Bedtime story
by Gail Honeyman
Ioffered to make tea; I knew how much Miss Clay appreciated a cup – a beaker, strictly speaking – between carers’ visits, especially in the afternoons. It was just a case of keeping her comfortable now, they said; there was nothing more to be done. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying, while my children’s voices, audio-describing their attempts to kill one another, jabbed through the party wall. Miss Clay had always been the perfect neighbour (ie, partially deaf).
I looked for somewhere to place my cup. On the side table, a pile of Guardians was weighted down with a rolling pin, some desiccated pastry still adhering. A front page the colour of smoker’s teeth announced the death of John Smith. I balanced my cup on the wooden arm of my chair instead, adding another ring to the Olympic symbols there.
“No problem,” I said, “of course we’ll help.” I heard a thud against the wall, possibly a small human skull, hopefully a tennis ball. “I’d better go.”
The wall between our two back gardens was low enough for me to swing my legs over, easier than walking around the front. Ivan, Miss Clay’s cat, slumped there on dry days and stared with psychopathic focus at the coal tits.
Jim was reading a thriller. The girls had pinned Sam down and were applying face paints as he tried to roundhouse himself free. All three were screaming. Jim looked up and folded the corner of his page. “Alright?” he said. I wrangled the children apart. “Who wants to play a game?” I used my special, calm voice. “What game?” Laura said, suspicious. “Miss Clay needs our help to find the key to her piano lid. It’s in a little box, somewhere in her front room.” Jim had started reading again, sensed me looking at him. He placed the book down. “Shall I make a start on dinner?” he said.
“The key’s solid silver, about this big,” Miss Clay said, showing them half a twisted thumb, “and the box fits in my palm.” She tried and failed to uncurl her hand.
“Can’t you just force it open with a knife?” said Rhona, my little criminal. “It’s a Broadwood, 1903. Ivory keys,” Miss Clay said, swallowing. “Ivory,” Sam said. “Dead elephant’s teeth!” This proved very incentivising. “Don’t break anything!” I said. Keeping one eye on the kids, I began searching too – the mantelpiece, the recessed shelves by the fireplace.
A small black lacquered box, its decoration still just about visible through the dust. I ran my thumb over it, revealing a pair of lovers, a golden palace. I knew the key would be inside before I opened it – you know the way you just know?
When I showed it to her, she cried out, a poultry squawk that made the children look up. Her fingers clawed around the box, holding fast. “I had a…friend, a fellow musician. After the war. He gave me this,” she said, her eyes never leaving it. “I’ll come over tomorrow, help you clear all that stuff off the piano.” She nodded. “Thank you,” she said, waving the box. The key rattled.
When the children were finally asleep, Jim filled my glass. “Wait,” I said. The sound had coincided with the pulling of the cork. Yes, again: a chord. We looked at one another, unused to hearing anything through the wall. A slow scale, then another, speeding up, moving from two octaves to three to four, swelling in confidence. A pause. A chord, again. Then music.