Bone China (36 page)

Well, thought Henry, what have we here? Where’s this one from?

Life for Henry Middleton had not been without its struggles. It had tried to knock the edges off him but with little success. Henry always resisted. When his wife left him for a wealthier man, taking the contents of the house with her in an enormous removal van, he stood in the empty drawing room and observed the sunlight flickering on the bare floorboards. When he discovered the note informing him their joint account was now empty he had laughed out loud. His laughter echoed
hollowly through the empty rooms. The day she left him he found his love melting away like the snow that covered the ground. But he was not an ungenerous man, far from it. He was not a man to bear a grudge. So when she invited him to visit her in her new home he did so without bitterness, driving through the gilded gates, made, it seemed, for giants, to wish her well. Having tried marriage and failed to understand it, he decided it was not for him. If at times he was lonely, if there were moments when he wondered what it might be like to find a love of his own, he brushed these thoughts aside, considering them sentimental. Instead he concentrated on distractions, of which there were many, for Henry Middleton was a man that women liked. For eleven years he had lived like this, the life and soul of many dinner parties.

‘Henry’s such fun!’ his friends said. ‘We
must
invite him.’

‘There’s someone we want you to meet, Henry!’ they cried.

‘You’re sure to like her. She’s pretty.’

And Henry would turn up for supper wearing his outrageously colourful clothes, laughing his delightful laugh, looking deep into the eyes of whoever it might be this evening, flattering her with his attentiveness,
enjoying
her. Although always, on the next day, or the day after that, he would drive her regretfully home, for had he not eschewed love forever? So, as the beginnings of middle age turned his hair to silver, he hid his loneliness with perfect ease, for Henry Middleton had many good friends. Pippa Davidson was one of them. She was always trying to find someone for him. She told him nothing about Anna-Meeka before he met her, wanting an element of surprise.

‘Where did you find
her
?’ he asked afterwards, not being one to beat about the bush. ‘She doesn’t look too happy.’

Pippa had been surprised by Meeka’s silence. Perhaps she
had disliked Henry, she thought. Or maybe it was simply that she was shy.

‘Sulky,’ Henry observed, with a short laugh.

She was not his type. Yet something about her interested him. Perhaps it was those dark eyes. So, thinking it best to keep these thoughts to himself, he found a way to bump into her in the music section of the lending library where Meeka had said she often went. This happened several times in a casual, oh-my-goodness-fancy-meeting-you-again, sort of way. Meeka believed it to be a coincidence. She was not interested in him. She did not have any interest in men. Once bitten, twice shy, she believed. Henry, on the other hand, was enthusiastically friendly and in a desire to make himself more interesting, invited her to have coffee with him so that he could tell her a somewhat exaggerated version of his life. He meant it as a joke, these stories of his conquests (the Greek, the German, the two Italian students, to name but a few), but Meeka, he noticed, was mesmerised. Although she had no personal interest in him, she listened. How did he do it? Henry sighed. It was hard to explain. With his engaging approach to life, having caught her attention Henry felt it was his duty to entertain her. Eventually, on their third encounter it was assumed he would come over to her house for supper.

He hadn’t learned much about her as yet, so throwing caution to the wind he went. But first, being an excellent cook, he offered to bring the pudding. He made a fruit salad in an old chipped blue-and-white china bowl. It had belonged to his mother and would have been worth something had he not chipped it (but then Henry was always careless with the washing-up). He wore a shirt that matched his eyes, which were of a particular sharply defined blue. It was a glorious evening; the spring flowers were out as he set forth on his adventure, whistling to himself. The
estate where Meeka lived was thrown into sharp contrast by the light. When he found number 11 Henry was pleasantly surprised. The house stood on the curve of a cul-de-sac covered in a bower of greenery. Bluebells lined the path. Small delicate flowers sprang up everywhere. His own shop-bought offering seemed out of place. Bending low under the branches that would soon cascade with roses, he found the front door and was charmed. It was painted dark green; a wind chime moved gently in the breeze. Dimly, through the glass, he saw the outline of a grand piano. Someone began to play a slow three-octave scale. It rose to the top without a pause before descending. Henry hesitated, listening intently. Then he rang the bell.

‘Goodness!’ he said joyfully, by way of greeting, handing Meeka the flowers. Then he laughed uproariously as though at some joke of his own. Meeka frowned. She recognised that laugh but could not place it.

‘Well,’ said Henry, conversationally, ‘we could stay out here all evening, or you could ask me in?’

And then he handed her the bowl of fruit salad, stepping inside unasked and making for the piano.

‘Can you
really
play this thing,’ he asked, teasingly, ‘or is it just an ornament?’

For a moment it was as though someone had put the clock back and Meeka felt she was riding the District Line on the Underground in the school holidays with Gillian and Susan and Jennifer.

‘Oh, get lost!’ she said crossly before she could stop herself, making Henry roar with laughter.

It was not an auspicious start. Things could only get better. Isabella, when her mother rang her the next day, was outraged. She thought Henry sounded like a madman.

‘What d’you mean he offered you lessons? How dare he be
so condescending just because he’s a conductor,’ she said, appalled by such arrogance. ‘Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve never even heard of him.’

Too late, Meeka wished she had kept her mouth shut. Something about Henry, his ridiculous boasting ways, his impossible clothes, or maybe it was simply his irritating laugh, stirred a half-hidden memory. There was a vague familiarity to his behaviour.

A few nights later Henry appeared unannounced just as Anna-Meeka was about to eat supper. He looked enquiringly at her and, rather reluctantly, she invited him to join her. He had been away for a few days rehearsing Mahler in Birmingham.

‘It’s coming on nicely,’ he said yawning, helping himself unasked to some raw carrots.

Then he opened his bottle of wine and went in search of two glasses. Meeka frowned. Once again, his behaviour stirred a long-forgotten memory. Who did he remind her of?

‘It’s hard work but exciting,’ he shouted from the kitchen.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Meeka said, irritated.

‘Thanks,’ Henry called out.

He brought in two glasses of wine.‘Here,’ he said, not noticing the look on her face, ‘try this.’

Meeka ignored him.

‘I’ve got an incredible first violinist,’ Henry told her, tucking into the salad. He cut himself a piece of bread. ‘I’ve coaxed her to come over from Berlin,’ he said, talking fast with his mouth full.

Again Meeka frowned. Naturally the violinist
would
be a woman.

‘Her name is Greta. I’ve been wanting to work with her for a long time.’

He grinned at Meeka, who listened while trying hard to look uninterested. There was nothing she could contribute to the conversation. Suddenly a feeling of shame enveloped her. She felt hopelessly ignorant. With a flash of insight she understood how her father had felt when she had first brought Naringer home. It had been the way she felt whenever she used to meet Pippa. Then suddenly she remembered Alicia’s recording.

‘Would you like to listen to my aunt’s recording?’ she asked when she could get a word in edgeways.

To her surprise Henry was instantly enthusiastic. At first they were both silent. Alicia’s magic touch was unchanged by time. When it was over Henry hummed a few bars, drumming his fingers absent-mindedly on the arm of his chair. Meeka said nothing.

‘Beautiful,’ murmured Henry. ‘I’d like to hear her play Beethoven. With a talent like that why on earth didn’t she go back to it? That last movement was superb!’

‘It wasn’t that simple,’ Meeka said at last. ‘She loved my uncle Sunil. Life wasn’t worth living after that.’

‘But you said she was all right later on?’

‘Oh yes. Much later. She found someone else. She used to play for him.’

‘There you are then!’ Henry said, satisfied.

Meeka was sitting beside a small table lamp, half in shadows, not looking at Henry. ‘I think,’ she said hesitantly, ‘everything that was happening in the country at the time was too much to bear. You know, the Sinhalese discriminated against my father’s people. They had been wealthy once but then overnight they were nobody.’ She struggled to explain herself. ‘After my uncle was killed the whole family was petrified. That’s why my parents wanted to leave. They were frightened for my future. They stayed frightened for the rest of their lives. Not
understanding anything about this country. England was too much. In fact…’ She paused. She had never had this kind of conversation with anyone before. ‘I could have helped more, but well…’ She shrugged. ‘All I was interested in was integrating with the other children. Making friends, losing my accent! Without meaning to I broke their hearts, I suppose,’ she said softly. ‘Leaving Sri Lanka unsettled them more than they realised. My mother used to say the civil war was the invisible story of the British Empire.’

‘They certainly paid a high price,’ Henry said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t blame yourself. You were just a child.’

Meeka glanced at him sharply, uncertain if he was laughing at her. But Henry was looking a little solemn. With the oddest expression in his salt-blue eyes.

The next day when he visited Pippa, Henry could talk of nothing else but Meeka.

‘Why does she act as though she’s crushed?’ he asked. He had a funny feeling Anna-Meeka was different underneath.

‘Well,’ said Pippa doubtfully, ‘perhaps she
is
crushed. Have you thought of that? Being an immigrant in the sixties, and having parents who never fitted in couldn’t have been easy for her. I think she struggled with them.’ She paused.

Henry didn’t seem to be listening.

‘She was telling me about her aunt,’ he said. ‘You know she was a professional pianist? Then her husband was killed and she never played seriously again.’ Pippa shook her head. She had not known any of this.

‘We didn’t have a lot to do with each other at school,’ she said. ‘Meeka was awfully pretty and very remote.’

Still is, thought Henry.

‘You should have seen her father. He was very handsome. He adored her of course.’

Of course, thought Henry, drumming his fingers. Pippa looked at her friend. Usually within days of meeting someone new he was bored. She was delighted to see him so preoccupied. Henry, unaware of her thoughts, was whistling absent-mindedly under his breath. He whistled a few bars from
The Magic Flute
. Fully alert to all possibilities, he was making plans.

He decided to move things along, pull Meeka’s leg a little, see what happened. With this in mind, throughout what remained of the spring, he conducted his investigations. Being Henry he went about it in his own way. He told Meeka stories about his former wife, hoping to keep her keen.

‘She was very blonde,’ he said, closing his eyes with what appeared to be ecstasy. ‘And stunningly beautiful.’

Meeka glared at him. Sensing he had got her attention he told her about his last girlfriend.

‘Francesca was really talented,’ he said, shaking his head as though with amazement. ‘I was staggered the first time I heard her play the flute.’

Anna-Meeka narrowed her eyes. As far as she could see,
all
Henry’s women were either goddesses or geniuses. What was he doing spending time with her?

‘Well, why doesn’t he bloody well go back to them?’ snapped Isabella crossly when her mother rang her.

Meeka vowed to show no interest. Henry Middleton was getting on her nerves; she began to feel the stirrings of summer within her, smell the warm air. Henry had better watch out, thought Pippa Davidson, wondering what the devil he was up to. Like the cow-parsley that seeded itself, Henry seemed to be everywhere. Snooping into Meeka’s life, invading her space, smitten. Watch out, Henry, thought Pippa, don’t overdo it. Remember they don’t usually understand your
humour. But Henry Middleton didn’t care. That was part of his trouble. And possibly also his charm.

A few months went by. It was high summer now, and the roses were out. Every time he saw Meeka, Henry was aware of experiencing all sorts of interesting emotions. Sally Dance, the well-known archaeologist, thought it hugely funny when she heard. She was one of Henry’s closest friends. She had thought he had been a bit silent for some time. Now she knew why.

‘Henry’s met his Waterloo,’ cried Sally. ‘She looks young enough to be his daughter!’

‘I hope he doesn’t annoy her,’ said Pippa. ‘You know what he’s like.’

‘Oh I know. I think he’s trying to be endearing,’ said Sally Dance. ‘Why are men so clueless!’

‘She sounds weird,’ said Henry’s ex-wife, when she heard. ‘I think she’s after his money.’

The cat was well and truly stalking the pigeons. On close observation Henry could see that Meeka was thawing out nicely. He was pleased to see more than a hint of spirit whenever he teased her. Good, he thought. Good, good.

‘I’d tone down your past,’ advised his lodger Dill. ‘Women don’t like to hear about old girlfriends.’

But Henry grinned, unrepentant. Careful, Henry, thought Pippa again. She didn’t say it but, more and more, she felt he was pushing his luck.

‘What
is
the matter with him?’ she said to Sally. ‘This isn’t how he usually behaves. He’s not
that
funny.’

Sally Dance agreed. ‘I think he’s scared,’ she said shrewdly, enjoying it all. ‘He’s scared he’s falling for her!’