Q = chapter seventeen and eighteen

The Piano Teacher

by Kim West

chapter seventeen

The house had lain empty now for eighteen months. In that time there
had been a few prospective buyers, but no one, apart from Denise, ever
came back. Steph began to feel that there was something about the place
that put people off. Sometimes she would steal into the garden and peak
through the windows. She could imagine bashing the walls through and
making a huge family home. The kids then could have half an acre to run
wild in. She liked to imagine this splendid new creation, from the two
sad houses.

Her own home still held echoes of Uncle Edward for her. She tried her
hardest to block out his horrible death but his possessions had an air
of other worldliness about them, as if they really should have been
buried with him. Unable to let it go to a stranger, the piano still
lingered in her living room, as a homage to him. She had mounted and
displayed some of his photographs. An aunt had provided a series of him
performing at various festivals and venues around the country. These
now took pride of place over the piano.

Denise puzzled her. She had pressed overtures of friendship with her
repeatedly, but Denise would never call spontaneously. She always had
some reason to be in a hurry and Steph knew that couldn't be true. It
was frustrating because the young woman plainly needed a friend. She
seemed so isolated, with those parents of hers. Steph would like to
grab her and give a good square meal, then pay for a complete make over
in the department store in town. With so much time on her hands and her
young children well established at the village school, Steph was
searching for a direction in her life. Rescuing Denise felt like a
challenge for her.

Her house ached and groaned under the strain of its family burden. Once
a sombre discreet place of classical music and old books, where
eventually a genteel older man had made a horrific departure from the
world. Now a busy chattering place where children rushed and screeched,
where their parents entertained ebullient dinner party guests. In
gentle corners however, this place held onto its memories of Edward
Stenton and the beauty of his music. This might manifest itself in a
sudden whiff of pipe smoke, or in a muffled slippery-footed stepping on
the stair. In the garden, it was the same. In some corners, Steph had
felt unable to make her mark. She had simply weeded, almost as though
for the real owner. Yes, that was it. Despite all her confident moves
with d?cor and even though walls had come down, she really knew this
was not her house. Not her house at all. It was her Uncle's house, and
he was still in some strange way living there with them. She never saw
him. She just began to recognise he was still there. He had never left.
Was this a thing to be worried about? Would she, for instance, awake
one night to find his ghost at the foot of her bed? Should they stay or
perhaps move on, using this place as a stepping stone for somewhere
grander? Why wasn't the house next door selling? Was there something
wrong there too? Perhaps both places were both a little strange: Too
full of echoes. The time she spent alone always led her to such
thoughts. Steph could lose hours in such musings, so she found she had
to avoid such times, for fear of where they might lead. She decided to
seek out Denise, but when she phoned, she was told that Denise was not
well and had been off work for sometime now. Denise's mother had not
enthusiastically begged for her to call in and cheer Denise up. The
call had been very matter of fact, and a strain of anxiety as to the
nature of Denise's illness hovered in the air to add to Steph's
collection of preoccupations. She vowed to send Denise a present of
some chocolates.

And the other house, what of that? Stale now and becoming very dusty,
it was not looking like a tempting proposition. Yet surely people with
imagination could see its potential.
Nowadays though very few people came to view. Ronnie had stopped
calling to cut the grass even. He didn't seem bothered about selling
the place. He was currently happily ensconced in his relationship with
the village postmistress. In the old garden, roses rambled freer than
they ever could have imagined, after those years of pruning and over
pruning at Elsie's obsessive hand.

Chapter Eighteen

That night in early April, as the back door opened with a slight high
creak, Denise padded out on tiptoed slippers, shutting the door quietly
behind her. Down her father's immaculate concrete path, neat divider of
lawn from vegetables, she stole. Out of the back gate, with another
creak, this time a low moaning one, and onto the nettle-edged path that
dog owners and fisherman took to the river. Suddenly a mallard burst
into a midnight cackle, setting its neighbours into a brief flurry of
irritated call and response, until they settled again into the drip
drop peace of the riverside night. Denise pulled the garden gate slowly
to and set off down the path. The hem of her nightie immediately caught
on a lurking bramble and she tugged it free. With her dark hair falling
around her shoulders in the moonlight, she had the aura of a young Miss
Havisham, as she made her way down to the river. It was a kind of
waking sleepwalk. She was not actually quite sure of her intention.
Earlier, she had seen him on his way down this path, but he hadn't
returned. Not given to nightime prowls, she was somewhat awe-struck by
this half-light and its shadows from the cloud-teased moon. The
Pre-Raphaelite river floated under a coating of mists, whilst little
creatures shuffled in their sleep or wandered with her in their
parallel worlds. Something screeched from the woodland across the
river. Denise shivered and would have hastened back home.

"Where are you?" she called in a whisper, so as not to alarm the
riverside creatures.

"Where are you?" she called again. She shivered.

A water rat plopped into the river near her feet, startling her. She
wanted to turn and run home. Here she was in her nightie, slippers and
cardigan in the middle of the night, getting cold and frightened, in
some vain search for her ghostly loved one. At one level she was quite
aware of the fragile nature of this reality. At another, in her
desperation, she subscribed to it. So strong was her passion for the
dead piano teacher, she could set aside any fearfulness and set off
down the riverbank into the dark shadows of this moonlight night.

"Where are you?" Her persistent whisper would seek him out. Bats
skimmed the hedgerow in manic quiet flight patterns. Her slippers were
wet through. Her skin damp and goose-pimpled. She pulled her cardigan
tight around her and hugged herself.

"Where are you?"

"Where are you?"

There was no reply. In a shudder of sanity, she suddenly felt foolish
and dull. Of course he wasn't there. He was dead. It had been some time
now. He was dead and buried. This fragile reality of hers was make
believe. It was a dream and she knew that. He didn't really come to
her. He was dead. Actually dead. She was just a silly obsessed woman in
her wet nightie, ludicrously hunting a ghost by the riverbank and
getting very cold. She would certainly catch a chill.

In this moment of clarity, she turned to run home and he was
there.

"What are you doing? Are you looking for me? What's the matter? You
must be freezing." His voice was very quiet.

She sunk into the big old coat in such a rush of emotion.

"Thank God you're here. Thank God Edward. Thank God."

She felt him tense and withdraw.

"Is it you? My God?" he held her again.

"Yes it's me, Denise. Edward just hold me."

The thin delicate body of this younger woman stirred a myriad of
emotions in him and quite a different passion was borne as she clung to
him. Kissed him. Wanted him. She was in her nightie. What could he
do?

Ronnie opened the warm old coat and drew her into his cosiness. She
sobbed. She was so tiny and he lifted her quite off her feet, as he
kissed her with fire.

"Edward. Edward. You're here" she kept intoning. He thought it best
not to say more. She might notice. He lifted her damp nightie and held
her to him gently. She found his lips again.

So, by the riverside in the middle of the night in a case of mistaken
identity, Denise gave herself with great passion to the human
manifestation of her ghostly lover.

Ronnie's astonishment at this wonderful occurrence could not have been
greater. His head was spinning with beautiful imaginings. As she
writhed and struggled out of her virginity, huge warmth spread through
her.
Afterwards, he carried her to the bus shelter by the village green and
sat her on his lap, nestled inside the coat.

"What shall we do?" he sighed.

"What shall we do?"