Page 27 of A Wistful Symphony

Trees are scarce in this part of the park, the only visible one twisted and barren, with tiny green leaves sprouting at the tips of its branches.

The grass stretches, lush and bright, as far as the eye can see.

A few runners pass by us, and as the path gets narrower uphill, it’s harder to dodge them.

“Left!” a young man yells. Distracted by our conversation, you bump into my shoulder to let him pass.

“Sorry,” you say, hints of a blush on your cheeks.

“No problem.” I look the other way so you won’t notice my matching warm face.

The path turns steep as we get closer to the Observatory. We walk side by side in complete silence, both to save our breath and to recover from the awkward moment. It’s only when I start panting that you say something.

“You should really do more cardio.” You chuckle at my pitiful, sedentary face.

“Oh, sod off.” I laugh along. “I quit smoking only a few months ago.”

“Still. Your breathing will recover much faster if you exercise.”

“Says who?”

“Says every healthcare worker.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I smirk.

Suddenly, you let out a guffaw, the dazzling kind that makes the bridge of your nose crinkle. Your hair billows, tousled by the wind, and an unkempt lock flies in your face. You tuck it behind your ear before opening the brightest of smiles. “You’re impossible, Eric Lowell.”

I look away, afraid that smile will be scorched onto my eyeballs forever.

We reach the courtyard soon after, and you’re kind enough to stop for me to catch my breath.

A few people gather behind the rails, taking photos or looking at the city.

We do not follow them. Instead, I pull you by the sleeve, and we sit on a vacant bench under the statue of an eighteen-century officer.

A vast line of skyscrapers gathers on the horizon, towering amongst ancient stone buildings.

The old and the new, mingling together in one dazzling amalgam.

Columns on the Queen’s House separate the metropolitan chaos from the bucolic scenery inside the park.

Trees pile on our right, flailing in the wind, and the open field is a green carpet where people lie around, small like ants, to bask in the last remains of sunlight.

Everything glistens in gold, as if the city was touched by Midas.

“What do you think?” I ask, after we’ve had enough time to wonder.

“Stunning,” you say wistfully. “London is so beautiful when I see it through your eyes.”

My face is dangerously hot. Why do you always say such deep things out of the blue? Afraid we’re walking into dangerous terrain, I change the subject. “So, uh, how are things with your class?”

“Great.” You spread one arm along the backrest of the bench. “The group from Mondays and Wednesdays is finally ready for Mozart’s Magic Flute overture.”

“Really? How old are they?” I turn to you, suddenly interested.

“Between ten and twelve. It’s one of my oldest groups, and they’re quite committed.” Your smile grows wide. “There’s this girl, Lucy, who plays the violin. She’s incredible, Eric. You should see her. I wish I could afford classes at a conservatory for her.”

The enthusiasm in your words brings a warmth to my heart.

“Have you ever thought about teaching at a conservatory, by the way?” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Make it a proper career, since you like it so much.”

“Nah, I didn’t have any formal education after sixth form. It would never work.”

“Why not?” My pitch goes a little too high. “It’s not too late, if your violin skills are anything like before.”

You scratch the nape of your neck. “I don’t think going back to a strict practicing routine would be good for me. It reminds me of how Dad used to make me play until there was nothing else in my life. That’s how everything started.”

“I see.” My tone is grim, and I steer the conversation in another direction. “What would you do now? If you could do anything in the world, I mean.”

“I’d be a social worker, like Danny,” you answer without batting an eye. “Working with the kids makes me so happy, but all I do is teach them silly songs.”

A knowing curl forms at the corner of my mouth. “We both know that’s not silly at all.”

“Still.” You shrug. “There’s so much more I could do.”

“Then my advice for you is the same.” I nudge you with my elbow. “It’s not too late.”

“Thanks.” You grin sheepishly, looking at your trainers. “What about your job? How’s it going?”

I’m aware that you’re deflecting, but I can’t help falling for your trap. I’m too passionate about this score not to talk about it when the subject arises.

“Splendid.” I perch on my seat and gesticulate while talking. “Most of the tracks are composed, two of them fully revised for orchestra. This week we did recording sessions and post-production adjustments for another two.”

“Wow, it sounds so professional. Think you can play me one of them?”

“On what? Thin air?” I laugh.

You chuckle along. “At your place, silly. It’s getting dark and I’m a little hungry. We could order that sweet lemon pie you talked about while you play me some songs.”

“You still remember the pie?”

“Never talk about lemon pie around me. I’ll never forget it.”

I press my lips tight, and the butterflies revolt in my stomach, more deranged than ever.

You want to be at my place. Now. This day should be about phase two, and somehow you rushed all the way to four.

The memories of the day after my birthday invade my thoughts, and pain lurks under the surface.

What will I do if things go too far, and you leave me again? How will I cope?

But at the same time, there’s nothing I want more than to open my doors to you. To show you my work. My music. My entire heart and soul. I need you to see it, to look at me the same way you did when I showed you London’s skyline.

“Okay.” The word comes out like in a dream. “Let’s go to my place.”

The short ride home is riddled with conversation.

You ask me about the techniques I used for the last track in production, and I blabber like my life depends on it.

I’m not sure if you deliberately brought it up because you know talking about music will relax me, or if it’s just a fortuitous coincidence.

Either way, it does such a fine job that when I turn the front door key, I barely remember my previous worries.

You unceremoniously head towards the kitchen. “Where do you keep your plates?”

“Upper cabinet, first door to the left.” I put the pink bakery box on the counter and fish out a pair of forks from a drawer. “Fancy a cuppa to go with the pie?”

“Do you have peppermint tea? It’s the only one I drink.”

“Yes, I remember.” A tiny smirk dances on my lips as I put the kettle on.

You set everything on the coffee table while I take care of the tea, and I silently approve, thinking it makes the situation more informal. Steam jolts from the kettle’s spout, and I yell from the kitchen, “Honey or sugar?”

“None for me.”

As I bring the pair of mugs to the table, you take your first bite of pie.

“Well? What’s the verdict?”

“Oh my gosh, Eric, this is amazing.” You barely stop between bites. “Buttery crust, not too sweet, and the right amount of zest. This is going in my top three, for sure.”

“And once again, I was right.” I blow on my tea’s surface, faking a look of haughtiness.

You throw a pillow in my direction. “Don’t get too cocky. I said top three, not the best.”

“It doesn’t make me wrong, though.”

We laugh together, so easy and spontaneous, and hope inflates inside my chest. This can actually work.

Us being friends. A merry ending after all the sorrow we endured.

If we let the past stay dormant, like a dragon in its lair, it won’t come back to devour us.

We can be happy like this if we don’t poke too close to the beast.

“Aren’t you going to play me one of your songs?” You rest your empty plate on the coffee table. “That’s what I came for, after all.”

I itch to retort that you came for the pie. “Well remembered.” I leave my mug and plate behind and stretch my fingers as I sit on the piano bench. “This one is for the scene when Marianne meets Willoughby.”

My fingers stroll on the ivory keys in a soft tempo, producing a sweet idyllic melody that alludes to the British countryside. You amble towards the music and rest one arm on the piano’s lid. As the song progresses, you slowly lean your face on your hand.

“It makes me think of home,” you say.

I agree without interrupting the music. “Yeah, me too.”

“You know, I’d never paid Jane Austen much attention until my mother made me read Pride and Prejudice . She’s a die-hard fan and bought me all the books. I ended up liking it.”

“I should give back your copy, if it was a gift from your mother.”

“No worries. Besides, she would freak out if she knew you’re using it to compose for a BBC miniseries.”

Knowing only the stoic and reserved version of Claire Westcott, it’s hard to picture her as an excited Jane Austen fan who taught you to love books. I chuckle to myself. And for a minute, only music fills the room.

“I’ve always liked Marianne,” you say.

“She’s a bit too romantic and na?ve for my taste.”

“Funny you should say that. She reminds me of you.”

“What?” I retort, raising an eyebrow. “Please, I’m definitely Elinor.”

“Uh-uh.” You shake your head with a smirk. “Marianne.”

I roll my eyes. “Hilarious. And who would you be?”

“Willoughby, probably,” you mutter.

Your self-contempt makes my guts boil. I stop the music to stare right at you. “You could never be Willoughby.”

A shade of rose smears your cheeks, and a subtle smile adorns your lips.

I turn back to the piano and play a second song. This time we stay silent, revelling in the soothing notes. A lock of hair falls over your forehead and your hazel eyes lose themselves in the ivory keys. What are you thinking right now? I can never tell.