Free The Song House by Trezza Azzopardi Page B

closed, his head nodding faintly in time to the
music: solo piano, a tune she doesn’t know. He looks quite
relaxed, sitting in his wing-backed chair near the stereo, hands
in his lap. The scent of him, like a bridge, carries her over to
his side.
    Maggie, he smiles, You slept well?
    Yes, she says, taking her seat.
    Another beautiful you, he says, so she looks up sharp and
checks him.
    Another beautiful day .
    Is there an echo in here? he asks, cupping his hand round
his ear and opening his mouth in a silent laugh. And so, they
resume. Kenneth takes the record off the turntable and replaces
it with another: again the click, again, the hiss.
    It begins with a single sustained note, like an idea being
formed, gradually developing into a certainty. Over the sound,
a distant horn, calling. Then a darker note: the reply, weaving
through the forest. Maggie sees two people climbing down a
steep set of stairs, hesitant and careful, as if they don’t know
what they will find at the bottom. One person drawing the
other on, telling her to be careful and – Shh! Be quiet! – then
a sound like a door opening. They are moving through the
garden now, past the dead bonfire and the shed, through the
long grass at the river’s edge. A plucked violin string, like raindrops
falling from the trees. It is very early in the morning. On
the record, a cuckoo cries. Maggie sees the black earth, spongy
underfoot, sees her slippers soaking up the moisture. She would
like to tell the boy about it but she’s afraid he’ll shout at her
again. Her legs are cold, her feet are getting wet.

    Kenneth throws his head back as the first movement ends, as
if to drink the air.
    Fifteen minutes of wonder. Don’t you think, Maggie? Spring
and no end to it, Mahler said. Can’t you just smell that morning
dew?
    Her body jerks in shock.
    How did you know? she cries, How did you know that?
    He opens his eyes, smiling, but stops when he sees the stricken
look on her face.
    Maggie, the First . . . it’s a symphony about the glory of
nature. This movement is the awakening. Everybody knows
that.
    Not everybody, she says, Would you like me to get that down,
about nature and all its glories? About awakening ?
    He hears rage in her tone, can’t imagine where it’s come from.
Getting up, Kenneth takes the needle from the record, and
moves to the window.
    Let’s just have a minute to reflect, shall we? he says, over his
shoulder. And he thought they were getting on so well.
    He’d spent yesterday evening alone, had deliberately left her
alone – kept out of her way, in fact, after the strange intimacy
of the afternoon. He was conscious of his desire to spend time
with her, more conscious still of the position she was in: he
must let her have some privacy. Trying to find a distraction, he
took refuge in the garage. He would polish the car; it would
occupy an hour. With Borodin on the stereo, in the soft, dusty
light, he could imagine he was driving through the open countryside,
top down, greenery shooting past him and the glide
of the steering wheel under his fingers. Not Maggie’s hair
falling into his palm, not tracing the smooth line of her jaw
with his knuckle, not looking to his left and seeing her sitting
next to him, one arm bent across her head, trying to keep her
fringe out of her eyes.
    I said you should have brought a scarf, he shouts, turning
his face back to the road. And in this fantasy, his voice is young
and full of strength, his hands on the steering wheel are firm.
She pulls at a strand of hair caught on her lips, she laughs, and
leans in – he’s noticed how she does that, as if to whisper a
secret – Can we get one in Winchester? she asks, Will there be
time? and he nods, yes, because in this life there will always be
time.
    He’d worked the wax into the bonnet and buffed with the
chamois until he was coated in a melting sweat. He didn’t
notice her at first, over the swoon and thunder of