The Piano
By Phoebe Whittam
I sit and let my hands move over the keys, letting the music into the air. A long
time ago, I would’ve had to read the notes from sheet music, but now they are
imprinted in my head and my fingers flow over the keys.
I think back, and the memories come. I remember the way she would play
without even needing to see the keys; the way her fingers moved as if they
were dancing. She would play alongside me, always in time, and she knew both
parts better than I knew my own. She loved playing the duet, and she loved
playing with me.
I can see her hand, still playing, beautiful and careful. But I can see the ivory
keys beneath her fingers – no, through her fingers, for they’re transparent.
They aren’t real.
The memory drifts away as she kisses my cheek and smiles. The next memory
is faster and brighter. I am running, my boots splattered with mud but the
band on my arm shows up starkly against the olive-green of my uniform. A red
cross on a field of white.
I reach the wall and stumble to a halt, my shoulder scraping roughly against
the stone blocks as I lean against it for support. I am breathing heavily, tired
from my run all the way from the trench back over the hill. The images of the
bodies sprawled over uneven terrain is burned into my mind. Some of them
still, others not quite gone. Some were ripped apart beyond recognition. There
were red stains splattered over the rocks, in the cloth clinging to the soldiers’
limbs, dripping from the leaves of the flowers.
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I shake my head to clear it and look up at the sky, panting. It is bright;
cornflower blue. The sun shining in the cloudless background. I can’t
understand how the day can be so beautiful when so many people have died.
I glance across to see Rupert, waiting with his rifle in his hands. I nod to him,
and he nods back, giving me a confident grin. I just shake my head wearily. I
am tired of this war.
Rupert steps out from the shelter of the wall, swinging his rifle up and around
to rest on his shoulder. I busy myself with reloading my own rifle. I hear the
now-familiar bang of a grenade, and accompanying it is the bright flash, the
yell –
My hands freeze on the bayonet strapped to my belt. Rupert didn’t have any
grenades. He told me before I left for the trenches this morning.
My head whips around, but by the time I look up, Rupert has already fallen.
I rush to his side, sinking to my knees, and suddenly I am reminded of the
children’s story my mother used to tell me and my brothers, the one about the
egg who fell off the wall, and all the king’s horses and men couldn’t put him
back together again, because even the best medic in the British Forces couldn’t
save Rupert right now. The blast got him right in the chest. For all the blood
and dirt and mud that now covers his uniform, he could be a German bomber
pilot.
I slide my arms under his torso and gently lift him. His eyes flutter and he turns
his head to look at me. My eyes blur with tears and I feel the anger form a
lump in my throat.
“I’m sorry, Rupert,” I whisper. “I’m sorry you had to fight this war.”
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Rupert’s hand clutches at the front of my shirt. I grit my teeth to stop from
breaking down completely. “See this war through for me, Will,” he rasps. Tears
make tracks through the grime on my face and fall onto the mess of what was
Rupert’s uniform. “Not your time… to go… yet…”
Rupert’s eyes glass over, staring at a place I cannot see. His fingers release my
jacket and his hand drops heavily to his chest. My shoulders are shaking. With
trembling fingers I carefully lower his eyelids down until I can’t see his gaze
anymore.
“William?”
A voice makes me look up. It’s the other members of Rupert’s squadron. Eric,
their lieutenant, is in the lead. He’s the one who called my name. I stare at him
numbly.
“Where’s Rupert?” He sounds puzzled. Like he misplaced his lunch. I look down
at the body in my arms.
“Rupert’s dead,” I say softly.
I am still reeling from these images, the same cold horror growing inside of me
as it did all those years ago. That is two people I couldn’t save. Then it is gone
and I’m kneeling on the floor, hands out to receive a box. But these hands
aren’t scarred by age and battle, no, these hands are the hands of me as a
child.
I set it down in front of me, almost reverent, barely able to contain my
excitement. I remember thinking how bright the colours were compared to my
own dull clothes. The ribbon was even brighter than the sky on the day Rupert
died.
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Gingerly I lift off the lid and let it flip over to the floor. I peek inside and a huge
smile splits my face as I lift out the box’s contents. I throw my leg over the
hobby horse and then I am galloping around the room, imagining a beautiful
strong stallion beneath me as we race over the hills.
I lift my eyes from the keys to watch myself as I canter along the invisible
paths. It takes me a few seconds to register the reality – that’s not me, it’s
Billy, my grandson. His bright blue sneakers pound the carpet as he charges up
beside me and carefully lays his steed on the ground beside my seat.
Billy hops up beside me on the stool. His feet dangle a few centimetres above
the ground. I lift one of my hands away and Billy’s small fingers hover above
the exposed keys. I watch him with a small smile – there is a look of fierce
concentration on his face as he judges the right time. She used to do the same
thing, wait until the very last moment before ending the piece. I can see her in
Billy, in the way he sits and plays and laughs. In some ways, it’s as though she
never left. I wonder if one day I will tell Billy the story of those frozen shards of
time, the memories I will never forget.
The last note rings out into the silence, and we smile at each other.
End
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