Aftershock by Bernard Ashley Read Free Book Online

book. He hesitated before he read the first
Hello
, and she said ‘Hello’ before he did. Then they moved on to page four.
    â€œI can run, John.”
    â€œI can run, Sally.”
    â€œSee me run, Mum.”
    â€œSee me run, Dad.”
    Makis’s mother stayed silent as Makis painfully spelt it out – but she joined in with him as he tried to speed up, to make more sense of it. And it was while they were doing this – heads touching, minds together at the age-old task, that Makis had his next big lift.
    It came with a knock at the door.
    â€˜Forgive me for intruding.’ Mr Laliotis said.
    â€˜Of course.’ With Kefalonian courtesy, Sofia gestured for him to come in.
    He glanced around the room. ‘You are working…?’
    Sofia looked at Mr Laliotis, then at Makis, who was holding up the Red Spot book for their visitor to see. And, lifting her head, she said, ‘Makis is teaching me to read English.’
    Makis nearly fell off his chair.
What?
Was she saving face for him – or had she guessed what he was doing? Had she worked out that he was tricking her into learning English? Whatever it was, he could only smile like a good loser.
    â€˜Well, I don’t want to interrupt such a worthy enterprise…’
    So did she feel OK about learning to read English? Or was this just to let him know that she had seen through him? Some footballs go where you want them to go by bouncing them off a player’s legs.
    â€˜â€¦However, my wife is out this evening, and I’ve dusted off my balalaika. When you’ve finished, perhaps Makis would like to come and rehearse a tune or two?’ Mr Laliotis looked at the mandolin hanging on the wall. ‘The Gibson
looks
good, but it always sounds even better.’
    And Mr Laliotis, the famous BBC violinist, knew his name!
    â€˜We’ll read the next page, and then he can come up to you. Thank you.’
    â€˜And another time, we’ll make it a little party, eh? When Mrs Laliotis is at home…?’
    But Makis’s mother was vigorously shaking her head, and shrinking a little, back into the other, sadder Sofia Magriotis. ‘Thank you, but I don’t go out,’ she said.
    Mr Laliotis rode over the refusal like a gentleman. ‘That’s very sad. But it would give me pleasure to play balalaika tonight,’ he said. ‘Is it all right for Makis to come?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Sofia Magriotis was a Kefalonian lady. ‘I’ll send him up.’
    â€˜Thank you. Then for the moment I’ll say… ‘ and here Mr Laliotis smiled, and with a look over at the Red Spot book, finished in English – ‘Goodbye.’
    To which Sofia bowed her head, ‘Goodbye,’ she said, also in English and very matter-of-fact, as if she’d been saying it all her life.

    Mr Laliotis’s flat was everything that Makis’s wasn’t. It was high above the street, it was light, and it had matching furniture. Where Sofia and Makis walked on linoleum and mats, Mr Laliotis had carpets; and while Sofia and Makis had one armchair, up on the middle floor there was a long sofa and two armchairs. But it was the piano that really set the places apart. It was a baby grand, near the window where the light fell across the keyboard. Makis stood in the doorway and felt like a delivery boy wringing his cap in his hand.
    â€˜Come in, come in!’ Mr Laliotis had swapped his jacket for a short-sleeved pullover, his bow-tie for a collarless shirt. And in his hands he was holding his long-necked, maple balalaika. ‘Let’s tune our instruments, eh?’ He took the mandolin from Makis and plucked the E string. He then plucked the first of his three balalaika strings, also an E. ‘That’s not bad!’ The tuning Makis had done downstairs brought a little nod from the man, and a wink as he began to tune the other strings of both instruments. ‘Please check it,’ he