‘It was OK,’ said Johnny.
‘Oh . . . only OK?’
‘The house was lovely.’ He could smile at this at least.
‘Did you really think so? You’re too sweet about Grandpa’s work.’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘I’m never totally sure. And I’m not sure Mummy is, either, to be absolutely honest.’
‘All the stuff’s still there, lots of Stanley’s drawings.’
‘Fascinating . . .’ She lit a cigarette, snapped the lighter shut. ‘And what about, you know . . . ?’
‘What’s that?’ said Johnny.
‘Sex,’ said Una.
‘Oh,’ Johnny blushed yet again, ‘a bit of that.’
‘At last!’ said Fran. ‘Thank god.’
‘Of course,’ said Johnny, ‘he’s really a gerontophile.’
She took a long drag, exhaled. ‘Well, you knew that, darling.’
‘I got the feeling he’s more in love with my dad than he is with me.’ Fran looked at him oddly, but kindly. ‘Yeah . . . and’ – he didn’t like to use the word cockteaser – ‘yeah,’ he said, and nodded, and emptied his glass.
It was cold when they went into the drawing room, and Fran closed the windows. The Whistlers glowed more richly in the slow dusk. It wasn’t clear what was happening next. He was hungry, and it would be just as reasonable for them all to have supper together as it would be awkward. He picked up his boots by the door and followed the girls downstairs again, to the hall. The hall had been quite unknown when he arrived and now, with its console table and mirror and parked hall chairs, it was witness to the end of a visit – it was the same, but he saw it differently. Fran opened the door. ‘Will you give me a ring, darling?’ she said.
‘Oh!’ – he laughed – for a second he thought it was part of the compact, their not-quite wedding.
She didn’t see it. ‘I think you’ve got the number.’
*
Now Ivan found the planets were aligned. Yesterday, the painful row, flaring, three times, downstairs, the shocks of slammed doors passing up through the building, only a few phrases clear, shouted shamelessly, incredulously loud, among long silences; then new initiatives, guarded, expressionless at first; and at the third climax, Herta, splendid in her way, screaming out ultimata that nobody took any notice of. Denis had gone somewhere, his overnight bag, toothbrush, lubricant all missing when Ivan made his noiseless visit. Herta had indeed left too, though only, Evert said, for the weekend: Evert had coped as best he could, uncertain where things went, kitchen science tenuous from disuse. Ivan had helped him with the washing up, Evert in shirtsleeves and waistcoat drying, in a silent routine which to Ivan was a perilous vision, a quick trial run at happiness. Last night’s plate, mug, wine glass, whisky glass; the morning’s plate, bowl, spoon and cup and saucer: he turned them gently in the soapy water, rinsed each one under running water, before placing it on the rack or, once or twice, in Evert’s hands. Evert went out to lunch, got back at seven, made phone calls. Ivan with his door left open heard the slick pop of a wine cork about eight; then from behind closed doors, orchestral music.
At nine, the daylight was fading in the attic room, and the moon, full, or one night shy of fullness, hung above the parapet and looked in, mild but implacable, over Ivan’s table, his diary, the bundles of letters and cuttings, the rare Oxford photo of the Brasenose First Eight, Michaelmas Term 1940. He hardly saw it now, in his excitement, coming up from the third-floor bathroom, washed, baby-powdered, shaved and after-shaved. Johnny had told him his tight black jeans were sexy, and he pulled them on, over clean underpants; he felt bucked up by Johnny’s compliments, steered by them. Tonight, if all went well, the girls were going to put their question to him. It would be another chapter, an amusing one, in the folder he had long been keeping, marked ‘The Sparsholt Affair’. He chose a white Oxfam shirt, collarless, and left two buttons open, sleeves rolled up tight to the pale biceps. And no shoes. He would go down to Evert barefoot, caught in the act of dressing or undressing by his own desire. He would go down like a message from the brain to the pained heart and neglected body.
The old boards, the threadbare carpet on the landing, the last of the day through the skylight, the veil-like shadows on the upper stairs – he didn’t turn the light on . . . The stairs creaked under him, as always, but his tread was the possessor’s not the burglar’s. A narrow strip of gold leaked out beneath the sitting-room door, and Ivan stood with his toes just touched by it, as if his nails were painted. The music came more freely, large, undomestic, far from what Ivan would have chosen, at a time of crisis (but he wasn’t musical, Johnny said so, in a tone of odd stored-up resentment when they drove back from Wales). Evert was, he was terribly musical; well, they would work something out. He raised his knuckles to knock, his hand hovered in deep shadow then fell with a noiseless conviction to the round black doorknob, which he turned, and pushed the door open, the small squeak of the handle as it sprang back drowned miles deep by the howling brass of an enormous orchestra.
Evert was sprawled on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, and it was dark enough now for Ivan to see in the window the image of his face, head back, eyes closed, tie loosened – though his right hand rose and swept outwards beside him, inches from the carpet, in response and encouragement. He was conducting on his back. His unawareness of Ivan’s presence in the room made it by moments more dreamlike and more problematic. To look at him unseen was a luxury Evert might resent if he opened his eyes. He tensed himself and cleared his throat, a small effect annulled by unrelenting horns and trombones. They ebbed away. ‘Evert,’ Ivan said. ‘Hello, Evert.’ And the old man started, twisted round as he half sat up and looked at him.
‘Oh, hello, poppet. Gosh, you gave me a turn.’
‘Sorry . . .’
‘I didn’t know anyone was here.’ There was a glass too on the floor, empty. Evert groped for it as he swung his legs round and looked up at him. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Oh . . . no, no,’ said Ivan. He came forward, gently, to allay any fears, the carpet he’d often stood on in his brogues pleasingly rough under his bare feet. ‘I just wondered if you were OK.’
‘Ah . . . yes, sweet of you.’
The music had its own drama, and was clearly reaching for a climax it was hard to ignore politely – Evert was distracted by it still. ‘Is it Mahler?’ said Ivan.
‘Mm, well done,’ said Evert. They looked in each other’s eyes, as if focusing together on the music, and to Ivan Evert seemed already captive.
‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Oh, why not?’ said Evert. ‘The usual’ – offering up the glass.
‘I think I know what that is,’ said Ivan, and went towards the tray, which was next to the stereo on the far side of the room. Evert said nothing more, sitting forward, arms loose between his thighs, under the spell not only of Mahler but of alcohol. The last rasp of the soda siphon barely diluted the dark two inches of Jameson’s. ‘Tell me if it’s too strong,’ Ivan said as he gave it him.
‘Ooh,’ Evert gasped, debated. ‘No, it’s lovely. What are you having?’
Ivan gave himself a long vodka and tonic. ‘Can I get some ice?’
‘Yes, of course’ – Evert looked round – ‘well, you know where it is.’ And Ivan did. From the kitchen he heard the music end, with an almighty crash and falling off, and swung back in quickly just in case Evert put on something else. But the arm clicked back, the disc was still, just the red light and a brief reminding crackle through the speakers when the fridge started up next door. ‘What have you been up to?’