Imperfect Harmony (5 page)

“It’s lovely,” John replied.

The attempt at conversation ground to an awkward halt, but their feet kept moving in rhythm.

“Maggie said you—” “So, how did you—?” They both started talking at once, then stopped.

John chuckled, and that broke the tension.

“You first,” Rhys said.

“What made you want to run the choir?”

“My mum talked me into applying when they advertised for a leader. To be fair, I don’t think they got any other applicants. I ran a couple of sessions for them, and they asked me to stay.”

“You’re really good at it.”

“Thanks.” Rhys felt a warm glow of satisfaction. “I’d never done anything like that before, so I had to learn on the job. I love doing it, though.”

“I can tell. It’s obvious, watching you. You’re so focused; it’s like the rest of the world stops existing. Only the song matters.”

Rhys flushed at the idea of John paying that much attention to him. But John was right. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly how it feels.”

“Do you run any other choirs?”

“No, just this one. I do other music-related stuff, instrumental as well as vocal work. I run some school groups—lunchtime clubs and after school mainly—and sometimes schools hire me to do specialist sessions with gifted students.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty rewarding.” Rhys could bang on for hours about how much he enjoyed his work. It was all the more satisfying because he was his own boss and had built up his business himself. He loved what he did. It kept him sane and gave him a purpose in life after he’d lost his way for a while.

They’d caught up with the dogs now, who were still having a marvellous time chasing each other and rolling around on the grass.

A metal bench faced out over the field. “Shall we?” John asked, gesturing to it. “I think Billy and—sorry, what’s your dog’s name?”

“Starry, she’s my mum’s.”

“Billy and Starry are going to keep each other busy for a while.”

“Yeah.”

John sat down on the bench and Rhys joined him. The cold of the metal seeped up through his jeans and into his arse, but the view was beautiful. A slight mist hung in the still air, the trees made long shadows, and the frost sparkled in the low sunlight. Billy yapped, nudging Starry with his nose as she rolled on the ground with her legs in the air.

“No dignity, that dog,” Rhys said, amused.

John huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Billy reckons dignity is overrated. I think he’s smitten.”

“It seems to be mutual.”

They sat in silence for a moment, but it was a comfortable silence now.

Then Rhys asked the question he’d tried to ask earlier. “So, Maggie said you play the violin?”

“Yes. Well… I used to. But….”

Something about John’s tone made Rhys turn sideways to see his face. John’s jaw was tense and a small frown marred his brow.

“Why did you stop?” Rhys knew he was prying, but he couldn’t help himself. It was obvious it wasn’t just a case of John being too busy. Music was everything to Rhys. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would give it up.

John kept his gaze fixed on the dogs as he replied. “I lost… someone. We used to play together in a band. I haven’t been able to bring myself to pick up my violin since he died, or play anything at all. Singing in your group is the first time I’ve voluntarily done anything musical in two years.”

Rhys’s brain latched on to the pronoun—
he
. Maggie hadn’t mentioned that part. “I’m so sorry,” he said, feeling useless.

How many times had he heard those words himself when Lyle died? The words did nothing; they didn’t help. He repressed the urge to tell John he’d lost someone too. That might lead to questions, ones Rhys didn’t want to answer.

John turned to face him then, and his dark brown eyes were bleak pools of sadness, but his lips softened into a smile. “I should thank you.”

“What for?” Rhys searched John’s features for the meaning of his words.

“For giving music back to me. If it weren’t for you—and Maggie—I’d have carried on avoiding it indefinitely.”

Rhys felt his face break into an answering smile. “You’re welcome.” Emotion swelled up inside him and his voice was rough when he added, “I’m so glad I could help.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for the violin yet. But I opened the piano on Wednesday after choir. I’m a bit rusty, but I haven’t forgotten how to play.”

“It’s muscle memory, like riding a bike. You never forget.”

“Seems that way.”

Just then, Billy came over and put his front paws on the bench between them. He was panting.

“Has she worn you out? You need longer legs, mate,” Rhys said.

“He doesn’t usually get such a good run,” John said, petting Billy, who wagged his tail. “We already walked quite a way before you met us. I’d only been walking him around the park before, but today I decided to venture a bit farther as it was such a nice morning. You’re knackered, aren’t you, Billy?” He stood. “I’d better get him home to Maggie.”

Rhys stood too. “I think Starry’s still got some life in her. I might take her into the woods now. Come on, Starry!” He raised his voice to call her. “Here, girl.” She ran over and stood at his feet, looking up at him expectantly.

“It was good to see you,” John said. “I guess I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Have a good weekend, then. Bye, Rhys.”

“You too. Take care.” Rhys watched as John set off, with Billy having to scamper beside him to match his long strides.

Starry whined as they went, looking after Billy.

“Have you got a crush, Starry?” Rhys asked, amused. “He’s a bit small for you, isn’t he? But maybe it’s true that opposites attract.” He stared after John, taking in his broad shoulders and remembering the shy sweetness of his smile. His heart did a little flip, and Rhys recognised the long-forgotten feeling of attraction. “Maybe you’re not the only one who’s got a bit of a crush, if we’re being honest.”

On Saturday afternoon, Rhys went to Beech House, the old folks’ home on the other side of town. There he played his guitar and sang for the residents every week. It wasn’t a paid gig. Rhys had volunteered because his gran was a resident. It was the only performing he did these days.

“Any requests?” he asked after finishing “Love Me Do” by the Beatles.

“Can you play us some on the piano?” one of the elderly ladies asked.

She made the same request every week. Her dementia meant she never remembered his answer.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Pickering. That’s not where my strengths lie,” Rhys said. “We need to find you a pianist.”

“What about ‘The Irish Rover’?” Rhys’s gran called out.

“Oh yeah, good one, Gran.” Rhys grinned at her and launched into the familiar chords. As he started singing, the audience perked up with recognition. This was always a popular one. By the time he got to the first chorus, lots of them were joining in with gusto.

That set them off with ideas for more old Irish favourites, and by the time they’d done “Danny Boy” and “The Leaving of Liverpool,” Rhys’s hour was almost up.

When he’d finished singing, he stayed for a cuppa as he always did, chatting to his gran at first and then making his way around the room to greet some of the other elderly people who liked to talk to him.

“That was lovely, dear.” Mrs Pickering put a frail, bony hand on his arm. “But maybe you could play us something on the piano next time?”

“Maybe.” Rhys nodded and smiled. Knowing from experience there was no point explaining again. She seemed to recognise him, but she never remembered his name. And they had the same conversation about the piano every time he played. He asked instead, “What song would you like me to play?”

“‘You Make Me Feel So Young,’ that song Frank Sinatra used to sing,” she said promptly, with a faraway look in her eyes. “I love that song. They played it at our ruby wedding anniversary. My husband, Jimmy, was a wonderful dancer.”

Rhys patted her hand. “I bet he was.”

“You have his eyes, you know. The exact same shade of blue. He was a musician too, you know; he played the piano.”

He listened as she got lost down memory lane for a while, telling him anecdotes about her long-dead husband that she’d told him many times before. She became animated as she shared her memories. The past was more real to her than the present. Under her wrinkled skin, Rhys could see a trace of the young woman she once was, happy and in love.

“He sounds like a wonderful man,” he finally said. “Okay, Mrs P, I’m going to have to head off now as it’s getting late. But it was lovely to see you again.”

She blinked, looking around at the room full of old, grey people as if wondering who they were and why she was here. She smiled again, vaguely now, the light gone from her eyes. “Goodbye, dear.”

Rhys returned to his gran and gave her a hug. “Bye, Gran.”

“Thanks for coming, love.” She hugged him back with surprising strength for one who looked so frail. Unlike Mrs P’s, his gran’s mind was still as sharp as ever, but her arthritis in her knees and hips had rendered her too disabled to live alone. She’d been happy to move in to the care home where she’d have company. “I see you got stuck with Mrs Pickering again. She does like to talk.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You’re a good boy.” She patted his cheek.

“I’ll see you next Saturday.” Rhys stood, slinging his guitar case up onto his shoulder. “Have a good week, Gran.”

CHAPTER FIVE

John’s Wednesday started badly when he overslept, and it got worse as the day progressed. He was working in a school in a neighbouring town and had underestimated how bad the traffic would be on the journey there, so he was late for the first class he was supposed to cover.

As it was a school he hadn’t worked in before, John spent most of the day getting lost while trying to find the rooms he was supposed to be in. Then, to round things off, his last lesson was with a particularly disruptive year nine class. After getting glared at, sworn at, and having a pen thrown at him while his back was turned, the final straw was when a boy flipped out and started throwing chairs around, injuring another pupil in the process. John had to send for the deputy head to help remove the boy from the lesson.

Of course, after that there was paperwork to fill in relating to the incident, so John had to stay late and then got stuck in rush hour traffic again. By the time he got home, he was exhausted. The stress and tension of the day had crept up his neck and was making his head pound like a kettle drum.

He microwaved a ready meal and ate it mechanically, barely tasting it, and then took two ibuprofen with a cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine would wake him up enough to go out again. Maggie was relying on him for a lift to choir again this week, although she was hoping to be cleared to drive soon.

John was looking forward to going despite how knackered he was. The songs had been going around in his head since last week, and a couple of times he’d caught himself singing as he pottered around the house—another thing he hadn’t done for a long time. It was as though a dusty corner of his brain reignited; synapses and pathways that had fallen into disuse were firing again.

He was also looking forward to seeing Rhys, even though he tried not to admit that part to himself. Since their meeting on Saturday, Rhys had popped into John’s consciousness more than he was comfortable with, especially as his thoughts of Rhys made his heart beat faster and sparked a twist of excitement and interest that was so alien it scared him. Maybe another neglected corner of his brain was waking up as well as the musical part.

After dinner, John considered putting his feet up for a while and watching TV, but if he did, chances were he would doze off, and then waking up would feel horrible.

Instead he went upstairs, stripped off his work clothes, and turned the shower on to heat up.

He leaned on the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection. Messy salt-and-pepper hair that was receding slightly at the temples, and stuck up in odd directions no matter how much he tried to tame it. His beard, in comparison, was neatly trimmed, but his body hair was au naturel. He ran his fingers through the wiry mat of hair on his broad chest and down over the solidity of his belly where the hair was softer. Silver hairs grew among the dark there, and his beard was almost white in places.

John rarely gave any thought to his appearance. He’d never been vain, but David’s desire for him had given John confidence. Now, after two years of celibacy, he felt disconnected from his body. Even when he masturbated, it was a physical release, perfunctory rather than pleasurable.

He wondered how Rhys saw him. Did he see John as a man? Or as just another face in his choir—some bloke almost old enough to be his father.

When steam started to fog the mirror, John got into the shower, closed his eyes, and let the hot water pound some of his tension away.

John wasn’t feeling much better when he knocked on Maggie’s door later.

“Hi.” He tried to sound cheerful. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. Let me just get my coat.” He waited on the doorstep and then offered her a hand down the step. “No, it’s okay. I’ve got this down to a fine art now. It’s easier with a stick than it was with the crutch.”

She was visibly more agile than she’d been even a few days ago. It was good to see.

“How was your day?” Maggie asked once they were settled in John’s car. He’d started the engine before going to get her, to give it a chance to warm up and demist a little.

“I’ve had better.” He put the car in gear and pulled out of his parking space.

“Oh dear, that bad?”

“Yeah.” John rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the residual stiffness. Driving never helped with that. Even two years after the accident, he had to steel himself every time he got into a car.

“Choir will help,” Maggie said. “I always come away feeling better, even on a really bad day. You are going to stay again tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m looking forward to it.”