Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  ‘I know the pain,’ I gasped as his single finger slowly dipped underneath the tie of my pink wrap that was secured in a bow at my back. A small movement, but intimate and close. Unexpected. Welcome. He kept it there, steady and confident, but the look on his face reflected a man who was battling with himself and losing the fight.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he whispered, his breath warm against my neck.

  ‘I know she needs someone to hold her hand through this.’ Another deep sigh fell from his mouth. ‘Understand her.’ His finger slipped around the band softly, resting on the small of my back. Eliciting tingles. ‘She needs to talk–’ His forehead lifted against mine, nudging me softly. ‘About her mother…she needs to feel her, and she needs her daddy to allow her to do that.’ I felt his shoulders rise on the word mother. His body felt tense, he slowly removed his finger from the band of my wrap before dropping his head to the curve of my neck.

  A frustrated sigh sang against my skin. ‘I want to help her heal,’ he murmured. I placed my hand on the hard plane of his shoulder. ‘How did you…what helped? Christ…You seem so…together.’

  ‘It’s taken a long time. There isn’t a quick fix or magic medicine that can take away the pain.’

  ‘I don’t want her to be messed up,’ he replied, wiping a tear. ‘I fear I’ve made too many mistakes already.’

  ‘You’re grieving too. Mistakes happen when your energy is low. A bad day or a memory can throw you off course.’

  ‘Every day,’ he mumbled. ‘Every fucking day.’

  He pulled back, stepping away from me, creating distance. His large hands raked through his dark curls. I watched him look up to the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut before taking out a wallet from his back pocket. I tried to level my breathing, feeling the hard, erratic thud against my fingertips. I put my hand against the edge of the table to steady myself, feeling the ridges in the wood with my fingers. I closed my eyes as I tried to count them, only to open them quickly as Alexander placed a twenty-pound note, Queen’s head down, onto the desk that was now holding me up.

  ‘I hope that covers your additional time tonight. Once again, I’m sorry for keeping you so late.’

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ I whispered softly.

  ‘I’m paying you for your time,’ he said, turning his back to me.

  ‘You pay me to teach your child to dance.’

  ‘Not counselling or dance therapy?’ he replied, a sad plea to his voice.

  ‘No. Just to dance,’ I said. ‘The rest will come.’

  He turned, studying me, and I felt every part of his pain. No more words were exchanged, no apologies needed.

  The slam of the door as he left made me jump despite expecting it.

  Alexander Burnett was a force to be reckoned with. A challenge. A risk.

  I couldn’t deny that the prospect of breaking down his walls was more than a rescue mission.

  It was a turn-on.

  10

  Nat

  Alexander was keeping his distance after our encounter in my office. Nadia and his housekeeper, Maggie, had collected Eli from class. I liked Maggie; she was warm and caring and that gave me encouragement that Eli at least had two people in her life who could offer her the emotional strength she needed.

  I was surprised when Alexander picked her up from Tess’s jazz class a few nights ago. Eli had expressed an interest in broadening her dance repertoire. She was naturally talented, and I encouraged the extra classes. He arrived ten minutes early. Not wanting to let her down again. Adorable. I could see behind that steely glare. I could also see his watching shadow behind the door of my class as I stretched out across the barre, and I could feel his presence as I danced out my feelings at the end of busy days.

  After my class had finished, I took advantage of the quiet space and some alone time. I searched through my music, found the one I needed to hear the most and played one of my favourite pieces to dance to. Bach Cello Suite No.1 -prelude by the cellist Yo-Yo Ma. Yes, I chose a cellist to dance to, knowing that there was a chance Alexander would be collecting Eli tonight. There were parts of me that understood the need to provoke him, but the other parts were screaming at me to stop. I wanted to push him. I wanted to test his reactions, but most of all, I wanted him to watch me. Then, he could see my point, and observe my passion for transferring feelings through dance.

  The first bars started, my eyes closed, waiting for the music to take me away, the driving force settled into my body. The deep notes propelled my arms and my feet, rolling with the music, peaceful and transcendent. Blissful even. This wasn’t a sad piece. It was more uplifting than other cello solos. I let myself start to embrace my new life, accept the changes I’d made. The vibration of the sounds flew through my body, pounding against my heart as I imagined Alexander’s long fingers, his hands holding the bow. The intense man playing for his life at the Barbican, sorrowful contemplation highlighted across his face. I was lost, taken away, blowing around on the wind. Adrift.

  The music started to soften, and aware it was reaching its climax, my body reacted. My arms arched above me, my pirouettes became less focused and fast paced. I slid my hands down my leg, feeling the soft fabric of my skirt, split at my thigh as I stretched my leg behind me. I stilled as the music came to a stop before lifting myself up, panting softly as I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  A series of slow claps stole my attention.

  I turned to find Alexander sitting on the bench behind me. I gasped, my fingers reaching to tuck my hair behind my ears, forgetting it wasn’t there anymore. A nervous habit I was finding hard to break.

  ‘Bravo,’ he said, an appreciative gaze slipping across my stomach. The black cropped top pulling across my body suddenly felt tighter. His heated look lingered there before he let it drop away to the black ballet shoes on my feet. ‘The chorus girl really can dance.’

  ‘Finally,’ I replied, still breathless. ‘A compliment, or at least a backhanded one. What did I do to deserve that?’

  ‘I appreciate art…in all forms.’

  His words were measured but flowed like everything good. Chocolate and caramel mixing together. Decadent and naughty.

  ‘Art,’ I said, tipping my head to the side.

  ‘Art,’ he replied, silence falling between us. ‘You showed your talent.’ A small lift of his lips pleased me.

  ‘How long have you been watching me?’ I asked, pressing a towel to my neck.

  ‘Since we met.’

  I held his heavy stare, felt the fizz of excitement at his words. The same fizz ran down my spine, turning it to liquid, an intoxicating buzz.

  ‘Why did you choose this piece of music?’ Oh, God, now I needed to speak. My mouth was trembling. I imagined a line running down from the fleshy pad of my bottom lip, curving over my breast, stiffening my nipples, down further. I pressed my legs together to ease the ache. It didn’t help, just made everything more alive and pulsing.

  ‘It’s a favourite of mine.’

  ‘Mine too,’ he replied. ‘Were you disappointed I didn’t play it at the Barbican?’

  ‘No. I was in a different mood that night.’

  ‘What mood?’

  ‘I needed the warmth of your sadness. This piece is more uplifting.’ He looked confused, but I knew he understood the meaning. He made me feel less alone. Like he understood my pain, because he felt it too.

  ‘How did you know?’ he whispered, leaning onto his knees and tapping his clasped hands to his forehead before looking up at me. ‘That I was in despair.’

  ‘I felt it.’ He nodded, pulling in his mouth. ‘I heard it through your music. I saw it through your body movements as you played.’

  ‘Do you see the same sorrow in my daughter?’ He looked ready to break. Like he was afraid of my answer, heartbroken that I might utter the word yes.

  I thought through what to say, wanting to treat it carefully, sensitively. To make up for where I’d failed in our previous exchanges. ‘No,’ I replied. I h
eard him release a sigh in relief. His shoulders lowered in an instant. ‘You lost a wife, a lover, and a companion. A person you’d chosen to spend the rest of your life with because you loved her so much it ached. Elise misses a mother she never had the opportunity to know. Both are overwhelmingly sad and difficult, but different extremes of pain.’

  ‘I sometimes fear grief has wrecked me,’ he replied, his voice straining with the emotion he hid so well. ‘What has it done for you?’ He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Rebuilt me,’ I replied without hesitation.

  ‘For better or worse?’

  ‘Better,’ I said, smiling softly. ‘I only know that now. After years of grief counselling and a silent retreat at a convent in Ireland. The nuns were very helpful.’

  I heard a small breath of deep laughter. ‘I can’t relate.’

  ‘Our experiences of grief are different,’ I replied truthfully. I thought back to the moment my life changed. When I was crying and helpless on the side of the road. Mourning for two people. A realisation that life would never be the same again. My sister’s blood smeared across my arm. Mascara streaking down my face. A wreckage in my eyeline and my heart. You can’t be anything but honest in those moments. Why would I be any different now? ‘I’ve had fantastic support through my grandmother, friends, counselling. I’ve learnt to channel my anger and recognise when I need to talk.’

  ‘I don’t talk.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What can you do?’ I asked, knowing where I wanted to direct him. He looked up, rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip. ‘Don’t let grief control you; be in control of grief.’

  ‘How?’ He whispered the word, a plea so heartbreaking I wanted to pull him into me. Protect him. Guide him through years of pain where he’d barely hung on.

  ‘How did you feel when you saw me dance?’

  ‘Peaceful.’ He glanced at me. ‘Exhilarated…happy.’

  ‘I was feeling all of those emotions and you saw them. Can you see how powerful that is? How healing? Dance becomes what I want to say when I find the words too difficult.’ I sat down beside him and started to untie my ballet shoes. Removing eye contact allowed me to say what I wanted to without fear or the desire to press my lips to his. ‘Have you sought support to help you with your bereavement?’

  ‘I want you to help Elise. I can support myself,’ he replied curtly. The rough, tough, closed-off man was back in the room.

  ‘I’m helping her, but I want to help you too. Everyone deals with grief differently. I understand if you don’t want to talk to a stranger, but please, promise me one thing.’

  He arched an eyebrow, thought better of making a jibe and softened his stare. ‘Miss Bevan, I don’t make promises.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  Eli ran through the room towards Alexander and launched herself at him. He caught her with ease. It was the first time I saw a genuine smile on his face.

  ‘Hello, my dancing angel!’ he said, kissing her head. She returned the kiss on the tip of his nose.

  ‘Look at my shoes!’ She got off his lap and pointed her red tap shoes towards him before tapping out an impressive shuffle.

  ‘We let her borrow them. She may find it difficult to part with them. I can sense she’ll want to wear them to bed.’ He laughed. ‘You might want to buy a pair for her because she’s showing a growing talent for tap as well as ballet and jazz.’

  ‘They must be red. Just like these,’ she said, tapping again.

  ‘Fine. Red it is,’ he replied, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards him. He wrapped his arms around her and she laughed so openly I almost cried.

  ‘I hope you won’t be too exhausted for my ballet class tomorrow, Miss Eli,’ I said, not failing to notice Alexander’s face pressed to Eli’s cheek. I liked this softer side to him. Was Eli the only person he showed it to now?

  ‘I won’t! I promise.’

  ‘Come on. We’d better go home. Maggie will be wondering where we are.’

  He stood and I watched them, hand in hand as they walked towards the door.

  ‘Mr Burnett?’ He turned. ‘We didn’t talk about that almost promise you made.’

  ‘You’ve chosen your words carefully. I’m glad.’

  I smiled. ‘All I ask is that you don’t stop channelling your feelings through your music. I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.’ And it was breathtaking. ‘Play when you’re sad. Play when you’re happy. Notice the differences. If it helps, think of my dance. The movements I made. The happiness I conveyed, the exhilaration.’

  ‘I promise to think of you, Miss Bevan,’ he replied, his eyes lingering on me. ‘That’s an easy promise to keep.’

  He took the door with him, pulling it shut behind him, the click such a different noise to the usual slamming of doors I had grown accustomed to. He was softening, and it was beautiful to watch. He was beautiful to watch.

  And as I stood where he’d left me, clutching my chest, feeling the thudding pulse of my heart, I began to wonder why the gentler, less brusque Alexander was becoming more and more appealing.

  11

  Nat

  I don’t know why I felt compelled to come back to the churchyard. I hadn’t been here since the day I left the village. I’d felt the same compulsion then, but I’d ignored it.

  Until I couldn’t anymore.

  I remembered sitting on the grass, legs crossed, explaining why I was leaving them, pleading with them to understand, forgive me for walking away. I made promises I knew I couldn’t keep. Telling them I’d be back every year on their anniversary, would leave flowers on their birthdays. It was all a lie, but I said it anyway. It made me feel better. It helped me to heal. Broken promises were my battle wounds and every day that I wasn’t here the scars started to look less angry and raw.

  ‘Mum. Bec. I’m back,’ I said to them. To no one. ‘I’ve made it. I’m here. I’m doing well. Life is good.’ I placed the posy of daffodils onto their gravestone, the one they shared. Grass cuttings had blown across their names. I wiped them away with my hands. The roughness feeling good on my skin. ‘I told you I’d bring flowers. Sorry I’m a little late.’

  The sun disappeared behind an angry cloud and the graveyard once lit with beautiful light was now plunged into a dark depression. It was impressive how quickly it changed, one minute I was smiling in the sunshine, the next I wanted to walk away from them as fast as I could. I looked over to the church, noticing that the large wooden gates had been pushed open. Wrapping my jacket around me, I walked the short way to the entrance, pushing away the memories of standing with their coffins as a teenager, my grandmother looping her arm into mine as we followed behind them, making our way to the front of the church.

  Nothing had changed. The children’s drawings of religious stories flapped around in the breeze, the Bibles stacked up on the back pews. A bronze cross sitting majestic in the middle of the altar, Christ’s head hanging down, the crown of thorns tilted over his eye. As I looked across at the stained-glass windows and the remembrance plaques on the walls, I noticed someone sitting in the front pew. A familiar Burberry marking around the collar of his trench coat and the recognisable dark curls of Alexander’s hair fell into place. I walked slowly to the front, my steps echoing around the high ceilings and stone floors.

  ‘I didn’t think anyone would be in here,’ I said as he turned to me. His face registering shock before he turned away.

  ‘Anyone or me?’ he replied.

  ‘Both.’ I sat down in the pew behind him.

  ‘Have you found God?’ he asked, eyes still focused to the front.

  ‘No.’ I offered a single laugh. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No. My wife is in the graveyard,’ he replied, harshly. ‘What’s your excuse for being here?’

  ‘My mother and sister are with her.’

  You can’t shock me.

  His head whipped around, his eyes searching before dropping to the floor. A look of guil
t, of sadness. A flash of pity. I tried a softer approach. ‘I haven’t been back for a while. I promised them I would.’

  ‘They’re not really here, you know.’

  ‘Is that so,’ I replied. ‘Then why do you come?’

  ‘Thinking time.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a father and I play music for a living. My life is full of noise.’

  ‘Creative minds need quiet,’ I agreed, thinking about the competition in a few months. ‘I need to choreograph routines for a dance competition. I haven’t had time to think. I could use some divine inspiration.’ I held my hands out towards the altar and closed my eyes, opening one of them to find him hiding a smirk behind his finger.

  ‘You’ll be waiting a while,’ he replied. ‘I don’t sense God in this place. I certainly don’t get any answers to my prayers.’

  ‘You pray?’ I asked, shocked at his words.

  ‘Only when I’m desperate.’

  ‘I used to,’ I replied, looking up to the face of Jesus. ‘Not now, though. I find there are too many rules with religion, too many restraints.’

  ‘Being restrained doesn’t have to be negative, Miss Bevan,’ he said, turning his head. There was a rawness to his voice. ‘It can be beneficial too.’

  ‘It depends in which context,’ I replied, watching him lean his head back. A swallow. He was so close I could see a small freckle on his neck, just under his ear, and suddenly I wanted to notice the small things because I already knew the large, loud side.

  ‘It does,’ he said, his voice catching, eyes fixed firmly to the windows.

  ‘How often do you come here?’ I asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘Not as often as I should.’

  I smiled at his words, understanding them. I shivered when I remembered that this was my first visit since I left. ‘You mean to say you’re not here every Sunday?’