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“I don’t know. Like it’s disapproving of me, somehow. It felt that way when I came by to pick up those clothes.” She frowned. “And I’ve really been missing the piano. The itch to play has found me again, the last week or so. Do you mind if I…?”
“Of course not, go on up.” I waved her question away. “I’ll pack these albums while you’re there.”
She smiled her thanks and disappeared up the stairs while I went through to the kitchen. Outside, in the shed, I located a sturdy cardboard pallet from when we’d first moved in, and back in the kitchen I picked up all the albums from the years of our relationship and placed them in. Then my hand rested on the 1991 album. In it, I knew, I was a completely different person. Petra had seen it before, but perhaps she’d like to see it again. Perhaps it would help the situation. Shrugging to myself, I added the album in, then a few more recent ones at random.
One more from the early days of my childhood – 1979 – and I judged that that was enough to be getting on with. I only hoped that she wouldn’t show Mabel and the others any of the older ones, and made a mental note to ask her when she came down. But right at that moment, breaking the silence that I’d become all too used to recently, came the sound of a piano.
It took me only a couple of seconds to recognise the tune. It was one of the most recognisable ones she’d ever played. Camille Saint-Saëns had created a masterpiece in this one, as he emulated the calm dignity of the swan on the surface, while representing the frantic movement of its legs underneath and the rippling water around it. A piano solo of it, like the one Petra was playing, lent it a different dimension to the original cello score with piano accompaniment. My interpretation of its meaning, I knew, was different to how the composer had intended it.
I’d researched it, of course, and I knew that the seriousness and solemnity with which it was taken these days was a far cry from what Saint-Saens had predicted or expected. He’d expected ridicule, as The Carnival Of The Animals, from which The Swan was taken, was a humorous suite. But you only had to listen to how Petra was playing it now to hear the pain she was in. It felt like a knife to the heart as it hit me for the first time how much pain this situation must be causing her, too. Up until now, I’d seen a rather more callous side of her. Forging her way determinedly through the obstacles to her freedom – i.e. me – with a resolve of steel. But now I realised how much it was hurting her, too. I wanted nothing more in that moment to have my arms around her, and her arms around me. Nonetheless, I stayed rooted to the spot as she rippled her way through the bars, right up until the end, where as she made her way down the piano – I could just picture the graceful movement of her hands down the keys – to the lower notes again, the tension in the song was expelled, and the house returned to its quietude.
Don’t move, I thought. Not just to myself, or to her, but to the whole world. Don’t let this moment end.
But of course, it did. I heard the squeak of the piano stool, then the sound of papers rustling. After a few more moments, there came the soft padding of her footsteps coming back down the stairs. When she appeared in the kitchen doorway, the pain was written plainly on her face for the first time since this whole situation began, but she smiled bravely.
Just as I was plucking up the courage to reach for her, she took a couple of steps forward and picked up the pallet.
“Jesus,” she said, putting it back down, and with that one expletive, the palatal approximant and the sibilant ripping the air, the bubble burst. I flinched back to life, and the moment was gone.
“I’ll give you a hand with that,” I said, although my voice didn’t sound like me. It never had, I realised, and those three words hit me like a ton of bricks. But I pushed the thought to the back of my mind – just temporarily, just until Petra had gone, I reassured myself – and forced myself to act normal.
In the end, we both got in the car with the pallet and I drove them up to Mabel’s house, Sea Haven. Having gotten it through the door, and said goodbye to Petra, I turned the car around and drove home feeling quite numb.
But at least you did feel something, Jean.
That thought popped into my head as I pulled back onto the drive, bringing with it a wave of relief. I remembered the thought I’d had back in April, when I’d first realised Petra and I were in trouble. The day I don’t feel anything when Petra played will be the day I know our marriage is over.
There was still hope for us, after all. I’d felt something – so our marriage couldn’t be over just yet.
Chapter Sixty-Six
As it was, I didn’t have to wait until the following Wednesday.
Not even twenty-four hours later, my phone rang again while I was sitting on my bed thinking things over. It was Petra. My heart leapt into my mouth.
“Jean, are you free at the weekend?” she said without preamble.
“I’m working on Saturday. Why?”
“Do you remember the hotel we stayed at in the Cotswolds?”
“As if I’d forget. I remember every little detail of that trip.” I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to remind her how committed I was still.
“Well, I was just poking around on Google, and they’ve got a cancellation. Saturday night is free. I went a bit impulsive and booked it. Can you make yourself free? Would that be possible?”
Hope filled my chest. The Cotswolds. The place we’d agreed to marry each other. What better place to reconnect? And perhaps I might even get the chance to come out to her while we were there.
“I’ll be there even if I have to go unpaid,” I said, conviction bolstering my words.
“And I was thinking…”
“What?”
“Can I stay the night tomorrow night?”
“Of course. This is still your house too!”
“I just thought it would be practical. Then I can pack, and we can set off first thing on Saturday morning without risking waking Mabel. If you’d rather I didn’t then that’s fine, I just-”
