by Nigel Bird
“Sorry about the mess, but vee vill tidy up right away, von’t vee Gregor?” He sticks out his teeth to accentuate the vampire in him. “I vill do ze kitchen and you can look after ze performing animals.”
Alice bows. “Yes, Maestro.”
“You see, I have her under my spell.”
Alice leaves the room howling like a wolf.
Cath wanders over to the sink and takes the cloth from Max. She opens the unit in front of her and drops the rag into the bin. “So you managed to turn my beautiful daughter into a dog in less than two hours. You’re worse than her grandpa used to be.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” And he should. “So how did it go?”
Cath’s smile is replaced by weariness. “We’ll see some money for the next few weeks.”
“It went smoothly then?”
Cath holds out her arm. “Look, no bruises.”
Max isn’t sure whether she’s being serious or having a go at him. “Glad to hear it.”
“And how was Alice?”
This is a tricky question. Much as he’s enjoyed being there, he doesn’t want to become the regular sitter. He decides to stick to the piano lesson, after all that’s what he’s being paid to do. “She was fine. She can do her C scale now, or nearly anyway.”
“Wow!” It’s good that she seems impressed.
“She’ll need some help with the fingering.” The words come easily, as if he’s been doing the job for years.
“I think I can manage that.” Cath’s still close to Max. He realises that she’s inside his body space, that distance between shoulder and elbow that he’s been trained not to invade when he’s working with his customers. A lean forward and he could kiss her. He looks at her lips as the idea comes into his mind. They’re plump and moist and ripe for the picking, but not over-full like some of the Botox brigade.
Cath seems to sense his ‘should I/shouldn’t I?’ dilemma and steps back to make his life less complicated.
“She’s a good pupil,” Max says. “So was Teddy Edward come to think of it.”
Cath reaches out and lays her hand on his arm. It might just be a habit of hers, but Max always takes physical contact as a good sign, unless it’s from a guy. “Thank you,” she tells him and Max tries hard not to let his excitement show, which with Max can sometimes be as effective as sticking a cork into the top of an erupting volcano. On this occasion, however, he keeps himself under control.
“Try and get her to practice. It always helps.”
“Makes perfect. I’ll do that.”
Max dries his hands on the kitchen towel and prepares to move on. “I do have to go now.” It’s been a much longer lesson than he’d anticipated. “Shall we make it the same time next week?”
“That would be great.” Never a truer word.
Max picks up his satchel and has a check around the kitchen to make sure he’s not forgotten anything. There’s a light powder over the table and on the floor and the patch where the egg landed still shines more brightly than its surroundings. He considers staying to sort it all out, but if he doesn’t get to smoke soon he might turn into something more unpleasant than a vampire Muppet.
“I need to pay you,” Cath says, which means she thinks he’s worth the money.
“Not today you don’t.” He’s definitely not ready to be rewarded for his charade. “The first one’s always on me. And besides, it’s been a pleasure.”
He walks out of the kitchen and heads over to the door.
“See you next week then.”
Alice returns with her arms full of toys.
“And remember Gregor, you must practice your piano and your barking. Especially your barking.”
Alice bows, drops the toys and salutes, then howls like a wolf. Max joins in and clicks his heels together.
“Very good my child. I like your style. See you next week. Au revoir.”
“Goodbye Maestro. Goodbye.”
Alice bows again and Max leaves.
When he gets into the corridor and the door closes behind him, Max gives a blood curdling howl that echoes around eerily. From inside the flat, Alice gives a howl in reply.
Max skips down the stairs and passes an old woman with a shopping bag who’s looking through a pair of half-glasses along a nose like a ski-slope and looking hugely disapproving.
Max chooses not to make eye-contact and skips on and hopes he can still make his next appointment on time.
NINE
Max and Chris stagger down the street, leaning in to each other as mutual support.
Chris passes Max a bottle of cider. It’s a complicated manoeuvre that involves them readjusting their balance and standing apart while they carry out the swap. It takes so much effort that they stop and, like their addictions have been communication with each other, take out cigarettes. Before they light them, they wobble around like novice stilt-walkers, tilt their heads back and howl at the moon like a couple of wolves.
Max accepts a light from Chris and they come back together, becoming a four legged animal once more, one with all the grace of a newly born giraffe.
When Max takes a swig from the bottle it unsettles their rhythm. They stagger into the middle of the road, avoiding a cyclist by inches until Max falls to the floor.
Chris offers him a hand.
They stand facing each other and let out a mighty howl before continuing their journey home.
TEN
It’s pouring with rain. Max and Chris are running, bedraggled, to get to the shop which is already open and awaiting their arrival. A man in a mackintosh carrying an umbrella blocks their entry as they get to the door. He takes down his umbrella, removes his spectacles, gives them a wipe and enters. Max and Chris try to use him as cover as they go in. They both bow their heads as if the act will make them invisible.
Unfortunately for them, their boss is blocking their way to the staffroom. Her arms are folded and there’s a sour look on her face. The sour look’s never a good sign, but it suits her better than her smile. When she’s happy she looks more like a demon than ever. Today she’s in the tight pink suit that accentuates the sense that she might be anorexic.
The two go over to her and stand in silence like naughty little kids.
The boss looks down at them with the hollow eyes of a shark. “Look at you two. What would your mothers think?” Her vowels are pure Yorkshire. “Go and make yourselves respectable.”
They turn away, and their previously innocent faces break into smiles.
“Wait a second boys.” She’s like a head-teacher in a Roald Dahl novel.
They stop on the spot. Max tightens all the muscles in his body to prepare himself for the worst.
“I’ll expect you to be doing a little extra through your lunch break. Shall we say half an hour?”
Their expressions change to ones of resignation. They walk over to the staff door. Amelie stands at the back holding up two cards with a zero written on them. Unlike the men, Amelie hasn’t spent last night on the tiles. Her skin looks fresh underneath the spikes of her sharp, black hair. Max and Chris have both had a crack at her with no joy, which wasn’t surprising given that she’s only interested in dating women. She puts the cards down and comes over to let them in with her key, laughing as she opens the door. They say a subdued thank you as they go past.
“Shall we say half an hour boys?” Chris says. It’s a pretty good impression really, the way he sucks in his cheeks gets all northern. “And shall we say stick your bloody job?”
“Stick the kettle on,” Max tells him. “Jesus. If I don’t get some coffee inside me I’m going to fall apart.”
“Desiccated?”
“You know I’ve never been desiccated to anything in my entire life.”
Chris puts on the kettle while Max uses a grotty towel that was once yellow to dry his hair.
“Chuck that over,” Chris says, and Max throws it hard and straight into Chris’s face.
“We should’ve called in sick,” Ma
x says.
“Yeah, but the old dragon knows we were on the lash.”
“Stuff the old dragon. I’m going to give up and teach piano for a living.”
“I hope I never hear you play that bloody thing again. What was that last night? Beethoven? Schubert?”
“I don’t know who wrote it.”
“Mmm? Scale of C major, now let me think.”
“Okay, I get the point.”
“It could be a big hit.” Chris gets on with making the coffee. “How about Chopsticks on the B side?”
“All right, I’ll sell a few more books and then I’ll quit.”
They sit down at the table to drink their brew. Chris pokes around in a bag on the table and pulls out a magazine. Ella. He looks at it, wrinkles his nose and throws it contemptuously back. “I thought it might have a hangover cure.”
“Ten ways to lose your love handles might come in useful one day. Texts that dumped the world. How to choose a sweetheart. Garbage.”
Chris rubs his temples. “That’s the last time I’m going to sleep with that piano.”
“What?”
“I want your bed when I stay over.”
There’s no way Max will let that happen.
“Then the piano will have to go,” Chris says.
“It can stay. I’ll take the chessboard again.”
“It’s becoming a habit. You should be careful there. Look at the state of you.”
“I don’t think it was the chess. My money’s on your dad’s poteen.”
“We should have known when we realised it was flammable.”
“Maybe we could be lighter fuel salesmen. All we need is the recipe and a patent.”
“And maybe a good lawyer to get us out of gaol for distilling the stuff.”
Max hears a key in the door and the boys jump to their feet.
The Trunchball doesn’t come in, but throws her voice into the room. “Boys, we’re getting busy out here. Do you think you might give us a hand?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer and lets the door close.
“Upstairs or down?” Chris asks.
“I couldn’t give a monkey’s.”
“You can take downstairs then.” Which is fair enough. “I couldn’t face the smell of Sci-Fi Man today.”
They leave to the shop floor. Max goes to the front till. As he gets there the boss leaves. He sits and puts his head in his hands. It’s going to be the day from hell. His body feels like it’s been sucked dry, as if he’s just had a colonic irrigation that went a bit too far. What he needs is plenty of caffeine, copious smokes, a soft duvet and a couple of great movies on the TV. He manages to lift his head just long enough to type in his till-code and then crouches behind the counter in the pretence that he’s looking for something.
A familiar voice interrupts him.
“Excuse me. Do you know the way to the Statue of Liberty?” It’s Cath.
He’s so happy to hear her that he pops up from behind the counter like a slice of toast. Then he remembers the state he’s in and holds his breath to try and stop the flow of alcohol fumes from polluting the immediate area.
“Looks like you had a good time after you left yesterday.” There’s nothing accusatory in her voice, but he feels the need to clear things up.
“You should see the other guy.” Max points up to the first floor and nods in the hope that she’ll understand. “I had a better time before I left, thank you. At least Alice was only pretending to be a monster.”
“She’s been howling non-stop since you were there.”
“It’s good that she’s been practicing.” His hangover seems lighter all of a sudden. It’s a miracle.
“And last night I just couldn’t get her to go to sleep. She insisted I tell her a story about a flower and a prince.”
“God, I’m sorry about that,” not that he’s sorry in the slightest.
“Well I’m not,” which makes things even better. “I haven’t seen her like this since my father died. It’s like she’s learning to be a child again.
The idea makes Max warm on the inside, like he’s done something good for humanity. “We all need that every once in a while.”
“She even wanted to go and visit a friend this morning to show off her piano book.”
“That does sound encouraging,” and it does, it really does. The only thing is he’s not a piano teacher and he’s not being honest. The hangover descends once more and he feels his nervous system wake up to the pain.
“You bet. And it leaves me with some time on my hands and I thought you might be able to recommend something. It’s an age since I felt like I had the time to read anything, and seeing that you work in a bookshop I thought...”
“I don’t really read that much to be honest. I’m not the best person to ask.” It’s not that he doesn’t want to help, he’s just nervous that he’ll touch things and shatter the beauty that has been created.
“I’m asking you anyway. Anything will do.”
“Then I’ll go and grab you something. Won’t be a sec.”
Max walks casually up the stairs until he’s almost out of sight, then he runs. He rushes over to the back till. Chris appears to be flirting with Amelie in spite of her leanings.
“I need a book quick. Something for a woman. Something that will impress. Make me seem intelligent.”
“Don’t be daft. I can’t work miracles.”
“Come on. It’s important.”
“Poor bloke, he’s in love.”
“And about time too,” Amelie chips in.
“Then help me out here, will you?”
Amelie always likes to play Cupid. “Don’t you understand anything? If she wants you to choose a book, she might just be hoping to find something out about you, get a handle on who you are.”
“You think?” It does make sense in a fuzzy logic kind of way.
“Yes I do.”
“I don’t think the Beano will give you much of a start though,” Chris says.
Amelie’s elbow launches itself into Chris’s ribs and lands with a dull thud. “Shut up Chris. How about that Paul Auster? I’ve never heard you talk so much about a book.”
“Or one of your detectives.”
“Or The Count of Monte Cristo.”
The Count. Romantic and gripping and literary. It could be a winner. And they could talk about it afterwards. “Now there’s an idea. Great, thanks guys.”
Max reaches over, takes each of them and squeezes. He turns and runs downstairs with his brain fizzing. When he gets to the bottom and within range of Trunchball, he walks with an exaggerated calm. He goes over to the fiction section, scans the shelf, finds the Dumas and pulls out The Count. Cath’s waiting patiently at the till, looking through the rack of cards when he returns and he holds the book out to her.
She turns to him and checks the title. “I’ll take it.”
That was easy. “Don’t you want to know what it’s about or anything?”
“It would spoil the surprise.”
“Suppose so.” He looks around checking for his boss. She’s staring at him like an owl might eye up a mouse on a plate. “If you can hang around I can get it on staff discount. I just have to be sure the old dragon isn’t watching.
“I’ll take it as is,” she says. “I need to pick Alice up. Thanks all the same.”
Max scans the book, puts it into a bag and takes a note from Cath. He taps the till then hands over the change and the receipt.
“Maybe we could talk about it sometime.”
Slam dunk. “I only talk about books when I’m drinking.”
“So let’s do some drinking then. How about I cook us dinner next Thursday after the lesson? As a kind of thank you.”
Hasn’t she seen the size of the book? Max wonders. “That would be wonderful, but...” And where the hell did that ‘but’ come from?
“You’re already busy, right?”
She looks genuinely taken aback, her eyes opening with surprise and her
cheeks and her ears pinking up immediately.
Surely he can’t blow this one. “No, no, that would be lovely. If you’re sure.”
It’s like someone has run on, painted relief onto her face and disappeared without being noticed. “Absolutely.”
“Great.”
“I can cook while you’re working.”
Which is fantastic because then he’ll be able to bluff his way through another lesson unobserved. “I’ll bring the wine then. Red or white?”
“How about one of each to be on the safe side.”
This really could be the woman of Max’s dreams, even if she might have to share the space with Jazz.
Cath takes her new book from the bag. She puts it up to her nose, flicks the pages and takes a sniff. “You wouldn’t believe the things Alice comes out with. This morning she swore she could smell green eggs and ham.”
Max’s face heats up a little.
Cath returns the book to the bag and gets set to leave. “I’ll look forward to it then.”
Just as she sets off, Max remembers something. “Wait. I’m sorry, I’m a vegetarian.”
“And I thought you were English.” The look she gives him over her shoulder is irresistible. It’s the perfect cure for a hangover.
“Hope you like the read,” he calls after her as she leaves the shop.
As soon as the door closes behind her, Chris appears at Max’s shoulder. “Tell me that was her.”
Max nods, and puffs out a deep sigh of relief.
Chris puffs out his cheeks to give his best wow face. “You can keep the piano after all. I’ll sleep inside it if I have to.”
He pats Max on the back and rubs the top of his shoulders before leaving. Max just stares at the door.
The music in the shop changes to ‘Poor Little Fool’ by Ricky Nelson.
Amelie wanders by and passes a card into his hands.
He raises it, looks at it and smiles. In the middle of the card, she’s scribbled a huge 10.
ELEVEN
Sunday night and Max walks in to Mr Evans’s living room all prepared for his next lesson, only a couple of minutes late.
Mr Evans is sitting in his armchair coughing into a handkerchief. It’s a wet cough, the kind that sounds like it could kill an ox. His grey hair has flopped forward and looks out of control.