Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
Maggie finds Kenneth at the stove, peering into a rise of
steam wafting from a large metal saucepan. As she falters at the
kitchen door, he stretches across the worktop and switches off
the radio.
No music, he says, Not after the choir this morning.
He looks directly at her, a stern expression on his face, which
softens when he sees the paleness of her skin, the shadows
under her eyes. It’s enough confirmation for him to pursue
this line of enquiry.
You found it troubling? he asks, Something in that hymn
affected you?
She makes to shake her head, to deny the plain truth of it, but
then her words betray her.
Yes. It was a bad feeling, that’s all. I’m sorry. I won’t let it
affect our work.
Kenneth lifts the wooden spoon to his mouth and blows on
it.
Here, tell me what you think, he says, holding it out for her
to taste. He watches as she puts her open mouth to the sauce.
Because I hadn’t planned on that, Maggie. I mean, I thought
the music was simply for me to have feelings about. Silly, isn’t
it? Of course, you would have a response too, even if you didn’t
know the piece.
Maggie flicks her tongue over her lips.
It needs salt.
She observes him as he searches about amongst the jars and
pots scattered over the worktop. He’s dressed casually, mustard-coloured
slacks, a white linen shirt undone at the neck and
with the sleeves rolled up. In contrast, Maggie has forced herself
to make an effort. She feels like a gauche teenager, standing in
a strange kitchen with a strange man, in her yellow flower-print
dress. Her hair is squashed under a wide tortoiseshell clip;
every time she turns her head, she feels it dig into her scalp,
as if to remind her that her natural self has been disguised. She
takes a moment before she delivers her speech, blinking at the
sight of his forearms, the hairs on his tanned skin glistening
under the kitchen spotlights. He looks so capable, so full of life
and confidence; no sign of the trembling hands she’d witnessed
last time. Her own hands are sticky with heat.
Kenneth, I must apologize for this morning. This is your
history we’re writing, not mine, she says, I’ll try to be more professional
from now on.
Finding the bowl with the salt in it, he takes a pinch between
his fingers and dashes it into the stew. He wants to say, Please
don’t be more professional, just be who you are. Instead he
says,
And what about your history, Maggie? You didn’t give much
away in your letter.
What would you like to know? she asks. She crosses to the
sink as she says this, turning the cold tap on full. He follows
her, puzzled at the way she puts one wrist under the flow, then
the other. He ducks his head slightly, looks into her face.
Cools the blood, she says.
There’s the scar again, a silvery strike on her brow.
Well, if we’re talking about music, he asks, What kind do
you
like? What moves you?
I like all kinds. But what moves me? Maggie gazes into the
running water, considering her response. Kenneth takes a step
back from her to bring her into focus again.
Singing, choral music, and—she breaks off, unnerved by
the intense way he’s listening – I suppose voices affect me most.
Music my mother used to play to me when I was little.
And your mother, he says, reading the answer in her face,
Keeping well, is she?
She died a little while ago, says Maggie, and before he can
offer condolences, she rushes on, She liked all kinds of stuff,
blues, and soul, lots of folk. John Martyn, mainly, Nick Drake,
Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan—
I adore Dylan! says Kenneth, And Joni, too, of course. Not
sure I’m familiar with the others. You must play me some.
And hymns move me, as you know, she says, shaking
the water off her hands, Some of them. But maybe not in the
way they’re meant to. What about you? What did you like,
as a child?
Kenneth tips his head up, thinking, and bites his lower lip.
Under the lights his teeth gleam large and yellow and perfectly
even.
Let me see. Um, jazz, something with a bit of
combustion
in
it.
He does a little sideways feint, like an old boxer, as he says it.
My father used to play Cab Calloway, and there was Dizzy
Gillespie, Satchmo, Earl Bostic . . .
No relation? asks Maggie.
What? Ah, very good, yes. I mean no.
He smiles, enjoying her teasing, but not the feeling it produces
in him. Maggie raises her eyebrows, nods her head towards the
stove.
Something might be combusting right now, she says.
Kenneth grabs the pan off the gas, quickly swapping from one
hand to the other until she passes him a tea towel to wrap
around the handle.
What do you think? he says, tilting it towards her. She stares
into the volcanic mass of bubbling brown, feeling a wet heat
on her face.
Caught it just in time. What’s in it?
Top secret. But this beef will need a while longer. Could
you pass me the wine?
Maggie fetches him a half-full bottle of red, from which he
takes a long swig.
That’ll make it taste better, he says, smacking his lips.
She reaches out and cuffs him lightly on the arm.
Oh, all right then, he says, pouring the wine into the pan.
The light drops suddenly as the sun outside the kitchen window
slips behind the trees.
So, what did you write about the hymn? he asks, In the end?
Maggie decides she will answer him truthfully.
Just two lines. But very fitting. I thought it might be an idea
to save them up.
Once the stew is bubbling again, Kenneth stirs it, scrapes the
gunge from the sides and turns the heat off. He seems not to
be listening, until he looks at her.
Why don’t I pour us a G&T, Maggie, this’ll need half an
hour to meld. Save them up how, exactly? he says, crossing to
the fridge and fetching a tray of ice.
Again, they take their drinks out under the cover of the
terrace and sit side by side on the wrought-iron bench. The
sun has sunk away completely now, but the sky is pink and
blue and shimmering, like the skin of a rainbow trout. The
river below it is a lash of fractured purple. Kenneth sits so near,
Maggie can see the small bobbled graze of a shaving cut on
the line of his jaw; she can smell his cologne, cedarwood and
spice. So, he’s taken trouble for her, too. She glances at him
from the corner of her eye as she explains.
I thought – you’ll say if you don’t like the idea – that we
could record your music story chronologically, from childhood
to now. That way, you could read what I’ve written at the very
end. I’ll still type it up. It’ll be like a . . . musical memoir.
He lifts his glass and takes a long drink. She wants him to look
at her now; she could easily bear it.
Like
This is Your Life
, she says finally, with an anxious smile.
Kenneth nods, gently swirling his tumbler, making the ice
clatter. She clutches her drink, feeling the beads of moisture
sliding under her fingers, the crisp scent rising up. She hasn’t
tasted it yet. When he smiles too, she takes a quick, choking
gulp. The chill and burn of the gin on her tongue is wonderful.
That wasn’t the plan, Maggie. The plan was to be random,
to have one piece of music trigger off another. Spontaneous,
indirect. Like the way memories flood in and out.
Not much flooding today, she says, My fault.
They are silent for a moment. In her head, Maggie hears the
hymn again, the sad wheeze of the organ before the children’s
voices cut in.
But, d’you know what? I think it’s a rather good plan, he
says at last, We don’t have to work in sections, but maybe you
could organize them later? Childhood, adolescence, young
adulthood—
It was a very good year, she says, swaying into him and
laughing. Kenneth looks askance for a moment, then his face
lights up.
Ah, yes, A Very Good Year. Well done, you clever girl.
When
I was twenty-one, it was a very good year
, he sings,
For something
girls who lived up the stair, with all that beautiful hair . . .
And it came undone, says Maggie, blushing. Kenneth blushes
too, putting his mouth to his glass and finding it empty.
If only I was twenty-one again, he says.
Me too.
She expects him to say the usual stuff, about how she has her
whole life ahead of her, but he slaps his leg, lifting himself up
from the bench with a groan.
Which reminds me. Wine. Come and help me choose a
bottle, he says, holding out his hand for hers. She doesn’t think
it strange or unusual to slip her fingers into his. Kenneth leads
her through the kitchen, pausing at a narrow door in the far
wall. It has an ancient calendar hanging on it, a sepia-tone
picture of a horse and plough.
The years turn over fast, says Maggie, giving him a look. He
raises his finger,
Don’t tempt me, he says, A gentleman never asks a lady her
age.
If you must know, she says, I’m thirty-several.
How excellent, he says, tracing the top of the door frame
with his fingertips and fetching down a rusted iron key, And
that makes me sixty-several. You know, I feel younger already!
It takes Kenneth only two attempts to feed the key into the
housing. He stands aside and pulls open the door with a
flourish, as if he’s performing a conjuring trick. And it
is
a sort
of illusion, this dark, constricted entrance into the bowels of
the house. Maggie tracks him single file along a corridor of
sweating brick, ducking through an archway and almost stumbling
down the steps into the wine cellar. They pass banks of
wooden shelves, stopping when they reach the far corner. The
only light is from a square grille of window cut into the outside
wall. The smell is damp dog, mushroom.
I keep the decent stuff back here, out of reach. Would you
like to choose something? he asks, Something special?
I’d have no clue, says Maggie, squinting in the near-darkness,
Unless you’ve laid down a stash of supermarket plonk.
She puts out her hand, gingerly, fearing spiders, or mice, and
lifts a random bottle from a rack.
Let me see, he says, taking it from her and holding it at arm’s
length, Haven’t got my glasses. Maggie, would you?
He passes the bottle back.
Margaux, she reads, wiping off a skin of dust with her thumb,
1968.
Lovely. That’ll do me, he says, But the question is, will it do
my son?
Maggie doesn’t feel the smooth glide as the bottle slips from
her grasp, doesn’t hear it explode onto the flags. Doesn’t feel
the splash of vintage red spatter her legs and dress. Such is the
shock of it. The seconds replay themselves in slow motion.
Your son, she’s saying, as the bottle falls, and her voice is
cool and close, and then there is a moment, in the near-darkness,
when their eyes meet and a recognition passes between
them – of sadness, disappointment – before Kenneth jumps
back from the flying glass.
Oh, my dear, he says, Never mind, never mind—drawing
her away from the centre of the smash – I should get the light
fixed in here, Will’s always saying so. There’ll be another bottle
somewhere now, let me see.
Maggie stands appalled, hands on her face, peering down into
the spreading shining wet.
But was it really expensive? she cries, I bet it was.
Come away, Kenneth says, ducking through the archway,
You’ll cut yourself. Look, I’ll fetch another. Come now. Will
should be here quite soon.
At the door to the kitchen, she touches his elbow.
Could he not come over tonight, she asks, Could you put
him off?
She’s about to say something else, but then, as if stung, she turns
a circle on the threshold, her hands flying around her head. A
long grey cobweb hangs from her hair, wafting on the breeze
from the cellar.
Get it off! she yells, spinning again, and Kenneth catches her
arm to still her, turning her round so he’s looking at the pale
nape of her neck, the scatter of freckles there making his
stomach lurch. He would not have believed it. Here he is,
remembering the straw caught in her curls and putting his
hands on her now, removing the tortoiseshell clip with a sudden
click, watching the hair fall onto his fingers. He brushes his
palm over her head, smooth and quick, catching the web. It
feels sticky as glue. And he turns her again.
It came undone, she says, her face flushed this time with
relief. The way she says it, it’s an invitation, Kenneth thinks,
and she makes it easy, smiling in the dusty light of the doorway,
for him to pull her near. Like a kite being wound in. But when
she puts her palm up to his chest he understands it’s to stop
him getting any closer. Her other hand catches him by the
wrist. He feels her grip, tender but insistent.
Maggie, I do apologize, he says.
You don’t know what came over you, she says. She sounds
scornful, but she doesn’t remove her hand from his chest, and
still she holds his wrist in her grip, and both places are unbearably
hot for Kenneth, as if she’s transmitting fire through her
skin.
I do know what came over me, he admits, You’re very—He pauses, searching for the word.
Bounteous
was what came
into his head; he knows it’s not right but can find no substitute.
She fills the space for him.
Very clumsy, she says, I did warn you.
No, no, you are all grace. And I’m a silly old fool.
Not so old, she says, loosing her hold on him, But I can’t
comment on the rest.
He’s thankful for the joke, glances away as she brushes a
remnant of web from the front of her skirt. She lifts the hem
to inspect the zigzag splashes of wine, and as he looks back,
Kenneth catches sight of her knees, so awkward, so vulnerable,
and has to look away again.
I’ll clear up that mess and then cancel my son, he says, As
we’ve completely ruined your dress.