The Music at Home

Gethin moved my shoes out of the sitting-room doorway with his foot and said he was beginning to understand why I liked an unobstructed dance floor.

“They weren’t there when we left.”

“Perhaps they’ve been out.”

I took off the pair I was wearing and put all four by the wall. He hung our coats together on the hook, which held them badly but managed.

We had stopped on the way for bread. It lay on my kitchen table beside the letters I had not opened that morning. He put the kettle on while I found the butter, then we stood eating thick slices before the water had boiled.

“We could sit,” he said.

“We could.”

Neither of us moved immediately. I liked his shoulder beside mine at the counter. I liked being hungry after dancing and having someone who would eat with me before suggesting a proper meal. Some of the best changes in my life were difficult to distinguish from bad habits.

Eventually we carried our plates to the table. He sat in his usual chair, which had become his usual chair without either of us announcing it.

“Saturday next week,” he said. “Are you working?”

“Morning. The job with the folds I told you about.”

“I thought that was the week after.”

“It was. They moved it.”

He nodded. “I’ve said I’ll help open Sunday next weekend. We could go somewhere on Saturday afternoon.”

I reached for the small paper calendar pinned beside the fridge. It was one I had made from offcuts, with squares just large enough to be inconvenient. Until recently Friday had been filled in months ahead, the rest receiving whatever could fit around it.

I put it between us.

“You may use a pen,” I said.

“How intimate.”

“Pencil rubs out. I want to know what you’ve committed.”

He laughed, then took the pen I offered. He wrote his Sunday shift and asked where I wanted to go on Saturday. I suggested the town beyond the river, where there was a second-hand bookshop and a café neither of us had tried.

“No blue chairs?”

“We can’t be certain.”

“Worth the risk.”

He wrote the town’s name, badly spaced, in the Saturday box. I resisted the urge to improve it. Then he handed the pen back so I could write Tuesday’s walk with Fenna.

“I’ll have tea with the others Wednesday,” he said.

“I’d like an evening here. On my own.”

“Good. I’ll try not to send photographs of every unattractive chair.”

“Send the best one.”

“Worst.”

“You know what I mean.”

I marked Thursday for us. The next Friday was my welcome shift until eight; the one after was free. He asked whether I wanted him there for either, and I chose the second because I wanted to go out with Fenna after my shift this week. I had not asked her yet. She might have other plans.

Gethin put the pen down.

“I’m glad you’ve got time with her.”

“I’m not assigning you the generous line.”

“I know. I mean it. I’ll sometimes wish it were my evening. That doesn’t mean I want her removed from the calendar.”

I looked at the small squares. They were crowded in some places, empty in others. We had not worked out a permanent arrangement that could save us the trouble of asking again. I had wanted that once: enough planning to make nobody disappointed.

“I want some evenings I haven’t promised yet,” I said.

“Keep them.”

“You too.”

He nodded. We put the calendar back on its hook with Saturday written a little outside its box.

· · ·Scene break

In the sitting room Gethin found the new little notebook I had left on the table. Its cover was plain green card, stitched with thread I had bought for no job but my own.

“May I?”

I nodded. He picked it up, turning it carefully in his hands.

“You made this.”

“This morning. Before you came.”

He opened it. The pages were blank except for a list on the first one: books to find, a place to walk, the name of a tune I had never known how to request. No rota. No minutes.

“It’s lovely.”

“The stitching’s uneven.”

“I wasn’t inspecting the stitching.”

“I know. I’m telling you because I can still see it.”

He smiled and passed it back. I liked that he did not argue me out of caring how a thing was made. I could keep that part of myself without spending it on everyone else’s programmes.

“There’s something else,” I said.

I took out my phone and found the recording the hall volunteer had sent me after I asked for the name. It had taken him several attempts; apparently a trumpet could go wrong in more than one waltz. I had recognised ours within a few bars.

Gethin heard the opening and looked up.

“You found it.”

“It’s worse when you aren’t distracted.”

“I was quite distracted.”

“So was I.”

The trumpet approached its offending note. We waited, grinning at each other, and winced together when it arrived.

“Faithful,” he said.

“You can’t rely on much.”

I set the phone on the shelf and moved the low table. He caught the other end when I asked. The space we made was smaller than the hall floor and had a rug we rolled against the sofa, revealing a pale rectangle of boards.

He held out his hand, then paused.

“Do you want this one?”

“Yes. I want to lead.”

He gave me his other hand. I settled our hold, bringing him close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through his shirt.

“My shoes?” he asked.

“Off. I like my feet.”

He stepped out of them. I had already taken mine off, and for a moment we stood in socks, very solemn about the conditions for doing something neither of us needed permission from anyone else to do.

I began.

The first corner was too tight. Gethin followed my optimistic direction and nearly met the sofa. We stopped, laughed and began again with a smaller step.

“You trusted me to go the other way,” I said.

“I trusted you to remember the furniture.”

“Unwise.”

His hand lay steady against mine. On the next turn I felt him wait for my choice instead of trying to improve it. I loved that he was willing to look a little foolish here. I loved that when I got it wrong he could laugh without making me smaller.

I drew him nearer. He came willingly, smiling now in a way that made it difficult to keep the time.

“You aren’t listening to the music,” he said.

“I’ve found something more interesting.”

He lowered his face until his mouth was close to mine. He waited there, letting the invitation be mine too.

I kissed him. We stopped moving, badly placed in the middle of a phrase, and I found I could endure it. His hand slid from our dancing hold to my back when I put both arms round his neck. The kiss grew warm and slow. I felt his smile disappear into concentration, and wanted him with an ease that still surprised me.

My phone sounded once on the shelf. A Friday notification laid a small strip of text across the recording: someone asking which folder held the next programme.

I saw enough to know it was routine. The handover sheet had the answer. They could find it, or ask someone else, or wait until I answered tomorrow.

Gethin had gone still, giving me room to move away if I needed to.

I reached past him and silenced the alert. The music continued.

“Where were we?” I asked.

“Near the sofa. Dangerously.”

I laughed and kissed him again. His arms tightened when I drew closer, then relaxed when I leaned back to look at him. We had learnt a little of each other’s language. There would be plenty left to ask.

“Stay,” I said.

“I’d like to.”

“I know you’ve brought a bag. I wanted to ask you anyway.”

He touched my cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Then yes, Coralia.”

The tune ended. We did not hurry to start another.

· · ·Scene break

In the morning I woke before him. There was cold light at the curtains and his hand resting open between us on the sheet. I touched one finger to his palm. His fingers closed sleepily round it.

“Morning,” he said.

“You aren’t awake.”

“Enough.”

He drew me nearer, slowly enough that I could have stayed where I was. I went to him and lay with my face against his neck, breathing in the ordinary warmth of a man who needed to shave and would eventually want coffee.

We had our own homes, jobs to go to, people we loved separately. Fenna had not stopped being hurt on command. Friday would try things I liked and keep things I didn’t. Gethin’s friends would sometimes annoy me; mine would sometimes annoy him. I could no longer imagine arranging all that out of our way, and I no longer wished to wait until I had.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Soon.”

He kissed my forehead and settled back. For once I was the person keeping him in bed while the kettle remained empty.

Later, in the kitchen, I read the message properly and sent the folder name. It took less than a minute. I put the phone away before opening another conversation.

Gethin placed two plates on the table. One was chipped, the other larger; I had never bothered to replace either. He cut the last of the bread while I made coffee. When I turned from the counter he was sitting in his chair, waiting for me rather than the toast.

I sat down opposite him.

“What?” he asked, seeing my smile.

“Nothing you need to fix.”

His foot found mine beneath the table. I kept it there and reached for the butter, with the whole unpromised morning ahead of us.