It was a strange sensation, hearing music. In all the time I’d been away from my own time, I’d hardly heard any, apart from the ball I’d attended with Edith and the songs I’d hummed under my breath. Music was such a huge part of being a person living in the twenty-first century; we could access whatever music we liked at the touch of a button, and music was everywhere: adverts, film, memes. Yet, in the past, music was an event, not a background soundtrack.
I finished my bath, got dressed and ducked back past the curtain to find William sitting at the piano, playing a simple tune and singing along in a surprisingly pleasing baritone. I didn’t know what he was playing, but it sounded like a simple folk song of some kind.
He caught my eye as he played, and nodded. He didn’t smile,but I felt something – what? A kind of temporary accord? – between us.
Nancy busied herself with making some breakfast. A delicious smell filled the room; I could make out frying potatoes and saw a crock of eggs next to her. My stomach grumbled. I’d hardly eaten, and last night with William had been quite a workout.
I was dressed in a warm skirt and bodice borrowed from Nancy, woollen socks and a knitted shawl. My hair was drying around my shoulders. It felt good to be clean. I felt as though if I ate something, I might start to feel vaguely human and be able to plan what to do next.
‘You can play,’ Nancy called out from the other side of the room, where she stood at the stove.
William stopped singing. ‘Yes. I had lessons as a child. I used to play for my mother, when she was still alive.’
William had experienced so much hurt in his life; I knew that he’d lost his mother when he was young – she’d died in childbirth with his sister, Edith. And, after that, his father had begun to be abusive with the children. William had lost his young wife to a terrible accident, and now he had lost Edith and, we had to assume, left her to endure a horrible life, alone. For as long as I’d known him, William had held a darkness in him.
I wondered how soon it would be until his darkness returned, and he would be drawn to bare-knuckle boxing again; sneaking out to beat some local lad bloody. That was what he did to temporarily forget the things that had hurt him.
‘Play something again,’ I said, encouragingly. I wanted to try and guide him away from his dark mood. ‘It’s nice to hear. Isn’t it, Nancy?’
‘Indeed. Not often I ’as a guest ’oo can play.’ She nodded.
‘As you wish.’ He pressed his lips together in a frown, as if Nancy had asked him to do something unpleasant.
He started playing a popular song I’d heard the maids singing at Trevarron House. He had a beautiful baritone voice, deep andresonant, and he could hold a tune very well. I joined in, with what I could remember of it.
It was lovely, singing together, but there was a sadness in William, too. I could feel it as I stood next to him. I wanted to hold him; I wanted to tell him that everything would be all right. But I didn’t know that it would.
‘You two should be on the stage!’ Nancy clapped us, chuckling. ‘Lovely harmonies. It’s like you were born to sing together.’
I felt colour rise to my cheeks. For some reason, that suggestion felt more exposing than any lewd activities William and I had engaged in.
‘Perhaps we were,’ William said, letting his hands fall in his lap, dejectedly. ‘Although, if we were, I must say that the gods have a fine way of making it difficult for us. They could have made us born in the same century, at least.’
I wondered if he was making a joke, but he seemed as low-spirited as before.
‘I had no idea you were so talented. Pray, Tegan, play us something from your time. A song of the twenty-first century,’ Nancy said, as if trying to lighten the mood.
‘But I don’t play the piano,’ I protested.
‘Sing, then, and William can play along. Breakfast is almost ready,’ Nancy called out.
‘Oh. All right…’ I thought about it for a moment, and began singing a Beatles song – one that Aunt Bill and I had often sung together. As I started to sing, my voice wavered, but I carried on. It felt almost like a tribute to my aunt to sing it, in her cottage, even if she wasn’t there. A way to remember her. A way to infuse the stone cottage walls with the feeling of her.
William started to pick up the melody on the piano, and accompanied me quite well. I sang the song all the way to the end, with my eyes closed, remembering Aunt Bill. And when the tears rolled down my cheeks, I didn’t wipe them away.
Finally, I opened my eyes. Nancy and William were both staring at me. There were tears in Nancy’s eyes, too.
‘That was the most beautiful song I think I’ve ever ’eard,’ Nancy said, quietly. ‘Thank you, Tegan.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I nodded, and wiped my eyes. ‘Sorry. That song’s an emotional one for me.’
‘Don’t apologise. It was beautiful, like she said.’ William laid a hand on my shoulder.
‘I wish I could see my aunt again.’ I sighed. ‘We used to sing that together. She was – is – a wonderful person. You’d like her, William.’ I thought about Aunt Bill in this very kitchen, baking a pie. Listening to the radio and tutting at the news. Reading a book on the sofa wearing her glasses.
‘I’m sorry, Tegan.’ William still had his hand on my shoulder. ‘I forget that this is difficult for you, too. You must miss your aunt. As I miss Edith.’
‘Yes. I do. I want to get home as badly as you do,’ I replied, in a low voice.
