How to Steal a Piano and Other Stories

by John Hughes

  When Dad put his knife and fork together, Liam said: “Shall we go and sit in the lounge and have a coffee?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Or would you prefer some tea?” Dad looked confused. “I’ll get you tea,” said Liam, rather than waiting and hoping for a decision.

  “Alright.”

  The lounge was next to the dining room and overlooked the same orchard. They sat in a couple of armchairs separated by a low, heavily-stained coffee table and sipped their drinks. The conversation had become sparse now there were no practicalities to deal with. It had always been this way. When it came to making talk beyond doing stuff, there was a void. They had nothing whatsoever in common.

  Dad had become far less communicative since moving into the care home. He’d never been a great conversationalist, preferring to listen to others rather than take the initiative, speaking mostly when spoken to. The memory loss hadn’t helped, and Mum dying and the move to the care home had compounded the problem. Liam was worried it may be a symptom of depression and had discussed it with Mr Castellani who had brushed the idea away with a wave of his hand. “Part of settling in,” he said. “That’s all. It’s very common.”

  Liam tried a few openers but received nothing back in return. Had he watched television recently; had he heard from any of the rest of the family (not that there were many – Dad had a brother down in the West Country and a cousin in New Zealand, and that was about it); was he friends with any of the other residents? If Dad spoke at all it was to say “No”; mostly he said nothing at all.

  Liam thought he’d try football. Dad had been a lifelong supporter of Brighton and Hove Albion F.C. and had followed their ups and downs long after he’d stopped going to matches. They had lived in Hove for much of Liam’s childhood, just a twenty-minute walk from the ground

  “How are the Seagulls doing, Dad?”

  There was a glimmer of a hint of a spark in his eyes at the mention of the Gulls. “Not bad.” He looked uncomfortable and struggled up out of his chair. He shuffled across the room to the gents and after what seemed an age eventually returned, sat down again and finished his reply. “Not good, not bad. They win some they lose some.”

  Encouraged by this response, Liam continued the same thread. “Nothing’s changed then. I’ve lost touch. Sometimes I drive past the Amex stadium – you know, where they play these days – and wonder how they’re doing. Looks impressive but I can’t imagine it has the same atmosphere as the old ground… The Goldstone.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Liam thought back to his youth and the excitement of those first trips to see the Albion. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, standing on the terrace surrounded by hundreds, thousands, of cheering, shouting people. And when Brighton scored, that adrenalin-fuelled mass celebration. For a lad in his early teens those were heady memories.

  “You know, Dad, I loved going to The Goldstone with you as a kid – being in the crowd and cheering the Gulls on. They were great times.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Do you remember?”

  No response.

  “I do, vividly. I can remember the very first game you took me to, against Aston Villa in March 1972. We beat them two goals to nil. Great result. Willie Irvine scored the winner. A fantastic goal, like a bullet right into the top right hand corner of the net. Unstoppable! Surely you remember that?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What was the manager’s name then? The one before Brian Clough came and made a pig’s ear of things, briefly. Pat something.” Liam knew the name very well but hoped this might prompt an answer. No response. “Saward, that was him… Pat Saward. I must have been about fourteen. We always stood about halfway between the goals, just in front of a refreshment hut. I remember the noise. I can hear it now. Deafening at times. And the smell of cigarettes – really strong. I’d never been so close to so many smokers before. It permeated my clothes. Mum was none too happy when we got home! But I loved it. Such an amazing atmosphere.”

  Dad was staring out across the orchard, either conjuring up memories of those Goldstone days or devoid of any thought whatsoever, Liam could not tell. He was beginning to feel despondent. He’d done this before, played on the football memories, and with good results, ending up in a nostalgic chat. But today he was getting nowhere. Dad seemed to have sunk into a world of his own.

  “Something else I remember about that first match, Dad.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to make sure no one could overhear. “I’ve never told you this before, but on the terraces that day… that was the first time I ever heard rude words. You know, the really rude swear words. The four-lettered variety. When the fans were chanting, every other word was an F and whenever the referee gave a decision against the Seagulls he was a C.”

  Dad continued staring into infinity, giving nothing away. Then gradually his brow furrowed as he mulled over what Liam had just said, giving it some serious thought. Slowly, he turned to look at his son. The vacant expression in his eyes cleared and a brightness took its place, as if that foggy landscape had cleared inside his head.

  Liam hadn’t seen this for quite a while. “You okay, Dad?”

  “Hmmm.”

  Dad focused on Liam, making direct eye contact for the first time.

  “What’s up?”

  “How did you know?”

  Liam looked at him, puzzled. “How did I know what?”

  “They were rude.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “If you’d never heard those words before, how did you know they were rude?”

  “Well, I…” Liam looked across at his dad, not at all sure how to respond. He was taken aback; stumped. “Well now, I suppose… I’m not sure. Good point.”

  It was a very good point. Dad had made him think. How had he known? With hindsight he knew very well what they meant in all their various meanings, vulgar and otherwise. He’d used them enough times, though never in front of Dad, which was why he had been so cagey about making reference to them at all, and by initials only. He sat in silence and pondered. Such a simple question, yet no simple answer sprung to mind. Had he known they were rude at the time? Or had he tagged them as rude later on with knowledge gained at a later stage in his life? Though not much later, not at fourteen in the early seventies. Perhaps he had sensed they were rude, by the tone in which they were used, often aggressively. If not rude then disapproved of for young ones, ring-fenced for adults only, at a time when he had yet to leave childhood behind, let alone adolescence. Telling Dad that he’d never heard them before might, on reflection, not be entirely true. Surely someone at school had used them. Gary Hudson was a bit of a rebel, so too the Lake twins; he remembered vividly them using expletives, usually directed at teachers they hated. But had that been later, in the sixth form when they had all turned into moody, longhaired pre-university oddballs? He truly could not remember.

  Dad was still looking at him, waiting for and expecting an answer. Liam was none the wiser and at a loss for words. So all he could do was look back at his father. This had not happened for many years, decades, and possibly never at all – a meaningful exchange of looks instead of brief eye contact then one or other glancing away to avoid any further awkwardness.

  “Dad, I have to confess, you’ve got me there.”

  “Got you?”

  “Yes, got me. You have well and truly got me. I have absolutely no idea.”

  “About what?”

  “How I knew they were rude words.” A grin began to form at the edges of his mouth, which developed into a full-blown smile. Then he was giggling, then chuckling. And to his enormous delight, Dad copied him at each stage, culminating in a mutual laughter that had the other residents and their visitors turning around to gaze at them. It fell short of a hug, of bodily contact, but only just. Even so it was the closest father and son had been fo
r many years, possibly in their entire lives. Did Dad fully appreciate the depth of his question and the mental effort required to provide an intelligent, insightful reply? Or was it asked in all innocence with no insight whatever? Liam couldn’t tell, nor did he care. It had, for a sublime moment, broken the ice – nay the glacial mountain – between them and brought him close to his Dad.

  When he escorted Dad back to his room and said goodbye, Liam felt tearful. For once he didn’t want to leave. On the drive back home, before he had even reached the A23, he began to feel emotions welling up inside him, a concoction of good and bad. There was always guilt, but this time also regret, loss, even shame; on the other hand, there was happiness, elation and delight at having enjoyed at least a moment of rapport with Dad. Hopefully there would be more. It was just a case of finding keys to unlock his head. More triggers like rude words. Rude words – of all things!

  Liam pulled into a layby, turned off the engine, sat back and wept. He cried and cried until he was drained and his eyes stung from the saltiness of his own tears.

  Willie Irvine scoring the winner for Brighton and Hove Albion against Aston Villa on 25th March 1972. Liam and his dad

  are in the crowd just behind the leaping goalkeeper.

  Photo courtesy of The Argus / Brighton and Hove Stuff

  Matlock Meg and the Riber Hoard

  She was standing outside Superdrug when the pirate ship first came into view. Stepping out of the air-conditioned store into hot direct sunlight had made her feel woozy for a moment. A mist seemed to float across her eyes, colours drained from everything in sight and there was a loud buzzing in her ears, like a thousand bees with pollination in mind. She reached out an arm and clutched on to something next to her. Out of the corner of her eye she thought it was a man, but the touch felt like plastic so it couldn’t have been. A statue perhaps, or a mannequin of some kind? She couldn’t tell. For a split second there was nothing but blackness. Then in an instant, as if by some sorcery, a drug kicked in – she revived and was alert again. Everything was vivid and clear.

  The ship had made its way along Bakewell Road and was turning onto Causeway Lane, in full sail, looking both majestic and terrifying at once. The sails billowed, the Jolly Roger rippled in the breeze, and the crew lined the decks waving their cutlasses as one; some had eye patches, others peg legs or a hook for a hand, and a couple had all three. They were shouting. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but it was almost certainly “Ahaaar!”

  Oddly, none of the other shoppers seemed to notice, which was strange because pirate ships are unusual in Matlock, especially sailing through the town centre on a Tuesday morning. An elderly gentleman crossed the road in front of it at a snail’s pace, seemingly oblivious to the great bows bearing down upon him, or the huge bare-breasted figurehead towering above his head. But miraculously he reached the other side unharmed.

  Positioned as far forward as it was possible, with one foot on the figurehead’s back and a hand gripping a sail rope, like the mighty prince of all pirates, stood a man. Even from a distance she could see his finely chiselled features and the shock of dark hair beneath the scarlet bandana wrapped around his head. He wore black pirate boots, tangerine pantaloons, a white silk shirt open to the waist, and a black belt from which hung an ornate knife and a cutlass. His chest was deeply tanned and covered in thick hair. Six feet tall, he was lean, virile and breathtakingly handsome! She had never seen the face before, yet instinctively he was known to her. A familiar stranger.

  He gazed ahead, scanning the shoppers along the pavements, eagerly looking for something, or someone. It took no time for him to spy her. His deep blue eyes widened and his mouth stretched into a huge grin. He raised his arm and waved.

  Suddenly there was a commotion on board. The pirate glanced behind him and saw a sinister figure standing on the raised deck at the stern. Jackson Richard Coplan, better known as Black Jack! The evil beast he’d taken prisoner in battle and was transporting to captivity. He must have escaped from the hold, no doubt helped by one or more of the scurvier members of the crew whose heads were easily turned by empty promises of gold doubloons and caskets of fine rum. Yes! He could see the main culprit. Next to Black Jack stood the foul smelling, hunchbacked mulatto that was Rancid Rajinder, the scurviest of them all.

  The mood was changing by the second. Black Jack was rallying the crew to his side, shouting and gesticulating wildly, inciting them to mutiny. And the crew were listening. Some nodded their heads, others turned to stare menacingly at the handsome pirate, their faces dark with the sudden realisation of how badly they had been treated by their captain all this time, if only they had had someone to point it out. There was a surge of movement towards the figure at the bows.

  The pirate knew instinctively his time was up and that he must act. Pulling his cutlass from his waist, he sliced the bottom of the rope he was holding. Gripping the rope high up with both hands, he launched himself over the bows into mid-air, swinging in a great arc and landing perfectly on both feet – directly in front of her.

  “Meg!” He gripped her by the shoulders, pulled her towards him and kissed her full on her lips, long and hard. When he eventually pulled away, she gasped. It was the most passionate kiss she had ever experience, sending a shiver down the entire length of her spine and a tingle into her toes. “Meg! I recognised you immediately. How could I miss that cute little turned up nose!”

  She gazed up into his eyes, her mouth wide open. “My name’s Beryl,” she said. “Beryl Smedley.”

  “Ahaaar!” he cried, his head tipping back as he guffawed loudly. “No time for games, I’d know my Meg anywhere.” The ship was passing broadside on to them now and they were drowned out by shouts of derision from the mutinous rabble. Some were trailing ropes over the side of the hull, intent on giving chase. “Avast!” he said urgently, grabbing her arm. “We must make ourselves scarce. Do you have horses?”

  “No, but my Fiat Punto’s parked in the multi-storey.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” said the pirate. “Like a horse I suppose. Lead the way… quick!”

  “I haven’t finished my shopping yet.”

  “No time! We must leave now.”

  “What does Avast! mean? I’ve often wondered.”

  “It means halt, but only sailors know that so I use it whenever the fancy takes me with landlubbers.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He pointed towards the top of a hill on the outskirts of town. “To yonder castle.”

  “What, Riber?”

  “That be the place… that mighty fortress in the hamlet of Riber! Once a stronghold, sadly gone to rack and ruin.”

  “It’s luxury apartments now.”

  He seemed disappointed at this intelligence. “I didn’t know that. Our destiny and our destination nevertheless. Hurry!”

  Behind them the sound of marauding pirates was getting louder. They were flooding down ropes onto the pavement and weaving their way between shoppers on the trail of their prey.

  Beryl and her pirate cut down a side road, through a mall and onto another street. The noise of pirates receded and was a faint hum by the time they reached the car park. Beryl stopped at the pay machine, fed her ticket in, paid and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

  “Four English pounds to stable your horse?” exclaimed the pirate. “Outrageous!”

  “It’s even worse in Chesterfield,” said Beryl knowledgeably.

  Her Fiat Punto was on the third level. Bright red, it stood out like a ripe tomato amongst the silver and black Fords and Vauxhalls surrounding it. She slotted into the driving seat comfortably, but the passenger seat was a squeeze for a six-foot pirate with a cutlass. He eventually managed to shut the door.

  She started the engine, but did not move off.

  “Go!” he commanded. “Go now! What is wrong?”

  “Put your seat belt on plea
se.”

  “This feeble strap? You are not serious, woman! I have travelled the seven seas of the world, fought battles galore, come within inches of death a hundred times, and now you want me to strap myself into your coffin on wheels?”

  “It’s the law,” stated Beryl.

  “I will not do it.”

  “Then we’re not moving.”

  The door to the stair well burst open and a dozen fearsome looking pirates all but tumbled out onto the ground not fifty yards away. He put his seat belt on.

  Beryl moved off. It was a piece of great fortune that the exit was in the opposite direction from the stairs. As she drove away she could see nothing but pirates in her rear-view mirror, waving cutlasses and chasing after them at full pelt. Usually she was a very wary driver, but today she decided against caution in favour of self-preservation and sped down the ramps of the car park until they were on the ground floor and at the exit barrier.

  “Ram it!” ordered her pirate passenger.

  Beryl fumbled in her pocket. “Hang on, I’ve got the ticket.”

  “Smash it to smithereens!”

  “It’s here somewhere.”

  He grabbed the steering wheel. “Do as I say. How does this thing work?”

  “Stop that!” yelled Beryl angrily, slapping his hand. “It won’t do you any good. You need the pedals.” Beryl felt inside her jacket pocket. “Here it is.” She wound down the window and slotted the ticket into the machine. The barrier went up. “Let go of the wheel now please, err… goodness, I don’t know your name.”

  “Of course you do. I told you before, no game playing.”

  “Remind me?”

  As if to answer her question, a dirty hand at the end of an even dirtier sleeve thrust its way into the car through the open window, reaching across Beryl towards her passenger. An unshaven face filled the rest of the space. A blast of foul, stale rum breath hit her. “Ahaaar, Pete, you scummy piece of dog filth. Time for your comeuppance!”