Robert Louis Stevenson’s Story by Dawn Knox, a bowl of water

Previously: An unusual stranger has shaken up the neighbourhood. Gladys, Elsie, Minnie, Daphne, Cyril, and Gladys’s dog, Robert Louis Stevenson, have all witnessed the exotic man. This is Robert Louis Stevenson’s story…

 

Robert Louis Stevenson nudged the leaflet and business card Mr Johnson had placed on Mistress’s coffee table with his nose. They smelt of Mr. Johnson. That wasn’t surprising, but there was another smell mingled with his stink, and Robert Louis Stevenson rifled through his sniffer library to identify it.

Strangely, the scent was the same as that of the screeching, unclothed man Robert Louis Stevenson had tried to bite the other day. The one who’d leapt over the fence from Mr Johnson’s garden into Robert Louis Stevenson’s territory without a by-your-leave. After a little canine persuasion, the intruder had scrambled over the wall into Bathsheba’s garden and then, after being sprayed with water by Bathsheba’s mistress, he’d escaped into someone else’s garden. If the odours of both men were on the leaflet and card, it suggested Mr Johnson knew the creepy man.

Robert Louis Stevenson growled.

‘Good dog,’ Mistress said, and patted him on the head. ‘That’s enough now.’

‘You indulge that dog,’ Mr Johnson said. ‘You’re not doing him any favours, you know.’

Mind your own business, Robert Louis Stevenson thought, but he stopped growling anyway. Mistress was remarkably keen on the next-door neighbour. If it came to a choice, Mistress would choose Robert Louis Stevenson – although he wasn’t completely convinced. And each time she saw Mr Johnson, the odds she’d pick the next-door neighbour over her dog increased.

Why couldn’t she see there was something dodgy about Mr Johnson?

If only Robert Louis Stevenson could read, the leaflet and business card might give him a clue. For a dog, he had a large vocabulary and understood many of the words his mistress used, but reading the squiggles that crawled across pieces of paper had so far evaded him. Talking in Mistress’s language was also proving challenging. He knew what he wanted to say, and the words formed in his mind, but when they came out of his mouth, they all sounded the same. ‘Woof.’

Of course, his woofs were understood by other dogs, but Mistress wasn’t a dog. When he barked to tell her something, she often told him off for being noisy. Robert Louis Stevenson tiptoed to his favourite spot behind the sofa and settled down. If he couldn’t understand the information on the paper, he’d listen to the conversation.

‘So, I’m relying on your support, Gladys,’ Mr. Johnson said.

In a giggly tone that Mistress never used for Robert Louis Stevenson, she replied, ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. Riding Road has some gifted gardeners, and it’ll be fun. It’ll also be a good rehearsal for the competition against Creaping Bottom and Upper Chortle next year. Have you any ideas for themes?’

Still eavesdropping, Robert Louis Stevenson learnt about the Parish Council meeting that had been called by the Reverend Forbes-Snell. It would take place the following evening in the hall at All Saints’ Church, where Mr Johnson would reveal his plans for the ‘Best Kept Street in Basilwade’ competition. Robert Louis Stevenson also learnt that Mr Johnson called Mistress Gladwags, and she called him Trevikins.

Robert Louis Stevenson crept out of the room into the kitchen. There were some things a dog didn’t need to know. He shook his head to dismiss the memory and sauntered into the garden to listen for the sound of Bathsheba from next door.

‘Are you there?’ he barked.

In her clipped German accent, she replied, ‘That depends on who iss asking.’

‘You know jolly well it’s Robert Louis Stevenson.’

She sniffed. ‘And I should care because…?’

‘Well, listen to this,’ he said and explained about the leaflet and small card that had smelt of Mr Johnson and the unclothed man. Bathsheba’s bark changed from disdain to one of interest.

‘And vot can ve do about it?’

‘I’m going to try to be there,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mistress might take you too?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Her mistress shouted at her to stop yapping, and Robert Louis Stevenson heard Bathsheba trot up the path to the patio. His heart swelled with joy. He had a date.

Well, almost.

He’d have to ensure Mistress brought him to the meeting and hope Bathsheba’s mistress took her, too. Even more challenging was the fact that Bathsheba couldn’t stand him. It was a shame because his body quivered with longing every time he thought of her.

Unfortunately, the next day, he had so many conversations with Bathsheba in the garden, filling her in on the coming meeting that Mistress became fed up with his noise and shut him in the kitchen.

That evening, Mistress got ready to go out but didn’t fetch his lead.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she said. ‘And keep quiet while I’m out, your barking is getting on everyone’s nerves.’

Robert Louis Stevenson went rigid. Did she intend to leave him behind? Surely not.

He dropped to the floor, his eyes rolling and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Mistress crouched next to him.

Well, he hadn’t lost his acting abilities.

He whimpered and looked up appealingly. If only he could talk, but he dared not bark again.

Mistress checked her watch. ‘Oh dear, I’ll have to take you with me. I can’t leave you like this.’

Robert Louis Stevenson couldn’t help it; the tip of his tail repeatedly thumped the kitchen tiles.

He waited until he’d got to the end of the garden path before perking up and trotting along happily beside Mistress.

‘Perhaps you just needed some fresh air, boy?’

Robert Louis Stevenson looked up and nodded his head.

In the church hall, he would have to be on his best behaviour. He’d even consider allowing the odious Reverend Forbes-Snell to tickle his ears without biting him. After their last meeting, it was unlikely the vicar would try to pet him, but just in case, Robert Louis Stevenson decided he’d grit his teeth and endure it if it meant he could meet up with Bathsheba. He would willingly make any sacrifice to be with her.

Mr Johnson had saved Mistress a seat in the front row and Robert Louis Stevenson settled down between her feet. He risked an exploratory sniff at Mr Johnson. Somewhere on his clothes, there was a hint of the unclothed man, although the scent wasn’t strong. Lifting his nose, he sampled the air in the hall for Bathsheba, but there were so many smells, Robert Louis Stevenson’s head spun.

Perhaps Bathsheba would be able to smell him. Her nose was more sensitive than his, and at the thought of her, he began to tremble.

Mistress patted his head and said to Mr Johnson, ‘Oh dear, he’s having another funny turn. I might have to take him to the vet tomorrow. He doesn’t seem himself.’

‘He is exactly himself,’ Mr Johnson said, unsympathetically.

Robert Louis Stevenson tried to stop thinking of Bathsheba and took control of his body.

But where was she?

Finally, he heard her delicate paws tip-tapping on the hall floor. He knew she was behind him, although he couldn’t see her.

The Reverend Forbes-Snell stood, a pompous smile on his face as he waited for the hubbub to die down. Surprisingly, silence fell quickly. For some reason, people appeared to be in awe of the ridiculous man. They must see something Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t. Or perhaps he could see something they couldn’t.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us and foregoing your night’s television viewing.’ He laughed, but his eyes were hard, and Robert Louis Stevenson suspected he wasn’t tolerant of people’s TV habits.

‘The Parish Council and I…’ He stopped to extend one arm to the right and one to the left, indicating those who were with him on the dais. ‘We have some exciting news to share, and we also have a guest speaker to tell us more.’ He waved his pudgy hand towards a woman who was sitting in the front row.

She got up and stepped forward as Reverend Forbes-Snell checked his notes. ‘Ah, um, this is…’ He ran his finger down his list and looked up. ‘Sheila?’

‘It’s Doris,’ the woman snapped.

Even Robert Louis Stevenson jumped at her tone. Nobody spoke to the Reverend Forbes-Snell like that.

The vicar looked down at his notes and frowned. ‘I…um…I was expecting Sheila.’ His voice was plaintive.

‘My name is Doris Scuppet,’ the woman said.

Reverend Forbes-Snell drew back slightly as the woman stomped towards him in sensible flat shoes. ‘Of course you are. Ah, I see. Sheila couldn’t come and you have replaced her?’

The woman reached the seat that had been left for her, and the parish councillor next to her shuffled away, his face pinched with fear.

The woman’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘My name is Doris Scuppet. I belong to SHEILA.’

‘You belong…?’ The vicar’s brows rose in alarm. ‘Surely you don’t mean you belong…?’

‘Yes.’ Doris’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Reverend Forbes-Snell as if defying him to interrupt her again. ‘As I said, I belong to SHEILA, the Society of Horticultural Excellence In Local Areas.’

The Reverend Forbes-Snell checked his notes and sat down. Obviously, the guest needed no further introduction.

 

Doris took over.

A competition, blah blah.

Next year, blah blah.

Make the villages and towns beautiful, blah blah.

More blah, blah.

Robert Louis Stevenson yawned. Facing the front of the hall, he knew Bathsheba was somewhere in the audience, but she was behind him and, therefore, out of sight. Slowly, he shuffled his bottom, and by moving his front paws to the right, he turned slightly. Doris had apparently finished and there was unenthusiastic applause, during which he swivelled around and lay down. Now he could see through people’s legs, and he spotted Bathsheba two rows behind. Not that she was taking any notice – she looked in all directions except towards him, although he suspected she knew he was there.

How magnificent she was.

Robert Louis Stevenson began to quake, and he wondered if Mistress would notice if he slid silently – or as silently as one could slide with a jingly name tag attached to his collar, towards Bathsheba.

He should have known better. Mistress spotted him and bent to check he was all right. At the same time, Mr Johnson rose to go to the dais and Doris was on her way back to her seat.

Robert Louis Stevenson turned to face the front. He didn’t want Mistress to take him home because she thought he was ill. He needed to steady himself, and he couldn’t do that while he was looking at Bathsheba, so he turned and stared at Trevikins. Robert Louis Stevenson sniggered. At least it would take his mind off the beautiful, sassy sausage dog behind him.

Mr Johnson told everyone about the ‘Best Kept Street’ competition and appealed to people to organise themselves with their neighbours and to sign up on his website, so he knew which streets were entering. The winners would then assist him in preparing for the inter-town competition next year.

So far, so dull.

That was, until Mr Johnson mentioned that Riding Road’s committee, headed by him, would comprise Gladys Winterbottom, Daphne Didcott, Susan Stibthorpe, and he’d like another volunteer.

If Daphne Didcott was part of the committee, then it was possible Bathsheba would be at any meetings, too. Joy! He began to tremble again.

 

Finally, the meeting was over, and everyone had left the hall. The first meeting of the Riding Road Best Kept Street committee was due to meet at Mistress’s house two days later. Robert Louis Stevenson was desperate to know if Bathsheba would come with her mistress. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be a disaster – he’d simply go into the back garden and hope she was in hers.

But he needed to be more careful. While Mr Johnson had walked Mistress home after the Parish Council meeting, he’d suggested she take Robert Louis Stevenson to see the vet.

‘There’s something wrong with that dog, Gladwags.’

Mistress had agreed.

Perhaps Robert Louis Stevenson had overdone it earlier with his pretence of being ill. But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen Bathsheba, nor heard the good news that their mistresses would soon be meeting.

He’d wagged his tail and peered around as if he was super-perky. Surely Mistress wouldn’t take him to the vet if he appeared well.

Unfortunately, Elsie had caught up with them as they’d walked home, and he’d forgotten his resolve to keep his body in check. He’d leapt at Elsie’s pink velvet tracksuit-clad leg and clung on before Mr Johnson had prised him off. Elsie had shrieked. Mistress had told Robert Louis Stevenson off and Mr Johnson had once again urged Mistress to take him to the vet.

‘That dog is always barking. He’s constantly harassing my poor Horatio and, as for his disgraceful behaviour with Elsie…’

Well, all dogs bark, so get used to it, Trevikins. And dogs chase cats, especially the sneaky ones like Horatio, who like to taunt dogs but pretend they’re victims. And as for ‘disgraceful behaviour’, Robert Louis Stevenson wasn’t sure what that meant, but since Elsie had been mentioned, presumably, it had something to do with losing control when she was around.

But there was nothing wrong with any of that and certainly nothing a vet could do about it, even if Mr Johnson had mentioned straightening Robert Louis Stevenson’s card.

The only card he could think of was a business card.

That just proved how ignorant Mr Johnson was. Just because he had a business card didn’t mean everyone else did. Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t own a business, so why would he need a business card? Numptie.

Later that day, Robert Louis Stevenson shot out into the garden. He could hear Bathsheba sniffling next door.

‘It iss you, Robert Louis Steeffenssen?’

He loved the way she pronounced his name. Not that she often said it, but when she did, it sent shivers through him. Was she warming to him? Her tone suggested she’d been waiting for him to go into the garden.

‘Will you be coming to Mistress’s meeting in two days’ time?’ he asked.

‘No, my mistress vill leave me here, but I vill be in the garden. I vill see you then.’

He would have skipped if he’d known how. He had a date. How marvellous! And she was still there in the garden talking to him.

‘I hear you are going to see the vet?’ she said.

‘Possibly. Mr Johnson is trying to persuade Mistress, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He thinks I’ve got a business. How stupid is that? He said my business card needs straightening. If you ask me, he needs to mind his own business.’ He sniggered. That was a good joke. He hoped it impressed Bathsheba.

There was silence for several seconds.

‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

‘Ja,’ said Bathsheba slowly. ‘Vot did he say exactly?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Voz it possible he said you should be card-straightened?’

‘Could be.’

‘Vot about car-straighted?’

‘Possibly. Whatever it was, didn’t make sense…’ Why was Bathsheba so interested?

‘Only you may be in for a very nasty shock if you go to the vet to be car-straighted.’

‘Why?’

She explained.

At first, he didn’t believe her, but she appeared to know what she was talking about with all the biological names. Finally, he was convinced.

So, it had nothing to do with being straightened out, nor with cards. It had plenty to do with relieving him of vital parts of his body. How could those bits even be removed? He felt sick at the thought.

He tiptoed back into the house, his back legs knocking, and crept into Mistress’s living room, where she was watching television. Wagging his tail, he attempted to look the picture of health.

‘Robert Louis Stevenson? Are you well?’

He opened his mouth in what he hoped resembled a smile and tried to make his eyes even brighter. His tail wagged so fast, his bottom wobbled.

‘Thank heavens. You look a lot better,’ said Mistress, patting her lap.

Robert Louis Stevenson leapt onto the sofa next to her and settled down as she tickled his ears.

It suddenly occurred to him that Bathsheba might have been joking, although that would have been rather cruel. The more he thought about it, the more he supposed she’d been wrong. What would she know?

However, when the subject of vets came up again, he’d certainly be on the alert. Until then, he’d be a perfect dog. He looked up at Mistress again and smiled.

She patted his head.

Robert Louis Stevenson snuggled closer to his mistress. He didn’t want to think about business cards or gardening. He didn’t want to think about Mr. Johnson. He definitely didn’t want to think about Bathsheba and Elsie. And as for the vet… No, no, no.

He would concentrate on keeping quiet and keeping his bits intact.

 

To read the previous stories:

Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html

Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html

Cyril’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/05/cyrils-story-by-dawn-knox-lashings-of.html

Daphne’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/06/daphnes-story-by-dawn-knox-green.html

Elsie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/07/elsies-story-by-dawn-knox-tea-and-buns.html

When Sally met Cyril (And Roger) is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/09/when-sally-met-cyril-and-roger-by-dawn.html

About the author 

 Dawn’s four previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’, 'The Crispin Chronicles' and 'The Post Box Topper Chronicles', published by Chapeltown Publishing. You can follow her here on 

https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

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Dreams by Leonie Jarrett, a long black

“Oh Josie. Give me strength. There’s another seven of them out there before I can go home. Look at them - all sitting there, waiting for their turn. Look how downcast they look. Resigned even. I have to spend the afternoon playing God again.”

“You’re being a tad melodramatic Mel. Grab a cup of coffee. Then face them.”

Mel went into the kitchen and leant against the bench whilst the water boiled. She didn’t know how much longer she could do this job. Hopeful person after hopeful person but there were only so many visas. And they all took years longer to process than what the applicants wanted.

Mel could see Vlad in the waiting room. And Ibrahim and Maeve. The others she didn’t immediately recognize. She’d have to look at the files to see what they were here for.

Mel realised that not recognizing people, though, meant that those people were in the early stages of their application. She could probably give them some homework to do and make another appointment a couple of months down the track. They would be the easier appointments this afternoon.

Vlad, on the other hand, was more anxious every time she saw him. Ukrainian, he was desperate to bring his sister and her family out to Australia. Each time Mel saw Vlad, it was harder and harder to get him to leave her office.

Ibrahim. He was chasing permanent residency. It seemed like every time he got close, the rules changed and he was back to square one again.

Maeve, she was here on behalf of her brother, Dougall. He had a software business in Ireland and was self-funding his immigration. Maeve couldn’t understand the hoops that Dougall and his family were being put through. To be honest, neither could Mel. It was as if we didn’t want entrepreneurial people to come to Australia with their businesses and employ people.

Mel couldn’t quite get her head around the red tape she had to wrap Dougall in. It seemed to her that Dougall (and others like him) were being pushed to the brink. Maybe it was some kind of endurance test? A test to see how much they really wanted to move to Australia.

The water boiled. There was no more excuse to delay the afternoon appointments. All seven were sitting there, side by side, mostly with clasped hands, waiting patiently and hoping that today would bring different news. Positive news.

“Mel. Are you right?,” Josie poked her head round the corner into the kitchen. “You’ve been in here a while.”

“Sorry Josie. Coming now.”

“Come on Mel,” Mel said silently to herself. “Let’s just hope none of the poor beggars will be hostile today. Or cry. Crying is the worst.”

“Vlad. Come in,” Mel ushered Vlad into her stuffy, windowless office. “Let’s have a look at where the process is up to.”

Mel glanced at the clock.

2pm.

Three hours.

Seven hopefuls.

Seven dreams to crush.

About the writer

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than 3 decades, 2 of her 4 adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

 

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The Vase by Peter Lingard, a pint of Tetley's best bitter

July Weeks purchased a glass vase from a second-hand stall at a craft sale for five pounds. It was chunky and the right size for what she had in mind. Its blue base morphed into green, then became yellow at the rim. It wasn’t a spectacular item, but July loved its colour and shape. She knew exactly where she would put it and thought some tall artificial golden ginkgo leaves would look nice in it. After she paid for the vase, July realised she might have a problem transporting the thing home as she had arrived on her bicycle. She took out her phone and called her husband, August.

‘Can you come and get me, Darling? I’ve bought a lovely vase but it’s too big to carry while I pedal home.’

‘Not now, July! United’s losing to City and we’re well into the second half. Can’t you wait?’

‘No, I can’t. You can put the stupid game on the car radio. Just come and get me.’

‘I can’t, babe. I came in Dave’s car.’

‘Won’t he let you borrow it?’

‘I don’t like to ask. Look, don’t give me a hard time because I can’t make an unscheduled appointment with you. You knew I was watching the game today with some friends at the pub. Maybe … hang on, we just got a penalty … what was I saying? Oh, yeah. You should have thought about me going to the pub before you bought such a large item. How much did it cost anyway? Can’t you trade it back?’

‘I don’t want to trade it back. It’s perfect for that bare corner in the living room. It’ll add a flash of colour. Aren’t you worried about me riding home on my bike and balancing a large glass vase? Anything could happen, especially at that busy junction with all the bus stops. Don’t you care?’

‘Of course I … He’s nailed it. Good, we’re only three down now.’

‘Better you’re three down than me down under a bus. Please come and get me. How long can it take? I can’t be that far away?’

‘Babe, I’ve been drinking. Can’t you get an Uber, or something?’

‘Oh yeah, why didn’t I think of that. Get an Uber, put my bike in the boot, strap the vase and me in and pay, what, fifteen pounds, for the ride? That’d make this vase cost twenty pounds!’

‘I’m spending more that that in here. I’ll pay for the Uber if it means that much.’

‘That’s not the point, August. This lovely vase cost me five pounds. It was a bargain. If either of us adds costs, it won’t be the same. Can’t you see that?’

‘Nah, not re … shit! The idiot missed … what? Where are you anyway?’

‘I’m at a craft market in Jubilee Gardens.’

‘Jubilee Gar … that’s across the road from the pub, The Jubilee Hotel. Can you see it?’

July’s sprits lifted. ‘Oh, yes, I can see it.’

‘So come on over and we’ll put the vase in Dave’s car, he’s today’s designated driver, and you can either join us, or go home on your bike. How’s that sound?’

           

As July neared the pub’s front door, a group of disgruntled United fans pushed through, shouting their disgust at the referee. Two of them collided with July and knocked her to the ground.

‘Noooo,’ she screamed as the vase shattered.

‘Shit,’ said one as he swayed.

‘Fuck,’ said the other as he threw out an arm to right his balance.

‘Imbeciles!’ screamed July as she saw the shards of glass around her. She looked for cuts on her hands.

The drunken pair became instantly apologetic and helped her to her feet.

‘Are you okay?’ asked one. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘You hurt?’ asked the other.

‘I’m alright,’ she said after patting her legs and rear for injuries, ‘but you broke my vase. It cost a small fortune.’

‘How much wash it?’ slurred the first as he shoved his hand in a pocket to get his wallet.

‘Ninety-seven pounds,’ she replied, bending to pick up the largest shard to demonstrate the damage they had wrought. She wondered if she’d overdone the price.

‘Look, let me pay you,’ said the man with wallet now in hand. ‘I’m really sorry about this.’ He fumbled in the brown leather folds and withdrew some notes. ‘Here’s a hundred. Will that do? I’m so sorry.’

About the author

 

Peter Lingard, plingaus@bigpond.com, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Between the Notes by Justin Aylward, a warmed over americano, for that bitter aftertaste, ideal for this story

          Caitlin stood at the bus stop holding the large cello case, wondering if her boyfriend,     understood anything she had just said.

It was a Friday in March, and classes were finishing up for the weekend. The other students hurried through the halls as though summer had already arrived.

Kaitlin didn’t want to be late for her arrangement, so avoided her friends after the last lecture of the day. She gripped the cello case as the wind tousled her red hair. The bus turned onto the narrow campus road and stopped. It was on time, which was rare, and free of passengers, which was rarer.

Kaitlin lugged the cello case down the passageway as the bus took off. She sat at the back and let the case rest between her knees. She looked out the window across the barren industrial estate to see numerous cement boulders and neglected bags of sand piled up high. These were supposed to be people’s homes, but you couldn’t even make a shelter out of the material in the state they were in.

Kaitlin turned away, unbuttoned her red woollen coat, and resisted the urge to check her phone.

It was her fifth session at the house, but she preferred to see them as mini concerts. They were the ideal form of practice, with a quiet audience and a generous fee. If anyone asked she said she was giving lessons, but when she mentioned it to Connor he had a different reaction. It was as though she spoke in a foreign language. He tried to humour her but couldn’t dispel the look of embarrassment in his eyes. She knew the more she said, the more awkward it would be.

‘I know it sounds odd, but it’s not what you think.’ She said.

Connor, with shaggy brown hair and a sleepy face, held Kaitlin close, but he couldn’t look at her. He wanted to say it was strange and that she probably shouldn’t do it, but in the least confrontational manner.

‘Is there anyone else there when you’re playing?’ He asked.

Kaitlin looked up and with a cheeky smile tried to reassure him, but she knew he already had the wrong idea.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there’s a maid, and his daughter is there too.’

‘A maid?’ He repeated, ‘What is it, Downton Abbey?’

Kaitlin laughed, but the joking only emphasized the awkwardness that would accentuate her departure, and make it seem more like a betrayal than a temporary goodbye.

Connor pulled away as Kaitlin leaned in to kiss him. The wind blew her hair across his stubbly chin and tickled his mouth. He smiled but couldn’t bring himself to look at her directly.

Kaitlin knew that no amount of embellishment could mitigate the feeling of intimacy implicit in a one-to-one performance. What she thought of as a kind gesture, Connor imagined was a sexually charged engagement that reeked of perversity. If he had shown an interest in her music, she might have told him sooner, or it may not have come to this at all. The question had been on her mind since the first session weeks earlier. Before she knew how, she was posing it to him.

’If I went away, how long before you’d forget me?’ She asked.

Connor tried to look intrigued with a raised eyebrow but it seemed as though every utterance implied the opposite of what the words meant.

‘Why, where are you going?’ He asked.

‘Nowhere,’ she said, ‘I was just wondering. What do you think when you think of me?’

This was sounding like a breakup.

Connor pulled back, finally separating himself from Kaitlin’s embrace. A sigh escaped between his lips that grew more hurried as he sought a quick exit.

‘Is there a right answer to this question?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I feel like you’re setting a trap.’

They were only nineteen, and too young to be concerned about a distant future - Connor certainly wasn’t - but Kaitlin couldn’t help feel like there was nothing memorable between them that would solidify their relationship across time.

‘It’s not like that,’ she said, ‘I just…’

Connor picked up his bag and gripped her by the arms.

‘Listen, it doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘I’m not angry or anything.’

‘I just thought you should know I’m not sneaking around.’

He zipped up his jacket and kissed her cheek before turning away.

‘I get it. We’ll talk later, I have to run.’ He said.

Before Kaitlin could call after him, he was disappearing among the other students exiting the canteen. He would probably spend the night playing XBOX and guzzling energy drinks. If that didn’t go too well, he would go out with friends.

It could be another two days before Kaitlin saw him again. Maybe she would be over it by then, she thought, or maybe he would. She looked at her phone. There were no messages or calls.

The bus left the motorway behind and ascended the bushy hills overlooking the bay.

Five minutes later, Kaitlin exited the bus and carried the cello case up the winding driveway, passed the yacht and blue outhouse. She looked up at the large brick façade and Viennese windows. There was something antiquated about the grounds that made her feel older. The house was like a secret buried amid the trees and surrounding verdure. Kaitlin wondered how long you had to work before affording a house like it.

Bree opened the front door and smiled, her short black hair and straight teeth as perfect as Kaitlin remembered. She could take a dozen guesses and still not know how old Bree was. Her flowery blouses and satin pants were equally modish and classical. Kaitlin presumed she was a stage actress before taking time out to nurse her father.

‘Come in,’ she said, ‘Dad’s just sitting by the fire.’

Kaitlin removed her coat and carried the case down the hall. The smell of smokeless coal and vegetable soup pervaded the house.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ Bree said,

‘Thank you,’ Kaitlin said.

She entered the reading room, stepping gently on the thick carpet as the fire crackled under the mantle. He sat facing the window in a furnished brown armchair, his rumpled body nestled in the threadbare fabric. She only saw the left side of his white face where the light shone through the window.

‘You’re back, ’ he said.

He didn’t speak at the end of the previous session, and Kaitlin assumed he was unimpressed. No sad pieces, was his only request. Kaitlin thought there were no other pieces you could play on the cello, as it produced a uniquely haunted sound. But he never complained. It was easy to appease an audience with Bach if you played properly, and Kaitlin never doubted herself.

‘Sorry I’m late, ’ she said.

The man did not respond, but sat silently facing the window.

Kaitlin lifted the cello from the case and walked to the hardwood chair a few metres behind him. From where she sat the sun appeared to set in front the man’s chair. She didn’t want to put him asleep but thought he wouldn’t need any help.

There was a notebook and pen on the small table beside the window apron, and ornamental picture frames on the bureau drawer. Kaitlin wanted to look more closely at the woman in the black and white photograph, but didn’t want to invade his space. Other frames showed pictures of children playing, seaside frolics, a wedding party.

He could have asked Bree to buy a radio or record player, but there must have been something about a live performance that stirred him. Kaitlin didn’t know and was afraid to ask. She would probably notice new things even on the one-hundredth session, if she lasted that long.

The man made a ruffling noise and cleared his throat. Kaitlin sat forward and noticed he was folding a piece of paper numerous ways.

She waited a moment before playing a few stray notes and gauging the feel of the bow in her hand. He would settle down once she began. Soon she was in the middle of Mendelssohn’s first sonata, eyes closed and the feeling of security spreading through her. Kaitlin thought it was an ambivalent piece, suggesting both joy and sadness. She imagined an aging woman finally reuniting with her lover only to realise the passion they shared has diminished. It wasn’t the same without piano accompaniment, and the pace was quicker, but still the man was restful.

A few minutes passed and Kaitlin forgot where she was. It was just her and the music. An hour could have passed, or two, she would not have known. It was only when thoughts crept into her mind that she lost concentration, but there was nothing stopping her now. It had been ten minutes since Bree promised to bring tea, but there was no sign of her.

After Mendelssohn, Kaitlin played Rachmaninoff’s sonata in G minor. It was contemplative, suggesting nostalgia and gentleness. She played quickly through the piano solos, and soon felt the music envelop her. She was never more aware of herself than when playing and yet the music allowed her to escape the present uncertainty of her life.

There was a mysterious quality to the cello that always appealed to Kaitlin. The first time she heard it, it was as though another piece of her had been added. Composers didn’t put their emotion into the music, she thought, but took emotions from it, and shared it with listeners. Communication seemed easier through the instrument.

Now there was another noise, not sudden, but subtle, rising up like a plume of smoke. It was the man, muttering to himself, testing out the words like soup on a spoon. Kaitlin continued playing, but her concentration was lost. She tried to hear what he was saying, but she didn’t want to cease playing and draw his attention.

The sun had now disappeared behind the chair and Kaitlin could only see the shadowy outline against the window. She had reached the section where the piano took over the main melody. There was a moment of silence when she heard the man speak louder.

‘That’s what happened,’ he said, ‘I’m sure of it.’

He was somewhere else, or in a different time.

Kaitlin wanted to stop. This was the first time she heard him speak during a session. Maybe he wanted something. It became clear as Kaitlin listened that his mind was elsewhere.

‘It was after we got back,’ he continued, ‘you said you would.’

Kaitlin sat quietly with the bow dangling between her fingers. The music had left her, but the echoes remained. She didn’t know what the man was talking about, but the insistence of his words rang true. It must have been his wife. Her photograph was on the bureau next to the chair.

Kaitlin thought about Connor. He was probably sitting in the library scrolling through his phone. She wanted to ask him again what he remembered when he thought about her. It was important that she occupy a piece of his mind before the feeling between them soured. He never listened to her play, and she didn’t know what else to do about him.

‘How could I forget?’ the man said, ‘We promised each other.’

In the four previous sessions, Kaitlin didn’t know what the man wanted from her playing, but now she had made him feel something vital. She wanted to know precisely what it was, and wondered if she inspired the same feeling in anyone else.

Bree knocked on the door, entering without a response.

‘Is everything okay?’ She asked.

Kaitlin turned fast, and with tears in her eyes tried to find the right words to explain, but there was nothing she could say. The music spoke for itself, and although it wasn’t hers, it gave some consolation.

About the author

Justin Aylward is a writer from Co. Dublin, Ireland. He has published short fiction, poetry, a novel, and film criticism for numerous online film outlets. He is currently writing a three-act play inspired by the current fuel crisis in Europe. 

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