The Song House by Trezza Azzopardi Read Free Book Online

concoction!’
    Maggie finds Kenneth at the stove, peering into a rise of
steam wafting from a large metal saucepan. As she falters at the
kitchen door, he stretches across the worktop and switches off
the radio.
    No music, he says, Not after the choir this morning.
He looks directly at her, a stern expression on his face, which
softens when he sees the paleness of her skin, the shadows
under her eyes. It’s enough confirmation for him to pursue
this line of enquiry.
    You found it troubling? he asks, Something in that hymn
affected you?
    She makes to shake her head, to deny the plain truth of it, but
then her words betray her.
    Yes. It was a bad feeling, that’s all. I’m sorry. I won’t let it
affect our work.
    Kenneth lifts the wooden spoon to his mouth and blows on
it.
    Here, tell me what you think, he says, holding it out for her
to taste. He watches as she puts her open mouth to the sauce.
    Because I hadn’t planned on that, Maggie. I mean, I thought
the music was simply for me to have feelings about. Silly, isn’t
it? Of course, you would have a response too, even if you didn’t
know the piece.
    Maggie flicks her tongue over her lips.
    It needs salt.
    She observes him as he searches about amongst the jars and
pots scattered over the worktop. He’s dressed casually, mustard-coloured
slacks, a white linen shirt undone at the neck and
with the sleeves rolled up. In contrast, Maggie has forced herself
to make an effort. She feels like a gauche teenager, standing in
a strange kitchen with a strange man, in her yellow flower-print
dress. Her hair is squashed under a wide tortoiseshell clip;
every time she turns her head, she feels it dig into her scalp,
as if to remind her that her natural self has been disguised. She
takes a moment before she delivers her speech, blinking at the
sight of his forearms, the hairs on his tanned skin glistening
under the kitchen spotlights. He looks so capable, so full of life
and confidence; no sign of the trembling hands she’d witnessed
last time. Her own hands are sticky with heat.
    Kenneth, I must apologize for this morning. This is your
history we’re writing, not mine, she says, I’ll try to be more professional
from now on.
    Finding the bowl with the salt in it, he takes a pinch between
his fingers and dashes it into the stew. He wants to say, Please
don’t be more professional, just be who you are. Instead he
says,
    And what about your history, Maggie? You didn’t give much
away in your letter.
    What would you like to know? she asks. She crosses to the
sink as she says this, turning the cold tap on full. He follows
her, puzzled at the way she puts one wrist under the flow, then
the other. He ducks his head slightly, looks into her face.
    Cools the blood, she says.
    There’s the scar again, a silvery strike on her brow.
    Well, if we’re talking about music, he asks, What kind do you like? What moves you?
    I like all kinds. But what moves me? Maggie gazes into the
running water, considering her response. Kenneth takes a step
back from her to bring her into focus again.
    Singing, choral music, and—she breaks off, unnerved by
the intense way he’s listening – I suppose voices affect me most.
Music my mother used to play to me when I was little.
    And your mother, he says, reading the answer in her face,
Keeping well, is she?
    She died a little while ago, says Maggie, and before he can
offer condolences, she rushes on, She liked all kinds of stuff,
blues, and soul, lots of folk. John Martyn, mainly, Nick Drake,
Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan—
    I adore Dylan! says Kenneth, And Joni, too, of course. Not
sure I’m familiar with the others. You must play me some.
    And hymns move me, as you know, she says, shaking
the water off her hands, Some of them. But maybe not in the
way they’re meant to. What about you? What did you like,
as a child?
    Kenneth tips his head up, thinking, and bites his lower lip.
Under the lights his teeth