Chapter 35
He was in the dugout with Thomas and they were looking for a particular record—“Frog Legs Rag”—and Max didn’t notice that Thomas had picked up one of his notebooks and was flipping through the pages until he went completely still.
“Did you write this?”
“What?” Max’s eyes fell upon the notebook. It was filled with compositions he was working on, had been working on for quite a while, but he’d never shown them to anyone. He flushed, knowing that Thomas could read music. “Yes, but I mean, obviously, they’re not finished yet and—”
“Everly!” Thomas was staring at him with the oddest expression. Were the songs really that bad? With a shake of his head, Thomas held the notebook out to him. “My dear fellow,” he said quietly. “You’re going to be one of the greatest composers this world has ever seen.”
Max laughed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”
He reached out, but it was no longer a book in Thomas’s hand, it was a grenade. His friend’s eyes slid slowly to his. “It’s my last time over the top,” he whispered.
And then the bomb exploded.
Max woke up screaming and it took a while before he realised where he was and with whom.
“Come with me,” Eve said quietly.
It was the middle of the night and she led him down a maze of corridors and staircases until they reached the deserted lobby of the hotel.
It was past midnight. There wasn’t a soul around and the only illumination came from a row of candles glowing in their silver holders atop the grand piano in the corner, making it seem as if the instrument shone beneath a spotlight.
“Sit.” Eve indicated the piano stool. “It’s hard to know what’s real sometimes when there are so many ghosts crowding the room. But music makes everyone less afraid—even ghosts.”
It had been such a long time since Max’s hands had touched piano keys.
On the last occasion he’d seen a piano there had been blood and bombs.
He found himself telling Eve what had happened to Captain Young and was grateful when she didn’t say anything.
There were no words that could possibly be suitable, but the touch of her hand on his shoulder reminded him that he wasn’t entirely alone in this moment.
He glanced at her spotless nurse’s uniform, and it was a relief to see someone unmarked by the gore and gas of the war.
He wanted to thank her for listening, for being there, for reminding him that there was kindness and gentleness in a world that had gone mad.
Only he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the right words.
For a wild moment, he thought of kissing her instead.
But she was clean and whole, and he was dirty and damaged, and it could not be.
When he finally summoned the courage to open the lid of the piano keys, he wondered whether he might have forgotten how to play music altogether.
The notes all seemed to jerk and jumble inside his head.
But then Eve reached out and pressed down on middle C—the clear, perfect note rang through the room in such a pleasing, peaceful way that Max pressed it again.
And again. And again. Relishing the purity of the sound before it faded softly back into nothing.
Then both his hands were on the keys, and he was playing a piece he remembered from his childhood—a simple little tune that his mother used to play.
A song that immediately brought back the safe feeling of arms wrapped around him in a hug, playing with a ball and stick in the garden as nightingales sang from the trees, lying in clean sheets at night as a fresh breeze brushed against the curtains and people who loved him moved about downstairs.
After that, his fingers ached to play every beautiful song he could recall.
Songs that reminded him of friends and family, past joys and hopes, every moment that had in any way been good, and true, and worth something.
He was glad of Eve still sitting beside him, because music meant more if there was another person there to hear it too—especially if it was a person you cared for.
He didn’t know why that should be, but it simply was.
The music yearned for an audience. He played for hours, until the sun rose outside and light spilled in through the windows, painting the pillars golden.
“Can I come back?” Max asked. “To play the piano again?”
“Whenever you like,” she replied.
Max looked at her. The morning light across her face was beautiful—she was beautiful—and he felt that familiar intense gladness that came from being close to her.
He thought again that she must be a witch who had cast a spell over him.
He didn’t want to feel this way. He didn’t want the tormented tug that comes from yearning to see a person day after day.
He told himself it was a good thing that he would leave the hotel soon and never see Eve Shaw again.
He hoped that she would return to England and meet a nice fellow who had survived the war with his soul intact, and would treat her well, and make her happy.
“If you ever need anything,” he found himself saying, “anything at all, then just send word. It won’t matter what I’m doing or where I am. I’ll come and find you.”