Playing the Tune
Freddie do play us a tune, do get up off your bloody backside and play us something. Olivia’s voice made its way across the room, strident and cajoling at the same time.
Freddie stumbled to his feet, knocking his glass against the white bier that occupied the centre of the room. Sorry Archie, no disrespect. Archie stirred, a deep sigh seemed to be being pressed out of his chest. Heads turned just for a moment, and a little lull descended, before Freddie re-gained himself, where do you want me sweetie?
Lottie wanted another drink. Her body was aching from the effort of holding herself so carefully. She wanted to put her glass down, but the idea of standing with nothing in her hands was troubling, and she was exhausted from keeping herself at the right mix of disaffection and attentiveness.
A great deal must have been emptied out of the room. The style, which Archie had so diligently affected, was high rococo, as if he had one night danced drunkenly around the room leaving a florid and curlicued trail behind him. The detail though was rather different: opulent but uncomfortable chaises occupied two of the walls, while a third opened into a much-mirrored ante-room. Opposite, wide doors led onto the flagstones of the terrace and the tiered garden beyond.
Lottie smiled around the room, her gaze settling in a mist just beyond the point where her eye could be caught, where people might stop and say – who is that long and thin woman standing by the palm. Who is she to Archie?
Freddie had begun to sing. Where’er you walk, small winds shall fan … shall fan… glades of trees, shall flourish, and all things… Olivia started humming, a beat or so ahead, as if her timing could help Freddie remember the words, keep his mind on a direct course.
Who am I to Archie? Lottie thought, or at least caught the thought. She set her glass down, so as to walk the three or four steps towards him, crossing the empty space around the bier that had started to feel like a no man’s land. Shall I hold your hand, Archie, do you want me to hold your hand? Lottie looked down at him, his beautiful hands now stiffly at his sides, his still long fingers, his still carefully shaped and polished nails, and drew her finger along the back of his wrist.
Do you see how she is touching him, do you see how she breathes in the breath that he breathes out? A yellow pea mist started to form above the bier, breathe it in Lottie, breathe him in while you still have him.
I must have something to eat, Lottie thought. This is too much for me, I’m not built to carry the weight of the room. A tray with cocktails appeared in front of her, wouldn’t you like a little sustenance Miss, it will be a long day.
Freddie and Olivia were sitting quietly now, as if he had been exhausted with the song. He leaned back into her lap, his long legs stretched out off the end of the chaise, his feet in his laced boots, elongated and narrow.
Will you play, I wonder? a voice came up to her, an open mouth, a pink tongue, a watery eye. I brought my flute, she said. I thought he would like it. Lottie wanted to touch him, touch herself, anyone. I must wait, she thought. She reached across to place her elbow in her hand, to close the gap that was appearing in her stomach.
Outside the light was beginning to fade. A pale pale blue had started to define the edges of the trees, and the yellow from inside was making its way out through the doors in fine wisps. Soon it will make green, she thought. Green will grow again and cover us over.
Lottie saw that the room had almost emptied. The man with the voice touched her shoulder. He was alone with her. He has been given the task to talk to the woman who is someone to Archie. He’s gone, he said, Archie has gone now.
I am carrying the weight of the room, Lottie thought. My neck will crack, and I will break down. She bent down to piece together her flute, tears that were mist, now turned into droplets, falling onto the polished floor.
Am I too late to play now? she asked
Karen Izod is a writer on landscape and memories that weave through generations and is published in Agenda, New Welsh Review and a number of anthologies. www.karenizod.com www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/karenizod
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