Free The Song House by Trezza Azzopardi Page A

on just the thing, just the perfect
thing, for this mellowness and promise. The perfect thing for
him. But would she agree? He crosses to the wall and finds it
immediately: his Nat King Cole collection. There are four
blasted records! He removes the one he’s looking for, angling
it to the window, squinting at the tiny words on the label.
Maggie waits, dancing her sandalled foot in and out of the
light, like a cat teasing a sunbeam. In the silence Kenneth
fumbles, tries to steady his hands; she must surely hear his
breathing, cutting the air like a bellows. The violins save him,
the violins and then a voice pouring out like cream. ‘Stardust’
fills the room. Maggie listens carefully, her eyes on him, but he
disguises the flash of alarm on his face with a raised eyebrow,
a practised smile: he’s got the wrong track. He meant to play
her ‘Unforgettable’.
    It’s very sad, she says, So much loneliness. So haunted by
memories.
    Kenneth bends his head. He’d wanted to woo her, and be plain
about it, he’ll admit that; he was going for a definite message.
He’s made a mistake after all: now she’ll think he’s maudlin,
stuck in the past; an old man.
    Would you like to choose something? he asks, turning away.
    Nope, she says, turning him back to her, tugging on the
sleeve of his shirt so that he almost stumbles over her feet, I
think this is pretty near perfect. Pretty much right for now.

 

nine
    The summer mornings were the worst: endless hours, the
endless day, drinks ticked out by the clock. No alcohol before
eleven, that was his rule, but eleven seemed an eternity away
when you were awake at 4 a.m. In the wintertime, Kenneth
could put on his bedside lamp, take up his book, and read. Or
he’d find the World Service, some tedious discussion about
global warming, and fall back to sleep again. But as soon as
the clocks went forward, he’d be sharp awake; the blackbirds
startling him with their police sirens, and the wood pigeons
mocking: get up you fool, get up you fool. It hurt the most then,
when he’d forgotten how old he was, only to be reminded too
quickly, staggering from his bed with a dead leg, bursting for
the lavatory. Then there were simply too many hours to wait
until the clock struck eleven.
    Since Maggie has arrived, Kenneth hears the dawn chorus
differently. These days the blackbirds sing fabulous, intricate
jewellery songs; a shower of emeralds, a cascade of silver. The
pigeons in the trees woo each other with throbbing purrs. He
lies in his bed, fondling the sleepy damp nest of his penis, and
thinks of the day ahead: what he will play her, what he might
cook for supper. The air tingling, the light so fresh he could
bite it. He takes his time showering: hot, a bit hotter, then cool,
cooler; and he shaves carefully, using the magnifying mirror
Will bought him one birthday, the one that shows him how
hideous he is close up, but minimizes the nicks and rough estimates
that result from shaving blurred. A dab of cologne on
his jaw and wrists – another gift from his son, another birthday
ago. Kenneth cleans his teeth twice over, first with paste, and
then with bicarbonate of soda, dabbing the toothbrush in the
powder and trying not to taste the grit of it. He would like to
gleam as bright as the birdsong.

    That’s why, Maggie, it’s incredible, that you something unforgettable,
something something unforgettable too.

    She hears him singing; she hears him forgetting the words.
Maggie pauses in the slatted shadowlight of the wrought-iron
stairway, waiting for his footsteps on the other staircase to
recede; imagines him walking through the hallway, jaunty, a
pocket of cologne trapped on the still air. She sees it start to
move, slowly, like a vapour, then more urgently, wending its
way up the stairs, seeking her out. Come and find me, it says,
Come and be with me.
    Nine-thirty. Another hot promise of a day. She finds Kenneth
with his eyes