Page 25 of And Then There Was You

Nineteen Merryn

I wake suddenly, eyes blinking open in my darkened bedroom.

The room is silent, but my body is tense beneath the sheets, an uncomfortable heat beneath me. I must have been restless in my sleep, although I can’t remember dreaming. My limbs are numb, almost not feeling like my own, as I untangle myself from the bedclothes and sit up.

Groaning, I flop back against my pillow.

If there was ever a night I needed sleep, it’s this one.

After the emotional roller-coaster of yesterday, sleep was all I wanted.

It’s probably why I was restless – the aftermath of drama still playing out in my subconscious mind. But what just dragged me from sleep?

And then, I hear it.

Music.

A gentle, soft sound, from a direction I can’t work out.

It isn’t like the music I sometimes hear drifting into the street from a nearby pub.

There’s nobody in the upper storeys of either Porthia Surf or Dydh Da.

Seth sometimes stays in the flat above his shop in high season when he rents out his place to holidaymakers, but he won’t be doing that until next week.

There’s no beat to the music, only melody. And as I listen, the notes begin to form a familiar pattern. A song from somewhere before. Music I haven’t heard for years.

Not since . . .

Heart beating wildly, I scramble out of bed and throw on a sweatshirt over my vest top and pyjama shorts, grabbing a heavy torch I’ve kept on my bedside table since St Ives was hit by a raft of power cuts, caused by storms, back in the spring.

As soon as I’m at the top of the stairs, I know where the music is coming from.

And what is playing it.

But that’s not possible, is it?

The tune is unmistakable now, a melody I know like my own breath. My hands shake as I hold the torch, unlit, like a weapon. I reach the bottom step and my breath stalls as the source of the music becomes clear.

Someone is playing Merlin.

And the song I’ve missed since Grant Henderson moved out of my life.

‘Time Wears Awa’ – an old Scottish folk song that tells of two people reflecting back on a lifetime of loving one another.

Grant sang it to Mum, hoping maybe they would have a similar love story.

Or perhaps because he knew they wouldn’t – that Mum wasn’t capable of loving someone the way the couple in the song do.

The music dances and spins around the tiny courtyard, a beautiful, beguiling melody that draws me in. It isn’t how Grant played it, but the notes flow with emotion that sweeps me into the tune.

I move quietly through the darkened café to the back door, turning the key as softly as I can. The door swings open silently, the barrier between the music and me gone.

And I see him.

A sandy-haired man, dressed in a faded blue hoodie and jeans, his head bent a little as his fingers travel across the keys, his eyes closed and the gentlest smile on his lips. It’s mesmerising: I can’t tear my gaze away.

Because I know him.

The man I danced with in the street, and saw outside the café. The man who ran from the opening celebration last night. Did he see the new message on the sign? Is that why he’s come back?

Now I know my trust in him was justified.

Seth was wrong: he isn’t creepy or out to steal anything from me.

He just wanted to play. I saw it in his expression, seconds before Nessie Dixon collided with him.

That longing. I recognised it immediately because I feel it, too, every time I pass the piano. Only unlike me, he can play.

The smile he wears tells a million tales. Relief, joy, connection, a sense of finding something precious that was lost. Everything I want to feel if I can ever dare to touch the keys.

I slip out into the courtyard and sit on the step that marks the border between the outside and inside spaces of Sweet Reverie.

The man remains lost in the music he’s making, unaware that he has an audience tonight.

I can’t stop watching the movement of his fingers, the emotions playing across his face.

I would sometimes sneak out of bed when Grant was with us, perching halfway down the stairs and peering through the cracked and peeling wooden spindles of the banister to watch him play.

From my vantage point I could see one edge of the piano and his right shoulder through the open living-room door.

When the melody rose to the upper realms of the keys it would thrill me to see his hand appear, a musical game of hide-and-seek that made me feel at home for the first time in my young life.

Music was the connection, the identity, the expression of love and safety neither of us could speak out loud.

I feel it now: that thrill as the tune lifts, the melody holding us both captive – him as the player and me as the listener. It’s a moment out of time, a stunning serendipity I could never have imagined would happen here, in the darkened courtyard, hours before dawn.

In that moment, I forget everything. The drama, the concern, the impossibly late hour, the chill of the courtyard and the trespasser who really shouldn’t be here. All that matters is the music.

He plays as if the piano is his lifeline, as if every modulation and improvisation he weaves around the tune my heart knows so well brings him closer to where his heart wants to be.

It’s all in the heart , Grant told me once. You can teach anyone to play what’s written in the music, but you can’t teach them to feel it. That has to come from the heart. You’ll always tell a melody played from the heart because you feel it, here.

His hand had tapped his chest above where his own heart was beating.

I place my hand on my heart now, feeling it race as the man at the piano plays.

It’s all in the heart .

My heart feels fuller than I can ever remember.

And then, the song ends. The man sits back, rubs his eyes – and looks over his shoulder.

Instantly, he’s on his feet, wide-eyed with shock, his hand reaching out as if to hold back an invisible tide.

‘I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t know anyone was here.’

I jump up, my own hands outstretched. ‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Don’t call the police.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’m going now. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t go. That was beautiful. I love your playing.’ When he stares back, uncertainty focused on me, I press on. ‘Stay. Please?’

‘It’s stupid o’clock. I’m sorry to wake you. The sign . . .’

‘. . . was for you,’ I rush. I can’t let him leave thinking this was a mistake.

‘For me?’

‘I hoped you might see it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I know you wanted to play. At the celebration? I’m so sorry if you felt unwelcome last night. The piano – Merlin – is for everyone.’

‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Yes, you should.’ I don’t know if he trusts what I’m saying. I hope he does. ‘I’m Merryn Rowe. I own Sweet Reverie.’

He considers my outstretched hand for a moment, then takes it. The meeting of his skin and mine is like a long-forgotten welcome.

‘Zach . . .’ He clears his throat, staring at my hand in his. ‘I’m Zach Trevelyan.’

‘You play from the heart,’ I say, the words spilling out, encouraged by the warmth of our joined hands.

‘What?’

‘Someone I used to know, someone special, said that the best way to play is from the heart. That it makes all the difference to the music.’

‘They sound wise.’ He’s staring back at me now, as if he can’t quite believe we’re here. ‘Playing helps. Always has.’

I nod like I understand. Because I do, in theory. I know if I could get over this insurmountable barrier between my hands and the keys, I’d find peace at the piano. ‘Play whenever you like.’

A hint of a smile dances on his lips. ‘Maybe not after midnight, though, right?’

‘It’s an interesting choice.’

‘Yeah.’ Zach releases my hand, folding his arms as if a chill has entered the courtyard. ‘I couldn’t sleep. And it’s been so long since I could play.’

‘You don’t have a piano at home?’

‘I don’t have a home.’ My heart contracts at the sadness in his smile. ‘Not a permanent one, anyway. I had to leave my last place, sell everything. My piano couldn’t come with me.’

Is that what happened with Merlin’s previous owner?

The question presents itself and I wonder why I’ve never considered it before.

Whoever lived in the property in North Terrace before it was sold to the developer must have had good reason to leave the piano behind.

Was it their decision to sell the house, or did their landlord decide it?

How much time did they have to find somewhere else to live?

Was the piano a casualty of the move? Or was it a legacy from an earlier occupant, discarded by someone who didn’t appreciate its worth?

‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ I say.

‘Um, thanks.’

I wonder if anyone has ever said that to him before. The way he receives it from me, with a combination of surprise and cautiousness, suggests maybe it’s the first time.

‘You can play here, Zach, whenever you like. I mean it.’

‘If I did—’ he holds my gaze, ‘—would you listen?’

A ripple of excitement passes across my shoulders. ‘I’d love to.’

When he smiles, it’s like sunshine breaking over the sea. ‘Then I will.’