Page 12 of A Wistful Symphony

Once the Thames is behind us, we step into the heart of Southbank. Soon the coloured canopies of the food market block our line of sight. I ignore the people funnelling through the pathways and bask in the scent of fried goods and piquant spices wafting from each booth.

“Have you chosen what you’ll have yet?” I ask, after you take a couple of deliberate turns.

“There’s a booth around here that makes the best fish and chips.”

I stop in my tracks and start laughing.

“What?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“We’re surrounded by food from everywhere around the globe, and you want to eat fish and chips?”

“I love fish and chips. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. You do you.” Hints of laughter huff through my nose as we reach the booth.

The bald, moustached vendor fries his latest batch of chips, and you give him a warm greeting, like you see him every day.

He calls you by your first name and swiftly prepares a small plate.

I watch the exchange with piqued curiosity, wondering how many times you’ve eaten this same dish over the years.

You follow me to a Pad Thai booth I’ve been meaning to try for a long time, but the nagging thoughts of street food contamination have never let me.

They’re still here, hammering through my head, but I take a deep breath and tap a lovely Prokofiev concerto on my thigh to muffle them.

After that, you pick up Danny’s curry in a tidy takeaway package and we find a vacant bench by the square to enjoy our meal.

“Tell me,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin, “how did you end up in London?”

You answer between bites. “It was sort of unplanned. After I got out of rehab, I didn’t have a place to go, or anything to make my life worthwhile.

” You glance away and bite your lower lip.

“Danny was offered a job in the city and asked me to join him, so I came. Turned out for the best in the end.”

“Seems like a right place, right time kind of situation.”

“You could say that.” Your pained countenance relaxes into a grin. “And I thought, ‘if Eric loves this city so damn much, it can’t be that bad.’”

My ears warm. “Glad to have had a part in your decision.”

“Best one I ever made.” You rest your cheek on your knuckles. “I think staying far from the reverend’s influence let me stay clean.

“And yet you teach at a church.” I shake my head, cleaning my greasy hands with sanitiser. “I swear I don’t get it.”

“How come?”

“After all the times religion fucked up your life, you still carry this thing.” I point to the dangling golden cross on your chest.

“It was a gift from my mother.” You touch the pendant wistfully. “Besides, religion didn’t ruin my life. A misguided man did. Just because my father was an arsehole, it doesn’t mean God is the problem. Having Him in my life brings me comfort. You should try it sometime.”

“I’d rather seek comfort elsewhere. Mum has prayed every day since before I was born, and it never made her life or mine any easier.”

“Are you sure about that?” There’s a knowing curl at the corner of your mouth. “You’re looking at it the wrong way, Eric. God is not Superman, coming to the rescue when your life is shit. But talking to Him can give you perspective. It can make things easier to bear.”

“So can therapy.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Why does it have to be one or the other?”

I shake my head, but your words still prickle on the back of my head. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

We get up from the bench, throw our paper plates and napkins in a bin and stroll towards the riverbed.

The wide tree-lined pathway on the Queen’s Walk makes for a nice observation spot and we lean on the railing, gazing at the Thames.

Small ships cut ripples through the water’s dark surface, and the London Eye is lit and spinning on our left.

The rain gets heavier, so I take out my umbrella and share it with you, and it crosses my mind that London is showing its trademark colours this evening.

I smile to myself. It only took a decade to share this sight with you. “Want to hear some music?”

“Sure. The piece you composed?”

“Hell no.” I trade one of my hearing aids for an earbud and offer you the spare. “I’ve listened to that thing non-stop for the past week and a half.”

“Put your library on shuffle, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

We stand by the river, listening to music in the rain. A row of classics and film scores mixed with Elton John, Carole King and Tom Odell. Then, a blasting intro makes me hurriedly reach for my phone and skip the tune.

You break into a grin. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Was it Crazy in Love ?” Your voice is cut with hints of laughter. “Who would’ve thought Eric Lowell was a Beyhive member?”

“It’s … upbeat, okay?” I explain, my cheeks growing warm. “Gosh, it’s like I’m a walking cliché.”

Your smile turns gentle. “You like Beyoncé, so what? No one should feel ashamed to like the things they like.”

“Easier said than done.”

You take the phone from my hands and rewind the playlist, queuing up the frenetic sound once again.

You sing the lyrics in a terrible pitch and nudge me with your shoulder until I tag along, both of us belting Beyoncé at the top of our lungs like we’re drunk.

After Crazy in Love, we sing through another two songs until we both decide it’s time to spare the pedestrians’ ears from our crappy karaoke and go home.

You live in Harringay but still offer to accompany me to my flat first, not taking no for an answer—not even when I search for the exact time you’d spend on public transport at night (one hour and forty-seven minutes, which is absurd)—so I give in and indulge you.

We take the train, listening to music and humming our favourite tunes. Half an hour goes by, and I’m bemused by how comfortably we can sit by one another in complete silence. By the time we get off at Hither Green station, my battery is dead, and we talk about music to pass the time.

The street is rather empty at this hour and a chilly draft gusts through the leafless trees, making me raise my coat collar.

You, on the other hand, seem unfazed in your open puffer jacket.

We soon reach my home, a two-storey building owned by a widowed old lady who lives on the ground floor.

Sitting on the front stairs is my sister, scrolling through her phone with a bored expression.

“Finally,” Delia whines, dusting the back of her jeans. “I thought I’d surprise you with a round of G&Ts, but your landlady wouldn’t let me in.”

I cross my arms. “You can’t come whenever you fancy and ask my landlady to let you in while I’m not there.”

“Why? I’m your sister.” She widens her Bambi eyes and I sigh, not knowing how to explain such a basic concept as privacy. Turning her attention to you, she waves. “Hey, Andrew, long time no see.”

“Hi, Delia,” you say, trying hard to restrain a laugh.

“So, you two, huh? Remembering the good old times? Having a nice little date in the rain?”

“Don’t start,” I rebuke.

“It’s not a date. We’re just catching up,” you say, and that little sting pierces my chest again.

“I see.” She flashes a foxy grin. “If you’d like to catch up more, Eric’s birthday is next week. We’re throwing a party here at the flat, Saturday at 8 p.m. Wanna come?”

“Uh ….” You glance at me hesitantly.

I glare, wishing I could strangle Delia for her meddling, but end up saying, “It’s alright. It would be nice to have you here.”

“Okay, then.” You throw me a strained grin. “Maybe I’ll drop by.”

“Great.” I force a smile in return. Why did you have to be so cryptic? Does that ‘maybe’ mean you’re just being polite and don’t really want to come? Or does it mean something else? Some deeper feelings and struggles inside your heart?

You’re thinking too much into it, Eric.

“Good to see you, Andrew,” Delia adds as you wave goodbye.

“Smooth like a herd of elephants,” I say once you round the corner.

“What? You should be thanking me, you know.” She shrugs with both palms up as we enter the building.