“How’s the guitar going?” he asks.
Looking down, I take a moment to inspect the work that I completed this morning. I’ve managed to very carefully fix the damage to the neck, and I’m starting to think that perhaps I’m close to being done.
“I’m not quite there yet,” I explain. “It might look okay, but that doesn’t mean that it’ll sound right. I’m afraid I shall have to keep working on it for some time yet.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Craig continues, “but isn’t that what you’ve been saying for a few years now? Does it really take this long to fix a guitar?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Have you tried playing it yet?”
“Of course not. Don’t be foolish.”
“But you could, if you wanted,” he replies. “You said it yourself, you still have a little of your music left. Not a lot, but maybe enough to play for a few minutes.”
“Which is precisely why,” I mutter, “I do not intend to waste that precious resource. I need this guitar to be absolutely perfect before I ever play it again. I’ve even had to force myself to stop thinking about music, to stop hearing it in my head, in case I accidentally use up some of the remaining music that I possess.” I peer more closely at the guitar’s neck. “It’s not perfect yet. Maybe when it’s perfect, I can start to play, but not yet.”
After a moment, I realize that he’s staring at me, so I turn and meet his gaze.
“Yes?” I ask testily.
“I was just wondering whether it’ll ever be perfect,” he says, “but I guess it’s none of my business. I’m going to skin these rabbits and get them ready, and then I’ll go and do some work in the field.”
“I’ll skin the rabbits,” I reply, as I start getting to my feet, “and then—”
Suddenly I feel a blast of pain in my back. I let out a gasp as I collapse back in the chair, and then I push Craig aside as he rushes over to help.
“I’m fine!” I snap. “Just because I hurt my back, that doesn’t mean I’m too old to do things around here.”
“I never said that you were.”
“But you were thinking it!” I say firmly. “Go on, get out of here. Go and tend to the field. When you get back, those two rabbits will be skinned and ready to cook.”
“Sure,” he replies, taking a step back. “I’m sorry, Derek, I didn’t mean to annoy you.”
He hesitates, and then he heads out of the room, leaving me sitting alone with the guitar on my lap. Sighing, I tell myself that I shouldn’t have lost my temper. At the same time, I’m in more pain than I want to admit, and I don’t want Craig to start noticing my struggles. He already does most of the work around this place, and I don’t want him to think that he’s right about the fact that I’m becoming so inform.
I also don’t want him to realize that he’s right about the guitar.
There.
Two rabbits, skinned and ready to cook.
Sure, my back is killing me now and I feel like I need to take a rest, but at least I did what I promised. Glancing out the window, I can just about see Craig in the distance as he tends to the potatoes in the field. When he gets back, I shall show him these rabbits, and I very much look forward to seeing the expression of surprise on his face.
I take a deep breath and turn to head through to my camp-bed for a rest, but then I stop as I see the guitar still resting on the table. It’s such a funny-looking guitar, with pieces from Sarah’s instrument cobbled onto the core of my own. I’ve been working on this thing for so very long, and I’m starting to think that perhaps my quest for perfection is holding me back. I’m sure I could spend the rest of my life making alterations, but then what if I drop dead before I ever get a chance to play the wretched thing?
I hesitate, before slowly reaching down and picking the guitar up. After all this time, am I finally ready to play a few chords? I haven’t played anything since I arrived here at the farm five years ago, but now…
I look out the window again and see that Craig is still far away. He wouldn’t be able to hear me if I shouted for him, let alone if I played an instrument.
Why am I hesitating? I’ve been desperate to play for so long, yet now I find myself standing here with a sense of genuine, palpable fear.
I carry the guitar through to the back room, so as to put as much distance as possible between Craig and myself, just in case he turns out to have some kind of superhuman hearing. Then, finally, I force myself to put my hands into the right position, and I start to play.
I stop almost immediately.
The sound of music, after all this time, is almost too much for me to bear. My initial instinct is to put the guitar away and never touch it again, but after a moment I realize that I have to play more. With tears in my eyes, I try a few more chords, then some more, and finally I begin to play a piece of music that I wrote years ago for an ex-girlfriend. It’s a simple piece, which is just as well since my fingers feel rather stiff and unwieldy, but it’s perhaps the simplicity that makes the music sound so beautiful on this occasion. For a few seconds, I even forget to play softly, and I have to quickly force myself to stop being so loud.
I look toward the window again, and this time I see that Craig is coming back to the farmhouse.
I quickly hurry through to the front room and set the guitar down, and then I make my way to the kitchen just in time to meet him as he returns.
“There are your two rabbits,” I tell him, trying not to sound too flustered. “I trust that they meet your high standards?”
“They look perfect,” he replies. “The potatoes are coming along, too.” He pauses. “How about the guitar? Are you done fixing it?”
“It’ll take some more time yet,” I reply, not wanting to admit that I played. “Please, don’t rush me.”
“Are you…” He stares at me for a moment. “Have you been crying?”
“Of course not,” I mutter, turning and taking the two skinned rabbits over to the counter. “Stop asking stupid questions. Don’t you have any work that needs doing?” I know that I’m being unreasonable, but I can’t help myself. The pain in my back – which has never entirely gone away since I was beaten to a pulp all those years ago – is particularly bad on cold days such as this. “The energy you put into your suspicions,” I continue, “might be better directed elsewhere.”
Twenty-Four
A few days later, the pain in my back has lessened, no doubt due to the better weather.
I take the rabbit bones and drop them into a pot of water, which I then carry out into the yard so that I can set it to boil. For most of my life, I cared not one jot for the art of cooking. I was content with whatever I could find at the local corner shop. Now look at me, however: I’m making broth from the bones of the two rabbits Craig caught the other day, and I already have a fair plan as to how I’ll turn that broth into a decent soup. Trial and error have been my watchwords of late, and I must admit that I seem to have a very slight knack for this sort of thing.
I set a small fire going and place the pot on some sticks, and then I step back.
Suddenly I feel a sharp, twisting pain at the base of my back. Wincing, I stumble slightly before supporting myself against the side of the farmhouse, and then I have to slide down and sit on the edge of an old crate. The pain is getting worse and worse, as if the nerves are rubbing red raw, and no amount of stretching or changing position seems to help. I’ve had this pain before, of course, but usually only in small flashes. This time, however, the agony seems to be settling in for the long haul, and I finally lean back and grit my teeth as I wait in hope for it to pass.