Page 36 of And Then There Was You

Thirty Zach

Eleven-thirty takes an age to arrive. I do what I can to fill the time and distract my mind from checking my watch every five minutes. But I can’t settle.

It shouldn’t be as important as it feels: just chance to play the courtyard piano in the company of my newest friend. But there’s a pull to be there that I haven’t felt for a long time.

I used to feel it about the sea.

Waking up at first light, dressing at record speed and being in the water before the sun came up.

Watching the tide and weather forecasts, obsessing over conditions, weighing up risks.

What began with a love of the ocean became a compulsion, a need that, if not satisfied, left me hollow and frustrated.

And then it became my way of paying bills, bringing with it a whole new pressure to get in the water.

I still loved it, but it was as if my board had passengers every time I went out.

Bills, sponsors, industry pundits critical of my every move through the waves.

Silence them once with a great performance, only to find them stubbornly seated on board for the next.

I went through about a year where competing was no longer fun, where I had to drag myself into the sea and returning to dry land was a relief.

I’d leave it till the last minute to get ready, often the last to arrive at a competition.

Some of my surf mates started calling me Tardy Trev, a joke that quickly became a commentary on my pro career.

I still won, the sponsors were still satisfied (mostly), but everything felt stilted and over-rehearsed, my body going through the motions but my head a million miles away.

It’s almost time. I jump up from the studio sofa and start to get ready.

As I’m putting on my sneakers, I glance down to my left where the curves of a wave tattoo rest above my ankle.

A cresting wave, like the one featured in Katsushika Hokusai’s famous woodblock print The Great Wave off Kanagawa , with two shining stars behind it.

I had The Great Wave on a poster that followed me through various flats and apartments from the age of sixteen, and it still means a lot to me.

It was at the end of that disillusioned period of my career when I had the tattoo done.

I’d debated having one for years, seeing so many of my fellow surfers sporting increasingly impressive inks.

What swayed my decision was a competition in Portugal, where the top three competitors would win instant entry to a huge surf meet in Oahu, Hawaii.

It was the one everyone wanted to win, the chance to surf in the biggest league competition bringing with it career-transforming prestige.

I went with a bunch of mates, all of us competing in the same class.

I’d been struggling for a while, hating every session, super critical of everything I was doing, and the last thing I wanted was to be in the water.

But as I stood on the beach watching my friends compete, I met an old Aussie dude who was working as a marshal.

We got chatting and he revealed that he was a former champion, once ranked tenth in the world.

‘That’s what I want,’ I’d said, surprised when he’d shook his head.

‘That’s what you tell everyone you want. But you don’t feel it.’

How could he have known that, only minutes after meeting me?

When I questioned his incredibly snap judgement, he laughed.

‘You can’t kid a kidder, mate. I see it in your face now, and when you were out on the waves earlier.

Point is, you don’t want what really matters.

Competitions, accolades, notches on your board, it’s all meaningless if you don’t want the wave. ’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.

‘All that matters – all that ever has and ever should – is the next wave. And the next. And the next. If you aren’t chasing the wave, you aren’t moving forward. You aren’t learning. You can have all the medals and firsts in the world, but they’re meaningless unless you want the next wave.’

I crashed out of the competition, outclassed by the waves and the other competitors.

It should have been well within my grasp, but I failed.

I returned home questioning my future as a pro.

Questioning everything in my life. That winter, I took myself to the sea every day I could.

No training schedule, no tick-box list of achievements to log. Just me and the next wave.

It changed everything.

Through it all, I would gaze at the Great Wave print on my bedroom wall, remembering what the old surfer had told me. And by the spring, I finally understood.

So I got the tattoo.

I run my finger over it now, wondering which wave I’m chasing tonight.

*

Star Court is dark and still when I arrive, the side gate to the café courtyard unlocked as before.

I still check there’s nobody watching as I lift the latch, slipping into the side passage quickly.

I’m nervous tonight, more nervous than I was last time.

I’m conscious of every step, every breath, of the distance between the piano and me shrinking, the time I see Merryn getting closer.

How will she be with me tonight?

There’s still the issue of our almost-kiss. I was the one who pulled away at the moment it should have happened. How will that have looked to her? I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself then – choosing self-preservation over the thing that everything in me wanted. I still don’t know why.

She’s waiting as I turn the corner and walk towards the piano. Sitting on the ledge between the courtyard and café, a lilac hoodie over her flowered dress. She looks tired, her smile brief and weary. I won’t stay too long for her sake, even though I could remain chatting to Merryn Rowe all night.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Hey.’

‘How did the evening opening go?’

‘Good, thanks. We had lots of people in and they all seemed happy. So, no complaints from me.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘Sorry. How was your day?’

‘It was okay.’ I take a seat on the old piano stool, sitting with my back to the instrument, all my attention on Merryn. ‘I was interviewed for the Cornwall Daily News .’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Impressive.’

‘Well, maybe. I’ll wait and see what happens. Journalists can be tricky to judge before you see what they’ve written.’

‘How come you were interviewed?’

‘One of my new jobs found out I used to be a pro surfer. I think my boss wanted to cash in on my former success.’

‘One of your new jobs?’

I laugh. ‘This is my life now.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘I do early morning deliveries for a bakery and I’m about to start shifts at a restaurant on the harbour.’

Merryn smiles – and I swear the courtyard brightens in the soft light. ‘That just makes you a local. Everyone has more than one job. Apart from me.’

‘You have the evening openings. That must be like a second job.’

‘I guess it is. So, you’re going to be in the paper? I didn’t realise Merlin has a celebrity player.’

‘Hardly. But thanks for the compliment.’ I gaze at her for a moment, what I want to say flanked by a hundred reasons not to go there. ‘Look, about last night . . .’

Her eyes avoid mine. ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it all day. About you.’

‘Honestly, Zach, we’re good.’

It’s only then I realise what she means – and what she thinks I’m referring to.

‘No – I don’t mean when we . . . When I . . . That’s not what I’m talking about.’

She reddens. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise.’ This isn’t going how I wanted. I’ve embarrassed her within five minutes of arriving. How is she ever going to trust me enough to tell me why the piano scares her? I take a breath, calm my racing thoughts, and send Merryn the brightest smile I can.

This is the next wave.

She is my next wave.

And I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

‘When I asked you to play,’ I begin, praying she doesn’t cut me off before I’ve said what I need to, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you or offend you. But I feel like I did, by the way you reacted.’

‘You didn’t do either.’ Her reply is so quiet I barely catch it all, her words directed resolutely at her feet.

‘Then can I ask why?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘I guessed it was. Why have the piano here if you don’t want to play it?’

‘For my customers. For the café.’

Even she doesn’t sound convinced. If I push now, I could ruin everything.

She could demand I leave, with no future smiles drawn on the sign by the gate.

But the more I’ve considered it today, the more convinced I’ve become that she might never have been asked this before; that maybe I was always supposed to gatecrash the courtyard in order to help her.

I understand the pull of the piano, the need to play, more than anybody else Merryn seems to have around her. Maybe if I ask . . .

‘Honestly? I don’t buy that.’

She’s staring at me now, a glimpse of the steel I know she must have to make this place a reality breaking through. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I don’t think the café or your customers are a strong enough reason to rescue an old piano from the street, to push it all the way back here, late at night, and to spend hours lovingly painting it as you have.

Love is the reason for that. Like the song I played for you, last night: it has to come from the heart. ’

She says nothing, her stare fixed on me.

I press on – because I’ve said too much now anyway to remain neutral on this.

Backing down is no longer an option. I’ve chosen my wave and have no choice but to follow it all the way to shore.

‘When you look at the piano, it’s like you’re gazing at someone you love.

Maybe someone who hurt you, long ago. There’s history, sadness, hope, all playing out at once.

And maybe that’s why you’re scared to play.

Because of the history. Or the strength of what you feel. ’

Am I completely off with this? I can’t read her expression. I might have read too much into her reluctance to play, but as I’ve spoken the words, my conviction that I’m right has grown.

Silence builds and intensifies between us, challenging my courage.

Have I blown it? Will she ask me to leave?

I long to fill the gap with chatter, to dispel the tension, but if I do that I could lose my only chance to reach her. So I wait. Hold my nerve. And watch Merryn’s silent stare.

After what feels like forever, she closes her eyes. ‘I lost someone. Years ago. He taught me to play.’

Someone died . Why didn’t I work that out?

I redden. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She’s looking at her hands now, her fingers working the hem of her skirt. ‘That song you played, the first night you came here – “Time Wears Awa” – he used to play it for my mum. Not that she ever appreciated it.’

‘Who was he?’ I don’t know if I should ask, but she’s talking now and I don’t want to lose this moment.

‘He dated my mum for a while. Moved in with us for two years and brought his piano with him.’

‘And that’s when he taught you to play?’

She nods. ‘I used to sit beside him on the piano stool and he’d show me the notes. I thought it was the most—’ she breathes a deep sigh as if the memory has pulled her back to the piano of her past ‘— magical thing I’d ever seen. Filling a room with music just by pressing the keys.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Grant. Grant Henderson. He was the manager of a bar Mum got drunk at. But I think he wanted to be a musician. It’s all he ever talked about when he was with us.’

‘When did he pass?’

A frown furrows her brow. ‘He didn’t, oh . . .’ She looks up. ‘He isn’t dead. At least, I don’t think he is.’

I have no idea what to say to that. She said she’d lost someone – and it was a time ago – so what else was I supposed to think? ‘Sorry,’ I manage, wishing I could shrink away.

‘Mum chucked him out,’ she says. ‘And he left, taking his piano with him. I don’t know what happened to him. I was nine years old when he went. He was the closest thing to a dad I ever knew.’

Now it makes sense. ‘So that’s why you wanted a piano. To feel close to him?’

‘It sounds lame, I know.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

She studies me, as if testing the water, working out if she can trust what she sees. ‘Thank you.’

‘But why not play? The music might bring you close to his memory.’

‘No. I can’t. I’ve tried.’

I move along the piano stool and pat the seat, as I did last night. Another chance to get this right, to reach Merryn, knowing the link between her and Merlin. ‘Sit by me.’

‘Zach, I can’t.’

‘You don’t have to play. Just sit by me. Be closer to the music.’

In the stillness that follows, I swear my heart pauses.

And then she moves.

Beside me, Merryn sits, her gaze never leaving me.

I could sweep her into my arms right now. I’m shocked by the impulse – and the notion of sweeping anyone up. It’s new and almost impossible to resist. But I can’t lose focus, can’t let this chance go.

I have an idea. I don’t know if it will work, but I have to try.

Slowly, I place my fingers on the keys, making the first chord of the song Merryn told me reminds her of Grant Henderson. Then I turn to her.

‘Put your hands on mine.’

‘What?’

‘You won’t be playing. I will.’

I see the rise and fall of her chest become more pronounced. Her dark eyes grow wide. Does she trust me? Can I make this work for her?

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘How will you know what’s possible unless you try?’

She stares at my hands. Shifts her position. I hold my breath.

And then her left arm snakes under mine, the brush of her skin sending shockwaves across me as her fingers rest on top of my hand. Slowly, the fingers of her right hand join mine.

Heart in my mouth, air breath-held between us, I start to play.