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it’s true that opposites attract.” He stared after John, taking in his broad shoulders and remembering the shy sweetness of his smile. His heart did a little flip, and Rhys recognised the long-forgotten feeling of attraction. “Maybe you’re not the only one who’s got a bit of a crush, if we’re being honest.”
     
     
    On Saturday afternoon, Rhys went to Beech House, the old folks’ home on the other side of town. There he played his guitar and sang for the residents every week. It wasn’t a paid gig. Rhys had volunteered because his gran was a resident. It was the only performing he did these days.
    “Any requests?” he asked after finishing “Love Me Do” by the Beatles.
    “Can you play us some on the piano?” one of the elderly ladies asked.
    She made the same request every week. Her dementia meant she never remembered his answer.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs Pickering. That’s not where my strengths lie,” Rhys said. “We need to find you a pianist.”
    “What about ‘The Irish Rover’?” Rhys’s gran called out.
    “Oh yeah, good one, Gran.” Rhys grinned at her and launched into the familiar chords. As he started singing, the audience perked up with recognition. This was always a popular one. By the time he got to the first chorus, lots of them were joining in with gusto.
    That set them off with ideas for more old Irish favourites, and by the time they’d done “Danny Boy” and “The Leaving of Liverpool,” Rhys’s hour was almost up.
    When he’d finished singing, he stayed for a cuppa as he always did, chatting to his gran at first and then making his way around the room to greet some of the other elderly people who liked to talk to him.
    “That was lovely, dear.” Mrs Pickering put a frail, bony hand on his arm. “But maybe you could play us something on the piano next time?”
    “Maybe.” Rhys nodded and smiled. Knowing from experience there was no point explaining again. She seemed to recognise him, but she never remembered his name. And they had the same conversation about the piano every time he played. He asked instead, “What song would you like me to play?”
    “‘You Make Me Feel So Young,’ that song Frank Sinatra used to sing,” she said promptly, with a faraway look in her eyes. “I love that song. They played it at our ruby wedding anniversary. My husband, Jimmy, was a wonderful dancer.”
    Rhys patted her hand. “I bet he was.”
    “You have his eyes, you know. The exact same shade of blue. He was a musician too, you know; he played the piano.”
    He listened as she got lost down memory lane for a while, telling him anecdotes about her long-dead husband that she’d told him many times before. She became animated as she shared her memories. The past was more real to her than the present. Under her wrinkled skin, Rhys could see a trace of the young woman she once was, happy and in love.
    “He sounds like a wonderful man,” he finally said. “Okay, Mrs P, I’m going to have to head off now as it’s getting late. But it was lovely to see you again.”
    She blinked, looking around at the room full of old, grey people as if wondering who they were and why she was here. She smiled again, vaguely now, the light gone from her eyes. “Goodbye, dear.”
    Rhys returned to his gran and gave her a hug. “Bye, Gran.”
    “Thanks for coming, love.” She hugged him back with surprising strength for one who looked so frail. Unlike Mrs P’s, his gran’s mind was still as sharp as ever, but her arthritis in her knees and hips had rendered her too disabled to live alone. She’d been happy to move in to the care home where she’d have company. “I see you got stuck with Mrs Pickering again. She does like to talk.”
    “I don’t mind.”
    “You’re a good boy.” She patted his cheek.
    “I’ll see you next Saturday.” Rhys stood, slinging his guitar case up onto his shoulder. “Have a good week, Gran.”
     
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
    John’s Wednesday