‘Well, at least we both know where we stand.’ She opens the door. ‘Goodnight, William.’ The click of the latch behind her is unhurried and deliberate. He stares at his dressing gown that hangs on the door peg, drab and limp.
Spring is ruined. The white and green of snowdrops, daffodils luminous with sunshine and proud scarlet tulips become one with the sharp discomfort of watching Ray and Gloria.
At dinner, Ray is shameless, his hand at Gloria’s back, creeping under her jumper or up her skirt a little, as their knees touch beneath the teak table. Lying in the same room as him each night, wondering what he and Gloria have got up to, sets William’s insides against themselves. He’s pretty damn sure what his roommate is thinking about as he tosses and turns for the first half-hour after he gets into bed. And when William is woken by the rapid creaking of bedsprings, he’s disgusted. The keenest torment, however, comes from within. It’s himself he loathes. She asked him, asked him if he minded her going out with Ray. If he knew what had stopped him telling her the truth, he might find some peace, some way of coming to terms with it.
By the time the Finches’ garden is a frenzy of rhododendrons, poppies and delphiniums in the crisp May sunlight, William and his cohort are three quarters of the way through their training. Nights are long and mild. William continues to excel and Ray continues to scrape by, but the jokes at his own expense and his generosity at the bar each lunchtime have won Simon and Roger over and Ray is accepted as part of the group.
Over dinner, Gloria scolds Ray and tells him he needs to buck his ideas up. Ray says he’s sure that once he gets a job in a good undertakers, he’ll fly. When he says things like that, Mr Finch remains silent, and Mrs Finch says things like, ‘Well, let’s see.’
With four months left at college, William glances at the Room to Let ads held by the criss-cross elastic on the newsagent’s noticeboard. He always thinks he’ll come back and look when he’s not with Ray, but he hasn’t yet.
41
William arrives home in time for Mrs Finch’s Sunday roast and knows immediately that something is wrong. They’re already seated, which is not unusual; William routinely arrives home just in time to slide into his place at the table. Meticulous in helping clear away and wash up, he’s polite and helpful, but gives nothing of himself away. If he’s ever on his own with Mr and Mrs Finch, he relaxes a little, but he’s still on his guard for fear he’ll tell them their daughter deserves better than Ray Price.
At the Tate all morning, William has been looking at the Pointillists. Last week he found if he stood in front of Millais’ Ophelia, half an hour could feel like five minutes. Forgetting everything except the thick gloopy elegance of a Van Gogh, or today, the miraculous precision of a Seurat, gives him respite. Galleries and museums were not part of his early childhood, but the chapel at Cambridge taught him that genuine works of art have the stamina to captivate the same pair of eyes again and again.
Entering the dining room today, the silent animosity feels as solid as the table. None of them looks up. Mrs Finch’s face doesn’t break open with a smile; no, ‘There you are, William.’ She’s piling mashed potato onto her husband’s plate, with a loud clatter of metal spoon on china. Mr Finch’s eyes are on the table-mat in front of him, hands resting either side of it. Most disturbing is Gloria’s left hand, misshapen by the pressure of Ray’s grip.
‘Hello,’ William feels compelled to say.
‘William,’ says Mr Finch, barely moving his face.
‘Hello, William,’ says Gloria quietly.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks, looking briefly at each of them.
‘You’ve caught us at an awkward moment,’ says Mrs Finch.
‘Should I leave?’ he says. ‘I can eat out.’
‘Stay where you are.’ Gloria is stern.
‘Would you just cut the wretched chicken, Reg!’ Mrs Finch snaps.
Mr Finch leans across and starts slicing. William is hungry and, as the white meat tips and falls away from the carcass, he’s tempted to reach out and grab a piece of crispy skin.
Mr Finch glances at William, his upper body juddering with the rapid carving. ‘I’m afraid we’ve just had bad news, William.’
Gloria drops her head. Ray squeezes her hand again. She pulls it out of his grip and places it in her lap.
‘I’m not sure I like you describing it as bad news,’ Ray says, and William sees Gloria close her eyes for a second.
Mrs Finch, who has been half standing, half sitting, dishing up and handing out the plates, drops to her seat and rests her head in one hand, hiding her eyes.