‘OK,’ Scott said, ‘the piano itself, music, the future—’
Margaret gave a little snort.
‘Don’t get carried away—’
‘I feel carried away. I am carried away. I want to be carried away.’
Margaret looked up at him. She took a sip of her champagne without toasting anything.
She said, ‘Talking of carried, who paid for the carriage? Who paid for this to come up here?’
Scott hesitated. He looked fixedly at his drink. Then he said, ‘I did.’
There was a silence. Margaret looked at him steadily. She took another sip of her drink.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I wanted to,’ Scott said. ‘I needed to.’
‘How did you arrange it?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘Mam,’ Scott said, ‘it doesn’t matter. It’s done, it’s sorted and I’ve got the piano. I couldn’t bear to be obliged to them.’
‘No,’ Margaret said, ‘I see that.’ She paused, and then she said quietly, ‘I wonder how it was, for her, when it went.’
Scott moved round behind the piano and leaned against the windowsil , his back to the view.
He said, ‘She wasn’t there.’
Margaret looked up sharply.
‘What?’
‘ She wasn’t there. It went while she was out. They arranged it that way on purpose. She’d gone out with a friend.’
‘How do you know al this?’
Scott took a big swal ow of champagne.
‘Amy told me.’
‘Amy—’
‘I rang her.’
‘Again? ’
‘Yes,’ Scott said, ‘I rang her to check she was OK about the piano, that she didn’t think I was party to some kind of plot. I rang her to say I wanted to pay for the carriage.’ He grinned at his drink. ‘She said she thought they’d expect me to do that anyway.’
Margaret gave a second smal snort.
‘She said she hoped I’d real y play it,’ Scott said. ‘She said she hoped it’d bring me luck. She said—’ Scott stopped.
Margaret waited, holding her glass, the finger of her other hand stil lightly poised on the piano key.
‘What?’
‘She said,’ Scott said with emphasis, ‘she said that one day she hoped she’d hear me play it. She wants, one day, to hear me play the piano.
She said so.’
Margaret’s finger went down on the middle C.
‘And,’ Scott said, ‘I told her I hoped so too. I told her I’d like her to hear me play. I’d like it.’
‘I see.’
Scott put his champagne glass down on the windowsil .
‘Move over,’ he said to his mother.
‘What?’
‘Move over,’ Scott said. ‘Make room for me.’
‘What are you doing—’
‘I’m going to play,’ Scott said. ‘I’m going to play Dad’s piano and you’re going to listen to me.’
Margaret moved to the right-hand edge of the piano stool. She felt as she used to feel at the beginning of one of Richie’s concerts.
‘What are you going to play?’
Scott settled himself. She watched him flex his right foot above the pedals, settle his hands lightly on the keys.
