The Song House by Trezza Azzopardi Read Free Book Online Page A

gleam large and yellow and perfectly
even.
    Let me see. Um, jazz, something with a bit of combustion in
it.
    He does a little sideways feint, like an old boxer, as he says it.
    My father used to play Cab Calloway, and there was Dizzy
Gillespie, Satchmo, Earl Bostic . . .
    No relation? asks Maggie.
    What? Ah, very good, yes. I mean no.
    He smiles, enjoying her teasing, but not the feeling it produces
in him. Maggie raises her eyebrows, nods her head towards the
stove.
    Something might be combusting right now, she says.
    Kenneth grabs the pan off the gas, quickly swapping from one
hand to the other until she passes him a tea towel to wrap
around the handle.
    What do you think? he says, tilting it towards her. She stares
into the volcanic mass of bubbling brown, feeling a wet heat
on her face.
    Caught it just in time. What’s in it?
    Top secret. But this beef will need a while longer. Could
you pass me the wine?
    Maggie fetches him a half-full bottle of red, from which he
takes a long swig.
    That’ll make it taste better, he says, smacking his lips.
She reaches out and cuffs him lightly on the arm.
    Oh, all right then, he says, pouring the wine into the pan.
The light drops suddenly as the sun outside the kitchen window
slips behind the trees.
    So, what did you write about the hymn? he asks, In the end?
Maggie decides she will answer him truthfully.
    Just two lines. But very fitting. I thought it might be an idea
to save them up.
    Once the stew is bubbling again, Kenneth stirs it, scrapes the
gunge from the sides and turns the heat off. He seems not to
be listening, until he looks at her.
    Why don’t I pour us a G&T, Maggie, this’ll need half an
hour to meld. Save them up how, exactly? he says, crossing to
the fridge and fetching a tray of ice.
    Again, they take their drinks out under the cover of the
terrace and sit side by side on the wrought-iron bench. The
sun has sunk away completely now, but the sky is pink and
blue and shimmering, like the skin of a rainbow trout. The
river below it is a lash of fractured purple. Kenneth sits so near,
Maggie can see the small bobbled graze of a shaving cut on
the line of his jaw; she can smell his cologne, cedarwood and
spice. So, he’s taken trouble for her, too. She glances at him
from the corner of her eye as she explains.
    I thought – you’ll say if you don’t like the idea – that we
could record your music story chronologically, from childhood
to now. That way, you could read what I’ve written at the very
end. I’ll still type it up. It’ll be like a . . . musical memoir.
    He lifts his glass and takes a long drink. She wants him to look
at her now; she could easily bear it.
    Like This is Your Life , she says finally, with an anxious smile.
Kenneth nods, gently swirling his tumbler, making the ice
clatter. She clutches her drink, feeling the beads of moisture
sliding under her fingers, the crisp scent rising up. She hasn’t
tasted it yet. When he smiles too, she takes a quick, choking
gulp. The chill and burn of the gin on her tongue is wonderful.
    That wasn’t the plan, Maggie. The plan was to be random,
to have one piece of music trigger off another. Spontaneous,
indirect. Like the way memories flood in and out.
    Not much flooding today, she says, My fault.
    They are silent for a moment. In her head, Maggie hears the
hymn again, the sad wheeze of the organ before the children’s
voices cut in.
    But, d’you know what? I think it’s a rather good plan, he
says at last, We don’t have to work in sections, but maybe you
could organize them later? Childhood, adolescence, young
adulthood—
    It was a very good year, she says, swaying into him and
laughing. Kenneth looks askance for a moment, then his face
lights up.
    Ah, yes, A Very Good Year. Well done, you clever girl. When
I was twenty-one, it was a very good year , he sings, For something
girls who lived up the stair, with all that beautiful hair . . .
    And it came