Page 46 of A Wistful Symphony

“Nothing. Just a headache.” I lift my duffel bag. “Where do I put this?”

“Leave it in my room. You can have it for yourself. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Hey mate. Great having you here.” Danny comes out of his bedroom barefoot, in a white tank top and shorts, looking utterly cheerful. Like I’m here for a sleepover. “Andy, would you like to have my room? I can crash at a friend’s place, no problem at all.”

“Hey, Danny.” I force a smile, the feeling of being a burden intensifying. “There’s no need for that. I’m already intruding. I wouldn’t force you out of your home.”

You back me up. “Yeah, Dan. The flat is big enough for the three of us.”

“If you insist.” Danny folds his arms and shrugs. “That’s cool though; with you here we can all hang.”

Your lips twitch and you throw me a glance, fully aware of my plastered smile.

“Sure,” I say. I already regret my decision.

“Great! I’ll make popcorn and we can binge Doctor Who .”

He’s halfway to the kitchen when you speak. “Actually, Dan, Eric is feeling overwhelmed, so we’ll just chill on the sofa and listen to some music. Do you mind giving us a bit of space?”

“Oh, right. Gotcha.” He points both his index fingers at us and walks backwards to the other side of the flat. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my room.” The door half-closes, but Danny sticks his head through the crack. “Sure you don’t want some popcorn?”

“Thanks, we’re fine. Maybe later.”

“I’ll make a fresh batch in a few. Don’t you worry, little popcorn freak.” Danny laughs and closes the door.

“Sorry about that.” You make a face. “He means well.”

I nod, hiding a grin. “He’s a good friend. I’m glad you have him.”

“What was that?” You raise both eyebrows, leaning back on the sofa’s arm. “Did you actually pay Danny a compliment?”

“You heard me. Don’t make me say it again.” I sit between your legs and lay my back on your chest.

A languid, melodious tune comes out of a portable speaker as the adagietto from Mahler’s fifth symphony weaves its sad violin streaks. No piano music until you’re feeling better , you said to me. You hum the melody near my ear, running lazy fingers through my hair.

“I’m sorry for what I said that day.” Eyes half-closed, I whisper, “I didn’t mean that about your work.”

You pause your caress to rest a hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt me or say it out loud. But it came from somewhere.”

“Perhaps.” I frown. “But it has more to do with me and my insecurities about my career than with you. I don’t think ill of you because you make little money. I couldn’t care less about it.”

“That’s good, or we’d have a real problem. Teaching those kids saved my life, Eric. You have no idea how important it is to me.”

“Then explain it to me.” I turn and face you. “You’re awfully cryptic about what happened in the last ten years. Talk to me, Andrew.”

You sigh and fold your arms, looking at the faded floor.

“When I left town, I checked into a rehab in Cornwall, near the Westcott’s summer house.

Mum paid for everything. I relapsed the first time and needed another round at the facility to be rid of the drugs.

Mum was there as best she could, but you know how things are with the reverend.

Danny was a real godsend. He was more than my sponsor.

He really had my back, so I wouldn’t fall apart again.

And I haven’t got high since. But that doesn’t mean I was okay.

Not in the slightest. Because I still didn’t have a reason to live. ”

Claire Westcott’s face comes to mind as I remember our interactions in those last days . Have I been unfair to her? Perhaps. Despite my regrets, I’m glad you reconnected with her if she played a significant part in your recovery.

With a deep breath, you continue. “I thought going back to my violin would give me purpose. It did for a while. Practising for hours, watching YouTube videos of new techniques and modern players, taking every gig that came my way. It was great.” You tilt your head, as if not entirely sure. “I mean, it kept me distracted.”

“You got your music back. That’s a wonderful thing, Andrew.”

“That doesn’t mean my issues vanished. The violin gave me a spark, but I was never like you.

Playing for myself just wouldn’t do it anymore, no matter how much I tried.

My music was hollow because I had nothing inside of me.

” You heave a sigh and pause for a long time.

“Have you ever been so empty you’d give anything just to feel something? ”

I swallow hard, my voice coming out hoarse. “Can’t say that I have.”

“One day, I was waiting for Danny at the institute and entered the music room. I don’t know what made me pick up the violin, but it called to me.

One kid heard it and asked if he could watch.

Then another came, and another. Soon I had a room full of kids, and they all wanted to know how to play the violin.

” You smile tenderly. “I spent hours with them, teaching the basics. Chords, bow positions. Barely noticed the time passing. And it was as if a chord struck within me. Those kids had nothing, like I once had, and I gave them music.”

I rest my hand on your arm. “Must be a full circle feeling.”

“Something like that.” Your smile is weak, but you sit closer to me. “I’ve never felt so alive as when I’m teaching those orphans. It’s my purpose. I know it now.”

“I’m glad you found it. That it fulfilled you.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is distant as you slouch deeper into the sofa. “You should rest now, Eric.”

I nod, and my eyes close as I lay my head on your lap. Brahms replaces Mahler on the speaker, and I let the music rock me into a state of semi-suspension.

“I’m sorry for giving you this much trouble,” I whisper.

“No worries.” You run your fingers through my hair once more. “It’s the least I can do.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, tugging a pillow near my chest. Are you doing this out of love or some deep-rooted guilt for leaving me ten years ago? I can’t tell.

No, Eric. You mustn’t think like that. Andrew loves you. There’s no doubt.

A creeping fear stretches its claws inside my heart.

You’re handling this crisis rather well, but what will happen with the next?

Because it will come, Andrew, sure as the sunrise.

And I can’t control what I’ll do, or how I’ll react.

What if I hurt your feelings? What if I make you hate me?

I couldn’t stand that. For now, the soothing warmth of your body reassures me you’re here. You’re still with me.

But for how long?

The ring of the doorbell wakes me from my thought-filled slumber, and I begrudgingly open one eye.

“Did you order a takeaway?” I frown.

“Not exactly.” You delicately push me aside and get up to answer the door. I perch on the sofa, only to see my sister’s frame appear on the threshold.

“What is this?” I jump up, stomping my way to the front door. “Andrew, did you set this up?”

“Eric, don’t be like that,” Delia whines. “Andrew’s just trying to help.”

“This fight between you has been going on for too long,” you say in a careful tone. “I figured it would be good if you talked things through.”

“You’re not my therapist, Andrew,” I rebuke. “And you have no right to force a situation like that.”

You scowl but don’t say a word.

“Like you prying on my phone was any better.” Delia raises her voice, taking a daring step forward.

“Delia, don’t—” you start, and I cut in.

“To keep you away from that monster? Yeah. Definitely better.”

“For the hundredth time, I didn’t know he was abusive, okay?” she almost screams.

How can I make her understand it makes no freaking difference? That innocent as she is, she still invited the man who haunts my nightmares into our lives. That every minute of every waking hour of these past weeks, I’ve been reliving the hell we went through.

But Delia is not like me. She’ll never understand.

“Andrew, I’m going to head out for a bit and clear my head.”

“Eric—”

“Please move.”

You bite your lower lip and begrudgingly step to the side.

The stairs are endless. Step after step of whirling thoughts and plunging memories.

My chest clenches tight and I stop at the landing between the second and first floors to catch my breath.

Resting doesn’t make it any better. I grab the handrail, palms trembling, and walk at a slower pace until I reach the double front doors.

The building has a short perron staircase. Five stone steps separating the front doors from the pavement. I sit down, well aware of the dirt that will find its way to my trousers. It doesn’t matter now.

I take a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and light one, drawing in the smoke with excruciating slowness.

I don’t even like it. The bloody thing smells awful but does its job calming me.

I breathe in and out, one, two, three, more times than I can count.

By the time the stub’s ember closes in on my fingers, a clack of heels approaches.

“Mind if I sit here?” Delia crosses her arms, her voice restrained.

I put out the stub on the stone steps. “The street is still public, last I checked.”

She straightens the back of her skirt and sits on the same step, a safe half metre away.

“You’re smoking again?”

I shrug.

“May I have one?”

“These things will wreck your lungs, Delia,” I retort, lighting another cigarette.

We both let out strained laughs.

The street is calm for late afternoon, and the soft buzz of traffic fills the fifty centimetres of silence between Delia and me. She waits until my second cigarette is out before asking, “How bad was it?”

I freeze before formulating an answer.

“Like fearing every day would be the day I’d find Mum dead. That it would be the day he’d move on to beating you. Or worse.” I exhale slowly, looking at the street. “That bad.”

“Did he ever beat you?”

I turn to her. “Do you want me to comfort you or be honest?”

She presses her lips together and swallows hard. “The scar on your back isn’t from a bike crash, is it?”

“Glass of whiskey,” I say, emotionless. “He broke it on me after I tried to shield Mum. Twelve stitches.”

“Good Lord.” She grimaces and pauses even longer. “Mum’s hand?”

“Him, again.” I exhale a slow wave of smoke. “Don’t make me remember it.”

Delia’s face turns pale, and her gaze falls to the dirty pavement. She puts her arms around her knees as a glint of tears appears in the corners of her big eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracks. “That you had to go through all that alone.”

“It’s okay.” My whisper gets lost in the honk of a car.

“It was such a silly thing,” she continues. “I thought ‘hey, he’s rich, and he’s abandoned us since we were kids, so why not guilt trip the man into investing in the shop I want to open after uni,’ you know? If I’d had any idea, I would never—you have to believe me.”

A painful smile stretches the corners of my mouth. “I know.”

It’s not my sister I’m mad at. Not entirely.

It’s the unfairness of me going through hell and her getting away unscathed.

Resentment grows in my chest every time I look at her.

Why me? Because I’m the eldest? Because I’m a male?

And yet, she’s not to blame. If Delia remained safe inside her bubble of oblivion, it was my own doing. I was the one who put her there.

It wasn’t fair. But protecting her was my choice.

After a long time, I ask, “Do you want to go back inside?”

A warm smile colours her lips. “Sure. G&Ts to lighten the mood?”

“Can’t. Meds.”

“Oh, right.” She puts a hand to her chin. “RuPaul and crisps, then?”

“I need to catch up on the last season, anyway.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it all. It’s a-ma-zing. But I don’t mind watching it again.”

Chuckling, I nod. Reality television has always been our sibling thing.

“Missed you.” She gets closer and nudges me with her hip.

“Me too.”

We get up, dust our butts from the street steps and enter your building, leaving the afternoon and our grudges behind.

“Andrew? We’re back,” I say as we enter the sitting room.

You pace from one wall to the other, phone in one hand, the other holding the cross on your chest. With deep creases between your brows, you lift your gaze to us before speaking. “I need to go to Somerset.”

You storm out of the room, leaving Delia and me with twin frowns.