Melanie's Last Tune


When it gets to ten past six I assume he’s not coming, and settle down to some Rachmaninov.  I get so absorbed that, when the doorbell finally intrudes, my fingers skid along the keys, bringing the piece to a halt in a violent crescendo.  I set down my music and make my way to the front door, stooping to pick up the Evening Post from the doormat before sliding back the chain.

“Hello, Miss Grainger.”  In his black and white football top, Nathan looks more prepared for a kickabout in the park than for his music lesson.

“Come on in.”  I lead him through to the parlour and place the folded newspaper on the sideboard between the carriage clock and the cut-glass rose bowl, while Nathan unpacks his music.  “Have you practiced this week?”

“A bit.”

“You really must practice,” I say.  “A once-a-week lesson isn’t enough on its own.”

He grins, as if it’s all beyond his control, and shuffles onto the stool.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)