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

undone, says Maggie, blushing. Kenneth blushes
too, putting his mouth to his glass and finding it empty.
    If only I was twenty-one again, he says.
    Me too.
    She expects him to say the usual stuff, about how she has her
whole life ahead of her, but he slaps his leg, lifting himself up
from the bench with a groan.
    Which reminds me. Wine. Come and help me choose a
bottle, he says, holding out his hand for hers. She doesn’t think
it strange or unusual to slip her fingers into his. Kenneth leads
her through the kitchen, pausing at a narrow door in the far
wall. It has an ancient calendar hanging on it, a sepia-tone
picture of a horse and plough.
    The years turn over fast, says Maggie, giving him a look. He
raises his finger,
    Don’t tempt me, he says, A gentleman never asks a lady her
age.
    If you must know, she says, I’m thirty-several.
    How excellent, he says, tracing the top of the door frame
with his fingertips and fetching down a rusted iron key, And
that makes me sixty-several. You know, I feel younger already!
    It takes Kenneth only two attempts to feed the key into the
housing. He stands aside and pulls open the door with a
flourish, as if he’s performing a conjuring trick. And it is a sort
of illusion, this dark, constricted entrance into the bowels of
the house. Maggie tracks him single file along a corridor of
sweating brick, ducking through an archway and almost stumbling
down the steps into the wine cellar. They pass banks of
wooden shelves, stopping when they reach the far corner. The
only light is from a square grille of window cut into the outside
wall. The smell is damp dog, mushroom.
    I keep the decent stuff back here, out of reach. Would you
like to choose something? he asks, Something special?
    I’d have no clue, says Maggie, squinting in the near-darkness,
Unless you’ve laid down a stash of supermarket plonk.
    She puts out her hand, gingerly, fearing spiders, or mice, and
lifts a random bottle from a rack.
    Let me see, he says, taking it from her and holding it at arm’s
length, Haven’t got my glasses. Maggie, would you?
    He passes the bottle back.
    Margaux, she reads, wiping off a skin of dust with her thumb,
1968.
    Lovely. That’ll do me, he says, But the question is, will it do
my son?
    Maggie doesn’t feel the smooth glide as the bottle slips from
her grasp, doesn’t hear it explode onto the flags. Doesn’t feel
the splash of vintage red spatter her legs and dress. Such is the
shock of it. The seconds replay themselves in slow motion.
    Your son, she’s saying, as the bottle falls, and her voice is
cool and close, and then there is a moment, in the near-darkness,
when their eyes meet and a recognition passes between
them – of sadness, disappointment – before Kenneth jumps
back from the flying glass.
    Oh, my dear, he says, Never mind, never mind—drawing
her away from the centre of the smash – I should get the light
fixed in here, Will’s always saying so. There’ll be another bottle
somewhere now, let me see.
    Maggie stands appalled, hands on her face, peering down into
the spreading shining wet.
    But was it really expensive? she cries, I bet it was.
    Come away, Kenneth says, ducking through the archway,
You’ll cut yourself. Look, I’ll fetch another. Come now. Will
should be here quite soon.
    At the door to the kitchen, she touches his elbow.
    Could he not come over tonight, she asks, Could you put
him off?
    She’s about to say something else, but then, as if stung, she turns
a circle on the threshold, her hands flying around her head. A
long grey cobweb hangs from her hair, wafting on the breeze
from the cellar.
    Get it off! she yells, spinning again, and Kenneth catches her
arm to still her, turning her round so he’s looking at the pale
nape of her neck, the scatter of freckles there making his
stomach lurch. He would not have believed it. Here he is,
remembering the straw caught in her curls and putting his
hands on her