Tessa Hadley - The Master Bedroom

David tried firmly to re-establish the children’s routines: mealtimes, Hannah’s piano lessons, Joel’s pottery on Saturday mornings, bedtimes, baths, tooth brushing. Joel didn’t like his new Year Two class teacher. Hannah feuded, sprouted hot tears, crossed out and rewrote names on the list she actually kept, in a notebook, of her best friends; then ousted friends joined forces against her, cruelties proliferated, and she wilted, overcome by what she’d started. David even had to negotiate truces with the mothers of the other girls, at collection time in the playground. He took for granted that all these difficulties were both real and also manifestations of their distress over the situation at home. Because Suzie had asked him not to, he didn’t say anything to them about a separation: he told them their mother was overtired, that she had problems at work. Jamie was invaluable; guiltily David postponed worrying about him. His eighteenth birthday came and went without anyone suggesting any celebration, though Suzie bought him a card, and they gave him money: his grandmother came down to see him, bringing him books. Jamie had even begun cooking tea sometimes for the children when he picked them up from school, washing up after them, putting their clothes in the machine.

One weekend Suzie took the children away to the chalet in the Gower peninsula; Evie and her daughter Cara were going too (David didn’t ask who else). When they’d gone he climbed into his car in the morning sunshine to get out some work papers from the back seat, and then felt that he couldn’t bear to go back inside the empty house (Jamie comatose in his attic, having come in at God knows what time, didn’t count). He drove off; went up the Wye valley, stopped at Ross, filled the car with petrol, walked around the little town without seeing it. He wouldn’t even have known afterwards that he had bought coffee somewhere, except that he could taste it at the back of his mouth, brown and bitter, something to focus on. Eventually, as if it was where he had been meaning to go all along, he drove in the early afternoon back into Cardiff and to Kate Flynn’s house. Standing waiting at the door he heard music; he was afraid she might not let him in if she was rehearsing with her quartet. At last there were footsteps crossing the empty hall, and Billie came slowly to peer at him through the queerly distorting coloured panes.

— Oh, it’s you, she said, with her capaciously accepting smile, when she opened the door; he wondered whom she thought she recognised. She seemed a pressed flower, faded and weightless, lilac colour in ivory cheeks; but her hand grabbing his arm for her return journey bore heavily down on him, claw-like, a real old lady’s. He thought she looked less well than when he’d first seen her in the winter.

The gas fire burned hotly in the drawing room, blotting out the mild weather outside; the curtains were half drawn against the slanting sunlight. Kate, standing with a blonde woman he didn’t recognise, poised to play, signalled with her bow for him to sit out of the way on the sofa opposite.

— From thirty-two? She collected the others in a glance, the viola player turned her pages back, Billie resumed at the piano stool; then Kate dropped her head decisively, starting them. They were playing Haydn’s ‘Gypsy Rondo’ Trio. Kate was wearing extraordinary shoes, impossibly high, pink with black suede flowers: they made her almost tall, swaying in her dark-rose-coloured dress which was cut somehow so that it fitted tight around her breasts and tiny waist and hips, flared out and swung around her knees. David shut his eyes to listen, judged their playing pleasantly adequate, heard them stumble and restart once or twice (usually Billie with cold fingers), knew they flaked out in the finale, had to stop and go at half speed. For all their clumsiness, even mysteriously because of it, he seemed to penetrate deeper and deeper into the truth of the elusive enchantment.

Then Kate stood over him; he was looking up at the underside of her black tea tray. — How flattering. You fell asleep. I’ve made you coffee.

— The music was in my dreams, he apologised, and it was true: they had been illuminated by an idea of the eighteenth century, glass and rococo gold, stone nymphs in garden recesses.

— Best dreamed, said the viola player (Ann, he’d heard Kate call her), compact, neat jaw jutting just enough to make whatever she said sound resolute. — We’re crap at the finale.

— I’m not sleeping well at night, he said, wondering how crumpled he was, whether he’d dribbled onto the sofa cushions. — Then I fatally relaxed. Also it’s hot in here.

— It’s all right, Ann said. — We forgive you.

He gave in to remaining slumped down in the sofa corner under their scrutiny: after a moment he even shut his eyes again.

— Who is he? Ann asked.

— He’s David Roberts: Carol’s brother.

She was doubtful. — He doesn’t look like her.

— More like his mother. He felt Kate’s fingers rest for an instant coolly at his temple, recognising them by the hard bristle of her rings: as if she was demonstrating some trick of his appearance, to which Ann guardedly assented.

— Do you have a lot of men calling in to fall asleep here?

— He’s unique.

— Does he really want coffee?

— We’ll let him sleep.

David, though, struggled repentantly upright.

— Things are hard at home, he spilled out, to his own surprise. — Hence the tiredness.

— Really? Ann was mildly interested. — What kind of things?

— My wife I think is leaving me.

— You do collect them, Ann said to Kate.

She was pouring coffee. — Meaning?

— Ben. Cello Ben.

— Well, I’ve certainly never collected Ben. David, do you like sugar? Cream?

— Do you have whisky? Ann said, looking about. — If it’s really cream, we could make Irish coffees: you know, the kind where you pour it in over the back of a spoon.

— In that cupboard: but I don’t know how to.

— I’ll do it!

Ann stirred sugar and whisky in the coffee, then, concentrating, made the cream float on top; intently they watched. — Would Billie like one? Where’s she gone?

— She likes everything sweet. Do one for me, too.

David remembered he hadn’t eaten anything since he got up.

— It’ll be nourishing, Ann reassured him.

— Is Suzie really leaving you? Kate asked.

— I think so.

— Aren’t the coffees delicious? Ann was triumphant. — So, do you blame yourself?

The cream left moustaches on their upper lips: David’s probably made him ridiculous as he turned to answer her, dutiful as if he was under oath.

— I expect she thinks I’m too careful. Dull. I haven’t lived: I’ve never taken any risks.

— Risks! Kate was wildly disparaging. — Anyone can take those! And anyway, what about Francesca, to begin with? Didn’t you take a risk with her?

He was scrupulous. — I suppose strictly speaking Francesca took me, and not the other way round. There wasn’t much volition on my part: I was just chosen. Strange as that may seem.

— She didn’t deserve you.

— So which is his wife? Suzie or Francesca?

— That will be a question at the resurrection, Kate said.

— Both, said David, and was about to explain when Billie came absorbedly into the room from wherever she’d wandered, perhaps to find cake.

— Oh Kate. She held out her forearm for them to see: on the loose pale flesh inside, a long red weal.

— You’ve burned yourself! Kate started up, pushing her coffee cup clatteringly on the tray, slopping coffee. — For God’s sake! What on?

— We need to put it in cold water right away. David was practical.

— I’m so silly. I thought I had to light the grill for something, then I tried to put it out and burned myself.