Our Song

by Dani Atkins

  ‘I suppose it must be hard,’ Joe conceded.

  There was a long moment of silence, and I really hoped he wasn’t going to ask me any more questions, because I scarcely knew myself exactly why now – of all times – this felt like the right moment to strike out for my independence. I just knew that it did.

  A change of subject was much needed, and I found it in the first thing that came to mind. ‘You’re looking unusually smart today,’ I commented, before realising how rude that sounded.

  ‘You mean as opposed to my usual vagrant layabout look?’

  My already flushed cheeks went a couple of shades pinker.

  ‘Actually, I’ve just been to a meeting with my local, friendly, bank manager.’

  ‘How did that go?’ I asked, and then bit my lip at this further impertinence. What was wrong with me today? I seemed to have lost all ability to filter my thoughts before they came tumbling out of my mouth. I should watch that – it could end up getting me into an awful lot of trouble.

  ‘Well, he is definitely a bank manager, and he definitely lives nearby. So two out of three isn’t bad.’

  I made a non-committal sound of sympathy, feeling uncomfortable that I had accidentally probed into his private financial matters.

  ‘Actually, I have an idea about something. Are you doing anything right now? Is there somewhere you need to be?’

  ‘Nooo,’ I replied, drawing the word out hesitantly, unsure of why he was asking.

  ‘Would you come with me? There’s something I’d like to show you.’

  ‘If it’s your etchings, then I’ve seen them already,’ I quipped.

  He laughed out loud at that, causing several passers-by to turn their heads. ‘No. It’s actually more interesting than that. I’ll even throw in lunch,’ he added as a further temptation.

  I should probably have paused longer than I did before agreeing. I’m sure it made me look far too needy for company, but I said ‘yes’ with the kind of stupid alacrity that gets kidnap victims featured on milk cartons all over America.

  Joe’s van smelled of wood and teak oil, and he apologised profusely for the tools, boxes of screws, and rags he hurriedly had to clear from the floor of the passenger side before I could sit down.

  ‘So where are we going?’ I asked as he pulled out into the busy lunchtime traffic.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Joe said mysteriously, before returning his attention to the road. Our conversations had always been full of easy chat and banter, but during the brief journey I kept mentally double-checking and editing everything I said before I allowed it to be aired, anxious I wasn’t giving off the wrong signals. If Mum had been right, and Joe’s interest was more than just platonic, this was going to be really awkward.

  I always think there’s something intimate and revealing about what people leave in their cars. The metal boxes we hide inside and keep securely locked can give away as many secrets as a safe deposit box. I looked around Joe’s van, but there were no discarded fast-food wrappers, mangled drink cans, or screwed-up parking fines to fill in the missing pieces of how he lived. Aside from the tools he had moved, and a neatly clipped bundle of receipts, there was nothing that gave him away at all. Embarrassingly, I think he might have guessed what I was doing from the frequent sidelong glances he took as he drove. I squirmed a little in my seat, as though I’d been caught snooping.

  Looking for an easy distraction, I reached for the dashboard where the silver edge of a CD protruded from the player ‘May I?’ I asked, my finger poised on the disc.

  He gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t think we share the same musical tastes, but go ahead,’ he said.

  I pushed the CD in place, and moments later the car filled with the sounds of a banjo-plucking intro to a country music song. I waited until the end of the track before teasing him lightly. ‘How come you never said you were “a little bit country”?’

  ‘It’s my guilty secret.’ He laughed, knowing there was no malice in my words. ‘I’ll turn it off,’ he said reaching his hand towards the eject button.

  ‘No. Let it play,’ I said, extending my own hand to prevent him. Somehow, with his eyes fixed on the road, our fingers ended up clashing and colliding in a tangle of digits and that’s when something I hadn’t been expecting at all happened. It felt as though my hand had passed through a naked flame, and then been plunged into a large bucket of ice. I think I might even have gasped softly as I drew back my arm, laying my hand carefully in my lap, like a bird with a damaged wing.

  I was totally confused by my unexpected reaction and had no way of knowing if Joe had been aware of that strange sensation. Perhaps he had, because he certainly jerked sharply on the wheel as he pulled us into a parking space that looked way too small for his van, but which he managed to squeeze into with practised ease. He nodded towards the bakery in the small parade of shops. ‘I’ll just go and get us some lunch,’ he said, his hand already on the door latch.

  ‘Let me give you some money,’ I said, reaching for my purse. He put his hand out and stilled my arm. I looked down at his broad fingers on my forearm and waited for the weird electrical thrill to come again. Nothing. Perhaps I had imagined it, after all.

  ‘I think I can spring for this one,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m not quite bankrupt yet.’

  I looked flustered, hoping I hadn’t embarrassed him by the offer. But Joe was too comfortable in his own skin for that to happen, I realised.

  ‘But I’ll let you pay when we go to a fancy restaurant,’ he joked, shutting the car door and heading off to buy a couple of the delicious baguettes that the bakery was well known for.

  The smell of warm bread, nestling on my lap, made my stomach growl embarrassingly as we drove on. ‘Sorry,’ I apologised, suddenly absolutely ravenous. Luckily we were almost at our destination. We had reached a section of town I didn’t know very well and I stared with interest out of the windscreen as we pulled into a narrow street lined with elegant Victorian properties. It was totally different from the road where my family lived, and I peered out of the side window as we passed many impressively renovated three-storey homes. We drove almost to the end of the road, before Joe pulled up outside a less than immaculate property. The front wall was crumbling and in need of repair, and the iron gate was hanging a little crookedly from its fixings. The house itself looked in need of a little TLC – and a couple of gallons of paint wouldn’t go amiss either.

  I climbed out of the van and stood on the pavement looking up at the house which I knew had to be Joe’s. ‘Come inside,’ he said, holding the rusted metal gate aside, so I wouldn’t brush against it.

  I think the kindest thing I could say about the house was that one day, when enough money and time had been spent on it, it was going to be beautiful. You could see it already, here and there. The original tiles on the hall floor gleamed with a waxed sheen, and the grout had been painstakingly replaced, but all the internal doors and the totally-out-of-place modern banister were bizarrely painted bright blue.

  ‘It was a rental for quite a long time,’ Joe explained, ushering me down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘It still bears the scars.’

  I laughed, familiar enough with just how bad student rentals could be.

  I stopped in my tracks as I entered the kitchen. It was very much a work in progress, but I instantly recognised it from the drawing Joe had sketched out when he was at our house. The cupboards were just carcasses, there was only one tiny area which had a worktop fitted, and there appeared to be several things missing – important things, like an oven or a fridge. But one thing that wasn’t missing was the island unit, which was already half built and positioned exactly where I had suggested putting it. For some silly reason I was strangely touched.

  ‘It looks good. All of it,’ I confirmed, looking around at the semi-completed kitchen. There was an awful lot still to do, and if he worked at the same rate he had done at our place, he wouldn’t be eating a home-cooked meal for a long time to come.

  Joe dre
w out a couple of tall stools for us to sit on, and I was thankful he had his back to me, retrieving some plates, as I struggled to climb up. It was a less-than-graceful manoeuvre, and I was glad not to have a witness.

  He waited until we’d finished eating before asking, ‘Would you like the grand tour now?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, placing my hand in his, which he had gallantly held out to help me down from the stool.

  I followed him from room to room. Some looked like they were just this side of being condemned, while others looked like they could have been lifted from the pages of a beautiful homes magazine. There didn’t seem to be a logic to his renovation schedule, but he’d finished the sitting room and one of the bathrooms. He led me up to the top storey of the building, and reached for the handle on a door that had been lovingly restored to its natural oak finish. ‘And this is the master bedroom,’ he said, his voice sounding a little strange, as he allowed the door to swing open. The room had polished oak floors and a large cast-iron double bed in its centre, with crisp white linen and thick downy pillows. I stood hesitantly on the threshold, uncomfortable about stepping across it to enter his private domain. I saw a small bundle of discarded clothing he had left in a heap on a velvet chaise positioned beneath the window. I recognised a couple of his favoured t-shirts from the pile of laundry, and began to feel a little warm.

  ‘Very nice,’ I commented, still not venturing into the room. I could see our reflections in a tall free-standing mirror positioned in a corner. I was holding on to the edge of the doorframe like a first-time sky-diver who has suddenly thought better of the whole idea. Joe was beside me, an encouraging look on his face.

  ‘So, do you like it?’ he asked, as though my opinion was terribly important. He was acting really weirdly, and I had no idea why. ‘Will you be comfortable here? Is the room big enough for you? Is the bed okay?’

  I felt the muscles of my face all decide to freeze at once, so only my eyes were moving. Left to right they went, from him to the bed and back again. I wasn’t scared. Well, maybe just a little bit. If this was Joe’s idea of seduction, no wonder he was single.

  ‘There’s an en suite through there,’ he said pointing at a pair of oak double doors on the far wall. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m good,’ I said, my voice a small squawk.

  ‘The shower is big enough for two,’ he added as though that might make me change my mind. What did he think, that we were going to rip our clothes off and have a quick splash around? I wondered if this was how women ended up being held prisoner in cellars for decades. For the first time I questioned if my dad had bothered taking up any references before they’d commissioned Joe to do our kitchen.

  I risked a glance over my shoulder at the double flight of stairs I would have to descend before I reached the front door.

  ‘I thought fifty pounds a week would be reasonable. How does that sound?’

  I smiled weakly, and wondered if that was what he was asking for my ransom, or if that was what he was going to pay me for my services.

  ‘Until I’ve got the rest of the place done up, I don’t think I could reasonably ask for more than that in rent, do you?’

  It took him at least ten minutes to stop laughing, and when he did, his eyes were still watering with humour. ‘You really thought I was kidnapping you?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think,’ I said, sounding a little huffy. Okay, so it had been a tiny bit amusing, but he was going too far now. I had a horrible feeling this might be something I would never live down. ‘And to be fair, you never mentioned that you were showing me the house as a potential lodger.’

  ‘So what on earth did you think I was doing when I took you up to my bedroom and started talking about the bed?’ I didn’t answer, but the flush that went from my cheeks clear up to the roots of my hair did it for me. ‘Oh. I see,’ Joe said, his face sobering as he absorbed just how badly I had misinterpreted his intentions. Then he lost it all over again and burst out laughing. ‘I’m sorry, Ally. I thought I’d said something on the drive over.’

  ‘Well you didn’t.’

  ‘Sorry about that. But now we’ve cleared things up, what do you say?’

  ‘I’m going to feel bad turfing you out of the master bedroom in your own house,’ I said guiltily.

  ‘I’m quite happy to use the double on the floor below, it’s nearly done and I don’t need the en suite. Unless, of course, you fancy sharing after all?’ he asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny.’ I looked around the sitting room, with its open fireplace and comfortable reproduction furniture where we had ended up. ‘It’s a lovely house, Joe, and I would be happy to be your lodger, if you really think it will work out. That I won’t be in your way.’

  ‘I work late most nights, so that will give you plenty of time to study and practise your music in peace. And the walls are thick enough here that you don’t have to worry about disturbing the neighbours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Is that a reflection on my musical skills?’

  He smiled warmly. ‘Not at all.’

  His mobile rang then, and he went into the kitchen to take the call. I got to my feet in his absence, idly doing a circuit of the room that would soon be not just his, but mine too.

  His solution was logical, and eminently affordable, but I still knew I would meet with resistance from my family at my decision to move away right now. But Joe’s suggestion would benefit us both, he needed the extra income from my rent, and I couldn’t think of a better use for the money my grandmother had left me, than using it to start standing on my own two feet. I would still be close enough to my family that they’d be there when I needed them (and I would need them, I knew that only too well), but just far enough away to give me my independence.

  My hand trailed over Joe’s expensive-looking music system which looked a little out of place in the period décor of the room. Beside the gleaming chrome unit was a small stack of CDs. Unashamedly snooping this time, I flicked through the boxes, smiling as every single one depicted someone in a checked shirt, or riding a horse, or sitting on a post and rail fence. I strongly suspected he might be a tad more than just ‘a little bit country’. But there was one box that was different from all the rest. It felt lighter as I picked it up, and I knew instantly why. I pressed the small silver button on the machine and the flap slowly slid open, revealing the CD still inside. It was the one he’d been listening to last. I ran my finger lightly over the title. Beethoven’s Sonata No. 5. It was the piano piece I had been practising for my final performance assessment. The piece he must have literally heard a hundred times while he was working at our house. I nudged the CD door to a close, as though I’d stumbled over a secret he hadn’t wanted to share.

  Charlotte

  I’d seen David look many shades of terrible before. I’d seen him ashen white at his Aunt Helen’s funeral. I’d seen him sea-sick grey on a small fishing boat in Corfu, on our first holiday there. I’d even seen him a curious shade of green, when I’d given us both food poisoning by undercooking a turkey one Christmas. But I’d never, ever seen him look as bad as he did lying on that hospital bed, hooked up with wires and tubes to monitors that bleeped alarmingly when he moved. He was white, bone white, with dark grey smudgy circles ringing his eyes. The change in him in just a few short hours was terrifying. If I had doubted the veracity of the doctors, the proof that they were right was lying there right in front of me.

  I thought at first he was asleep when I crept quietly into his room, but his eyes fluttered open as I slipped into the chair someone had thoughtfully placed for me at his bedside.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he said, his voice a breathy parody of its normal tone. ‘You still here, then?’

  I pulled the chair a little closer to the bed and reached for his hand.

  ‘Yeah. One of the nurses says this really cute doctor comes on duty later. Thought I’d hang around till then.’

  His
blue-grey lips curved into something that was meant to be a smile.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I whispered, leaning over and kissing him gently. His lips felt cold, although the room was blisteringly hot, like a greenhouse in a heat wave.

  ‘Kind of woozy. Don’t know what kind of shit they’ve got me on, but it would go down really well in the clubs.’

  I darted a glance at the nurse standing at the foot of his bed, hoping she realised he was just joking, or high on meds. Her eyes never smiled, they were too full of sympathy.

  ‘I’ve been having these really weird dreams. And then just now I thought I heard . . .’ his voice trailed away.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Nothing. Just rambling,’ he finished. His eyes went to mine and there was such a look of sadness in them that it suddenly hurt to breathe. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlotte, for doing this to you.’

  ‘Sorry for what? This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do this on purpose.’

  ‘No, but I know how freaked out you get about hospitals, and now I’m putting you through all this.’

  ‘I told you, I’m just here for the hunky doctors,’ I replied sassily, except I ruined it by choking on a small sob at the end.

  ‘Come here,’ he urged, his voice a shallow gasp. He moved his arm, creating a small space for my head. I didn’t know if it was allowed, I didn’t know if they’d tell me off, or if I’d set one of the barrage of machines behind him into a frenzy, and I didn’t give a damn. I leaned forward as far as I could, and rested my head in the hollow of his shoulder.

  We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound in the room was the hum of the equipment and the quiet swish of the nurses’ soft-soled shoes as they bustled around the room, doing all they could to keep the man I loved alive.