Caroline Graham - Death Of A Hollow Man

Then there was the difference in their dispositions. Tim was nearly always calm, while Avery veered excitedly between elation and despair, touching all the psychological stations of the cross on the way. And he reacted so dramatically to things. This had always seemed to amuse Tim, but once or twice lately Avery had noticed a twitch or two of impatience, a spot of lip-tightening. Now, draining his glass of Bordeaux, he framed in his mind the latest of many small vows. He would learn to take things more calmly. He would think before speaking. Take several deep breaths. Perhaps even count to ten. He turned his attention back to the Le Creuset. All the tissues had sunk without trace. Avery let out a scream that could have been heard halfway down the street.

“Bloody hell!” Tim banged his glass down on the countertop. “What’s the matter now?”

“The Kleenex have sunk to the bottom.”

“Is that all? I thought at the very least you were being castrated.”

“I meant them to soak up all the bits,” sobbed Avery. “Well, now you’ve discovered that they won’t. Knowledge is never wasted. We’ll just give it to Nicholas.”

“You can’t do that—it’s full of tissue.”

“Riley, then.” Riley was the CADS feline mascot. “Riley! There’s half a bottle of Beaune in there.”

“So he’ll think it’s Christmas.”

“Anyway, Riley’s a fish man, not a meat man. What are you doing?”

“Toast.” Tim was slicing bread on the marble pastry slab. Now, he reached across Avery and switched on the grill. Then he refilled both their glasses. “Drink up, sweetheart. And stop flowing all over the furniture.”

“Sorry …” Avery sniffled and snuffled and drank up. “You’re … you’re not angry with me, are you, Tim?”

“No, Avery, I’m not angry with you. I’m just bloody starving to death.”

“Yes. So-”

“Don’t keep saying you’re sorry. Get off your backside and give me a hand. There’s some duck pate left over. And we could finish the mango ice cream.”

“All right.” Still mopping and mowing, Avery crossed to the fridge. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

“Stop being ingratiating. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Sor—”

“And if I didn’t, who else would?”

This question, so casually posed, seemed to Avery no more than the simple truth. Awash with sorrow, he hung his head and pondered, looking down at his round tummy and chubby little feet. Then he looked up and met Tim’s sudden brilliant smile. O frabjous day! thought Avery, beaming widely in his turn. And then, to make things absolutely perfect and he and Tim equal in carelessness, the toast caught fire.

“We can pretend they’re charcoal biscuits,” said Avery, draining the rest of his wine. Then, quite forgetting the earlier strictures about him being ingratiating: “I wish I were more like you. More calm.”

“Good grief, I don’t. I’d hate to live with someone like me. I’d be bored to death in a week.”

“Would you, Tim?” Magically the dolorous beat of Avery’s heart quickened. “Would you really?”

“A drama a day keeps the doldrums away.”

“Mm.” Avery helped himself to some more wine. “That’s true, I suppose.”

“But we’ve had our ration for tonight. Now, we must get on.”

“Yes, Tim.” Avery bustled happily about finding unsalted butter, celery, the pâté, and a white china bowl of tomatoes. Tim was quite right, of course. Everyone knew about the attraction of opposites. That’s why it all worked so well on the whole. Why they were so happy together. It was just foolishness for him to struggle to destroy the very characteristics that his partner found attractive.

Avery took the hand-operated coffee grinder and put some beans in the little wooden drawer. Tim put more bread under the grill. He refused to use an electric contrivance, believing that the uncontrollably high speed overheated the beans, sent by mail by the Algerian Coffee Company, and impaired their flavor. The fragrance of the beans met and mingled with the succulent scent of the wine, and the very ordinary but always to Avery deeply satisfying smell of fresh toast. He sat down at the scrubbed deal table full of anticipation. This was the time he loved best of all. (Well, nearly.) When there was food and wine and gossip and jokes.

Even if all they had done during the day was sell books and get on with the paper work, there was always at least one customer who was ripe for exaggerated mimicry or grotesquely imaginative suggestions as to how he got his jollies. But of course the nights that sparkled, the nights that offered the most superlative entertainment, were the nights when they had been to the Latimer. Then performances could be put through the mincer, relationships scrutinized and surmises made and opinions mooted as to Harold’s precise degree of sanity (always open to question and anybody’s guess).

But occasionally, if there had been “a drama” in the home, Tim might withdraw a little and affect a lack of interest in the theatrical proceedings. These were anguished times for Avery, who gossiped as easily as he drew breath, and with almost the same urgent necessity. Now, as he slathered butter all over his toast, he looked across at Tim spreading neatly, with a small degree of perturbation. But it was all right. Tim looked across at Avery, and his slatey eyes, which could look so cold, were warm with a sudden flare of malice.

“But apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln,” he said, reaching for the celery, “how did you enjoy the play?”

When Joyce Barnaby entered the sitting room, her husband was dozing in front of the fire. He had been drawing a sprig of Hammamelis mollis, and his pencil was still cradled in his hand, although the sketch pad had fallen to the floor. He woke when his wife, standing behind his chair, folded her arms across his chest and gave him a hug. Then she picked up the pad.

“You haven’t finished.”

“I dropped off.”

“Did you eat your lasagne?”

Tom Barnaby gave a noncommittal grunt. When Joyce had come home from the casting evening of Amadeus and told him she was playing cook to Salieri, only the fact that a raging heartburn was running amok in his breast at the time had stopped him laughing aloud. He could never get over the fact that she ate her own cooking if not with relish at least with no evidence of distaste. He wondered sometimes if his genuine expressions of dismay at mealtimes had, over the years, assumed a ritualistic or even a fossilized stamp, and that Joyce had decided they were some sort of running gag. He watched her bend over the sprig of yellow flowers and inhale appreciatively.

“How did it go, my lovely?”

“Like an evening with the Marx Brothers. I’ve never known so many things go wrong. Fortunately Tim arrived in the break with his razor, which cheered Harold up. Until then he’d been grousing all night. Molto disastro, my darlings!”

“What’s the razor for, anyway?”

“You wait and see. If I tell you now, it’ll spoil the first night.”

“Nothing could be spoiled for me that has you in it.” He took her hand. “What’s that big bag for?”

“Wardrobe. Trousers to be let out. Broken zips. Some braid to replace.”

“You do too much.”

“Oh, Tom”—she nudged his feet off a low stool and sat on it herself, holding her other cold hand out to the fire—“don’t say that. You know how I love it.”

He did know. Earlier he had been listening to a tape she had made of the arias sung by Katherina Cavalieri. Joyce had a beautiful voice, a rich, soaring soprano. A little blurred now in the higher register, but still thickly laced with plangent sweetness. The aria “Marten Aller Arten” had moved him to tears.