When the Music Stops…. Joe Heap

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      ‘Abigail?’

      There’s no reply but the storm. I grab the handle to the nursery, but there’s more water in the hallway now, pressing against it. Are we sinking? One foot against the wall and both hands on the handle, I pull. The door opens onto the sound of wailing.

      ‘Abigail? Are you in there?’

      No reply. My head swims with darkness. If there were light I would feel better. I can’t see the baby and there’s water in the nursery. That’s not right. I’m the one who opened the door, I’m the one who let the water in. Have I made a mistake? Too late to go back. I edge forward, guided by the crying. Inside there’s less to hold onto. Each cabin has a built-in bed, but the baby sleeps in a travel cot on the floor.

      A cot which is level with the floor.

      Hold onto the crying – he’s still there. The boat starts to race downhill like a bobsled. I grip the doorjamb just in time and for a moment all the water around my ankles is gone, washing to the far end of the room. The baby falls silent. Is he drowned? My fall is broken and I almost lose my grip. The baby coughs and screams.

      This room is a mirror image of my own. Clothes have started to baffle me in the last year, the landscape of blouses and underwear leaves me frustrated. In the dark, this mirror-room is a cruel puzzle. There is a sudden flash of dazzling blue light. In that moment I can see the cot, can see the baby kicking his legs against the wet mattress. Then the light is gone, replaced by thunder. Before I can lose the image, I step forward.

      The baby is frantic, his wails staccato, as though he can’t wait to draw breath before the next one. Not the cry of a baby who is tired, hungry or sick. A cry of terror. I feel over the mattress until my hands close around his warm, squirming body. Tiny hands grip the edges of my own as I lift him. He’s big for his age – I’ve never lifted him myself. I’m usually in a chair, propped with cushions. My vertebrae pop-pop-pop. His hot face screams into my ear.

      ‘Sssh, sssh, there now.’ He squirms in his soaked sleeping bag and batters me with tiny fists. ‘Come on lovey, I’m here now.’

      My arms tremble with the strain. I just want to lie down and go to sleep. Maybe it’s safest if I stay here. Abigail must be busy, making the boat right. But then I remember the water – the water that I let in. We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe. How will I get him upstairs, in the dark? I remember his nightlight. It’s made of soft plastic, shaped like an egg. If you press on the pointy end, a light comes on.

      I put him on the bed. I crouch down and feel in the cold water for the box of toys. My hands turn numb as I run them over rattles and teething rings, fabric books and soft animals. I throw the rejects into the water. Finally, I have it. The cabin is lit by blue light, shifting to green as I look to the baby on the bed, staring at me with his mouth an ‘O’. Regaining composure, he resumes his wailing.

      ‘Sssh, hush now, I’m coming.’

      My head feels waterlogged. I get the baby as far as the hallway without much trouble. Then the boat tips back, like a rollercoaster climbing to the top of a big drop. I can see the stairs up to the saloon but can’t move toward them.

      Wait. Wait for it …

      The boat tilts a little, then we’re racing down, faster than before. I launch myself at the stairs like a nightie-clad Olympian. I catch the first stair with my foot, and the next. Though I’m climbing the stairs, it’s like running downhill.

      We reach the top stair. We’re in the lounge, except now I can’t stop –I’ve too much speed and the tilt of the boat means that the wooden floor is a polished slide. My feet go out from under me and I land heavily. We slide across the length of the room and crash into the back wall.

      I’m still holding the baby. There’s no way of telling whether I’ve broken any bones. Everything hurts. The deck here is wet, like downstairs, but there’s no water sloshing around. The baby squirms against my chest and the room is lit by changing colours. I look around and see the baby’s nightlight, rolling on the floor, turning red, then blue, then green. How did that get there? Abigail must have brought it to see by.

      The door to the deck is flapping open, letting in rain. Papers skitter and Abigail’s novel flaps on the floor like a wounded bird. I shuffle to the door and shut it with one foot. The room is suddenly calm, though the storm still rattles the windows. In one corner of the cabin is the baby’s bouncy chair, with straps to stop him falling out. I shuffle over and put him down, then struggle for a minute to get him out of his wet sleeping bag.

      I look around the cabin. On each side is a sofa. I can sleep on one of those. It will be comfortable. But the baby is still crying so hard. If I could feed him, he might be happier, but Abigail only gives him breastmilk. If I could just sing one nursery rhyme, maybe he would calm down. But with the sound of the storm and the baby crying, I can’t remember. What was that one – ‘Old Man Farmer’? ‘Clip Clop Horsey’? I try to hum, but the melodies have rusted away.

      I look around the room, seeing by the ghostly nightlight. There’s a barometer set into a model ship’s wheel. There’s a picture of a Greek village, with white walls and blue domes and more sea in the background. There’s a guitar …

      A guitar.

      I fix on the guitar. It glows in the blue phase of the nightlight. I’ve seen it before. But I feel like I never really noticed it. It’s mounted upright on the wall by two brackets. One under the body and one higher up, around the neck.

      I don’t know much about objects these days. The microwave on the boat is just a microwave. I couldn’t guess how old it is, whether it was cheap or expensive. A pair of shoes is a pair of shoes. Pens and pencils, rubber balls and jackets – they’re like pictures in a children’s book.

      But … I know a lot about this guitar. It’s acoustic. It’s concert size. It may be here as decoration, but it’s not cheap. Inlaid mother-of-pearl on the headstock for the logo: GUILD. Yes, an M-20. American made. Nylon strings. There’s a plectrum wedged between the strings at the headstock. The bridge and fingerboard are rosewood, satin finish. Bone nut and saddle. Mahogany body with a sunburst finish.

      There’s a flash of lightning, burning the shape of the guitar onto my eyes. I struggle to stand. Then the deck sinks and I make my run. I grab hold of the guitar, to stop myself falling. I hope whichever idiot decorated this boat didn’t bolt it to the wall. After a moment of fiddling with the neck clasp, the guitar tumbles into my arms.

      I take my prize back to the baby. I sit, legs complaining at being forced to sit like a four-year-old at nursery. Can I play it? I don’t know. Abigail used to like hearing me play. Maybe Abigail’s baby will like to hear me play as well.

      The guitar is out of tune. I pluck the top string a few times and fiddle with the tuning peg. Without having to think about it, I continue up the strings. I hold down a fret of the last string to match it with the sound of the next. A squall of rain on the windows drowns me out for a moment. The guitar sounds grateful to be tuned. I strum with the plectrum and the guitar raises its voice over the storm.

      For that strum, the baby stops crying. He opens bloodshot eyes and looks at me. This feels so familiar, but I can’t think of anything to play. My left hand tries to form a chord, but my fingers tangle over one another. Perhaps if I could remember a song, the chords would come. I cast around the room, the rain-streaked windows, the baby, the nightlight. I can’t remember songs about these things. I take things out of my dressing gown pockets. An open packet СКАЧАТЬ