But then the room is filled with Max Reigate’s amazing sounds. The piano builds up in a wonderful rhythm of threes – ya da da, ya da da, ya da da – with chords separating then combining, unrelentingly crescendoing until my brain feels like it’s filled with blood, and with each beat of the piano hammers against the strings, there is more blood, pulsating to escape. And then –
“This is the best bit,” I say, waving my arms around, twirling about the room, in a way I know Ellie thinks is attention-seeking, but it’s how the music moves me. “Listen to how the violin and the piano are almost talking to each other, like a love affair, together coming closer and closer towards the climax, that wonderful pianorgasm and – ”
The music stops. But it’s not the end. Mum is standing next to the CD player, her finger on the stop button. Her back to the room.
“Mum, did you stop it? Sorry, did ‘pianorgasm’ offend you? It just…”
I trail off. Because Mum turns to face me. And she has tears in her eyes.
-Will-
“Mum? Is something wrong?” I ask, rushing to her.
She is shaking her head wordlessly.
“Gillian, you OK? Do you need to go home?” Dad puts his arm around her.
Mum takes a deep gulp and manages to add some words to her head-shaking. Too many of them.
“Home? Don’t be silly. We’re celebrating! Isn’t it wonderful news about the scan? Ellie, have another cupcake!”
“Mum, honestly, are you OK? Do you want to sit down?”
“I’m fine, Will.” Mum replies. “Just being silly. The music’s beautiful, and you’re having a little boy. I’m just so pleased.”
I look up at Dad. He is standing mutely behind Mum.
“Aren’t we pleased, John?” Mum asks him.
Dad takes his cue. “Delighted. I might even have a cupcake too.”
Good. Some kind of normality is restored, I guess. I help myself to a cupcake. Not sure what the blue icing is made of, but it’s pretty tasty. I wonder if Mum had some pink cakes in reserve.
“Great. So. What shall we do, to celebrate?” I ask.
“Let’s get the photo albums down,” says Ellie. “Go mushy over pictures of us when we were little.”
“Mum, Dad, what do you think? I don’t have my baby ones, obviously but – ”
Mum cuts in. “We’re so sorry about that, Will. I keep replaying the moment we closed the door on the Dartington house – I was sure we had everything. And I called up the new owners about the albums, but nothing.”
“Probably paedos,” jokes Ellie. “Wanted to ogle photos of Will in his little bathtub.”
I’m not sure Mum gets that it’s a joke because she looks a bit appalled.
“Yep, thanks for that Ellie,” I say. “Now, Mum, Dad, in a non-paedo way, would you like to look at photos of baby Ellie?”
“Why not?” says Mum brightly. “Let’s go through to the living room. It will be more comfortable in there for Ellie.”
“Fine. You go through. We’ll make some tea and bring in the albums.”
So Mum and Dad potter off into the front room, taking the scan picture with them. In the kitchen, I fill the kettle. Ellie is springing around in excitement. I wonder if Leo enjoys that or if it’s like being inside a mad rollercoaster.
“You know who else lives in Dartington?” she asks me in a whisper. “Max Reigate!”
“Damnit, so he’s the paedophile who’s busy looking at my baby photos! And here’s me thinking he was just into music.”
Ellie sticks her tongue out at me.
“Anyway, how do you know?” I ask. “Have you been Googling him? Trying to find a better photo? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you fancied him.”
Ellie leans forward to kiss me. “I fancy you,” she says, saucily. Then she breaks away. “So it figures I’d fancy your doppelganger.”
“Hey!” I say, hitting her lightly on the arm.
“Will, you’re not meant to hit pregnant women, you know,” she says.
“You’re not meant to talk about other men in front of our son. Or above or around our son, whatever it counts as now. Anyway, you’re distracting me, you minx. What’s the deal with Mr Doppelganger and Dartington? How many sites have you stalked him on?”
“I’ve just seen the evidence, Mr Un-forensic Scientist. On the CD case?”
As I pour the now boiled water into the teapot, Ellie goes back into the dining room and returns a moment (ok, maybe a few moments – give the pregnant lady a chance) later with the CD case.
“There – recorded in Dartington. 1978.”
“Well done, Sherlock. Actually, we should so watch that again. The second series.”
“1978 – the year before you were born, yes?”
“Yes, what of it? Seriously, though, can we watch that again?”
Ellie rolls her eyes. “Forget your boy crush on Benedict Cumberbatch for a moment, and focus on the real-life mystery.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Bit peculiar, right, your Mum, your Dad, Max Reigate, all hanging out in Dartington? Your Mum getting all misty-eyed over his music?”
“Just because they lived in the same place, doesn’t mean they knew each other.”
“Come on, it was the 70s. Everyone knew each other, man!”
I flick her on the forehead. “And whatever they were smoking back in the 70s got into your brain. While you drool over Max Reigate, the rest of us are going to look at your baby photos.”
I take the tea tray into the front room, and leave Ellie there while I go up to get her albums from the bedroom, where we keep them. Sorry, from our bedroom – there’s another one now, that we’re assembling. I know exactly where they are, but I sit down on the bed and take some breaths first.
Why would Mum act like that? It was properly weird. I mean, it was just a CD. One of her CDs, it turns out, thanks to Ellie acting like some kind of magpie, apparently (still not sure of the story there). But even so. Crying? When your son has the happiest news ever, that your family line will be continued? I shake my head. Really odd. Beyond odd.
“Sweetie, are you coming?” I hear from downstairs. Ah, Ellie. Never has liked being alone with my parents for long.
