Page 26 of And Then There Was You

Twenty Zach

Merryn Rowe is a shock to my system.

I didn’t know she lived above her café, and when I realised she was watching me, I just wanted to get out of there. But as I watch a smile bloom on her lovely face, my world tilts.

She’s beautiful: not just as she appears before me, with her sleep-ruffled hair and flushed cheeks; but in the words she chooses so carefully and the heart beating behind them.

I caught it when I first saw her, like a glint of sun on the waves, but standing opposite her now I’m captured by her light.

She’s luminous, in her crumpled sweatshirt and striped pyjama shorts.

And she’s just given me the gift of her permission to play this piano.

Before I knew she was there, before I was aware of my audience of one, I found peace in this small, dark courtyard.

The moment my fingers met the keys of the old piano, the release I’ve longed for arrived.

The first song I played was an old Scottish folk tune my grandpa taught me, before dementia stole the music from his mind.

Playing made it all feel better, even just for a few minutes.

‘I should let you get back to bed,’ I say, suddenly aware of how little time we’ll both have to catch any sleep before our Mondays begin.

‘Probably.’

We share an awkward pause before Merryn makes the first move, walking to the side of the courtyard that leads to the passage. I follow her down the narrow path towards the iron gate.

At the boundary between the gate and the street beyond it, she stops walking and looks up at me, her eyes bright despite the shadows.

‘Thanks for the music,’ she says.

‘Thanks for the invitation,’ I reply.

Her smile when I leave will stay with me long past tonight. It will call me back like the pull of the piano, stronger now than it was before.

*

‘Bleddy hell, Zach, who did you fight for glory last night?’

Matt is irritatingly chipper at five a.m., all jokes and gentle digs I’m too knackered to spot. But then you can’t expect anything less from a bloke who gets up at three a.m. to bake every morning.

‘I didn’t sleep much,’ I reply adding the last loaf to the crate I’m filling, hefting it off the stainless steel prep table with a groan.

‘Evidently. You okay to drive?’

‘Yeah no worries. I have coffee.’

A frown furrows Matt’s brow. ‘What kind of coffee?’

‘Instant. In a flask.’

If I’d said Matt’s bread was filled with sawdust I couldn’t receive as damning a look as he sends me now. ‘Hand it over.’

‘I just put it in the van.’

‘Then bring it out .’

He’s deadly serious. I don’t have the will – or physical ability – to argue, so I trot out like an obedient puppy to the half-packed van parked on the cobbles outside the bakery, the orange flashes from its hazard lights bouncing off the neighbouring whitewashed buildings.

When I hand my flask to Matt, he opens the lid, takes a disparaging sniff, then deposits the lot in the wide sink beneath the window.

‘I need that!’ I wail.

‘Trust me, Z-man, you do not need that in your life.’ He rinses the inside with tap water and reaches for the glass percolator jug on the machine in the corner, pouring glossy, dark coffee into my waiting flask.

The scent that surrounds us is something else.

‘ This is what you need. And don’t insult my business by bringing in that freeze-dried pap again. ’

At least he’s smiling when he says this. And I am not likely to turn down free coffee this morning, whatever its source.

‘Cheers, boss.’

‘Hang on . . .’ He grabs two thick slices of sausage roll from a tray on the multi-shelved baking trolley, wrapping them in a length of tinfoil and handing the deliciously warm package to me. ‘Eat as you go. I don’t want you veering off the road due to low blood sugar.’

He’s terrifying when he’s being funny, but I can’t fault his generosity. Other employers might have sent me packing for turning up to work looking like a sleep-deprived zombie, but not Matt. It’s a blessing I won’t forget to count.

And it’s not alone.

As I drive the van along my route, my thoughts stray to Merryn.

She was incredible last night. It’s only now I’m navigating the twists and turns of the country roads that the danger of what I did hits me.

She could have been terrified to find me in the courtyard.

She would have been well within her rights to call the police, or demand I leave.

Why didn’t I consider her in the equation when I was staring at the gate, tempted to enter?

Truth is, I wasn’t thinking straight. But the building was in darkness, with no drawn curtains on the first floor to suggest anybody lived there. I went to the courtyard because I believed I was alone. Thought I could sneak in, play and leave, with nobody any the wiser.

I didn’t bank on Merryn Rowe.

The invitation was for you . . .

Have I remembered that correctly? Or has my sleep-starved mind added that embellishment? Did Merryn deliberately leave the message on the board for me to see? And what about the unlocked side gate? Was that part of her invitation, too?

‘Lovely day for it,’ Eric Cuthbert quips, as I unload the delivery for The Water Mill pub.

He says it every morning I visit, but I’ve learned it’s his version of a twenty-minute chat.

‘It is indeed, Eric. You expecting a busy one?’

‘Don’t we always?’ he chuckles, despite his eye-roll. ‘You take care now, boy.’

I wonder if he looks forward to our five-line conversation each delivery day, as I do.

I love it, I’ll admit. It’s acceptance: none of the scrutiny and unmasked suspicion I was greeted with by nearly everyone during my first two shifts. Two weeks in, I’m practically family.

Still-a-bit-distant family, that is, but I’m happy with it.

Trust is hard won in Cornwall. If you get even a glimpse of it, you’re in.

Matt’s superior coffee and excellent slices of sausage roll sustain me as I continue on my round.

I’m glad I appalled him with my woeful beverage offering if this is the replacement I get.

I can’t do this tomorrow, but then I don’t plan on playing piano in a stolen session for a lovely woman tonight.

A beautiful woman . . .

The dawn arrives, more sparkling and clear than any I’ve seen on my rounds since I started this job. Or is that my imagination because of what happened at Sweet Reverie last night?

I don’t care.

The combination of playing piano at last and the unexpected company I had has lifted me from wherever the hell I was yesterday.

I feel lighter, calmer, as I will the van up steep, single-track roads to reach my drop-offs in faster time.

I’m learning short cuts, some suggested by customers, some discovered by trial, error and winding up in unfamiliar farmyard dead ends.

Yesterday, I couldn’t imagine feeling positive about my life again.

This morning, I can’t wait to find out what happens next.

The piano changed that. And Merryn.

I need to go back to Sweet Reverie. Soon.

The question is, when?