Imperfect Harmony (7 page)

Rhys didn’t ask why John had taken time off. He could guess. Feeling bad for bringing up painful memories, he let the topic of conversation slide, wondering how to get back onto safer ground.

They were in the woods by then. The path was narrow as it wended its way between the trunks of the trees. Most of them were winter-bare, but the occasional evergreen added a splash of colour. John led the way and Rhys followed.

John was the one to break the silence. “So, I had a look at those books you lent me.”

“Yeah?” Rhys brightened. He’d wanted to ask, but was afraid of pushing John too hard. He’d sensed John’s reluctance when Rhys first brought up the subject of playing and didn’t want to put too much pressure on him.

“Yes. I played through a few things. There are some good songs in there. If you wanted… maybe I could come with you this afternoon and give it a try?” He looked back over his shoulder and gave Rhys a small smile.

“That would be brilliant.” Rhys grinned back. “You’ll make one old lady in particular
very
happy. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard me play.”

Rhys and John walked a long loop through the woods while the dogs ran ahead, sniffing out rabbit holes and running back to them every now and again, as though to check they hadn’t strayed. The path led diagonally down a slope to a stream at the bottom of a dip where it was very muddy.

“I should have worn better shoes!” Rhys grimaced as he picked his way carefully along the edge of the path, trying to avoid the worst of it.

John, in his sensible walking boots, chuckled. “Yes, sorry. I forgot it was so bad down here. There was a lot of rain earlier in the week.”

The path turned sharply and led steeply back up the hill. It was wider there and more rocky than muddy, but the thin soles of Rhys’s trainers—built for fashion more than practicality—were slippery with mud.

“Shit!” he exclaimed as he lurched and nearly fell on his face. John grabbed his arm and held him upright. “Thanks. God, I’m like Bambi on ice. These shoes are crap.”

John tucked his arm through Rhys’s elbow and kept it there as they made their way up the slope. When they got to the top, Rhys’s heart was pounding. He wasn’t sure whether it was due to the climb or because of John’s proximity and the touch of his arm where he held Rhys steady.

“Thanks,” Rhys said, suddenly feeling awkward, foolish, and clumsy next to John’s solid strength.

“You’re welcome.”

John finally released his arm, and Rhys felt stupidly disappointed at the loss of contact. “I’ll wear some decent shoes next time,” he promised. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed.

Who says there’s going to be a next time?

God, he was an idiot.

But John gave him a small smile. “That’s a good idea. It’s my fault, anyway. I should have thought before dragging you into the woods.”

Rhys felt a tingle of excitement at the thought of John dragging him anywhere, but he stopped his wayward imagination in its tracks.

They emerged from the woods back onto the grassy plateau of the playing fields. The dogs had slowed down now and were looking rather tired. Billy trotted up to John and sat down by his feet.

“I think Billy’s had enough. I’d better get him home,” John said.

They walked back across the fields and stopped to put the dogs back on their leads before they had to go their separate ways at the edge of town.

“So, where shall I meet you this afternoon?” John asked.

“How about I meet you there? You know where Beech House is?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ll text you the address. I play at two o’clock for about an hour, give or take. Can you get there just before two?”

John nodded. “Sure.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you then!” Rhys beamed, excited at the prospect.

Rhys arrived at one thirty. That gave him a chance to spend some time with his gran before he sang.

“How are you, Gran?”

“Oh, not too bad, dear.” She returned his hug and he kissed her tissue-paper cheek. “Same old, same old.”

He took a seat in the chair beside her, unzipping his jacket and taking it off. The heating was always cranked up to tropical in the home to keep the residents warm. Most of them weren’t very mobile, so they got cold easily. Rhys was still uncomfortably warm, even in the thin T-shirt he was wearing.

“How’s your choir going?” she asked.

His gran liked to keep up with his news, so Rhys told her about the songs they were learning this term. Then she quizzed him about his work in schools.

“The after-school clubs are going really well,” he said. “My numbers are up this term. The kids who started before Christmas have almost all stayed, and lots of them have brought friends back with them this term.”

“That’s great,” she said. “It’s good for them to have a hobby that gets them off their phones and computers for a while. Some of the kids who visit here, that’s all they do. They have those things in their hands all the time. It’s like they rule their lives.” She tutted her disapproval.

Rhys chuckled. “Well, most of my clubs are in primary schools, so they’re too young to have phones and iPods with them at school. But it’s still good for them to be making music with each other.”

They chatted for a while as other residents started to gather, taking their seats around the edge of the room, ready to be entertained.

“Hello.” Mrs Pickering approached slowly with her walking frame, her pose regal despite her frailty. “How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you, Mrs Pickering.” Rhys took the hand she offered and shook it politely. He was always touched that she seemed to recognise him. The deterioration in her memory since he’d been coming here was clear, but she treated him like someone familiar and knew he played music.

“Will you be playing the piano today?” she asked.

“He doesn’t play the piano, Mabel,” Rhys’s gran said kindly. “Rhys plays the guitar, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. That’s a shame. The guitar is lovely too, of course.”

“But I have a treat for you today, Mrs P, because a friend of mine is coming to join us. And he
does
play the piano.”

Mrs Pickering’s face broke into a smile, the lines on her face deepening, carving a pathway of happiness and surprise. “Oh, how lovely! My Jimmy used to play the piano, you know. He was ever so good.”

“I remember.” Rhys stood up and helped Mrs Pickering into the chair he’d vacated. “I hope my friend will do a good job for you today.”

“Does he know any Frank Sinatra songs?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll ask him, though.” There were a few from that era in the books Rhys had lent John. Maybe John would be able to play one or two of them; if not this week, then perhaps another time—if Rhys could persuade him to do this again. “Oh, here he is.”

John came into the room, ushered in by a member of staff. He looked nervous and a little flustered, but when his gaze lit on Rhys, he smiled.

“Hi,” Rhys said as John approached. “John, let me introduce you to my gran, Betty.” John shook her proffered hand, murmuring a greeting. “And this is Mrs Pickering.” Although Rhys knew her first name was Mabel, he’d always addressed her more formally, and she’d never corrected him.

“Hello, John.” Mrs Pickering smiled, holding his large hand in both of her frail ones. “Thank you for coming to play for us.”

“You’re welcome,” John replied, straightening up when she released his hand.

“Shall we make a start?” Rhys could feel the tension pouring off John. The sooner they got started the better. Once John got into the swing of things, hopefully he’d be less nervous.

“Okay,” John said.

Rhys took charge, leading him to the edge of the room where the piano stood. He’d set up a couple of chairs for them, and his guitar was propped against a table, next to his bag.

“Do you want to play something first? Get it over with?” Rhys gestured at the piano.

“No, you start.”

“Okay. I’ll warm the crowd up for you.” Rhys chuckled, relaxing when John smiled in amusement.

Rhys took one of the seats and indicated for John to join him. “I brought some percussion instruments. They’re in here.” He passed his bag to John. “Thought it would give you something to do.”

“Thanks,” John pulled out a small drum and gave it a practice beat with his thumb.

“Perfect.” Rhys raised his voice and addressed their audience. “Hi, folks. As you can see, I brought a friend with me today. This is John, and he’s going to do a few numbers on the piano a little later. I’m hoping he’ll sing with me now too.” He glanced sidelong at John who raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t warn me about that!”

“Well, you’re not just going to listen, are you? Anyone who knows the words joins in, and if you only know the chorus, that’s fine,” Rhys said reassuringly. Then he spoke to the room again. “Right, let’s start with ‘The Wild Rover.’ It’s always a popular one. Get those voices warmed up and show me what you’ve got.”

As Rhys launched into the song, he heard John’s voice join with his, and he smiled as he sang. John kept a good rhythm on the drum too, and it worked well with the acoustic guitar. Some of the residents sang along throughout, and when they got to the chorus almost everyone in the room was singing.

In the second chorus, Rhys caught John’s eye before splitting off and singing a high harmony. John faltered for a moment before realising what Rhys was doing, and then his voice steadied, holding the tune while their voices blended perfectly.

At the end, as the audience clapped, Rhys turned to John and grinned. “That was awesome, thank you.”

“What’s next?”

“How about some Beatles?”

“Okay.”

They sang through a few old favourites, and John got more confident with each song. During “Love Me Do” he was the one to split off from the tune and do some harmonising. Rhys gave him a thumbs up and John smiled back as he sang.

“Are you ready to do some on the piano now?” Rhys asked when they’d finished.

“Yeah, let’s give it a go.”

John got out the books and took his seat at the piano. “How about this one?” He pointed to the page. Rhys put his hand on John’s shoulder as he leaned close to see which one John was suggesting. He caught John’s scent, warm and masculine, comforting as well as captivating.

“Perfect.” Rhys nodded. “Okay folks, this is one you’ll all know, so give it your best.”

“My Old Man” was an old music hall song, popular during World War II. Even the residents with severe dementia seemed to perk up in recognition as John played the introduction. Rhys led them in the song, and he could hear John singing along as he played. It was wonderful seeing the animation on the faces of the old folk. Mrs Pickering was singing with gusto, clapping her hands in time to the music.

When John finished—with an impressive flourish before the final chord—the room broke out into louder applause than Rhys had ever heard.

“You’re stealing my thunder,” he said to John, grinning from ear to ear.

John flushed at the reaction, but he looked pleased and proud despite his awkwardness at being the centre of attention.

After that, they tried “Pop Goes the Weasel,” with similar levels of enthusiasm, then “The Leaving of Liverpool,” and “The Skye Boat Song”—which John sang some beautiful harmonies to.

“Can you do any Frank Sinatra?” Mrs Pickering called out, her voice a weak quaver as the clapping quietened again.

“I’m not sure… I haven’t had a chance to go through everything in the books yet.” John looked to Rhys for support.

“Only I’d love to hear ‘You Make Me Feel So Young,’” Mrs Pickering continued. “I love that one so much. It reminds me of my husband.”

“It isn’t in these books, I’m afraid,” Rhys said regretfully.

“But we can find it,” John said. “I’ll learn it for you.”

Mrs Pickering’s face broke into a misty smile. “That would be so kind of you. I’d love to hear it.”

Rhys put his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks,” he murmured.

John turned to catch his eye and their gazes locked. “No problem.” He turned back to address their audience. “I know I saw ‘New York, New York’ in here though, so how about we finish with that? I think our time is nearly up.”

After they’d finished the last song, Rhys said to John, “I usually stay for a cup of tea, but don’t feel you have to hang around if you need to rush off.”

“No, it’s fine. I’d like to stay.”

Rhys went back to talk to his gran and Mrs Pickering, who were both very enthusiastic about John’s playing.

“He’s terribly good,” Mrs Pickering said. “And he’s such a handsome young man, isn’t he? That lovely beard. My Jimmy had a beard in the seventies.”

Rhys was amused to hear John being described as a young man. But he completely agreed with her about the handsome part and about the beard. Rhys would have liked to embrace the fashion for beards himself, but his own facial hair was way too patchy for him to manage anything more than a bit of stubble. John’s beard was thick and lovely, and Rhys wondered what it would feel like under his fingertips… or on other more sensitive parts of his body.

“Where did you find him, then, this John?” His gran’s question snapped Rhys out of his fantasies.

“He’s in my choir. He joined after Christmas.”

“That’s nice.” She sipped her tea, and the cup rattled a little as she put it back on the saucer. “He seems like a lovely chap.”

Rhys smiled, watching John across the room talking to an old man in a wheelchair. “He is.”

When it was time to leave, Rhys and John walked outside together to find that it had started raining.

“Shit. I forgot to bring a waterproof. I don’t suppose I could get a lift back with you, could I?” Rhys asked.

“I walked, sorry,” John replied, zipping up his own sensible waterproof jacket and pulling up the hood while they lingered under the covered porch outside the home.

“I’m on my bike.” Rhys glared up at the sky. “I’d have borrowed Mum’s car if I’d remembered to check the forecast. Oh well, at least my guitar case is waterproof.” He hitched it onto his back and pulled his beanie down over his ears.