Page 19 of And Then There Was You

Fourteen Zach

The gate is wide open.

I hoped it might be.

Light glows from the café’s windows, the rumble of chatter and laughter sounding inside. But I don’t intend to enter by the front door.

Beneath its dense canopy of honeysuckle and ivy, the wrought-iron gateway is shrouded in shadow. Checking nobody is watching, I duck between the buildings, leaving the street behind.

I hear it as soon as I’m in the passageway, flattening my back against the wall of the café building to listen for a moment.

The piano is playing.

A lilting, laid-back piece of jazz, perfect for a summer night. I don’t recognise the tune, but the tone of the instrument feels like the fond-remembered voice of an old, old friend.

I’ve missed it. That sound. It’s bittersweet: the music that reminds me of so many hours sitting by my own piano, against the memory of all I’ve lost. The sound makes me miss Mum, more now than ever.

She loved to hear me play, insisting I perform for her whenever I visited, on the old, out-of-tune instrument she kept at home.

In the months before Mum moved into the hospice, I played for her for hours a day. It settled her mind, she said, took her attention away from the pain. It didn’t feel like nearly enough, but it made her smile – and I wanted her to smile more than anything in the world.

I miss the connection between the melody in my mind and the feeling of the keys beneath my fingers. I miss the pieces I would return to whenever I needed to play. The ones that came as naturally as breathing, the muscle memory of years of practice clicking into action.

Feeling brave, I dare to move a little further towards the end of the passageway, where light spills out from the courtyard ahead of me.

I want more. Not just the distant sound of a beautiful piano.

I want to see the effect it has on the café customers, to be in the room, surrounded by the music.

I’m already further in than I thought I’d get, but now it isn’t enough.

I want to see the courtyard, with those lights illuminated across it.

I want to be surrounded by people: be in the thick of small talk and raucous jokes, feel like I belong and have roots like they do, instead of basically surviving on my own.

And I want to see her – the lovely, hopeful woman who’s danced through my thoughts like we danced on the pavement, the first time I saw her. If my instinct is correct and this is her place, I know that her hope and delight will only be magnified. I want to see what that looks like.

So I edge along the wall, taking my time, halting when a burst of laughter sounds, too close for comfort. I only stop when I’m at the point where the wall at my back gives way to the entrance of the courtyard, my heart thudding as hard as if I’ve just ridden a championship wave.

I peer around the corner, the nearest side of the courtyard swinging into view.

And there she is . . .

She’s leaning against the counter of the café, looking out towards the courtyard.

I keep close to the edge of the courtyard entrance, but she isn’t looking over here.

I follow her gaze to where it rests on the piano, now painted with flowers and foliage, waves and shells, sending its gorgeous music out to fill the space.

She looks blissfully happy – and as I watch her wistful smile and obvious pride, I catch that emotion, too.

Maybe she’s taking this moment to celebrate the good stuff because it’s a highlight in the constant slog of everything else. Or maybe she’s one of those rare creatures who manages to be happy all the time. I never really believed they existed before, but perhaps she disproves my theory.

My attention swings to the piano.

I had to see it tonight. And even though my vantage point is precarious and my welcome may be short, I’m so glad I risked this visit.

The song ends and the courtyard rings with applause.

I’m tempted to applaud, too. But I can’t give away my vantage point.

I’ve seen the other café worker – the one who served me before – circulating tonight.

She has the kind of look about her that suggests she never forgets a face. If she sees me here . . .

Wait – the lady I wanted to see is leaving the bar . . .

She’s heading this way.

Instinctively, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, safer in the anonymity it gives me.

It makes no sense at all, considering how many people are here tonight and the fact that I’m currently peering around the courtyard entrance wall.

But I don’t want anyone to see me. It feels risky enough without attracting undue attention to myself.

She claps her hands and the café customers hush.

‘Hi, everyone. I’m Merryn Rowe, owner of Sweet Reverie.’

A loud whoop sounds, causing a ripple of laughter from the customers.

When I look in the direction it comes from, I see the other bloke from the surf shop – the young guy’s boss, who was searching the street for me last time I saw him with a face like thunder.

He’s grinning now, but that would change in seconds if he saw me.

He’s gazing at the woman – Merryn – like all his birthdays arrived at once. Are they together?

‘Thanks, Seth,’ Merryn says, blushing a little.

If they’re not together yet, I reckon they could be after tonight.

I slump a little against the wall as Merryn continues.

‘I just want to thank you all for coming. This evening is the first of what we hope will be many. Sweet Reverie will be opening late on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evenings from next week.’

A cheer erupts from the café. I’m suddenly aware of a huge swell of love in the room, rolling like a summer tide towards her. They’re all here for her, aren’t they? All these people, supporting her business. Were they drawn to her hopefulness and light like I was?

I don’t know Merryn Rowe. But I’m inexplicably glad for her. Glad that she has people around her who love and support her. It shouldn’t matter to me, a complete stranger hiding on the periphery of this event, but I’m surprised to find it does.

Somehow, the piano she now stands by seems to embody her hope for the café. Did she paint it? The flowers and waves, shells and stars across its body have been created with care and love. It’s just an old piano, but it seems to represent more than that – for me, as well as her.

I should go.

This is Merryn’s moment. Her business, her piano.

But my feet won’t listen to my brain.

So I stay where I am, rooted to the spot, while Merryn tells a story of rescuing the piano from the street, of a crazy late-night dash to bring it back, and of the reason it now lives here, in the courtyard of her café.

‘I hadn’t even considered the stairs,’ she says, to a swell of laughter from the room. ‘I was just so excited to get it home. But actually, I think the courtyard is the perfect place for Merlin. Because now I get to share the piano with all of you.’

The warm murmurs of approval this elicits feel like an audible embrace.

The more she talks, the more I’m drawn in. To her story, to the unsurprisingly generous heart revealed by her words. And to her firm belief that the piano is central to all the good things now happening for her business.

‘And so, this is the moment I know several of you have been waiting for. Part of the reason Merlin is here is that I want it to be available to everyone to play. I want it to be ours, as a community. So come on, don’t be shy. Come and play our piano!’

Her invitation sets the kid in me tugging at my arm, wide-eyed and insistent, begging me to play. And then, my feet are moving, my body overriding any shred of common sense I have as the empty piano stool beckons ahead.

What am I doing? I shouldn’t even be here!

An old familiar ache floods my hands, the need to play, greater than I’ve felt it in months.

I thought I’d surrendered the urge when I sold my piano and watched it being wheeled out of my Padstow flat.

I thought I’d packed it up with the music books I gave to its new owner, knowing I had no use for them anymore.

I’m in the courtyard now, taking the two steps that lead up from the passageway, the shadow across my body surrendering to the warm, white glow of the lights overhead. The keys are still without a player, the piano almost within reach.

And then something slams hard into my right arm.

The suddenness of the blow steals my balance and I tumble towards an empty bistro chair at the table beside the piano.

It clatters as I grab it, a young girl with dark curls yelping a panicked apology as she jumps onto the piano stool and starts to play.

I feel hands around me, helping me to my feet – and when I look up, I see her. She’s right in front of me, her fingers soft and gentle where they take my hands.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I – I’m good, thanks . . .’

Concern has stolen her smile, but I see recognition fire in her dark eyes. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

I’m upright now, shaken and unsure what to do or say. But Merryn Rowe is here and she’s beautiful, and I can’t stop looking at her.

‘ You! ’

The shout shakes me out of my thoughts. It’s the waitress from my first visit, bearing down on me like a storm swell. I glance back at Merryn, whose hands still lightly enclose mine. I want to stay, but the other waitress is pushing her way through the customers towards us.

I don’t wait for her to reach me. Pulling my hands away from Merryn’s, I crash my way out, the shouts and shock reverberating in my wake. As I reach the corner of the building, I hear the furious waitress yell, ‘ Seth! ’

Seth – the name of the tall bloke who was searching for me last time.

Porthia Surf ’s Seth.

Merryn’s Seth?

‘Oi!’ he yells, too close behind me.

I don’t look back.

I just run.