Free Dissonance by Stephen Orr Page A

of chemistry, or people put together and forced to make the best of it. Here was the source of all regrets, and none, something to be bitter about and thankful for. Here was a parallel life. At last he understood why his mum had tried to stop him coming.
    â€˜Jo was always talking about you,’ Shirley said.
    â€˜What did he say?’
    â€˜He said you were a good looker. How many girlfriends you got?’
    He frowned. ‘Mum wouldn’t allow that.’
    â€˜Yes … and he said you were a wonderful pianist. I’ve heard others say that too.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜It’s a small town, Erwin. How about you play something for us?’ She indicated a piano sitting against the kitchen wall. It was covered in folded linen and crockery and she got up and moved it and opened the lid. ‘Come on,’ she said, arranging a chair.
    Erwin sat down and played a few bars of Liszt’s Liebesträum .
    â€˜Amazing,’ she marvelled, as he tried to remember the melody. Then he stopped and looked at her and asked, ‘You and Dad?’
    She moved closer and patted him on the knee. ‘Your dad was a wonderful man,’ she explained. ‘It was just … the ­circumstances.’
    At last he understood. She wasn’t a tramp at all. She was someone who had held Jo and smelt his breath; who had laughed at his unfunny jokes and counted the number of hairs protruding from his nose; who had cut his fingernails and screamed at him and even produced a child to explore and solidify their love.
    He was the one who’d been lied to. He was the one who’d been led to understand that his dad was in the shed because he’d been so heartless, so loveless. But now, as he thought back, he could remember Jo trying to give his side of the story. He could remember his father saying things like, ‘I’m a pretty decent fella, Shot-a-tee. I’m hard working and I’ve never told a lie. Never.’
    Which, he realised now, was probably true.
    Now he knew why he’d come: to separate fact from fiction, his mother’s stories versus the things he’d always suspected.
    â€˜I would’ve contacted you,’ Shirley explained, ‘but Jo said there was no use. Your mother, he said, had …’ She bowed her head. ‘And then when he got sick, and I couldn’t see him, I’d often drive past your place, but I never went in. I couldn’t. Could you imagine?’
    Erwin smiled. ‘No.’
    â€˜She’s got a hold on you.’
    â€˜Perhaps.’
    â€˜You be careful, Erwin, you make your own decisions. You visiting is a good start. You gonna come again?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Good.’
    Fred was oblivious to the whole drama. ‘We believe the Confessional Church is the great hope for German Protestants,’ he read. ‘We understand Pastor Niemöller disagrees with you on the Jewish question.’
    In the distance, the school bell rang out to signal the end of lunch. ‘I’ve gotta get back,’ Erwin explained.
    Shirley stopped him with her hand on his. ‘He’ll be here any minute.’
    Erwin looked around. ‘Dad used to come here?’
    â€˜All the time. Most nights he ate tea right where Fred’s sitting. Next to Declan.’
    â€˜They were …?’
    She paused. ‘The best of mates. He took him to soccer, and tennis. And Declan worked in the shop. The old bitch, sorry, your mum, didn’t know that. Then Jo got him his job at the Co-op. Pity he couldn’t have done that for you.’
    â€˜Mum wouldn’t have it. Scared I’d crush a finger.’
    â€˜That’s a shame. But that’s what he told me too – that she’d smothered you.’ She slowed to smile at him. ‘He wanted to be closer to you … but she drove him away.’
    â€˜Which is why he came here?’
    â€˜Declan’s a good worker,’ Fred