Hide And Seek. Amy Bird

to court comparisons with Tchaikovsky it had certainly paid off: reviewers claimed he was as ‘bold’, ‘heroic’, ‘fierce’ and ‘eerie’ as the great Russian, ‘taking listeners to the same depths of melancholy and heights of passion’. None of that, in the year I teach. We play it safe in C Major. Although there is a danger, doing everything in the relative key to Max’s second concerto. A Minor. Just as haunting as his first. Perhaps even more so. For how it ended. Perhaps I’ve spent these teaching years intentionally skirting dangerously close to his memory – keeping him near but far enough away not to trouble me. But I don’t teach them about relative scales here. They can learn all that when they get to lycée. Until the Head of Music finds out, and quibbles it.

      Yes, genius had been Max’s every excuse. For his hours of silence, his refusal to co-operate in household chores, his dreadful failure to acknowledge Guillaume when the boy wanted to play. His excuse for everything. Not that he even needed an excuse when we first started going out. I just enjoyed watching his genius. It was like he was making love to the piano. It was the same face when he was striving to orgasm. The same lifting up and down of his hips at the piano as he reached the climax. Except later on he saved the intensity for the piano. Apart from when Guillaume was conceived. He gave a virtuosic performance then, when it mattered.

      So, yes. At least his excuse was valid: genius. The question is – was mine?

       Chapter Six

      -Ellie-

      The bed is empty. It’s still dark. I look at the clock. 4am. Will must have gone to the bathroom. At any moment there’ll be the familiar pull of the chain and the dozy stumbling back to bed. That used to be my domain, in the first months of having little Leo in my belly – the sudden stumbles to the bathroom, the groggy return. But things have settled down, now, for me. Still I wait. And wait. 4.20am. I guess in a few months’ time I’ll probably consider six hours’ uninterrupted sleep, preceded by oddly arousing sex, to be a very good deal. So, out of bed, let’s find out what’s going on. Opening the bedroom door, I head to the bathroom. The room is dark and empty; no Will. Through the frosted window there’s a faint glow. If I just stand on tiptoes to look through the non-frosted upper section, I can see out into the night.

      Fire! OK, so that’s the sleep gone. Will is standing in the garden surrounded by fire. I scrabble with the sash lock on the window and throw it upwards. Yes, there he is – great orange flames in front of him.

      “Will!” I shout out of the window. “What are you doing?”

      But he doesn’t reply. Maybe he can’t hear me over the sound of the flames. I pull my dressing gown from the hook on the bathroom door and run downstairs as quickly as I dare. Mustn’t trip; mustn’t hurt the baby. I slip on some shoes, unlock the back door and run out into the garden.

      “Will!”

      Now that I’m out here, the flames are both less and more alarming. Less, because I can see they’re coming out of the leaf incinerator, so he’s not actually randomly setting fire to the lawn. More, because of their roaring intensity, and because of Will’s expression staring into them. His mouth is twisted into a mixture of sadness and anger. His eyes do not blink, but from them escape tears.

      He doesn’t seem to have noticed me appear in the garden. So I walk to him, round the flames. I put a hand on his shoulder.

      “Will?” I ask, as gently as I can, like I’m dealing with a small boy, even though inside I’m screaming ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

      He jumps a little and looks round at me. He smiles slightly and holds up one hand.

      “Hey,” he says, in greeting. “You’re early.”

      “For what?” I ask.

      “The funeral.”

      Oh. Of course. The dawn funeral. But there is not yet any sign of the sun in the sky.

      “I thought I’d get the pyre and everything ready, for when you were awake,” he continues.