Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
ORLA
Lately, whenever I leave my house or arrive home, I find myself glancing at the door to number eight.
It’s as if I am expecting to see the blinds drawn in mourning or something else – something more symbolic: the wings of the angel of death casting a shadow on the smooth paint, a black cross daubed upon it, or even wilting, cellophane-wrapped flowers tied to the railings on the square, as happens when a fatal accident or murder has taken place.
But every day there has been nothing; only sometimes Gray’s carer’s car parked outside, or the slim, dark-haired woman – the other woman, Gray’s lover – approaching the door for her regular visits.
I feel relief that he is still alive, that the loss that awaits that family has been averted for the time being, but also a kind of horror that their ordeal is continuing.
I have been doing what I can to help, but it feels like so little.
Dropping in to sit with Gray for a while, saving articles from Frieze magazine that I think might interest him to read aloud.
Inviting Anna for lunch or a glass of wine.
I have wondered about approaching Laurel and offering some words of comfort to her too, but that seems too intrusive, too presumptuous – and also perhaps disloyal to Anna.
I am in unfamiliar territory. I don’t know what to do for the best, what is expected from a good neighbour, from a friend, from a person who tries to live life honestly and decently.
Yesterday, though, I was presented with what felt like an opportunity to make a difference to the Grahams, even if in a small, insignificant way.
It was late afternoon and I had been for a walk, the heavy rain that had fallen earlier having eased off, leaving sparkling clarity and a rainbow arching over the glass towers of the City. On my return home, I saw Barney Graham sitting alone on one of the benches in the square.
He is a tall lad, fair-haired like his mother, awkward and gangly like so many boys just entering their teens. His football was on the ground between his feet, but there was no one there for him to have a kick-about with. Instead, he had headphones in his ears and was staring at nothing.
Taking the headphones as a sign that he didn’t wish to be interrupted, I raised a hand in greeting and carried on by. But when he saw me he removed them, stood up and came over to the gate.
Hello, Barney, I said. How are you?
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, and I saw he’d been crying. He said, Okay, thanks Orla. I mean, you know. Dad and stuff.
I nodded, as awkward and at a loss for words as he was.
Then he said, I was listening to music. Debussy. I’ve started learning the piano at school, and our teacher played us one of his pieces today. It’s… I’d love to play like that someday.
I smiled. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, if you work hard.
That wasn’t true, of course. I myself am completely tone deaf and could never play – or indeed even identify – Debussy if I spent a lifetime trying.
I can’t practise at home, he said. Dad hates it. When I was in primary school I learned the recorder and the noise drove him crackers.
I said, I’m not surprised – the recorder’s not the easiest instrument to listen to at the best of times.
Barney said, Right? and laughed. Besides, we don’t have a piano. Mum would get me one of those keyboard things if I asked, but it doesn’t feel… with Dad and stuff…
Then an idea struck me. You could come and practise on my piano, I said. Well, it’s Beatrice’s – my daughter’s – but she wouldn’t mind. I bought it for her but she’s not living at home any longer, so it’s just gathering dust really.
To my surprise, he agreed enthusiastically.
He came in with me, accepted a cup of tea and a scone heaped with blackberry jam, and then I showed him the piano in the front room and he sat down, suddenly looking like a boy who’d arrived in a place where he was meant to be.
For the next half hour I listened as the notes began to flow more surely and confidently, with fewer pauses, repetitions and muttered oaths from Barney.
Then he came and found me in the kitchen, thanked me and said he should get back home.
It was nothing – or at best it was the smallest thing. But I hope he will come again. I told him he is welcome any time. I hope my home, the keys of that piano and the music can become a kind of refuge for him.