A Song for Summer

But Altenburg was a different matter; Benny had been surprised at the high value the Americans put on him. If Brigitta could really get Altenburg to write an opera with a part for her, the combination could be sensational. The old "affaire" might be over, but a little carefully placed gossip could add savour, and where better to put that about--if Marcus could be persuaded to attend--than at the gala?

"Why don't you all come?"' repeated Brigitta.

Benny made up his mind. "All right," he said, nodding. He hated the country but he could manage a few days.

"And you, Liebchen?"' asked

Brigitta, a shade anxiously, turning to the count.

Stallenbach patted her hand. "I think not," he said, smiling. His role as Brigitta's "protector" was a conventional one; his family for generations had supported singers or dancers, enjoying their favours and their company. But Stallenbach was in his sixties and had, moreover, a secret in the form of an abiding and deep enthusiasm for the company of his wife. A few quiet weeks without Brigitta were very welcome: nor was he worried about being usurped by Altenburg. The count knew rather better than Brigitta just how many women had thrown themselves at the composer.

"Actually," he said, "I have a cousin who has a villa near there. It's empty, I believe; I'm sure she'd lend it to you." He was rewarded by Brigitta's famous, but genuinely lovely, smile.

"Of course he goes off suddenly like that. Of course he doesn't even bother to say goodbye. I could tell at once that he was no good," said Tamara pettishly.

Bennet was silent. Marek had in fact said goodbye and told him why he was going and what had been his reason for coming to Hallendorf. He had explained that since Leon and Ellen now knew who he was, he could not risk any further involvement by anyone in the school. "Knowing things can be dangerous business nowadays," he said.

Bennet had agreed. Ellen could make her own decisions, but Leon was a child for whom he was responsible.

"We shall miss you," he said--and indeed it was extraordinary how much he minded losing this man whom he had trusted instinctively from the start.

"And Derek is making a complete mess of the play," Tamara went on. She was the only person who used FitzAllan's Christian name. "I've told him exactly where my ballet should go and he continues to misunderstand me."

Bennet looked with reluctant pity at his wife. He knew exactly where Tamara's ballet would go in the end.

FitzAllan had already shortened it and put it behind gauzes. The next stage--total exclusion--was only a matter of time. On occasions like these, the Russian ballerina vanished and Bennet found himself looking into the desperate, sallow face of Beryl Smith from Workington. And against his better judgement, he smiled at his wife and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze.

Too late he realised his mistake.

Tamara swivelled round, seized him by the shoulders and kissed him hotly on the lips.

"I will wait for you upstairs," she said hoarsely.

Oh God, thought Bennet, even as he gave a polite nod. Tamara claimed her rights so very rarely now--

not more than a few times a year--and always after some blow to her pride. When she did expect him to make love to her the routine was one that never ceased to alarm him: the incense sticks which smoked out his bedroom, the record of the Polovtsian dances, to which Tamara undulated naked ... and afterwards the floods of tears because

Toussia Alexandrovna had found the sexual act so very, very sad.

But there was nothing for it. Bennet went to the cupboard where he kept his whisky and poured himself a large tumbler full. Then he took down the Shakespeare Sonnets and turned to Number 116. Number 18

was beneficial too in moments like this, and Number 66 ... but after Number 116 it was impossible not to feel love for someone, and with luck it could be channelled in the direction of an avid wife. First, though, for no reason he could find, he went along to Margaret Sinclair's office. Though it was late, she was as usual working at her typewriter.

"There's a letter from Brigitta Seefeld--the opera singer. The one we invited for the play two years ago.

She thinks she might come."

"A bit late, I fear," said Bennet. "Abattoir is hardly her style. Still, tell her she'll be welcome any time."

He looked round Margaret's office: at the neatness, the quietness--and at Margaret herself, putting the cover on her Remington. A plain woman--plain as in bread, as in the hands of Rembrandt's mother, thought Bennet, who was a little fuzzy from the whisky.

The office looked out on to the courtyard. In the dusky light they could make out Ellen sitting on the rim of the well. She was holding something in both hands, seemingly talking to it.

"What is it?"' Bennet asked.

"It's the tortoise," said Margaret, coming to stand beside him.

"Ah yes."