eyelids, I could tell that it was sunny when I woke the next morning, remnants of the anxiety of my dream still coursing through my veins. Lying motionless, not daring to move after the skinful of gin I’d drunk the night before, I felt gently around inside my head for signs of the hangover I knew I deserved, and was both relieved and grateful to discover that I’d been spared.
The sound of music drifted up from downstairs. An uplifting piano concerto on the radio—Mozart, maybe. I lay in bed, letting the waves of sound wash over me. The music stopped abruptly and restarted a few bars back and I realised that it wasn’t the radio at all: Mum was actually playing the piano downstairs. It had been so long since I’d last heard her play that I’d almost forgotten that she did. The piano in the corner of the dining room had long been buried under a collection of dusty knick-knacks, photographs and old sheet music.
Dust particles pirouetted in the sunshine as I entered the dining room. Mum’s fingers danced over the keys as she strained forward to read the music. I stood and listened for a minute; I hadn’t seen her looking so alive in years; her body moved with the music and the word ‘graceful’ came to mind. When Mum realised I was standing there, she broke off, flexing her wrists and bending back her fingers.
‘Wow,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Impressed! I didn’t know you could still play.’
Mum smiled. ‘Still got it!’ she said. ‘I should do it more often.’
I remembered childhood evenings, sing-songs around the piano. ‘Dad loved it when you played.’
‘I know …’ said Mum. ‘Anyway. Sleep well?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Oh … you know.’ She shrugged and turned back to her music while I fixed myself some breakfast. Mum absently played a few scales and their arpeggios, smiling to herself as she got each one right.
‘G major. Oh. I have an appointment to see the new house again this afternoon,’ she said, her fingers fluttering over the keys. ‘A major. Would you like to come? Or have you got something else planned? B major.’
‘Have you heard back from the estate agent yet?’ I asked.
‘Not yet, but he said he might hear today. C-sharp major. I can’t believe I still remember all these!’
‘So there’s still time to back out?’
‘Why would I want to back out? It’s the perfect house for me, and just around the corner.’ She played the arpeggios as chords. The sound of the last chord fell away and I didn’t fill the silence.
‘It’s what your father wanted, too.’
I sighed. ‘Sure. If you want me to, I’ll come.’
‘Thank you. If you like it, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go ahead and buy it. There’s no chain and Dad had worked out the finances …’
‘Oh really? Had he put the money aside?’
Mum shot me a look over her glasses, her fingers still holding the chord for D-sharp major. Evie Stealthy Stevens, I was not. ‘As I said last time you asked: no. But the point is that this house is smaller, so we—’ she rolled her eyes upwards laughing a little at her mistake ‘—I would be able to free up a bit more capital. I think it’s really exciting. I can’t wait to move. F-sharp major. That was always my favourite.’
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