by Sara Barnard
When I go to Dilys’s flat downstairs as planned that week, my laundry in a suitcase and my attempt at shortbread in an old Tupperware container under my arm, I’ve made a mental list of things I could offer to do in exchange for a bit of money, figuring that she’s old and could probably do with a bit of help. Walking Clarence is at the top, cleaning is at the bottom. But when she lets me in – Clarence sniffs cautiously at my Vans and lets me touch his head for a millisecond before running away – she smiles so kindly at me that the idea of asking for money, even if I work for it, seems wrong. Isn’t it enough that I get to do my laundry for free?
I load up the washing machine and set it to go before I make tea for us both, taking it over to where she’s sitting on the sofa waiting for me.
‘Thank you,’ she says, smiling. ‘Now tell me. How have you been since last week?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I didn’t do much. Just work and seeing my friends.’
‘Oh?’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘Where do you work?’
I tell her about Madeline’s and she nods, eyes squinting slightly. When I’m done, she says, ‘Is that all you do?’
‘Should I be doing more?’
‘You must be working towards something,’ she says. ‘What’s your goal?’
Staying alive. Not hurting myself or others. You know, the small things. ‘I don’t have one,’ I say.
She frowns a little. ‘What about a dream?’
‘Dreams are overrated.’
She smiles at this. ‘How very cynical from someone so young.’ I expect her to push me a little – she seems like the type – but instead she surprises me by getting slowly to her feet. ‘Would you like a tour?’
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ I say awkwardly. I don’t want to make her move around any more than she needs to. ‘Or, you could tell me the rooms, and I’ll look?’
Dilys looks at me, her eyebrows moving slowly upward. ‘Young lady,’ she says. ‘Do you imagine me some sort of invalid?’
‘No,’ I say in a very small voice.
‘Ah, then maybe a doddery old woman, one step from falling?’
I stand up. ‘I’d love a tour of your flat.’
‘Be ready to catch me,’ Dilys says. ‘In the event of my inevitable collapse.’
I smile. ‘Can you give me a warning first? Maybe a shriek? Or a wail?’
She laughs, and I know I’m forgiven.
There’s not a huge amount to see, because even though her flat is considerably bigger than mine, it’s still just a flat. I nod and smile and make polite noises, and then she opens the door to what I’d assumed would be a guest room. And she says the words, ‘This is my music room.’
I actually gasp. The over-the-top, loud gasp that I thought only existed in films. ‘You … have … a music room?’
‘I do,’ Dilys says, smiling. ‘It’s something of an indulgence, but I’m seventy-nine and music is my joy. Music and Clarence. And he doesn’t need a big room like this.’
The first thing my eye goes to is the baby grand piano, lid open like it’s just waiting to be played. There are violins on the walls and one on a stand by a small sofa. One wall is taken up almost entirely by shelving, mostly holding books, but also ornaments and what could be awards. There’s art on the walls, too much to take in, and an honest-to-God record player, a proper old-style one, in the corner, next to a record collection in a glass-fronted cabinet. It’s like walking into a daydream, this room. Music heaven.
‘Wow,’ I say.
‘Feel free to go in,’ Dilys says. ‘Do you like music?’
‘I love it,’ I say. ‘It’s …’ What was it she’d said? ‘It’s my joy, too.’
‘Wonderful. What’s your instrument?’
‘My instrument?’
‘What do you play?’
‘Oh, I don’t. I’m more of a fan. An appreciator. I play the guitar, but just for me. If that makes sense.’ I’d learned to play the guitar at Gwillim House, as part of my therapy. I count it as one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.
‘That’s a shame,’ she says. ‘So much of my appreciation comes from playing. From being immersed in the music. You never played any other instruments?’ She sinks on to the piano stool and moves her hands to the keys. ‘The piano?’
‘I did when I was younger,’ I say, going over to one of the frames on the wall to see that it’s an old poster for a performance by the Hallé Orchestra. I know the Hallé because we went as a family for my mum’s birthday, ages ago, when we lived in Manchester and still acted like a family. ‘But not for very long. I never got good or anything.’
‘Why did you stop?’
I shrug. ‘Not for me, I guess. I love the guitar, though.’ I can tell she’s going to ask more questions, so I say, ‘What do you play, then?’
‘The violin was my instrument,’ she says. ‘But I do love the piano. It’s a different kind of magic.’
‘What do you mean, was?’
‘Professionally,’ she says. ‘When it was my career.’
I stop, turning back to look at her. ‘Wait, what? You were a professional musician?’
She laughs. ‘I thought that was clear from this room.’
‘You played the violin professionally?’
‘I did.’ She gives a modest nod. She seems pleased by my reaction. ‘I was an orchestral musician for thirty-five years. I toured with the Hallé Orchestra. Do you know what the—’
‘You were in the Hallé Orchestra?’ My voice has risen, because oh my God I can’t believe this. ‘You’re from Manchester?’
‘No, but I lived in Manchester for a good few years. Wonderful city.’
‘Isn’t it the best? That’s where I was born.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Oh my,’ she says quietly, almost to herself. ‘You’re so young. I was long gone by then. Gosh, I was already in Brighton.’
I reach out a tentative hand to one of the violins. ‘Can I …?’
‘Oh yes, please do.’ When I touch it and then take my hand away, she says, ‘No, no. Don’t just touch. Pick it up. Come and sit down, I’ll show you how to hold it.’
I have no choice but to obey, even though I’m already regretting asking. I hold the violin by its neck, nervous, and sit beside her on the piano stool.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘Lift it like this, yes … Rest it on your collarbone. Hold it out … like that, yes. Can you feel your shoulder taking the weight?’
‘It feels weird,’ I say. ‘Like it’s growing out of my face.’
She laughs. ‘I used to feel like it was a part of me. Like an extension of myself. Here.’ She stands and reaches for a bow, then hands it to me. ‘Go ahead.’
I can feel my face starting to heat up as I move the bow tentatively across the strings of the violin. Compared to how right and natural my guitar feels when I play, this is so, so weird.
‘Hold your elbow more like …’ Dilys takes a hold of my elbow and adjusts me. Her fingers are cool and dry. ‘There.’ She takes a small step back, smiling. ‘Ah. It suits you. Try again.’
I try again with the bow and produce a hideous, deafening screech for my efforts. Flushing, I take the violin off my shoulder and try to hand it back to Dilys. ‘I don’t think this is my instrument.’
‘Nonsense,’ she says, but she looks amused. ‘These things take time. Try again.’
‘You play,’ I say, mostly to distract her. ‘Can I hear what it’s actually meant to sound like?’
Dilys hesitates, her fingers closing instinctively around the bow. ‘I don’t play any more,’ she says. ‘That time of my life is … passed.’
‘Why?’
She pauses again, her eyes on the graceful arc of the violin. ‘Nothing is forever,’ she says finally. ‘I started to develop joint problems, quite some time ago now. It became impossible for me to play as I once had. Oh, it was painful, leaving that part of my life behind. The heartbreak of my life, I think.’ She sighs.
‘I focused on the piano for a while after that; I taught for nearly twenty years, right here in this room. It didn’t bring me quite the same joy, but at least I still had music in my life. And then, two years ago, I had a stroke.’
‘Oh,’ I say, alarmed.
‘Just a small one,’ she says, as if this will reassure me. ‘But it affected my mobility and praxis quite a bit for a short while.’ She shakes her head. ‘These things happen, unfortunately. Perhaps you could bring your guitar next time and you can play me something.’
‘I’m not very good.’
She fixes me with a look, as if I’m her student or something. ‘I expect not, with that attitude.’
‘I just meant it’s not something I do as, like, a performance.’ Which is funny, I realize, considering everything else I do is. But the guitar is different; it’s mine.
We leave the music room when the spin cycle ends so I can set the dryer programme. I make two more cups of tea while Dilys sits on the sofa fussing Clarence, and bring them over with the shortbread. My head is buzzing with violins and record players and music.
‘It must have been amazing,’ I say. ‘Being in the orchestra?’
She smiles. ‘Not all the time. It was a difficult life sometimes. But overall, yes, it was wonderful. I miss it very much.’
‘Were you married?’
‘No, never.’
‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t want to be. It seemed horribly restrictive to me, being tied to a person like that. It still does. And I was never much interested in men, to be perfectly honest. They were so often so terribly dull. I’d meet most of them in some sort of music-related way, and they were patronizing and smug, you can imagine. Always immediately assuming they were better than I was by virtue of them being male, taking it upon themselves to teach me things I already knew.’ She shakes her head ruefully. ‘I used to think, marry one of those?’
‘Did you like women?’ I ask.
She laughs. ‘Oh yes, it has to be one or the other in this world, doesn’t it? Goodness me, no. Not in the way you’re implying. There have been women I’ve loved very dearly, but in friendship. There have been men I’ve loved like that, too. All very platonic, you see. I never felt like I needed anything more than that.’
‘Weren’t you lonely?’
‘Yes, sometimes, but what you have to understand is, relationships aren’t a shield against loneliness. Not romantic ones, that is. One of my dearest friends was unhappy in her marriage for many years; that’s a type of loneliness.’
‘But you live on your own,’ I say.
‘I do, but I’ve had a full life. Full of wonderful people. I get lonely now, yes. That comes with being old.’ Seeing my face, she smiles. ‘The world is what it is. That’s why I’m so enjoying your company.’
I smile back. ‘Thanks for showing me your music room.’
‘You’re so very welcome. It’s a pleasure to be able to share it with someone. Perhaps next time we can listen to some of those records I saw you looking at in there.’
‘Is it all classical music?’
She looks amused. ‘Well, yes.’
I try not to make a face. ‘Not really my thing.’
‘Then you need a classical education,’ she says. ‘And that is something I’m more than happy to provide.’ The washer-dryer lets out three loud beeps and she smiles. ‘Next time.’
6
‘Wild Heart’
Bleachers
I’ve been back in Brighton for about a month when Kel decides to have a summer party at his house. Kel is actually from Lewes, which is about twenty minutes from Brighton, but he still lives in a student house in the city centre rather than stay with his parents. (I assume this means he has money, but I don’t ask either him or Caddy; they both seem kind of oblivious about money.) The extra bonus is that it means he can stay in Brighton over the summer, in a parentless house with his own bedroom. ‘You got lucky,’ I say to Caddy.
‘Super-lucky,’ she agrees happily.
When I get to the house on Saturday evening, it’s already full and loud. Someone I don’t recognize lets me in and I find Caddy in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, eating mini-pretzels out of a bowl on her lap, talking to Kel as he pours ice into a bucket. ‘She’s got a lot going on,’ she’s saying as I walk in, and I wonder immediately who she’s talking about, and can’t help but assume it’s me. ‘Hey!’ she says, holding out the bowl. ‘When did you get here? I came to get these and ended up just eating them, because I am a terrible host.’
‘You’re not the host,’ Kel reminds her. ‘Eat away. Hey, Suze.’
Caddy pats the space on the counter beside her and I hop up, taking a pretzel and pushing it into my mouth. ‘Suze, tell Kel that people are having a good time,’ she says to me.
‘People are having a good time,’ I say obediently.
‘See?’ Caddy smiles at her boyfriend, an inside-relationship kind of smile I’ve never had a chance to see on her face before. ‘Told you.’ She turns to me, holding out the pretzel bowl again. ‘Kel gets paranoid.’
‘I’m not paranoid,’ Kel says, rolling his eyes with a smile. ‘And it’s numbers I was worried about. I’m used to having parties in term-time, when more people are around. And I thought Matt’d come, but he had to work.’
‘There are loads of people here,’ I say.
‘Thank you,’ Caddy says. ‘Loads.’ She reaches over and gives Kel’s shoulder an affectionate push. ‘Go and see some of them. I’ll see you later.’ When he’s gone, dropping a kiss on her cheek and waving at me on the way out, Caddy sighs. ‘Totally paranoid. But it’s a good party, right?’
‘Yes!’
‘I think it’s weird for him, because for most people, they have their uni life and their home life, but for him they’re, like, basically the same. He gets a bit angsty during the summer when the lines blur. Maybe he thought having a party would help? I don’t know. His best friend lives in London now – Matt – so they don’t see each other as much, and I think he was counting on him coming.’ She’s talking happily, much more freely than she used to when I first knew her. I watch her face, wondering exactly when she got so much more comfortable in her own skin. ‘They grew up together and Kel says they’re more like brothers. Like me and Roz being like sisters, you know?’ She says this so casually, but it stabs. It shouldn’t, because I know she’s referring to the fact that they’ve been best friends since they were tiny, but it does.
‘Have you met him?’
‘Oh yeah, loads.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Sure. I mean, we’re totally different people. We’d never be friends without Kel, but I guess that’s normal. Matt’s very cool, you know? He’s a good guy and everything, and he’s always been really nice to me, but he’s still cool. He’s like this musician living in London working in a bar to get by, shagging his way around the city.’
I laugh. ‘Is that actually what he does, or are you making that up?’
‘No, he really does. Kel says he’s been like that since they were in school. He was in a band then, apparently. All the girls wanted him, Kel says, and he made the most of it.’
‘Is he hot?’
She looks at me, finally seeming to remember who she’s talking to. ‘Oh God, don’t even think about it.’
‘Just a question,’ I say innocently. And then I grin my wickedest grin, and she laughs, and I’m so glad I moved back here.
‘Yes,’ she says, letting out an exaggeratedly patient sigh. ‘He is hot.’
‘A hot musician.’
‘Suze,’ she says, half a whine, half a laugh.
‘A hot, cool musician who’s also a nice guy.’
‘With no sexual integrity.’
‘Stop, I’m already sold.’
She chokes on her drink and presses her wrist to her mouth, shaking her head. ‘You’re such a liability.’
‘Thank you. I’m touched.’
‘I’m glad he’s not here, now
,’ she says. ‘C’mon. I’ll give you a tour and we’ll find Roz; she should be here somewhere.’
I follow Caddy around the house, which has five bedrooms and a conservatory, and finally out into the garden, where we’re stopped by a group of people I assume must be Kel’s friends, one of whom sweeps Caddy right off the floor into a fireman’s lift. She shrieks and thumps his back until he puts her down.
‘You suck,’ she says to him, eyes bright, her voice a laugh. ‘I’m telling Kel.’
‘Aw, Cads,’ he says. ‘Just playing.’
She straightens her top with exaggerated care. ‘No more alcohol for you.’
He salutes, and everyone laughs. I just stand there, watching this whole exchange, feeling more like an outsider than I have the whole time I’ve been back. When Caddy returns her attention to me, steering me towards the patio, I say, ‘Remember when you hated parties?’ Not because I think she’ll actually have forgotten, but because I want to have a moment where we are who I remember; where she is still nervous, shy Caddy and I’m the confident partygoer.
‘Barely, thank God. I grew up. Found my inner Suze.’ She grins at me. ‘Are you proud?’
I grin back, warmth flooding in and dissolving the momentary uneasiness. ‘So proud.’
When we find Rosie, we spread over the wicker furniture on the patio, talking, and it’s utterly blissful. Rosie pulls me on to her lap like we’re still fifteen, hanging out in our form room before registration. We pass a bottle of wine between us, cool and slick with condensation, from the collection Caddy’s been keeping hidden in the mini-fridge in Kel’s bedroom. When I light a cigarette, they both raise their eyebrows in unison. I tell them I’m going to quit and they don’t even try to pretend they believe me.
‘I care about your disgusting blackened lungs,’ Rosie says, pushing me off her lap on to the spare chair. ‘And also how gross that smells.’
‘Everyone has a vice,’ I say, cupping my hand to keep the smoke I exhale away from them both.
