The Virtuoso (18 page)

I’d been seeing quite a bit of Gerald. I’d mentioned to him on the night we met that I worked at EMG Handmade Gramophones on Grape Street behind the Prince’s Theatre, and it only took him a matter of days to wander into the shop and invite me to the Lily Pond for a cup of tea.

Since then, we’d been frequent concert companions. Gerald also took me into some of the queer bars and cafés around town. Cautious as I was at first—I was uncomfortable with the lashings of make-up, perfume and outright candidness—it wasn’t long before I began to enjoy myself and feel quite relaxed, if not totally at home. The topic of homosexuality, however, was never broached—except perhaps to ask of someone the other knew: ‘Is he
so?
’ We disclosed very little at all, yet somehow, through all the gins and cigars, the concerts and ballets, details of our lives seemed to sift through the innocuous patter. Without it ever being discussed I knew that Gerald was a frequent visitor to Piccadilly and Shaftesbury Avenue. And from the little jokes that he made about me—all white gloves and lavender—he was clearly well aware that I preferred to be wined and dined.

Gerald had never approached me, and even though I told myself he was decidedly not my type, I was nevertheless offended. I would watch him stare at others, or coquettishly angle his head to a chap standing next to us at a bar and remark, ‘Goodness, what exquisite cheekbones you have.’ When he turned to face me again with his pursed grin, like a schoolboy who’s just set a booby trap and is waiting for the scream, I’d smile encouragingly, then spend the next half-hour listening to my own snapping responses to his questions, my unnecessary little whips. Other times, when witnessing the meeting of two men he knew, he’d shake his head towards me and sigh, ‘Bread and bread,’ and I’d console myself that perhaps that was the real issue between us.

I was never sure how much he understood of my feelings for Noël. He always filled me in on any relevant gossip he heard, and no matter how much I badgered him for more information, he never enquired about my curiosity or treated the conversation as anything more than idle gossip.

‘So does Bill play the piano?’ I asked, pouring our cups of tea, using that as a focus for my gaze.

‘No, I don’t believe he does.’

I smiled.

‘Son of a builder,’ he said wryly.

‘So what does everyone say about him?’

‘Well, I’ve asked Felix, Andrew and Gordon—they’ve all met him briefly. But no one seems to have
very much to say about him, one way or the other. So I suspect he’s rather dull.’

I handed Gerald a cup of tea and passed him the plate of biscuits.

‘He’s moving over here, you know. Düsseldorf’s becoming the new headquarters for the Council and they’re taking over the cultural work in Hamburg. So he returns in November. Noël and he are setting up house in Hammersmith.’

Blood drained from my face. I put my half-eaten arrowroot biscuit on the saucer, the crumbs in my mouth feeling thick and floury, impossible to swallow. I sat back in my chair in a mild panic, feeling as if the room were shrinking around me.

‘Apparently, he’s been most successful in bringing Constable to the cannibals,’ Gerald continued, grinning.

I didn’t want to hear any more; I thought to rise and leave.

‘He’s organised touring exhibitions of British theatre design, British town planning, and even the art of British children, can you believe?’ Gerald started laughing, then turned to me, his tea cup in one hand, his cigar in the other. ‘Well, unless he’s extremely tolerant, I can’t see it lasting a week here. He’ll never change Noël. Dorothy isn’t Dorothy without her ruby slippers.’

The following March, Gerald and I were invited to Noël and Bill’s Oxford-Cambridge boat-race party at the house in Hammersmith, an annual tradition that Noël had taken over from Walter.

By then I’d been seeing Noël frequently, out at parties, bars and concerts, and had developed an ease in his company that I hadn’t experienced during or since our affair. I told myself that his relationship with Bill was not of his own doing, that he had become ensnared, and that now he would begin to see me in a more desirable light.

It was fairly easy to convince myself that Noël and Bill weren’t happy, despite what everyone told me. Bill never joined him out socially (I sometimes wondered if he really did exist); he was always at home with a stomach-ache or the flu. ‘I think it’s a brain tumour tonight,’ Noël would laugh as he sipped his martini. I would order him another and one for myself, as if in celebration of our robustness—to let him know I was not
that
sort, that I was more like him.

I also knew that while Bill lay at home in bed Noël would gallivant around the town; he was always to be seen at this bar or that, or jumping in a cab to mosey off to another party. This only fuelled my dislike of Bill—that he clung on regardless.

My increased comfort with Noël was also partly due to the inference I took that I could be one of his liaisons. But the years of longing had nurtured a patient resilience in me, so I decided to wait for the right time. When that would be I couldn’t be sure. Bill would be gone, and Noël would come to me. Of that I was sure.

The Saturday morning of the boat-race party was wet, with a bitter westerly wind whipping around the streets. I met up with Gerald at Notting Hill Gate for
breakfast; he was wearing a navy velvet jacket and scarf and a slightly tattered Oxford boater. Gerald loved a party and rubbed his hands together excitedly as he spoke, striding out of the café into the wind, the wintry conditions only invigorating him. We caught the train to Stamford Brook amongst the supporter crowd, all jiggling and rousing each other, rugged up in their Oxford navy or Cambridge pale blue; some with flags and banners, discussing the pre-race sessions at Putney or the orders of the crews; others cheering and hooting.

As I stepped out of the station on to King Street the thought I’d had quietly eating at me since receiving the gold-embossed ivory card in the mail two weeks previously—that I had not been back to Hammersmith since
that
night—induced a sudden feeling of terror. How different Hammersmith seemed now, in daylight, all these years later. The traffic, the shops and cafés, the frantic newspaper man outside the station, the florist with his buckets of violets, primroses and hyacinths. That night—the night I first met Noël—it had been so dark and still, everything frozen in wait; I’d slipped through the frosty evening air, propelled along the empty streets by anticipation—a
knowledge
—that my life was about to change.

Gerald, I was aware, was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I was overcome by sadness as I remembered the future I had authored for myself back then, the famous musician whom I imagined I would become. And now I contemplated this being, walking
along in his place—hands in pockets, head bowed—who fell so far short of all I had envisioned. I searched for the excitement I’d felt the last time I’d walked this street—my skin bristling, my heart racing, feeling that I was about to burst from my chrysalis; I scoured about for a sign that something was
about to happen.
Nothing—just the astringent taste of regret.

We turned into South Black Lion Lane, and I was grateful for the crowd of supporters in which to hide. Men and women singing boating songs, or running to get out of the wind and into the pub; and others—staggering, inebriated—holding each other up, as if the race was already long past.

We arrived at the door—still glossy ivy-green, perhaps a fresh coat—with its heavy brass knocker. Gerald knocked; I waited, and for a moment Gerald became my old piano teacher Anton. Anton, who had also invested so much hope in me. I listened for Schumann and was surprised to hear Fats Domino, and realised I’d never discussed any music but classical with Noël.

Noël opened the door, grinning, in a sports coat and slacks. He shook Gerald’s hand and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Behind Noël I could see a face in the hallway looking out towards us. The man was tall and fair, with large, hopeful eyes. Noël opened his arms wide and hugged me, kissing me on the cheek. His entire body was pressed against mine and although I was enjoying the feel, the smell of him—he was rarely so demonstrative—I felt embarrassed, holding
him like that, while looking straight into the face of this man who stood quietly behind him.

Noël introduced us all. But I couldn’t look at him any more, only at Bill. He was much older than Noël, a tall, strong build, yet not at all athletic. It was as if his body was a slight encumbrance for him; he’d rather be a little smaller. He had thinning blond hair and a face that ought to have been handsome, yet wasn’t. There was something wet, flimsy, about him. His smile broke mildly upon introduction and his hand rose up from his side, ever so deliberately, to shake. It was cool and fleshy; I withdrew my hand as quickly as I could.

We moved inside; the house was arranged much as I remembered, only it was now filled with flowers. Noël was a keen gardener and had a great knowledge of botany so I presumed the vases of daffodils, lilies, cherry blossom and tulips were his touch. I was glad to detect little evidence of Bill’s presence. The living room was crowded with guests, and outside in the backyard I could see a few people braving the cold, gazing downstream. Someone called inside that Goldie, the Cambridge reserve crew, were first round the bend; a few got up and walked outside, but most ignored the comment.

I recognised Noël’s usual crowd—Tippett, Amis, Pears and the eye surgeon Patrick Trevor-Roper; I also noticed a few of the Redgrave family, who lived nearby. Almost immediately Gerald spotted some of his critic friends and took off into the room, and Noël dashed back to the door. I was left standing with Bill.

‘Lovely food,’ I said, looking down at the trays of devilled plover’s eggs, cantaloupe and caviar, oysters and strawberries.

‘Noël,’ he smiled weakly. ‘He does all the cooking. I can’t even boil an egg,’ then let out a very unmanly giggle.

‘Really,’ I said, peering around behind us. The knocker sounded regularly, and I looked each time, not to see who’d arrived, but to watch Noël greet each guest and usher them into the room. He gave most people a kiss, but I was pleased to observe that he hugged few. Occasionally the greeting seemed a little over-friendly—like the lingering embrace he gave to Ariotti, a handsome archaeologist who worked for the museum—and I’d find myself shooting an interrogatory stare.

I lost him for a few minutes—I thought I could vaguely hear him over near the piano—and was perplexed that Bill could just stand there, talking about Henry Moore, without bothering to offer me a drink.

Just as I was about to excuse myself, Noël arrived with a glass of champagne for me, and John Amis, who was standing behind Bill, turned his head towards us and said, ‘Noël, this is
bliss,
’ while holding up a half-eaten salmon and asparagus tart.

‘Oh no, John. This is Bill—
that’s
Bliss,’ and he nodded towards the doorway where Arthur Bliss, the composer, stood, having recently arrived. Bill and John both let out a bellowing laugh and Noël, pleased with the response, rushed off to attend to more guests.

I watched Noël as he toured the room, his hand on the shoulder of a seated guest as he leant down to present his tray of canapés, tell jokes, then move on, creamed lobster sandwiches and smiles in his wake. I turned back to hear the doleful sound of Bill, who’d moved on to his experience living in Hamburg.

‘…shortages you can’t imagine—soap, paper, electricity; I was living by candlelight most nights. And they went out of their way to make the Council offices as modest as possible. It was thought the least sign of luxury would be resented.
Die Möwe
, the Russian artists’ club in Berlin, had waiters in spotless white coats and nobody could talk of anything else. So a cup of tea and a biscuit were the maximum entertainments permissible…’

I imagined Noël in these surroundings with Bill. A tiny apartment with no heating, no hot water, sitting around a grubby table by candlelight. Buttered toast with a scrap of jam from the bottom of a tin. Outside on the streets, a city in ruins. The libraries, the universities, the municipal buildings, all destroyed. I imagined him walking along the streets, the children playing on piles of rubble the only cheerful sight to be seen. What was it that Bill offered that enabled Noël to bear such a place?

‘…the “Old Masters” exhibition was supposed to be two hundred years of British Art, Hogarth to the pre-Raphaelites, but the committee wouldn’t allow us to put in the pre-Raphaelites and leave out the Victorians…’

His voice droned on like a wireless in the background. I listened to little; just stood, grinding my teeth, staring at his face, its features, his limpid skin, his watery blue eyes, his long, spidery eyelashes. I grew tired of looking at it, repelled, and moved down to his blocky workman’s hands holding the wine glass, his little finger wearing a jade ring, splayed out to the side. We couldn’t have been more different, and I couldn’t see anything about him I liked. This both pleased and bothered me. Bothered me that whatever Noël saw in Bill was so clearly absent in me.

‘…what Heiser kept forgetting is that it was the Germans that needed re-educating, not the British. Really, it was maddening…’

I looked back at his thin, pale lips, blotchy and dry, which moved so sluggishly as he spoke, and imagined Noël kissing them. I looked at the skin of his neck, his ears—all areas that Noël had explored. And I returned to his hands. Those plump, square hands. And I saw them on Noël. I tried to ignore it but this image played incessantly in front of me each time I saw his fingers twitch around the glass.

‘…there are five women to every man in Germany, and the “men” are either children or elderly. And it’s exceedingly difficult to get Germans to come out socially—large parties only confuse and depress them. Thank goodness for visits from Noël; we’d have such a jolly time together when he came over—’

‘Pardon?’ I had a sudden need to rejoin the conversation in order to quell my anger, and find out all I could about their time together in Germany.

‘I knew you two would get along swimmingly,’ Noël interrupted, arriving by Bill’s side. ‘The race is about to begin so you must step out for a few moments.’ Noël turned to me. ‘Which side are you on?’