Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  Marc offered everything you would expect from a hair appointment and a whole heap more. I left the salon with hair confidence aplenty and a side order of therapy. He knew about my mum and my sister, had consoled me after failed auditions and given me straight talks about my terrible love life. He was the first person I contacted when my grandmother offered me a lifeline.

  He placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘We bonded over a DIY dye job, so don’t try to fool me with fake smiles and positive mantras. I’m cutting your hair off for Christ’s sake.’

  I flicked my gaze to his in the mirror, reached for the back of my neck, shock flashing through me as I felt skin, not hair.

  ‘It’s short,’ I said in a daze.

  ‘Pixie cuts usually are,’ he replied. ‘Look in the mirror.’ I did as he asked, still feeling the nakedness of my neck. ‘If this doesn’t symbolise a fresh start, I don’t know what does. How do you feel?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I feel like I’ve been asked to flip a coin. Choose heads or tails. I don’t know how it’s going to go, Marc. Heads could be the fresh start I need. Tails could be reliving the nightmare.’

  He squeezed my shoulder. ‘You don’t need to choose a side yet,’ he said. Pulling a coin from his kitbag, he handed it to me. ‘Keep it in your pocket and flip it when you’re ready.’

  I smiled and pushed it into my jeans.

  Marc squeezed product into his palm and teased it through my new hair.

  I’d made the decision to cut my hair the same day I called my grandmother to tell her I wanted On Pointe. It felt empowering. Liberating. I tried not to acknowledge that it also represented a need to differentiate myself from the seventeen-year-old girl who left in a cloud of pity and condolence. The girl who ran away from her grief would be returning to the same village, but she was desperate not to return to the same sorrowful life.

  ‘I think you’re ready to face what life throws at you,’ Marc said as he wafted the tiny hairs from my neck with a soft brush. I bit my lip. Swallowed the sob his words had elicited because my grandma had said the very same thing the day I left for London as a naïve seventeen-year-old.

  Now, they were being said as I returned home.

  After making the decision to return home I started dreaming about my sister again. Nightmares had been strong for the first few years after their deaths. When I began my studies in performing arts and my days were long and fulfilling, they stopped. My dreams were softer, no longer the harsh scenes of the crash and the unforgettable noises from that night.

  They were good memories. Things I hadn’t allowed myself to think about in years.

  There was a book I read as a child. It was a fairy tale. An imaginative story full of adventure and light, about a giant who heard all the whisperings of the world. I loved that book. Read it endlessly, over and over until the words became familiar and safe, sheltering me like a blanket or a full-on body hug from my mum.

  When my younger sister, Rebecca, came along, I read the story to her. Of course, she couldn’t understand. She was still too young, but I liked to think she enjoyed snuggling next to me as I read to her. She’d rest her head against my shoulder as my voice became deep and measured. The silly voices and exciting prose quietened as I felt her head becoming heavier, her breathing more labored. Until I knew she was asleep.

  I couldn’t move, didn’t want to, so I’d stay with her, smelling her gorgeous baby-clean smell from the bath Mum and I had given her before bedtime. She would sigh deeply, her tiny lips moving softly with the noise and I read to her until I could no longer fight to keep my eyes open.

  I cherished that time now.

  The rituals and routines.

  The normal and ordinary.

  You always do when something is taken away from you.

  I couldn’t admit that as I got older, my sister’s story before bedtime became an inconvenience, something to resent. It ate into my social life and my time to practice my passion for dance. Guilt after death allowed me to romanticise and conveniently forget the irritants, helping me to cope, or maybe forget the monumental loss of my mother and sister.

  They died on Christmas Eve.

  I remember feeling so angry with them.

  Not pain, that didn’t come until later, no, anger was all I felt. How could I feel so angry? At a time when I should have been crying and needing comfort, I was angry. I became obsessed with the small things. Like thinking about the next Christmas, the Christmases that would follow and how something so joyful would now be clouded with sadness. I felt angry that a family I hoped to have in the future would feel the need to tiptoe around me as we opened shiny presents with big ribbons. That they couldn’t enjoy Christmas with full abandon because it would make Mummy sad that the grandmother and aunty they’d never met weren’t there to exchange gifts and laugh along with them.

  ‘I’ve lost you again,’ Marc said, gently placing his hands on my shoulders.

  ‘Sorry. I’m thinking about my sister,’ I replied. ‘I’m remembering more. Maybe memories are being triggered the closer I get to going home.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this? When was the last time you went back?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ I replied softly.

  ‘You haven’t even visited?’

  ‘No. My grandmother always came to London. There hasn’t been a need to…go home.’

  He looked shocked, perhaps concerned. I understood the look. I’d seen it on the faces of other friends when I’d told them I was going home to start teaching dance. They would back it up with a hug or a false smile that said, I’m really worried about how you’re going to cope.

  Marc untied the gown and pulled it away from my shoulders before crouching down next to me.

  ‘Ta-dah.’ I took a deep breath, turned my head from left to right and ruffled my fingers through the short strands. ‘Don’t leave me hanging, Nat.’

  ‘I love it.’ I smiled. ‘I really love it.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he said, releasing a held breath. ‘I’ve been cutting your hair off for the last twenty minutes and you haven’t said a bloody word the whole way through!’

  I stood up, leant down to look in the mirror and started laughing shyly as other hairdressers congratulated Marc on a great cut, a fantastic transformation, and remarked on how much it suited me.

  I walked across to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, ornate silver frames peeling in the corners giving them a shabby chic look. My new haircut meant more to me than just an image change. This was the first step in gathering strength, not allowing the demons of my past to win or take me over.

  I’d come too far to let that happen now.

  I felt in my pocket, took out the coin Marc had given me and put it on the back of my hand.

  Heads, you win, make a go of it, be the best dance teacher around. Tails, you lose, you let your emotions overwhelm you, sink you to the bottom of despair, take you down.

  I lifted my hand, flipped the coin and watched it fall to the floor. It rolled around in crazy circles until finally it came to a stop. Marc watched as I bent down to it. I smiled, pushed my hands to my mouth in relief. How crazy? It was only a coin. A superstition. A terrible way to lay all my hopes on the outcome of a single flip. Going back home couldn’t be decided on a fifty-fifty chance, could it?

  But returning was no longer a choice for me. It was a necessity. Born from the wreckage. An aid to help me heal.

  So why was I deliriously happy when I picked up the coin?

  Because it landed on heads.

  2

  Nat

  The train station hadn’t changed. Every year the villagers would spend one day cleaning the dirty shelters on the platform, painting over the graffiti and planting summer bulbs to bring some much-needed life. As a child, I was told that the village was lucky to have a working train station. Many small villages had lost theirs due to funding or bigger companies taking over the lines. I didn’t pay it much thought until this little run-down platform provided me
with a way out.

  But now, it had brought me back.

  Dragging my case down the steps, I stopped to gather myself. The signs for the tea shop and duck pond were still in place and memories started to flood. The restaurant my grandmother chose for a celebratory slash goodbye meal on my seventeenth birthday was setting up for the day. A man dressed in a waiter’s uniform, crisp white shirt and black trousers, was putting out tables and chairs in front of the bay window. I remembered my friends singing ‘Happy Birthday’ as I tried to hold it together on the first big life landmark without my mum and sister by my side.

  Grief didn’t only appear in the middle of night when you were lonely and bereft. It could hit you when you were in a sea of people.

  Or surrounded by friends at your birthday party.

  My grandmother asked me to make a wish that night. I closed my eyes and silently wished that it was me who was dead. Everyone cheered as I blew out the candles. If only they knew.

  I felt a push forward, a sweep of air as someone stepped to my side and broke my thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing. Daydreaming, counting to fifty backwards, trying to remember your home address…’

  ‘Sorry?’ I said as a man scooted to the back of a taxi, one I hadn’t realised had pulled up and was waiting for me to give a sign of life, or at the very least a destination.

  ‘You’re taking far too long to decide if you’re going to take this taxi,’ he replied, opening the boot and dropping in a leather overnight bag. He closed it with a forceful slam. ‘I, however, don’t need the same length of time to make such a simple decision.’

  ‘Wow,’ I gasped at his rudeness before giving a smile directed at his apparent lack of social skills. ‘Are you for real?’ I asked, crossing my arms.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied curtly. It was only then that I noticed the large cello case on his back, the top poking out above his shoulders. He lifted the strap over his head, opened the taxi door and nestled it across the back seat.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ I gasped, stepping into full fangirl mode as I looked from him to the cello. He looked slightly alarmed. ‘Are you Alexander Blayren?’

  He shot his head to me as he opened the front door, studied me from hips to shoulders to chin, finally landing his glare on my mouth. I pressed my hand there, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, wondering if I was seeing things, if the anxious nerves of returning home had caused me to hallucinate.

  ‘What if I am?’ he asked, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you with the…glasses.’ I pointed to his face, swivelling my finger in the general direction of his eyes. Stop talking, Nat. ‘I saw you play with the London Symphony a few weeks ago,’ I replied. ‘You were wonderful. Gah, so good!’

  ‘Where?’ His words shot out like arrows from a bow. No softness surrounded them. He was all hard edges and sharp lines.

  ‘The Barbican,’ I replied, feeling small and helpless because he was like a majestic lion surveying the land, ready to pick off the weaker animals with his jaws. ‘You played beautifully that night. Really. I couldn’t even begin to describe how you made me feel through your music.’

  He still had that unbreakable glare going on. Like he was thinking about what he wanted to say next and at the same time weighing up if a response was worth the effort. His dark, wavy hair was resting on the collar of his shirt. I was still undecided if it was a neglected length, no time for a haircut in his busy schedule, or if it was intentionally styled that way. He pushed up his black-rimmed glasses – rectangular and stylish – with the end of his finger and took out his earbuds. I could hear the faint strings of classical music as they fell against his chest. It was the only sound as he continued to stare without offering a clue as to what he expected me to do next.

  I stepped back. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, plus, it gave me a better look. His outfit was classic with a decidedly modern edge. White shirt, black trousers and lace-up brogue boots with a side zip. A black Burberry trench coat complete with tell-tale tartan check running around the neck finished the look. In other words, the man was a walking GQ spread.

  And didn’t he know it.

  ‘Do you play?’ he asked, no detour to mindless chat. Straight to the point.

  ‘Me?’ I said slamming my hand to my chest.

  He turned his head, left to right, took a step forward, leaning in slightly to look behind me. My smile lifted.

  ‘Yes. You,’ he replied, still close to my face. ‘As we’re the only ones here, my question is directed to you.’ His question escaped me because he smelt of everything that pricked at my umm, lovely senses. Clean linen, male pheromones and the perfect amount of musky, designer (had to be) aftershave. ‘Do. You. Play?’ he repeated, sounding each word out with even less patience.

  ‘No. I listen,’ I said, pleased that I didn’t let this whirlwind of a man steal my ability to speak.

  His chin lifted slightly, the briefest of smiles appeared before disappearing just as quickly. ‘Ah, the best kind of audience,’ he replied before the steely, iron stare reappeared again. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Nat…Natasha.’

  ‘Are you a critic, Natasha?’

  ‘No!’ I laughed. ‘I just appreciate music when it’s played from the heart.’

  ‘The heart?’ He frowned and I realised in that moment that Alexander Blayren made moody attractive. ‘I put my fingers on the strings and hold the bow in the right place,’ he replied. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘You can only play as beautifully as you did that night by putting pieces of yourself into a performance.’

  His eyes met mine. ‘What makes you an expert on putting heart into music if you don’t play yourself?’

  ‘I dance,’ I replied. ‘I put my heart into dancing. Actually, not just my heart, my everything.’ I stepped back as he leant into the driver, a series of sharp instructions followed before he turned around. His deep chocolate eyes seemed even darker. The richest cocoa. Had to be. ‘I dance out how I’m feeling…right now, your music is my favourite.’ I stuttered over the words, my brain thrown into chaos by the handsome man before me.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, squishing my mouth together before smiling. ‘It’s a long story about grief and loss.’

  ‘They always are,’ he said softly. He seemed interested. There was a hesitancy in his actions like he wanted to know more but didn’t know where to start.

  ‘The night I heard you play I had a feeling you were sharing something through your music. A sadness that comes from loss. I was right, wasn’t I?’ He looked at me for longer than I was expecting. I felt a flush to my cheeks as he studied me, his eyes following the curve of my neck, the dip at the bottom of my throat.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he repeated, unable to share more. I nodded, telling him I understood and wouldn’t ask.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing you play again someday.’

  ‘From the heart,’ he said, tipping his head.

  ‘You don’t believe you play from the heart?’

  ‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘How could I possibly play from the heart when it’s heavy and cumbersome like the weight of a stone hanging from a single piece of barbed wire?’ I stepped back, feeling shocked by his words as I tried to understand them.

  ‘You paint quite a picture.’

  He leant in, whispering against me. ‘Imagine the sound.’

  ‘Sorrowful,’ I replied, remembering his face that night.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He opened the passenger door and I sighed before breathing out a laugh, fascinated by his lack of social cues. ‘Stealing a taxi,’ I said. ‘From a fan no less!’

  ‘Not stealing. You were lost in a daydream. I simply sidestepped my way in.’

  ‘I would expect better manners from a member of
the London Symphony Orchestra,’ I threw out, still expecting him to break into a smile. Strangely, my stomach dropped when it didn’t appear.

  ‘Now, that’s where you made your first mistake,’ he replied. ‘Don’t make assumptions about people you’ve never met before.’ I folded my arms, feeling pierced by his cold words. ‘Oh, look. Here’s another taxi.’ He jerked his head to the car behind. ‘Safe journey home, Natasha.’ He slammed the door and the taxi sped off as quickly as it had arrived.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, trancelike before fighting with my case to get it in the boot. Far less graceful than Alexander Blayren. His status as a sexy GQ cover model musician playing through his grief fell out of my brain and was replaced with an even bigger need to know more. I’d been intrigued by him that night. His playing was untouchable, raw, messy, yet desperately beautiful. It touched me in a way I wasn’t expecting. A seminal reaction. I’d tried to find out more about him, searched the internet for clues, but came up with nothing apart from his professional biography. I knew there was a story there. Undoubtedly a story of grief, but obviously not one he was willing to share openly.

  ‘Where are you going to, love?’ the taxi driver asked as I slipped into the back seat.

  I took a deep breath, fiddled with my hands and answered with the first thing that came to mind.

  ‘Home,’ I replied, proud that I could say the words without my voice shaking. ‘Rosedean cottage. Near the village hall. Do you know it?’

  ‘Sherrie’s place? Yeah, I know it,’ he said, turning his head. ‘Wait a minute. Aren’t you Sherrie’s granddaughter?’

  ‘Yes. Nat. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘We’ve met before, love. Years ago. You were a tiny thing. Your mum – God rest her soul – used to walk you in your pram every afternoon. The only way you would sleep!’

  And there it was. A reminder of my past. A vocal punch to my stomach.

  And I’d only been back home for five minutes.