What if there’s an emergency.
He doesn’t answer. It’s like talking to a teenager.
I mean, frankly, Pops, the world is a safer place without you on the road, but you can’t be stuck in here. He laughs at that. Would you consider trying again with teaching at home, I ask.
Music is in his bones. Talking about it, teaching it, playing it, it’s the cartilage that holds him together.
That’s if you can get the mice out, I add, more as a joke to myself.
Though I shudder to think of anyone letting their child in here for lessons, the house has become so run down in just a few months. A teacher whose clothes smell of beer from his own brewery upstairs in the hot press, a man accused of being handsy with the church administrator. An eccentric who thinks there’s mice inside the piano, because it doesn’t sound right. Because he’s probably hitting the wrong keys. Because his fingers are more gnarled than usual. With brown spots that aren’t freckles. Because maybe he has arthritis and he doesn’t know it, or he knows it and he won’t tell me or admit it to himself and would prefer to blame mice for the piano sounding off instead.
And who would come to music lessons, everyone’s leaving here, he says.
That’s not true. They’re attracting more people from the other island, stressed-out people with mortgages they can’t pay. I tell him what Jamie told me. People dreaming of island living. Of isolation and nature because it’s cool now.
He smiles. Island living, he says thoughtfully, moving the words around his mouth like it’s a hard toffee. That’s an oxymoron.
Maybe you could stay with Pauline, I suggest.
I’d be in her way.
You’re her brother.
That’s why I’d be in her way. She has the businesses. Her grandchildren. I’ve heaped enough on her.
We both know what he means.
Mossie might need help at the mussel farm, I try again.
I’m too old for the physical work.
So you can work behind the bar in the Mussel House. Shacking oysters and pulling pints for fancy people coming off their fancy yachts. She always needs extra help for the summer. You’d work for free just to be kept busy, I know you, and imagine the stories you could tell them. You could hold fort every day with new faces. Fresh blood hanging on your every word.
It’s shucking oysters, he says, but his eyes are smiling at the thought.
You could even brew your own beer. Mussels in craft beer, there’s a new one for the menu. What do you think, I ask.
Ah no.
Think about it.
I will.
I know he won’t.
Your life’s not over, Pops, I say. Don’t be sitting here as if it is.
Yeah.
I’m sorry you’re lonely.
You might be too, I think, he says.
I look down.
Five people, ha, he says.
Yeah. Who are yours.
He doesn’t ignore me, but he doesn’t answer. He’s lost in thought. It’s gotten in on him too. Or I think it has, until he raises his right hand in the air like he’s offering a high five.
Bach, he says lowering his thumb. Mozart. He lowers his forefinger. Handel, Beethoven. And you. His fist stays in the air.
I’m in good company.
Don’t be feeling down on yourself, Allegra, he says. You had your five. You had them. But you gave them up to find your one.
You are my one, I say quickly, breath almost taken away by his words. I’m never giving you up.
He takes my hand across the table.
I’d tell you to come home but I know you want to be in Dublin. Just say the word and I can be there in a jiffy. Or Pauline, if you don’t want me there. You might think she’s not around but she’s ready, you know, on call, for when you need her. In case it doesn’t work out.
I can’t entertain that thought. I can’t give up everything for something only to not get that something. Wouldn’t be fair on the everything.
There’s apple pie for dessert, I say, standing and collecting our plates.
I scrape the scraps of food into the bin, my back turned to him, before putting them in the dishwasher. I can feel his eyes bearing into me. I don’t want to talk about this any more. I don’t want him to ask. But he does.
Have you talked to her yet, he asks.
I shake my head.
I’ll have mine with ice cream, he says gently.
Fourteen
My last night in Valentia. By 9 p.m. Pops is snoozing in his armchair and I feel antsy. Especially after our conversation about my five, or my lack thereof.
Will we go out for a few drinks, Pops.
No no I’m fine here.
It’s a bank holiday, there’ll be a great atmosphere. Probably a live session in the Royal or the Ring Lyne. But no, he’s not having any of it. The man who lives for music doesn’t want to hear any music but insists that I go out, enjoy myself. I call Cyclops. I don’t know if he has the same number but I’m guessing Cyclops will never change it if it risks losing business.