Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Only for you, darlin’.”

  “Why, thank you so much.” She quickly tugged Hazaar over the threshold and led her into the kitchen. “Mum, this is Hazaar. Hazaar, this is my mum, Sarah.”

  Her mother dried her hands off and held one out to Hazaar. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Porter.”

  “Oh no. I’m Sarah. Mrs. Porter is my mother-in-law, and as I was explaining to Charlie just a few minutes ago, I’ll not be serving Spam salad.” She giggled at the look of confusion on Hazaar’s face. “Charlie will explain, I’m sure. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’ve got it, Mum.” She grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured ice water from a jug in the fridge before handing it to Hazaar. Their fingers brushed as Hazaar took the glass and smiled. “Shall we go and sit down?”

  Hazaar nodded and followed her out of the kitchen as Beth stepped in and headed straight for her mother. The door hadn’t even fully closed behind them before Beth started firing questions at her mother. Charlie grinned and pulled Hazaar to a stop as they eavesdropped on the conversation.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I’ve barely spoken to her yet, Beth.”

  “But you think she’s pretty, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I think she’s pretty. She can’t stop smiling at Charlie. And they keep holding hands. It’s really quite cute when old people hold hands with each other.”

  Charlie stroked Hazaar’s blushing cheek. “Who knew my sister would have such good taste?” She leaned forward and kissed Hazaar gently.

  “Beth, your sister hardly counts as an old person,” her mother said.

  “I know, but you and Dad hold hands a lot too.”

  “Elizabeth Porter!”

  “Oops. Sorry, Mum. You’re not old either. But Dad is.”

  Charlie deepened the kiss, dragging her hands down the length of Hazaar’s back.

  “Charlie, wait.” Hazaar pulled back and turned to face Beth, who stood in the doorway.

  “Sorry.” Beth was blushing as deeply as Charlie was. “I was trying to be quiet and just go.”

  “It’s okay.” Charlie smiled at her, despite her flaming cheeks. “I’ll get my own back when you finally bring your boyfriend home.”

  “No chance.”

  “Ashamed of him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ashamed of us?”

  “Occasionally, but not the reason.”

  Hazaar muffled her laughter with her hand as Charlie frowned.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’m a sadist, not a masochist.”

  “Swallowed a dictionary, have you?”

  “Very funny. I just don’t want to suffer the embarrassment, pain, and fear that you’ll go through tonight. I’d much rather dish it out.” She stuck her tongue out and ran back into the kitchen.

  Charlie shook her head. “I swear sometimes I think she’s thirty, and the rest of the time I think she’s three!”

  “She’s much more fun than any of my three sisters ever were.”

  “Maybe that’s because all your sisters were older than you, so you can relate to Beth easier.”

  Hazaar kissed her again. “I’d much rather relate to you.” Her fingers slipped into Charlie’s hair, and she pulled her into a deep kiss, swallowing the moan that slipped out, but breaking off before they became oblivious again.

  “Lucky me.”

  “When does your dad get home?”

  “Anytime now. He’s usually here by this time, actually.” She sat on the sofa and pulled Hazaar next to her. “Are you okay? Nervous?”

  “I’m fine, baby. Your mum and sister seem really nice. You are amazing. I’m sure your dad will be equally nice. What’s to be nervous about?”

  Charlie smiled a knowing smile and quirked her eyebrow.

  “Okay, I’m terrified. What if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m too old for you or that my religion is a problem?”

  “Sweetheart, my parents aren’t racist. They wouldn’t care if you were bright blue with polka dots. And you’re only three years older than me. That isn’t an age difference. There are ten years between my mum and dad.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. So don’t worry about that. What matters to them is how you are to me. How you treat me. When I first came out to them, all they said they wanted was for me to be happy. If you make me happy, they will love you.” Hazaar didn’t look convinced. “Okay, remember what my mum was saying about Spam salad?”

  “Yeah, what the hell was that all about?”

  “She was telling me about the first time she met my dad’s mum. He took her around for tea and she served Spam salad.”

  “What is Spam salad?”

  “Salad with Spam. Spam is this kinda canned meat made up of all the leftovers and covered in this sort of jelly. It’s really disgusting stuff. Anyway, she served that and didn’t speak to my mum the whole evening. Knowing my gran, that is totally what happened.” She trailed her fingers down Hazaar’s cheek and made her look in her eyes. “So far, my mum has spoken to you. My sister has walked in on us kissing, and still talked to you. My mum has made a lamb casserole, after going to a halal butcher to get the meat, and is making every effort to put you at ease. My family is really lovely. They will tease me mercilessly, and you’ll find out all kinds of embarrassing information about me. You may even get to see naked baby pictures, though if Flipper pulls out the one with me in a sheepskin rug with a colander on my head, I will probably die of shame. But they will be nothing but nice to you.”

  “Are you naked on this sheepskin rug?”

  Charlie shook her head. “Worse. I was naked on the floor and using it as my superhero cape.”

  “I have got to see that picture.” They heard the key in the front door, and Hazaar tensed.

  “If you relax I might be persuaded to give you your own private re-creation.”

  Hazaar’s head whipped around. “Is that a promise?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” Charlie was already making her way to the door and opened it just as her dad reached for the handle. “Hey, Pops.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close.

  “Hey, baby girl.”

  “Busy day?”

  “They all are, honey.”

  She stepped back from him. “Dad, this is Hazaar. Hazaar, this is my dad, Andrew Porter.”

  “I’m very please to meet you, Mr. Porter.” They shook hands.

  “Please call me Andy.” He smiled warmly at her, then winked at Charlie. “I’m going to go and get cleaned up, but can I get you a drink first?”

  “No thank you, I have one.”

  “Okay, then if you’ll excuse me a few minutes.” He backed out of the room and went into the kitchen before they heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Should we go and talk to your mum?”

  “Yeah. Probably best not to leave Flipper with her for too long.” They stood, and Charlie started to lead the way back into the kitchen.

  “Why?”

  “She’ll be giving a running commentary on your technique.” She felt her arm pulled behind her as Hazaar stopped. “I’m kidding, sweetheart. Totally kidding.” She kissed her gently. “Shall we?”

  Hazaar didn’t say anything but allowed herself to be tugged into the kitchen just in time to hear Charlie’s mother chastising Beth.

  “Elizabeth Porter, you will not tease your sister like that. Put the picture album back in the drawer, or I swear to God, I will go and find that young man you’re pining after on Facebook and send him your baby pictures. Just because you won’t bring him here doesn’t mean you’re safe. Do you understand me, young lady?”

  Charlie was barely able to contain her laughter as Beth walked out, mumbling under her breath.

  “I never should have explained the damn Internet to her.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, kid
do, but I work with the damn Internet.”

  “Damn it.” Her mother’s eyes met Charlie’s, and the two of them burst out laughing, with Hazaar smiling as she looked on.

  “I’m sorry about that, Hazaar. She has a slightly wicked sense of humour.” Her mother laughed. “I’ll rephrase. She has a totally evil sense of humour, and occasionally, I have to rein her in. I still find blackmail and threats are by far the most efficient, and she hasn’t figured out when I’m bluffing.”

  “Not a problem, but I might actually want to see those pictures.”

  “Hey!”

  “I’ll bring them back in later. It’s not acceptable for Beth to embarrass Charlie like that, but I’m her mother. It’s in the manual.”

  “See, I told you they would tease me mercilessly.”

  “I’m not teasing, honey.”

  Charlie rolled her eyes and sighed. Taking pity on her, Hazaar squeezed her hand and spoke to her mother.

  “Mrs. Port—”

  “Sarah. If you call me Mrs. Porter I’ll be looking for his mother.”

  “Sorry. Sarah. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “No, thank you. My kitchen is my castle, for want of a better phrase. I let the girls in from time to time, mostly to ensure they don’t starve when I kick the bucket, but I enjoy cooking, and they’re pretty bad in the kitchen.”

  “Hey!” Charlie said.

  “It’s probably my fault. I should have let them do more than peel potatoes and lick the chocolate bowl as children, but I do know Charlie is very good with tins. Soup, beans, anything like that.”

  “I’m right here, Mother.”

  “I know, dear. She’s pretty good with toast too.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Hazaar said.

  Charlie’s mother ushered them into chairs at the breakfast bar and continued pottering around the kitchen.

  “Do you cook, Hazaar?”

  “When I’m at my parents’ I do. I don’t cook that much at home. It’s a lot of trouble for one person.”

  “So your mum taught you to cook?”

  Hazaar laughed. “Not so much taught as demanded. All of us girls had to learn how to cook. Not my brother though. He just had to learn how to eat it all.”

  “Sounds like the better end of the deal. Do you enjoy cooking?”

  “Nope. I’m afraid not. It bores me to tears. In my culture, the kitchen is the main focal point for the women. Gossip, recipes, and more gossip is swapped, elaborated on, and swapped again just for good measure.”

  “Sounds like every kitchen I’ve ever been in,” Charlie’s mother said with a broad smile. “So what did you prefer to do then, if not cook?”

  “I always resented not being able to practice when I had to be in the kitchen.”

  “Piano?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charlie said you’re very talented. I would love to hear you play sometime.” She turned back to the stove and stirred the large pot, the delicious meaty aroma filling the kitchen as she did so.

  “Something smells good.” Charlie’s father walked in, slipped his arm around her mother’s waist, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  “Hungry, love?”

  “Starving.”

  “It’s ready now. Will you put the bread on the table for me?”

  “I’ve got it, Mum.” Charlie grabbed the huge bowl and led Hazaar into the dining room. Her mother followed close behind holding a dish of rice and held the door open for her father as he carried the heavy casserole dish.

  “Beth!” her mother shouted. “Dinner’s ready.” The heavy sound of a teenaged elephant thundered down the stairs before she burst through the door. Her mother grinned wickedly. “You can come in, but you can leave the herd outside.”

  “Huh? Oh. Very funny. I’ll see you doing stand-up next.”

  They all found seats and Charlie gently squeezed Hazaar’s knee and winked at her when she jumped slightly.

  “So, Mum, what is this?”

  “It’s a recipe I got off the Internet. Pakistani mutton stew with rice. I hope it’s all right. I haven’t made this before.” She smiled shyly.

  “You made this for me?” Hazaar’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That was terribly presumptuous.”

  “It’s fine. Yes, I did. I know this lot of mine will eat anything I put in front of them, but I wasn’t so sure I would be allowed to bully you into the same deal, so I thought I would do a little surfing. I hope this is okay?” Beth was already spooning rice onto her plate, and then ladled a generous helping of stew over the grains.

  “Looks good, Mum.”

  “It’s my favourite.” Hazaar began to fill her plate. “This is really wonderful.” She looked directly at Charlie’s mother. “Thank you for going to so much trouble.”

  “Nonsense.” Charlie’s mother blushed slightly under the praise. “It’s about time these heathens broadened their horizons, and it gave me a new challenge.”

  “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” She pulled her spoon through the stew before plopping it into her mouth, a huge satisfied grin spreading across her lips.

  “So, Hazaar, Charlie said you’re doing your master’s degree.” Charlie’s father quickly filled his own plate.

  “Yes. I start in September.”

  “What do you plan to do after that?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I would love to be a concert pianist or join an orchestra.”

  “The Halle?”

  “If they would have me.”

  “I’m sure they would, Hazaar. You play so beautifully,” Charlie said.

  Hazaar smiled at her. “Not as beautifully as you sing.” Charlie felt herself being pulled toward Hazaar. The tantalizing shine to her moist lips called to her, and she ached to run her tongue over them.

  Beth cleared her throat loudly, breaking the spell. “Have you taught lots of people to play the piano?”

  “A few. I wouldn’t say lots.”

  “Is it hard?”

  “It can be. It depends what you want to learn to play. If it’s just basics, then it can be quite easy. Jazz and classical are the hardest forms to master.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, classical music has an incredible amount of discipline involved. Scales, techniques, chords. They’re all very difficult, and the notation is sometimes archaic and difficult to follow. The pieces also tend to be quite long, so learning them can be very tricky. Jazz is very difficult, for very different reasons. The chords structures and forms are different and so much of it is improvised that some people have real problems getting to grips with the idea of there being form without form.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s the problem. With jazz you kinda have to leave all preconceived notions at the door. When you play a song, your only constraints are the notes in the chord that is backing you. But even then the rules are meant to be broken.”

  “So you can just play anything, have it sound all kinds of awful, and just say it’s jazz?”

  “Well, you could. But the really great jazz musicians can make the broken rules and the improvisation sound magical.”

  “Like who?”

  “Dizzy Gillespie, Courtney Pine, Charlie Parker, Thelonius Monk, Duke Ellington—oh, there are so many.”

  “I like Dave Brubeck and Fats Waller myself, but as a sax player, I think John Coltrane is totally the mutt’s nuts!” Beth spoke around a mouthful of food and her mother looked at her reprovingly. She grinned and swallowed.

  “You play sax?”

  Beth nodded. “Wanna jam?”

  “Anytime, Flipper. Anytime.”

  Beth’s face fell, and everyone laughed. “Does everyone get to call me Flipper now?”

  Charlie’s mother reached over and ruffled Beth’s hair. “No, baby. Just family.”

  The laughter continued until Charlie sensed Hazaar’s unease and covered her hand, leaning close to whisper. “Are you okay?”

  Hazaar nodded her hea
d, but her expression still seemed distant.

  “Are you sure? Beth wasn’t meaning to be hurtful.”

  “I know. She wasn’t. It just seems a little surreal.” She shook her head. “It’s fine.” She turned her hand in Charlie’s and laced their fingers together. “I promise.” She pulled her hand away and reached for some of the roti bread on the table as Charlie leaned back in her seat, throwing a pointed look at Beth.

  “You said earlier that you worked with the Internet, Sarah. What is it that you do?” Hazaar asked.

  Beth groaned, to be met by a light slap across the back of her head. “That’s child abuse!”

  “I design websites.” Charlie’s mother ignored Beth and answered the question.

  “Really? How did you get into that?”

  “After I had Charlie, I needed something for myself while I stayed at home with her. I went to classes for graphic design. I always loved drawing and design and such, so I got qualified to do all kinds of design work and then I got a job part-time for the local paper. I did layouts for adverts and things in the magazines and inserts. I started to discover the Internet then. I really loved it. When I was at home with Beth, I decided to train some more and got into all of the technology side of the design. I loved it even more. I’m freelance now, so I get to stay home and pester my kids as much as I want. It’s worked out really well for me.”

  “Did you study art at college?”

  “God, no. I left school at sixteen and started work in a solicitor’s office. I was training to be a secretary from the bottom up. Office junior, filing, making tea, typing letters, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Nope. Not in the least.” Sputtered laughter fluttered about the table. “It was a job that led to a decent career for a young woman, and it was just kind of expected. I’d finished school, and my parents thought that my fancy drawings and arty-farty ideas were a sure way to starvation. So I did what I had to do. I liked the people I worked with well enough, and I didn’t mind the work too much. It could have been much worse. So I stayed with it until I had Charlie. Andy was doing well and already a foreman by then, so we were doing well enough that I could give up work and stay home with the baby.” Charlie’s mother smiled fondly at her.