Joining the Dots

Chapter 3

My head is pounding when I wake. I had never noticed how loud the clock ticks before. Each tick reverberates through me. How did I get home last night? I grumble a little and roll over, willing my eyes to adjust to the light. There's someone next to me. Wait. There. Is. Someone. Next. To. Me.

I leap to my feet, stumbling and retching. What happened last night? And then I see Cam, the other side of the mystery boy. He stretches and sits up. I'm always amazed by his lack of hangover. He seems confused by my bewilderment.

"What? Who?" I splutter out.

"Ohh." He finally comes to his senses, "Don't mind Gary, he stayed the night."

I don't know how to process this. "I can see. Well I'm going to just..." my sentence trails off, "Coffee?" I gesture to downstairs.

"Soy please hun." Cam says lounging back on the bed and wrapping his arm around Gary's waist.

I make the coffee and push some bread into the toaster. I wait for the familiar pop to sound, staring down at my hands and calloused fingers. Sometimes it sucks to be a musician. And then I freak. It's gone midday, I was supposed to be at Gramps' for my harp lesson two hours ago. I rush about, no time for a shower. I change into a hoodie and leggings and hope I don't smell too strongly of the night before. I heave my harp over my shoulder, letting it fall into its usual crevice to the right of my collarbone. I head for the door, the toast and coffee forgotten. Cam and Gary are in the hall exchanging cheek kisses and phone numbers. I pause for a minute, confounded by Cams bizarre ability to pull off my mesh t shirt. I don't mention it.

I say a quick bye and head out the door. The 20-minute walk might help get rid of this stinking headache. I've tried cycling to Gramps' before, but with a harp to carry, let's just say it didn't end well.

**********

Of course Gramps is waiting for me with toast soldiers and dippy egg.

"I'm sorry I'm late Gramps."

"Timekeeping is key to..."

"Good musicianship." I finish, "I know Gramps."

"No matter," he says, slowly rising on aching joints, "Eat up dearie." He balances a shaky hand on my shoulder and leans down to give me a peck on the cheek. He shuffles out to the kitchen, limping slightly to the right. He is adamant about not using his walking stick, I think he is afraid of seeming weak. I hear the wheeze of the kettle and clink of mugs. He will give me the blue mug with the duck on it.

As I'm eating I notice a photo album resting on the fireplace. It is evidently old with yellowed pages and the faded print of 'Memories' written across the cover.

I am a firm believer that a photograph can hold an entire world in it. I see that as I turn the thick aged pages, releasing a cloud of dust with each page turn, like parts of another world are escaping from the edges of the book.

These pages tell my Gramps' story. A story of how life can lead you down paths you didn't even know existed. How life can twist and turn you and spit you out as a different person. How life can stop and how life can start again.

The first photo is a young Gramps. He is only a child with rosy cheeks and so much life in his eyes. He is by a harp, passed down the generations to him and now in my hands, the harp I cherish and play every day. Our harp.

I see him a teenager, looking to join the elites at a London Conservatoire. And then I see him, as I am now, at a Conservatoire, looking to a life filled with a passion to share his love.

People say that a story needs to be unpredictable, but one unpredictable event, a cataclysm to this story, upheaved his life and tore it apart. Early onset Arthritis. And this stole his dreams. I can't imagine the pain of not being able to create music. Music, the one thing that can silence even the loudest of demons. Music, the one thing that is constant and safe but also wild and free. The photos after this hold sadness for a while. His eyes are glassy and his face despondent.

But then I suppose sometimes life has a way of taking us where we need to be. So, my Gramps, unable to pursue a life devoted to music, turned to Art. And here he met my Gran, an artist alike.

Gramps' eyes have life again from here. These were his best years, filled with travel and ice cream and days in the sun and love. My Gran made him happier than he had ever been. She was a beautiful woman. Curly hair, like mine, and a smile that seemed to stretch further than possible. I miss her. My Gramps yearns for her too, but he always tells me that she is still here. She is here in her hand-painted birdhouse in the garden. She is here in the wind and the rain. She is here in the music and the lullabies she sang. She is here in these photographs. She is here.

********

I hear movement behind me and quickly close the album, not wanting to be called out as a nosy parker.

"Ahh, what have you got there?" My Gramps sits in his worn red armchair next to me, "I hope you're not being a nosy parker."

I knew that was coming.

"It's beautiful Gramps, but there are quite a few blank pages at the end, how come you never finished it?"

"Well, I was hoping that you would be able to do that."

"But they are your memories."

"I'm old Allie, and when I pass." I go to object but he shushes me and continues, "When I pass, I want you to fill the remaining pages with your dreams and your story. I could never pursue my ambitions but you can and you will."

"I, I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. Finish your breakfast. I want to hear you play at some point in the next decade."