the men and the splash of waves against the Embankment. The fog thinned over the river. There was no moon, and it was only by the light of lanterns swinging from the tugboats that he could see the vague line of the shore, the vast, heavy architecture that crowded the river. Like animals at a waterhole, he thought, and he liked the comparison, I must tell Katherine. He then thought, I am late.
He walked along the Embankment, past a group of tramps, three men in rags huddled around a small fire. They watched him as he went by, and he nodded at them, awkwardly. One of the men looked up and smiled a broad mouth of broken teeth. “G’day t‘ ya, Cap’n,” a Cockney voice heavy with whiskey. The other men were silent and turned back to the fire.
He crossed the street and left the river, squeezing through swarms of people gathered outside the Metropole, following Northumberland Avenue to Trafalgar Square, where masses shifted around carriages and omnibuses, where policemen tried to move the crowds in vain, where conductors cried out for fares, where whips snapped and horses shat, where signs rose shouting
Cigars de Joy: One of these Cigarettes gives immediate relief in the worst attack of asthma, cough,
Beneath the glow of the fountains around Nelson’s Column, he stopped to watch an organ-grinder, an Italian with a screeching monkey in a Napoleon hat, which hopped around the barrel organ, waving its arms while its master turned the crank. Around it, a group of children were clapping, torch-boys and chimney sweeps, rag collectors, and the children of costermongers. A policeman approached, his baton swinging. “Get home now, all of you, get that filthy animal out of here. Play your music in Lambeth, this is a place for gentlemen.” The group moved slowly away, protesting. Edgar turned. Another monkey, giant and grinning, groomed itself in a jeweled mirror, Brooke’s Soap Monkey Brand: The Missing Link in Household Cleanliness. The billboard rolled past on the side of an omnibus. The busboy hollered for fares, Fitzroy Square, Hurry for Fitzroy Square. That is home, thought Edgar Drake, and he watched the omnibus pass.
He left the square and pushed his way through the darkening swirl of merchants and carriages, following Cockspur Street as it funneled into the din of Haymarket, hands deep in his jacket now, regretting he hadn’t taken the omnibus. At the top of the street the buildings drew closer and darker as he entered the Narrows.
He walked, not knowing exactly where he was, but only the general direction of his movement, past dark brick houses and fading painted terraces, past scattered bundled figures hurrying home, past shadow and shade and glints of light in the thin puddles that ran in veins between the cobbles, past weeping mansard rooftops and a rare lantern, perched and flickering, casting shadows of cobwebs in distorted magnification. He walked and then it was dark again and the streets narrowed, and he brought his shoulders closer. He did this because it was cold, and because the buildings did the same.
The Narrows opened onto Oxford Street and the walk became lit and familiar. He passed the Oxford Music Hall and turned onto Newman, Cleveland, Howland Street, one, two blocks, then right, into a smaller lane, so small that it had been missed, much to the chagrin of its residents, by London’s most recent map.
Number 14 Franklin Mews was the fourth in the terrace, a brick house virtually identical to those of Mr. Lillypenny, the flower seller, who lived at Number 12, and Mr. Bennett Edwards, the upholsterer, at Number 16, each home sharing a common wall and brick facade. The entrance to the house was at street level. Beyond an iron gate, a short walkway spanned an open space between the street and the front door, down which a set of iron stairs descended to the basement, where Edgar kept his workshop. Flowerpots hung from the fence and outside the windows. Some held fading chrysanthemums, still blooming in the cold of autumn. Others were empty, half filled with soil, now dusted with mist that reflected the flicker of the lantern outside the door. Katherine must have left it burning, he thought.
At the door, he fumbled with the keys, deliberate now in his attempt to delay his entry. He looked back out at the street. It was dark. The conversation at the War Office seemed distant, like a dream, and for a brief moment he thought that maybe it too would fade like a dream, that he couldn’t tell Katherine, not yet, while he doubted its reality. He felt his head jerk involuntarily, the nod again. The nod is all I have brought from the meeting.
He opened the door and found Katherine waiting in the parlor, reading a newspaper by the soft glow of a single lamp. It was cold in the room and she wore a thin shawl of embroidered white wool over her shoulders. He closed the door softly, and stopped and hung his hat and jacket on the coatstand, saying nothing. There was no need to announce his late arrival with fanfare, he thought, better to slip in silently, Maybe then I can convince her I have been here some time already, although he knew he couldn’t, just as he knew that she was no longer reading.
Across the room, Katherine continued to stare at the newspaper in her hands. It was the Illustrated London News, and later she would tell him that she was reading “Reception at the Metropole,” where the music of a new piano was described, although not its make, and certainly not its tuner. For another minute, she continued to flip through the journal. She said nothing, she was a woman of impeccable composure, and this was how best to deal with tardy husbands. Many of her friends were different. You are too easy with him, they often told her, but she shrugged them off, The day he comes home smelling of gin or cheap perfume, then I will be angry. Edgar is late because he is absorbed in his work, or because he gets lost walking home from a new assignment.
“Good evening, Katherine,” he said.
“Good evening, Edgar. You are almost two hours late.”
He was used to the ritual, the innocent excuses, the explainings-away: I know, dear, dearest, I am sorry, I had to finish all the strings so I can retune them tomorrow, or This is a rushed commission, or I am being paid extra, or I got lost on the way home, the house is near Westminster, and I took the wrong tram, or I just wanted to play it, it was a rare 1835 model, Erard, beautiful of course, it belongs to the family of Mr. Vincento, the Italian tenor, or It belongs to Lady Neville, unique, 1827, I wish you could come and play it too. If he ever lied, it was only in exchanging one excuse for another. That it was a rushed contract, when really he had stopped to watch street players. That he took the wrong tram, when actually he had stayed late to play the piano of the Italian tenor. “I know, I am sorry, still working on the Farrell contract,” and this was enough, he saw her close the News, and he slid across the room to sit next to her, his heart racing, She knows something is different. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away, trying to hide a smile. “Edgar, you’re late, I overcooked the meat, stop that, don’t think you can keep me waiting and make it up to me with endearments.” She turned from him, and he slipped his arms around her waist.
“I thought you would have finished that contract by now,” she said.
“No, the piano is in lamentable shape, and Mrs. Farrell insists that I tune it to ‘Concert Quality’” He raised his voice an octave to imitate the matron. Katherine laughed and he kissed her neck.
“She says her little Roland will be the next Mozart.”
“I know, she told me again today, even made me listen to the rascal play.”
Katherine turned toward her husband. “You poor dear. I can’t be angry at you for long.” Edgar smiled, relaxing slightly. He looked at her as she tried to summon an expression of mock sternness. She is still so lovely, he thought. The golden curls that had so entranced him when he had first met her had faded somewhat, but she still wore her hair loose, and they became the same color again whenever she went in the sun. They had met when, as an apprentice tuner, he had repaired her family’s Broadwood upright. The piano hadn’t impressed him—it had been rebuilt with rather cheap parts—but the delicate hands that played it had, as had the softness of the figure that had sat beside him at the keyboard, the presence that stirred him even now. He leaned toward her, to kiss her again. “Stop it,” she giggled, “not now, and be careful of the sofa, this is new damask.”