by Nigel Bird
Mr Evans tilts his head and his brow wrinkles. “If you can see that, then there’s nothing I can teach you other than how to play the piano.”
“I’m sure you could teach me lots of things.”
“But what else is there to know, dear boy?” The old man puts another shot into the glasses and goes over to the record player. He picks up the arm and then lays it gently upon the record that’s on the turntable.
The déjà vu makes Max nervous. The booze rises a little from his stomach and he feels the acid at the bottom of his throat. “Is that a good idea?”
“It’s a great idea.”
The disc crackles and then the music begins. Mr Evans turns up the volume and stands still. After a while he turns the volume down again and returns to his seat. “I used to play this for her,” he says. She’d dance just for me and when she’d done, she’d stand behind me and drape her arms around my neck watching my fingers move.”
The acidic taste has gone from Max’s throat and he feels his heart glow at the thought of the two lovers enjoying their moment. “You are a very lucky man, Mr Evans.”
“At once blessed and cursed.”
“How do you mean?”
“Blessed that I ever got to feel so close. Cursed that she was taken away.”
Max thinks of Jazz. She wasn’t exactly taken away, but that seems like a technicality.
“Better to have loved and lost and all that.” That’s what everyone said to him when his life fell apart.
“So they say,” Mr Evans nods. “So they say.”
“And I happen to think they’re right.”
Mr Evans unwraps a pack of cigarettes. Without offering one to Max, he takes one out and picks up Max’s lighter to set it going. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He bursts into a cough, a rough sounding bark, as if someone in his lungs is sandpapering them. The cough goes on and Mr Evans begins to look ancient and fragile.
Max stands, a little anxious. “Can I get you some water?”
Mr Evans shakes his head and points to the bottle.
Max pours some booze into the glass and passes it over.
As the old man sips, he manages to steady himself with a few deep breaths. “Thank you.”
“You know, you remind me of someone.” The thought comes from out of the blue, like an image has been flashed in front of his eyes and then taken away when he tried to focus.
“Anybody interesting?”
“No idea. I forgot already.”
“I’ll look forward to the revelation when it arrives.”
They sip at their drinks and seem to have run out of things to say. Max feels awkward in the spaces and a little dizzy from the alcohol that’s sloshing away around his brain. “Maybe I should try playing again.”
“If you must.” Mr Evans looks lost in a world of his own and doesn’t seem to care what happens next. “My head’s ready for it now.” He goes over to the record player and picks up the arm. The silence fills the room as if it’s a component of air.
Max pulls his stool over to the piano and squints to get a better focus on the music in front of him. His fingers find their positions on the keys and he takes a deep breath.
Mr Evans stands behind him and the tune begins, as if by itself.
The mistakes are glaring, but this time Mr Evans only smiles. “That’s better.” It’s the first encouragement he’s offered Max since they started together. “Now. Shall we give it one more try? For the road, so to speak.”
‘Merrily We Roll Along’ begins again. Mr Evans seems unconcerned about the quality of the playing and goes over to look at the photograph of his ballerina. He raises his glass to her and stays there until the piano settles into a hum, the ripples of what’s left of the tune. “There we go. Maybe you can do it after all.”
“You think so?”
“Not really. But it was much better. And with practice...”
“So I’ll practice.”
“I’m sorry, boy. I’m not the man I once was. I need to rest these weary bones of mine.”
Having seen his fragility exposed early on, Max understands. “That’s OK. I should go. I’ve taken up far more than half an hour.” He stands, picks his coat up from the sofa and slips it on. He drains his glass and then picks out his wallet.
“Put it away. Tonight was almost a pleasure.”
It’s a complete shock, but it makes sense. They’re like two friends soldered together by home-made cocktails. “For me too.”
“Besides, it will help make up for the last lesson.”
“Thanks a lot.” He returns the wallet into his inside pocket and wobbles a little to get over to Mr Evans. He offers his hand and Mr Evans takes it. They hold on tight for a moment and it’s a good, hearty shake.
“I’ll be back on Friday night,” Max says.
“See you then.”
“Goodnight Mr Evans.”
“Just call me Evans.” Which would put them practically on first name terms.
“Goodnight Evans.” It doesn’t sound right.
Max reaches the curtain door and notices the photograph once more. He looks from it to Evans who is sitting on the sofa. There’s a cigarette burning in his hand, but his eyes are tight shut and he looks perfectly content in his sleep. Even though he’s worse for wear, Max knows a dangerous situation when he sees one. He tiptoes over, takes the cigarette from his teacher and smokes it himself – no point wasting a good one. He notices his piano book on the piano, goes over to take it off and remembers that he came with a bag. He puts the book in his bag and walks out as quietly as he can manage.
SEVENTEEN
The ashtray between Max and Jazz is overflowing with butts. Normally, they hide inside and enjoy the anonymity of Garbanzo. Today, they’ve taken one of the outside tables so they can indulge their nicotine habits.
Beside the ashtray are empty cups and plates that once housed cheesecake, a cherry scone with whipped cream and latte coffee.
Jazz has been in touch with Jenny to find out how things are. “She was OK,” she tells Max, the openness of the statement telling everything and nothing.
“Any news on the fugitive?”
“Only that it’s happened before.”
“Really!”
“At least twice. According to his wife.”
“She sticks with him after all that? Isn’t love a funny thing?” He puts out another cigarette, planting the tip with great accuracy into a clear space. “It just shows you have to be careful about who you let into your life.” There’s a subliminal message in there, just for Jazz.
She seems to miss the message. “Was that you talking, Max?”
He looks back over his shoulder for effect. “I think so.”
“Now there’s a first.”
“I must be getting old.”
“Maybe more mature. So are you?” She’s lost him.
“Am I what?”
“Being careful, you dope?”
“It sounds like a good idea, but how can anyone live life to the full being careful?”
The waitress steps out into the sunshine and brings over two more mugs of latte for the table, only it’s not one of the usual waitresses but the owner, Julie, dressed all in black. The dress hugs her figure, a rogue button that’s undone allowing anyone who’d like one to get a peek of what lies beneath. It’s a great figure capped off with a face that has the jowls of Edward G Robinson. “Mind if I join you? I hate the slow days.”
Max is happy to be interrupted. “Course we don’t mind.”
She goes back into the cafe then re-emerges with a glass that’s half-full of pink milkshake. She sets it on the table next to the two coffees and takes a seat. “Half empty or half full?” she asks.
It’s a tester all right, but Max isn’t playing. “Who cares? It’s radio-active and it’ll kill you anyway.”
“I hope so,” Julie says. She purses her lips together and Max decides she’s seeking attention.
“What’s with the long face?” J
azz asks.
“Nothing to worry about. Just another mid-life crisis.”
“Anything we can do to help?”
“If you happen to know of a new job, a fan for the hot flushes and a good man.”
Max feels the need to defend the old one. “What’s wrong with Jack?”
She doesn’t answer the question and shakes her head, as if it’s ridiculous.
“There’s hope for us all, you know.” Jazz winks at Max. “Anything’s possible.”
“Even for Max and me?”
“For all of us.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.” The waitress drinks down what’s left of her shake in a series of unattractive gulps that make her Adam’s apple jerk up and down and expand as if it has a life of its own.
“Course I’m right. It’s a wonderful life.”
Max pictures the scene. “Maximillian Swarbrick lassos the moon.”
“Sounds good.”
Julie puts her glass down and a tiny belch escapes from between her lips. Somehow, Max finds it attractive. He shakes his head at the thought. “So how are things with you and the princess, Max?”
“The princess?”
“That lady with the piano.”
“How the hell do you know about her?”
“I get to know about most things.”
“Did you catch the moon yet?” Jazz asks. Maybe she’s jealous after all.
“Not yet, but I’m getting better at jumping.”
“You’ll do it,” Jazz says.
“So what’s the score?”
“I’m going over for dinner tomorrow night.”
The ladies bend in and nudge each other. Jazz leans over and takes Max’s hand. “That’s a pretty good sign.”
“Fingers crossed. I’ll be rooting for you.” Even Julie cracks a smile, so Max reckons things might be going well.
“Thanks.” Problem is, the optimism has its flip side and Max feels the battle between lightness and dark going on somewhere in his body. “I’m starting to worry that it’s all about to go wrong. That I’ll blow it by trying too hard or something.”
“Nonsense,” Julie says, waving the idea away with her hand. “A man can never try too hard, I can promise you that.”
“And it is going well,” Jazz says.
“I suppose so.”
“Then all you can do is be yourself and see what happens.”
Julie stands up and stretches, making something click in her back. “She makes it sound so simple. Love, I tell you, is for the young.”
“But she’s right, isn’t she? All I can do is be myself. How the hell can that be enough?”
“From where I’m looking,” Julie says, “that’s plenty.”
“And from here, too,” Jazz says.
They have Max smiling and feeling better than when he arrived. “Thanks girls. I’ll come again.”
“Now,” Julie says. “What’s worse than biting into an apple and finding a worm in it?”
EIGHTEEN
The shop’s busy. It’s a children’s event.
Max has drawn the long straw and is downstairs minding the front till.
Sci-fi man’s there, too, browsing through a book.
Max checks up on an order that hasn’t come through. If he doesn’t get the book soon, his customer is going to go ballistic. It’s not easy to concentrate, in spite of the pressure he’s under. There’s a constant noise coming from upstairs, cheering and screaming and laughter. When they start chanting ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to some direction or other, he gives up and pushes his screen so that it points away from him.
Then there’s music from the event. It’s the tune of Ten Green Bottles, but when the singing starts it’s all about ten little spacemen.
Chris walks down the stairs dressed in a green, furry outfit, resembling an alien and carrying a space gun in case anyone wasn’t sure of what he was supposed to be.
He’s about to pull back the head of the outfit when he sees who’s in. He leaves the head where it is and plods on over to Sci-fi man.
“The Eagle has landed,” Chris says into Sci-fi man’s ear.
Sci-fi man drops the book to the floor and his mouth opens.
“You are the chosen one,” Chris adds and then heads off in the direction of the staff office.
Sci-fi man looks over to Max and then back to the alien. “Look. Look. They’ve come. I told you they’d be here one day.”
“I beg your pardon sir.” Max feels a seed of sympathy germinating inside his heart. He’s not sure whether he can support Chris in the game.
“They’re here. Don’t you see? Over there.”
They turn around. Chris has gone.
“And they chose me,” Sci-fi man says. “I’m so unworthy. But they chose me anyway. I must go and prepare. I must.”
He leaves the shop muttering to himself. Max hasn’t got it in him to spoil the man’s happiness with the truth. He just waves at him and lets him get on with his life’s work.
NINETEEN
It’s almost there, this version of Twinkle Twinkle as played by Max and Alice side by side at the piano. This is the slow one. The one where minor notes and major mistakes aren’t uncommon. The one that brings happiness to the lives of all who hear it.
As they play the final note and burst into laughter, something else bursts. It’s the moment when Max remembers who he is and what he’s doing. His heart feels light, his head empty and his limbs are ready to float off. It’s living in the moment is what he’s been doing, something he never manages. A Buddhist thing, he thinks, that can be achieved by meditation and medication alike, but can also be brought on by playing the piano with a lovely kid as a partner. He thought about joining the Buddhists for a while. They wouldn’t have him.
Cath walks into the room, her hair the colour of light-brown sugar and the tips slightly paler than the top. Her figure is displayed at its best in a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a cropped vest that rises as she moves. Her hands are covered in soap bubbles and this is the icing on the cake for Max. Whoever thought Fairy Liquid could be so sexy?
“Perfect,” Max says, aware of the ambiguity of his remark.
“And perfect timing sweetheart.” Max wonders if the ambiguity’s being returned. “Now tidy up your things and go and get ready for bed.”
Alice’s eyes open wide. “But Mum. I’ve just got one more, tiny bit to finish on my little star picture.”
“All right. You’ve got until I finish the dishes.”
Alice runs over to where her pens lie scattered and draws on a piece of paper that’s in the middle of the floor.
Max closes the lid of the piano and wanders to the balcony to light a cigarette. He feels much happier since he admitted to this vice. The evening is setting in and the sun is beginning its retreat.
Alice finishes her picture quickly. She calls for Cath to come and look at it.
This time, Cath’s hands are dry. “Is that Max?” she asks.
She nods her head. “And that’s Grandpa’s star.”
There’s an unfamiliar feeling in Max’s stomach. It’s like there’s something warm squelching around in there. He knows that it’s something special to be included in the picture. Nobody’s ever done anything so nice for him, at least not for a good while.
Alice runs out of the room.
Max watches Cath go and take something from a drawer and then pin up Alice’s picture on the wall.
Before long, Alice skips back in wearing an oversized tee-shirt with a love heart across it.
“That was quick,” Cath says. “Did you wash your face?”
Alice nods.
“And clean your teeth?”
Alice nods again.
“Are you sure?”
Alice moves forward to her mum and breathes up towards her face. Cath seems satisfied by the scent, picks her up and walks over to the balcony door. “Say goodnight to Max, Honey.”
“Can he tell me a story?”
Max drops his smo
ke to the floor and rubs it into the tiles with his foot. The idea of making up a story is terrifying. He can’t even remember anything about Goldilocks just for the moment.
“Please Max.”
“I’d love to, but I’m not in charge.” It’s all he can think of to get himself off the hook.
“Mum?”
It’s Max’s only hope and he freezes for a second.
“I suppose you did work hard on the piano this evening. Go on then.”
He’s been well and truly caught.
“Will you come and help too Mum?”
The idea of the cosy family getting together seems sweet on the one hand yet bitter as hell on the other.
“I’ve got things to do, darling.”
“Please Mum, Pleeeeease.”
Max decides it might be a good thing to have another grown up in the room. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of moral support. It’s a while since I’ve had to tell a story without a costume to hide behind.” Last time he read to children he was dressed as a tree. The time before that an owl.
“All right then. But only a short one.”
Alice hugs Cath around the neck and they all go to the bedroom.
Max starts talking when Alice is settled. He carries on without thinking where he’s going, just bumbling from one sentence to another.
When he notices Alice’s eyes are closing, he can’t tell whether it’s because she’s nodding off to sleep or completely bored.
“Jonathan started to cry. If he couldn’t move, then how would he be able to find the rest of his body?” How indeed? “If he couldn’t find the rest of his body, then how could he get home?” If there was ever a time when he needed an audience to fall asleep, this is it. “He’d never get to see his family again.”
That’s where his mind goes blank. It’s like he’s covered himself in a cloak of silence.
Instead of dozing off, Alice sits up, as if alarmed at the state of affairs.
“A big tear rolled down his cheek.” Cath steps in to the rescue and picks up where he left off. It’s like the end of a mushy rom-com. “He thought about his mum and dad and his brothers and sisters and his cat and his dog.”
This intervention gets Max back on track. Playing tag with Cath is rather fun. “His tear rolled on to the floor and out of the cage. The more he thought about his home the more he cried. There were so many tears that a small stream trickled down the hill.”
