How To Choose a Sweetheart (4 page)

M
ax sits in the sitting room of his one bedroom flat. 

There are a few film posters on the wall – ‘Rumblefish’, ‘Once Upon A Time In America’ and ‘The Kid’. The posters have seen better days, the corners torn during moves from place to place since his student days, days when he still dreamt of being the next Woody Allen.

He’s blowing smoke rings and leaning back in his chair in the way that used to get him into trouble at school.

The doorbell rings.

Max hurriedly tidies a mug and an empty bottle away and goes over to the door. At the other side are two men in dungarees. The first is huge, has the stomach of a retired sumo wrestler. The other is tall and thin and his red hair makes him look like a match that’s just about to ignite. Max feels like he’s seen them before only can’t place them.

“Mr Swarbrick?” The rotund man with many chins has a higher voice than Max expects. “We’ve got a piano for you.”

“Great. Move on up.”

The thin man smiles while his partner looks down the stairs and mops his brow with a spotted handkerchief.

“Thank Christ you’re only on the first floor. Remember that place last week, Stan?”

“How could I forget?”

The thin man’s eyebrows knit together and make him look serious for a moment. “Any cats in the building?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Max tells him.

The two removal men look at each other and exchange expressions of relief. They leave, disappearing down the steps. Max rests his head against the doorframe. 

What follows is a comedy of errors, of slipping furniture and injured backs. Max does what he can to help the guys with the piano, but mostly he just gets in the way, hurting his hand in the process.

By the time they finally get the piano into its new home, it looks like there’s been a western style shoot-out in the building.

The two removal men stand inside the flat with the piano in the centre of the room. Max picks up the scattered pieces of his chess set from the floor. There’s a pile of broken glass next to the door and the doorframe has a split and an unpainted splinter of wood hanging from it. The rounder of the movers mops his brow with a clean, white handkerchief.

The thin man takes out a folded piece of paper from his top pocket, opens it out and lays it on top of the piano along with a pen. “It looks pretty good,” he says.

“Just needs a vase on top.”

Max goes over to the smashed glass, picks up the biggest piece and puts it on the top of the piano next to the paper and the pen. He takes a step back and looks on, putting his hand to his chin as if he’s thinking. “I see what you mean.”

“Sorry about that,” says the fat guy. At least he has the gumption to apologise.

“Not to worry,” Max tells him, but doesn’t really mean it.

Ginger nods at the paper. “Just sign there and we’ll be on our way.”

Max picks up the pen and starts to write. It hurts when he presses down on the paper, so he changes over to using his left hand. “Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea or something?” He’ll die if they say yes.

“No ta; we have to go.”

“We’ve got a date with a taxidermist. Thanks all the same.”

“You could say we’re off to see a man about a cat.”

The removal men smile at each other and the thin man raises his eyebrows like a clown. “Enjoy the piano,” he says as they head over to the damaged door.

“I’ll try.” And he will.

The two men walk over to the door and exit saying goodbye. Max attempts to close the door after them. It’s just not happening. He takes a grip on the splinter with his left hand and tears it from the frame. This time the door closes when he pulls it shut.

He picks up his chair and sets it down at the piano. He opens the lid, brushes the keys gently and, without playing, replaces the lid. He walks to the door, picks his coat up from the floor and, checking that he has his keys, he leaves for the next of his lessons.

M
ax sits at a piano, knocking out a C major scale, feeling good that he’s mastered the looping of the thumb after the third note. He’s even more pleased that he can do it when it’s practically dark. He hasn’t asked yet, but he does wonder why Mr Evans insists on lighting the room using candles – four of them burn brightly in their candelabra on a table just to his right.

The piano is the only piece of furniture in the building that can be worth any money. It’s a fine beast, shiny and proud, the Steinway label just above Max’s hand. It might even be finer than Cath’s.

Mr Evans sits by the wall in an old, tatty armchair next to the single bar of the electric heater. His eyes look permanently watery as if he’s got an allergy to life. He has a full head of silver-white hair which, accompanied by the paisley patterned cravat he wears around his neck make him look like a lord of some manor. He’s been staring absent-mindedly at something on the wall that Max can’t make out. Max wonders if that means he’s paying extra-special attention or if he’s somewhere else entirely.

When Max’s thumb returns to the C, he hits the key a little harder to end with a flourish then he looks round at the old man. “So?”

“Fine my boy. Fine.” Max still hasn’t got used to the proud Welsh voice that he hears when Mr Evans speaks, nor does he know much about music teachers, but this doesn’t seem to be a particularly constructive observation. There’s a long pause as if they’re both trying to work each other out.

It’s Max who breaks the silence – he is paying by the half-hour after all. “Great. So what’s next?”

Mr Evans leans forwards and takes out two earplugs.

“There’s a little acrostic I want you to remember.”

“Lacrosse stick?” Max is shocked. “Isn’t that for girls?”

“A-C-R-O-S-T-I-C, acrostic.” There’s a bark to his voice that suggests sergeant major. “A poem or puzzle in which the first letters of each line spell a word or sentence.”

“Yeah, I know that.” He did once. “I started a PhD in literature not so long back.”

“B-R-A-V-O.”

“Well, not really. I gave up after a month.” All that studying and staying sober was too much like hard work and he didn’t even get paid for it.

“Never mind.” At least his voice has softened. “You need an acrostic to help you remember how the notes are written on the page.”

Max waits for the words to remember, but they’re not forthcoming. “Well. What’s this poem then?”

“You have a choice.” How very noble of him. “The little girl’s way or the Evans version.”

“Can I try both?”

“You most certainly may.  Firstly then, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour.”

“Easy enough,” Max says. 

“Then you shan’t be needing the Evans way.”

“If you don’t give it to me I’ll lie awake for half the night worrying about what happens to the bad boys.”

“Enter Gregor Barking. Deborah Faints.”

It has a ring to it. “I like that better.”

“A much more sinister edge don’t you agree.”

“Indeed I do.” Now he seems to be talking like someone in a PG Wodehouse story. “So what exactly does that mean?”

“The notes are given names. When you see them on paper, each note with a line through it has just been named for you. From the bottom ascending. E – G – B – D – F.”

“E – G – B – D – F. I think I can remember that.”

Mr Evans looks suddenly weary. He collapses back into the armchair and gestures with his hand. “Even if you can’t it’s in the book.”

“I’ll look it up then.”

“
So take your book and be off with you. Get practicing. You’ll need as much practice as you can get by the sounds of things.” Whatever happened to gentle encouragement, Max wonders.
He
picks up his book and removes his coat from the nail on the wall. He dusts the coat before putting it on. From his inside pocket he takes his wallet, removes a note and passes it over. Mr Evans folds his arms across his chest. Max sets the note down on the piano.

“Is it as we agreed?” Mr Evans asks.

“It’s all there,” Max tells him, “but wasn’t that supposed to be for an hour.”

“Here time moves quickly young man. You’ll get used to it.”

Max looks at his watch. Only twenty minutes have passed since his arrival and the first five minutes of the lesson consisted of them smoking in silence. “If you say so.”

“And that watch of yours must be telling you that it’s time to leave. How very perceptive of it. Farewell my boy. Until the next time.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Max walks over to the doorway and steps out.

Mr Evans calls quietly yet firmly after him, “Do you live in a barn my boy?”

Max pops his head through, waves goodbye and pulls the curtain all the way across.

B
rooke Street seems alive in the hands of a beautiful late spring day. Max ambles along with his coat unbuttoned and concentrating on sucking all the bitterness from the chunk of nicotine gum that sits between his gum and cheek.  Not that he’s giving up, it’s just he’s still trying to smell good. Many of the windows on the street are open, each emitting their own noise: the sound of someone practicing the violin badly; 1920s trad jazz; a lady shouting in Italian.

When he reaches Cath’s building he sees a beautiful patch of flowers and stops to pick one. He stands up, holds the rose to his nose and inhales its perfume before walking over to the large front door. He looks for the button, pauses and presses. A voice comes from the intercom.

“Hello.” It’s kind of frightening, like it comes from a creature from Dr Who, but at least he can hear the words this time.

“Hi. It’s Max.”

“Hello Max. Come on up.” Maybe she’s playing a trick on him. He pictures her at the other end of the wire talking into a glass of water and letting the bubbles create the distortion.

The door buzzes and Max enters. He climbs the steps two at a time, stops at the top of the first flight and hides the flower in his coat.

The door’s been left open for him again. Max pokes his head in and knocks. Cath appears holding her phone to her ear. She beckons to Max to enter and he does, wiping his Brogues on the mat before stepping onto the varnished boards.

Cath has disappeared into another room. The door’s half open, so he can hear her talking, but not what she’s saying. He’d try and get closer if Alice hadn’t seen him come in. She’s sitting on the balcony playing with a teddy bear. Max smiles at her and puts his hands behind his back as if he’s waiting for a bus. Aware that the little girl is watching him he decides he needs to do something and goes over to the balcony where he squats down to Alice’s level as if he’s a primary school teacher.

“Hello Alice. What’s your friend’s name?” He points at the teddy just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. It’s an old bear, the kind of thing that probably sells for a good whack in the auction rooms Max reckons, wondering if it’s got one of those buttons inside its ear.

Alice doesn’t look up and continues to play. “Teddy Edward,” she answers, like she’s in conversation in spite of herself.

“Do you want Teddy Edward to help with our piano lesson today?” He’s not sure why, but talking to the little girl is easier than he thought it might be. Like the bear is some sort of kindly intermediary. “Maybe he’d like to learn too.”

Alice nods and that’s plenty.

“Listen,” he tells her. “I’ve brought something as a kind of good luck present.”

She finally looks up at him.

“Do you want to see it?”

She nods and out from the coat Max takes out the flower he picked from the garden. He holds it out to her. She smiles, transfixed, and reaches over to take it.  It’s payback enough for him wasting the romantic gesture for which he intended to use it.

“You’re not too young for flowers are you?”

This time she shakes her head and stands up immediately. She rushes over to show her mum, who has just finished on the phone.

“Look what Max brought me Mummy.” Something tells Max that the flower is suddenly worth double points.

“It’s really lovely sweet-pea.” Max wonders if he should go for the comedy line and tell her that it’s actually a rose, but decides against it.

“I’m not too young for flowers am I?”

“You can never be too young or too old I hope.”

“So I can keep it.”

“Of course. Max isn’t a stranger. You’d better put it into some water. I’ll tell you what; you can use the vase that’s on the little table in my bedroom.

Alice disappears, while Cath holds the flower. “Would you like a coffee before you get started?” She looks nice enough to eat.

“Please.” It might give him the buzz he needs to take his mind off the pressures of facing his debut as a teacher. “That would be good.”

“Thanks for the flower by the way. She loves it I can tell. It was really a sweet thing to do.” If only she knew.

They move over to the kitchen. It’s bigger than Max’s flat. There’s an Aga, a fridge that looks like it was created for the next space race and there’s enough equipment to sink a galleon. Cath spoons coffee into the machine and sets it going. She takes a couple of huge cups from a mug tree that must have taken half a log to make.

Max leans against the sideboard holding his coat in his arms. His Beatles shirt is beautifully ironed.

She continues talking as she collects milk and sugar. To Max this is an example of multi-tasking. “Listen. I have a problem.” She’s certainly not the only one. “Something’s come up. Would you mind if I popped out this afternoon while you take the lesson?”

He feels the fight-or-flight instinct swirl around his body. At this particular moment, it’s flight that’s winning.

“No, not at all.” He thinks he’s found a way out. “As long as you’re happy to trust me.” Surely she isn’t. She seems such a sensible young lady.

Cath’s lips straighten and, for a moment, Max senses he might have done enough to put her off the idea. “You did bring the references, didn’t you?”

He did. They’re inside his satchel. Handwritten in two different styles - his right hand and his left.

“Then yes, of course I trust you.” She must be pretty desperate. “It’s just...Alice’s father was on the phone. He wants to meet me right away. I feel awful, but we have a few problems and I have to take the chance of seeing him when I can.”