Read The Devil's Music for Free Online

the roof of my mouth. I give it a poke with my tongue.
        ‘I’ve never thought,’ I use my forefinger to dislodge the bread, and swallow. A solid lump sticks in my throat, ‘that she might be dead.’
        A sudden riot and squabble of sparrows. What I’ve just said is a lie. I have thought my mother through many different scenarios, including death.
        ‘Well,’ Susie speaks under her breath, ‘I just want to know, that’s all. If she is still alive, she can bloody well go to hell.’

Chapter 8

    You shouldn’t let your father stand there so long in this heat. He’s forgotten his walking stick again, left it at the post office or in his greenhouse, or somewhere he can’t lay his hands on it. His head’s bowed, the fingers of one hand loosely holding his panama hat as if he has just this moment lifted it in greeting. As he closes his eyes and his lips move, a lump of longing swells in your throat.
        His face has the same distracted look as – more than five years ago it is now – the day your mother died. You’d been up very early, trailing along the streets with Andy in the pram because he was fractious with a tooth coming and Michael hadn’t got to bed until half past four that morning. When Andy finally dropped off to sleep, you called in at your parents’ for a cup of tea before heading home back along the river path. They were always up early.
        But the milk bottles were still on the step, the newspaper sticking out through the letter box. The thought of their breakfast table with its seersucker tablecloth, the kitchen filled with sunshine and the smell of toast, made you realise how hungry you were as you rapped again at the door. At last, just visible through the yellow glass, Dad swayed along the hallway. He kept the door chain on, peering out through the gap.
        ‘Dad, it’s only me. Sorry it’s a bit early.’
        ‘I was unable,’ he passed a hand over his face, ‘to wake her this morning. Her heart’s stopped beating.’
        Your own heart flipped. You went to climb the stairs.
        He put out a hand to stop you.
        You sat on the edge of the sofa and Honey nudged at your hand with a wet muzzle as you stared out at the beads of dew on the lawn. The only sounds were Honey’s whimpers and the heavy tock of the pendulum clock in the hall. Eventually, uneasy in the still of the house and desperate to see her, you went upstairs. Your father lay on the bed, cradling her head and stroking her hair, his lips moving close to her ear.
        ‘It’s all right,’ he rested his forehead on hers. ‘We’re nearly there now; a few more minutes.’
        Afterwards, you had wanted him to talk about it. But once she was buried, the tenderness was replaced by a tight-lipped anger. The only time you’d ever seen him really angry. He barely spoke at the funeral. You nodded when relatives commented: He’s taking it very hard, isn’t he? – didn’t mention him swiping a hand along the mantelpiece, smashing the carriage clock to the floor.
        He stayed with you for a few weeks until Michael complained about hearing him at night, pacing up and down. Then he wouldn’t have Honey back. Jean had to keep her. There seemed to be no logic in it. And at first he hardly seemed to go out, beyond his garden.
        You didn’t know what to do to help him. You tried to think what your mother would have done, and realised there were many things you should’ve asked her. What was it like, to be loved so much?
        She was tiny, much smaller than you. She’d dart around the kitchen making supper while your father, a hand on the door jamb, took off his boots and stood to watch her; waiting. He’d put out a hand, place a palm, huge, at the small of her back, and she would pause, poised beside him. On the settee in the evenings, he’d lift her legs on to his lap and massage the insteps of her stockinged feet or circle an ankle with his callused fingers. Images of them