How to Steal a Piano and Other Stories

by John Hughes

  “Where is she? I want to see her now.”

  “That’s not possible just at the moment.” The receptionist pointed towards the sleeve of his jacket. “You have blood on you. Is that from your wife?”

  “Must be,” replied Len, taken aback. He took out a tissue and dabbed at the blood.

  “There are some toilets over there,” said the receptionist. “Why don’t you go and wash it off?”

  Len thought for a moment. “Alright, but when I come back I’m seeing my wife.” He went into the gents. There was quite a lot of blood. He filled the sink with warm water and washed off as much as he could, then dried his jacket under the hand dryer. A stain remained, but the jacket was dark blue, almost black, so was barely visible. As he approached the reception desk again, there was a young man standing next to the receptionist. They were looking at her computer screen together and talking.

  “I want to see my wife,” interrupted Len.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” said the receptionist calmly.

  “I want to see her now.”

  The young man said: “Kindly give us a moment.”

  “NOW!”

  The man turned and looked at Len. “And your name is?”

  “Len.”

  “Do you have a surname?”

  “Philpott. Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Jason Parker. You must be Mary’s husband. I’m afraid you can’t see her just at the moment. She’s still being assessed and we’re a bit worried about her. There are complications.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “I’m a junior doctor.”

  “That’s like a trainee ain’t it? You’re no bloody good. I want to see a consultant, that’s what you call them? Where’s the consultant?”

  “He’s isn’t available at the moment.”

  “I’m not talking with you. I want my wife to be looked after by a grown up. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “I can assure you I…”

  “Where’s the consultant?”

  “We’re waiting for him to come on duty. He’s late.”

  “Oh that’s fucking wonderful. Having trouble getting his arse out of bed I suppose. Is there only one?”

  “Only one on shift. We’re short staffed.”

  “So who’s in charge here?”

  “At the moment I am.”

  “You’ve still got pimples.”

  “Mr Philpott, I am perfectly capable of running this department and I would ask you to calm down and remain civil. Your wife is being cared for by a team and is with the midwife. She is bleeding rather heavily and we have given her something to help with the pain.”

  “Listen, boy, my wife is in here giving birth to our child, and I want the best for her. Get it sorted will you, and I want to see her.”

  “You can see her soon. Meanwhile, please sit down and let us get on with our job which is to look after Mary.”

  Reluctantly, Len backed off and sat down in the waiting area. The junior doctor lowered his voice when he spoke to the receptionist, but Len still heard what was said. “Try his mobile again – we really need him with this one. It’s not like him to be late.” He disappeared through some double swing doors. Len watched her dial a number and wait patiently. It must have gone to answerphone as she spoke briefly then put the phone down.

  Ten minutes later, Len was back at the counter. “What’s going on? I want to see my wife.”

  “There is nothing to report, Mr Philpott,” said the receptionist. “Please sit down.”

  “Where’s that boy?”

  “If you mean Dr Parker, he is in with your wife.”

  “Where’s the consultant?”

  “Dr Agrawal is not here yet.”

  “Agrawal?”

  “Yes, Agrawal.”

  “Is he a…?”

  “Is he a what, Mr Philpott?”

  Len’s mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. “Never mind.” He returned to his seat.

  Moments later the door from the main corridor opened and a nurse came in and spoke to the receptionist. Len couldn’t hear what was said, but the receptionist was visibly upset by it. She pointed through the double doors and the nurse went through. The receptionist pulled out a tissue and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “What’s up?” called out Len.

  The receptionist shook her head by way of reply and focused on her computer screen.

  Len waited another ten minutes then went across to the counter again. “Right that’s it, I’ve had it waiting. Show me where my wife is right now. And where’s that boy Parker… and has that lazy consultant turned up yet?”

  “Please be patient, Mr Philpott, we’re doing everything we can. Just wait there and we’ll give you an update as soon as we can.”

  Len moved towards the swing doors. “She’s in here isn’t she?”

  “Please sit down.”

  ”I’m going to find her.”

  “No, Mr Philpott, you can’t go in there, it’s a restricted area.”

  “Restricted my arse. I’m going in.”

  “If you do I shall have to call Security.”

  “Call them. I don’t give a fuck.”

  As he reached the swing doors, they opened towards him and Dr Parker appeared. He blocked the way and found himself face to face with Len.

  “Mr Philpott, please come and sit down.”

  “I want to see my wife.”

  “Sit over here and I’ll bring you up to date.” He took Len’s arm and led him to the seats.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Mr Philpott, your wife is not well at all. As you know she started to bleed before she even arrived here and since then it has deteriorated. Any chance of an ordinary vaginal delivery was clearly impossible so we rushed Mary into surgery and performed a C section.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A Caesarean section. It means we made an incision into her womb and delivered the baby that way.”

  “What, you cut into her?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Without my permission? You had no right.”

  “We had every right. Your wife’s life was at risk, so too was that of your baby. You have a beautiful healthy baby girl.”

  “You had no right.”

  “Did you hear me, Mr Philpott? You have a daughter.”

  “I want to see my wife.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t at the moment. You see, Mary has lost a great deal of blood. She’s stable but unconscious. She’s awaiting specialist treatment.”

  “From that Agrawal bloke?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Is he here yet?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Where is the lazy bastard?”

  “He is anything but, I can assure you, and please do not swear like that. It’s unacceptable.”

  “Listen, boy, I tell you what’s unacceptable…”

  “We have an urgent call out for a locum consultant obstetrician.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s unacceptable. Lazy bollocks like your Dr Agra-something that’s what.”

  “Agrawal.”

  “Whatever! It’s lazy fuckers like him putting my wife at risk. That’s what’s unacceptable. If anything happens to her I’m going to…”

  “What are you going to do, Mr Philpott?”

  Len lowered his voice. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “That may not be necessary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dr Agrawal did not turn up for his shift this morning because on his way he was involved in what is commonly referred to as a road rage incident. He rides to work on a motorbike. Apparently, someone knocked him off deliberately and attacked him w
ith a knife.”

  Len went silent for a moment. “Is he dead?”

  “No, but he is currently in our ICU – Intensive Care Unit – with multiple stab wounds. He’s fighting for his life.”

  “Oh.” Len mulled this over for a while. “A daughter you said.”

  “Yes, a daughter.” Dr Parker was struggling to keep his true feelings about this man under control and out of the tone of his voice. “Now, if you will bear with us, I’d appreciate it if you would sit down again. Perhaps someone can bring you a cup of coffee?” He looked across at the receptionist who nodded and asked Len if he took sugar.

  She was a while getting him a drink and when she returned she seemed on edge. Nervous. She handed over the coffee and hurried back to her work station, fixing her gaze onto her computer screen.

  A few moments later, the door to the corridor opened and a policemen wearing a high viz jacket entered. The receptionist did not seem surprised. The policeman glanced across at Len, then back at the receptionist with a quizzical look as if to say: “Is that him?” She nodded.

  The policeman walked across to Len and said: “Mr Philpott?”

  Len nodded. ‘Who’s asking?”

  “Excuse me sir, are you the owner of a white Mitsubishi Barbarian, registration number HG10 FUY?”

  “Yeh, what business is it of yours?”

  The policeman pulled out a set of handcuffs. “I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if…”

  The door to the corridor opened again and another policeman appeared. He crossed the room and whispered in his colleague’s ear. The arresting officer nodded and turned his attention back to Len.

  “Correction, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Len looked at him vacantly. “I want to see my wife...and daughter.”

  Bench

  I have my own bench in the grounds of Chartwell. It’s very ordinary; a metal two-seater, modest and not especially comfortable. But, located on high ground on the top edge of a sloping field, it enjoys stunning views across Winston Churchill’s beloved home territory, with the roof of the house peeping out from behind a clump of trees to the right, and an unbroken panorama across the weald towards… who knows where. Tunbridge Wells perhaps?

  Not mine in terms of ownership of course. However, I’ve been sitting on the bench for years now and in all that time no one has ever been there when I’ve arrived and no one has joined me to share it. So I feel a strong sense of its being my own. My sanctuary.

  I usually park in Westerham, don walking boots and rucksack and set off from the green through a funny little alleyway called Water Lane on to high ground. Half an hour later I reach a bridle path that slopes gently down along the edge of the grounds of Chartwell, following a high and dense hedgerow. There’s a gap through which you can squeeze quite easily, then across a track, through a kissing gate, and the bench is immediately on your left under the protective branches of an imposing oak tree.

  The content of my rucksack varies slightly depending on the season, and I walk there all year round. In autumn, winter and early spring I have coffee in a flask, nuts and brandy. In late spring and summer, the same, only bottled water instead of coffee. I have sat there and contemplated all manner of events in my life – marriage, divorce, career moves, redundancy – in emotional states ranging from intense happiness to crippling self-doubt.

  My visits vary in length from a brief pit stop to an entire morning or afternoon, the latter with a book, or more recently my Kindle. Occasionally I’m there with a female companion; mostly I’m on my own, which I prefer.

  If ever you would expect my sanctuary to be compromised or intruded upon you would imagine it to be in the height of summer, when visitors are so prolific that the bottom half of the field, which is flat and level, is opened up as an overflow car park. You can watch the cars come and go and people meander their way towards the shop, the tearooms and the entrance into the grounds proper that lead you to the holy of holies for Churchill admirers (as I am) – the house itself. As it happens, the one and only time my space was invaded was a cold and raw January afternoon.

  I was huddled on my bench with the lid of the vacuum flask between my hands acting as a cup. I took occasional sips of the rich and marginally metallic blend of coffee and brandy. My thoughts were elsewhere; precisely where I have no idea. As I sat staring into oblivion my attention was drawn to an elderly couple and a dog entering the field from the main car park and making their way gingerly along the far edge. He was slightly bowed and walked with a stick. He wore a full-length coat and a peculiar hat with ear muffs that seemed to be part of the whole and bore some resemblance to a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker. His hands were protected by thick sheepskin gloves. She wore what appeared from a distance to be a Barbour – green, waxed, very county – and a long tweed skirt and wellies (also green). On her head was a thick scarf knotted below her chin. She was in charge of the dog which pulled constantly at the lead to the extent that the poor thing was choking itself. I’m not very good with identifying breeds of dog; it was medium-sized and black.

  A black dog at Chartwell. Churchill would have appreciated the irony. We have a familiarity with that particular beast in common.

  When they reached the corner of the field where two stout fences form a perfect forty-five degree angle, the couple turned to the left and continued their circuit. At the next corner they turned again, bringing my bench directly into their pathway, barely fifty yards ahead of them. The old man was flagging. I sensed rather than saw them out of the corner of my eye as I concentrated my focus on Tunbridge Wells, or where I imagined it to be.

  “Here’s a nice bench for you, Roger.” A plummy voice with, it seemed to me, a hint of superciliousness mixed with indifference. “You rest here while I take the pooch for a bit of a stretch along the bridle path.”

  Fuck it, I could hear myself saying inside my head in a mountainous internal groan.

  “No, I’ll be alright, Rosie. I can keep up with you. I’m fine.”

  Good man, I willed encouragingly. Keep going. Keep up with her. You can do it.

  “Nonsense, I insist. You stay here, it’s too much for you. You have to pace yourself. Now sit next to this gentleman and I’ll be no longer than half an hour.” Roger sat down as he was bid and argued no more. Rosie entered the kissing gate and encouraged the black dog through with the tip of her boot. “Come along, Ludwig!”

  Half an hour!

  An eerie silence descended. I took a sip of coffee and stifled a belch. I hated the thought of sharing my bench; absolutely hated it. He wasn’t welcome. I just wanted him to go away and leave me with my own, precious space. I felt tense. Please don’t talk, I begged of him silently. Please don’t make polite conversation. If you must be there, be there in silence then bugger off with posh Rosie and your black dog. And don’t ever come back! Then as an addendum: Ludwig? Jesus! Really?

  Alas, that golden silence lasted barely a minute. It was inevitable I suppose. I thought I might get a greeting of some kind, or a very English comment about the weather. When it came, it was at least unusual and original, if not downright bizarre.

  “You’ve heard of Shorty Longbottom.”

  Not a question; a statement. The voice was rather high-pitched, plummy too, though not so much as his wife’s. I kept staring ahead of me, blocking him, imagining I could just make out that rather nice coffee shop I knew in the distant Pantiles.

  “Shorty Longbottom,” he repeated. “You know, and his pink Spitfire.”

  Spitfires interest me. My ears pricked up, though my face gave away nothing.

  “Have you heard of him?”

 
; Against my better judgment I answered. “No I haven’t.”

  “Not surprised. Nobody has these days. But he was a hero in his time.”

  “And what time was that?” I probably sounded a tad sarcastic.

  “Almost the entire length of the war. From thirty-nine to forty-five… until just a few months before it was all over.”

  “And he flew a pink Spitfire?”

  “Reconnaissance. In thirty-nine he flew over Germany taking aerial photographs. Apparently in clear skies pink is a better camouflage colour than blue. So they painted his Spitfire pink.”

  “Well I never.”

  “Later on, in forty-three, he was the first pilot to drop Barnes Wallis’s bouncing bomb successfully in trials, at Reculver.”

  The Dambusters; something else that interests me.

  “I never knew that.”

  “He wasn’t anything to do with 617 Squadron… he didn’t go on the raid. He was a test pilot.” The old man paused and clapped his hands together gently to help keep them warm. He sat fairly upright and with his knees together. “Of course the war was pitted with heroes and heroic deeds.”

  “Were you a pilot?”

  “Good heavens no, nothing like that at all. I was only a child during the war. What do you do, young man?”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Music.”

  “Well that we have in common. I’ve done quite a bit of teaching myself over the years. Still do, privately.”

  Lord preserve us, another bloody teacher! My enthusiasm for my new bench partner took an immediate nose dive. Out of politeness rather than genuine curiosity I asked him what he taught.

  “Piano. Though I’m a performer mainly… or rather used to be.”

  Potentially interesting again. For the first time I stole a sideways glance at the old man. There wasn’t much to see of his head beneath the deerstalker affair, but I could make out the profile. A sizeable aquiline nose was his most prominent feature, followed by a protruding chin; he was beetle-browed with dark bushy eyebrows beneath a wisp or two of white hair. His skin had a bloodless pallor. I couldn’t see his eyes. I was getting parts of a jigsaw but not the entire picture. I kept looking and, very gradually, the missing bits began to fill themselves in in my mind until, quite suddenly, there came a point when I could see the whole.