Our Song : Track 4

The Musical Interludes of a Last Chance Romantic

No Shoe Strings On Louise - Track 4 of 11

It is a curious fact that despite a well accepted principle asserting that you can’t rush learning a new skill, there are very few who are willing to accept this notion on face value without seeking the possibility of an exception. Working under such a deluded premise, no matter how intensely you focus on the task in hand, the time taken to achieve your ultimate goal will invariably still fall short of your own strict timetable.
This rule was also well acknowledged by Reginald Dudgeon, who remained deeply uncertain that he had the time to achieve the objective set by himself. But here he was, sat in front of a piano, hands hovering over the keys in anticipation.
The concept of the piano was simple enough, each key attached to a small hammer which, when applied with pressure, would strike a thin, finely tuned length of string, the reverberation of which providing the expected sound. With the lower notes set to the left and in contrast, the higher moving off to the right; it was a simple enough contraption and yet putting it into practice was an entirely different thing altogether.
He knew he would have to start from scratch if he was going to even understand the principles surrounding the actual playing of the piano, let alone mastering such a well known piece of music.
He turned over the flimsy front cover of Valerie’s Easy To Play Piano Workbook For Beginners. The pages had faded to yellow over the years, but the concept of playing had surely remained the same.
It all seemed relatively simple. Reggie flicked through the various sections of the book, as the title suggested, the lessons seemed quick and easy. There were a small number of well known family tunes nearer the back of the book including She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain and Frere Jacques. Songs he recalled singing as a child, and hearing his own children recite in their youth.
But this was not the plan. Reggie had no use for these tunes, in fact the only purpose they served was to hinder his progression to achieve his ultimate aim, and with time of the essence he couldn’t afford any needless distractions.
The plan wasn’t to master the instrument, but just to learn sufficient to enable him to perform one song on one specific occasion. Therefore, filling his mind with anything other than the basic theoretic requirements behind piano performance was unnecessary and should be avoided wherever possible.
Much like the general principles surrounding the speed reading of academic literature; when the objective is merely to gain a perspective, total focus and attention is only required at both the beginning and end of each paragraph, with vague interludes within the main body to ensure no unexpected deviations to the initial subject heading have transpired.
With that concept firmly to the forefront of his mind, Reggie flicked back through the book to the beginning, and in particular to the opening section entitled, Knowing Your Keyboard
Lesson one was relatively simple, a repetition of the C note. For those not adept to the intricate art of piano playing, the note identified as middle C is the white note located in the centre of the keyboard to the immediate left of the set of two black notes, above the keyhole on most pianos.
After a few taps of the key with the tip of his thumb, as indicated by the helpful diagram at the top of the page, Reggie paused and turned his head. Like an owl, his head swivelled clockwise on his neck 180 degrees, allowing his range of vision to encompass an entire side of the room.
He knew Valerie had gone to see her friend Sonia, and if past experience was to be taken into account, she wouldn’t be back for a number of hours. Still plenty of time before she was to return, but Reggie didn’t want to give away any indications of what he was up to, nothing that would break the surprise.
The sound in the background was the washing machine, the rumble of the clothes spinning, along with the grating of metal against metal with the turning of the drum, were undoubtedly responsible for the noise that had caused him to turn suddenly. It hadn’t been this loud when they bought it just a couple of years ago, in fact the deterioration seemed to happen overnight. From a gentle whirring sound to the grating ear sore of mill stones; maybe he had left his belt on his trousers when he had put them in, along with a couple of kilos of pebbles and rocks.
Maybe it was time to purchase a new washer. Valerie had often made comments to this end, but then much of their relationship consisted of conversations for the requisition of newer products to replace those that no longer functioned to the high standard that they had originally been acquired, even though they still performed the task for which they had been purchased perfectly adequately. However, the sound of a small space shuttle preparing to launch in the adjoining room was beginning to suggest to Reggie that on this particular occasion, it wasn’t an altogether bad idea.
Despite the noise, Reggie decided that he was to carry on practising; he needed to do as much as he could, whenever he could, with no interruptions. Reggie turned back around to face the piano and placed his finger back on the C note.
With each key came a different note caused by the vibration of each individual length of string. Reggie pressed down on the key with a thud, how many times had the string reverberated to create that sound? Possibly thousands, or even tens of thousands.
If he continued to rapidly tap the note, would time consist of the same number of vibrations? And would the pressure created be sufficient to even raise the lid of the piano? If he had the dexterity, would it be possible to press the key at such a significant rate for the air pressure to increase to a level capable of forcing the lid off?
Reggie commenced his consecutive striking of the C note. At first, each note remained at a relatively restrained volume, but soon as the rhythm increased in pace and his finger began to ache, so did the noise also increase. Each note began to flow into the next, Reggie began to use the forefinger of his left hand alternately with that of his right to increase the rate of succession.
He could feel the key physically heating up, like tapping down over a heated piece of coal. He rose to his feet, using gravity to assist with the increase in tempo as the vibrating piano string produced a continuous hum.
The lid remained firmly shut over the top, but smoke was visibly rising from the back of the piano, the string inside was alight. The C note was now so hot it was glowing red in the middle of a row of pearl white keys. Reggie’s fingertips were burning with each thud of the key, and yet still he continued, he couldn’t stop, with all his energy, his fingers continued their pursuit.
The room was now filling with smoke, visibility had dropped to a minimum with his forehead swamped in sweat from his exertions. Tears began to fill his eyes from the pain in his finger tips and now the feeling of suffocation was building up inside his head.
Bang!
Was that a gun?
Who would have a gun in here? You’re the only one.
How do you know? You can’t see anything?
You mean anyone!
Is there a difference?
Between a number and an object?
Between a person and a thing.
Ownership?
Can you not own both?
Physically yes, but not mentally.
With regards the object or the person?
Both.
But how do you own the physical essence of a being?
Is a girl not your daughter? And a boy not your son?
Ownership is merely a combination of words in which classification derives from an identity prefixing the object.
It depicts an identity. And with this identity of the person, we are enabled to assess the relevant status of the individual.
And this also relates to property?
I can play your piano, even move its location or alter its appearance so that it is no longer a piano. But the essence of the property, the physical being will remain as being yours.
But if you purposely possess it, then by the very nature of your acquisition whether lawful or not, it becomes yours. For, possession is nine tenths of the law.
That is merely a falsity brought in by the judiciary to provide objectivity in matters of civil dispute. Its application is for litigation purposes only and is not to be relied on within the context of reality. The truth is that the piano remains yours, until you yourself knowingly relinquish all ownership of the property.
The legal system is real enough.
Reality is truth, and vice versa, the two terms are not mutually exclusive and therefore can not be considered apart. And yet we often find the law set far aside from the truth, be it a falsely convicted criminal, or immoral financial reward attributed in favour of a national corporation for providing inappropriate loans at inexcusable rates of interest.
They are a finding of fact, and fact is truth, whether you agree with the findings or not. The truth isn’t always an oil painting.
They may be fact of a sort, but are not the truth!
Fact is not truth?
No. Truth is the resulting conclusion from the accumulative equation in which facts denominate the relevant integers.
Like the equation of A plus B equalling C?
Truth derives from assessment and consideration of all relevant facts to the case. The law is a subjective evaluation of the facts chosen as admissible by the interested parties. Without all the pieces you don’t have a jigsaw, without all the notes you don’t have a symphony, and without all the facts, the perceived truth is no more than a caricature of reality.
My hands feel like they’re on fire.
They may feel that way, but of course, that is a preposterous notion.
Preposterous? Of course! And yet I don’t believe it in my head.
And your eyes? What do you see with your eyes?
Reggie looked down to see the hard wooden cover of the piano keyboard laid across his fingers, as both hands remained still on top of the ivory keys. It was impossible that his hands could actually be on fire, but the pain that emanated from the aforementioned physicality suggested otherwise, and with the lid obstructing his view, there was no way of being certain.
Yet for some reason, he felt incapable of withdrawing his hands from their present position. With the pain travelling up his nerves from his knuckles to his brain, Reggie held still without even flinching. Perhaps it was his age that had slowed the once immediate reflex of withdrawal from known harm, or possibly the thick smoke that was freely escaping from every gap within the shell of the piano, surrounding him, and in doing so impeding his better sense of self preservation. 
He felt as if his entire body was being wrapped inside a thick cotton blanket. Was this sensation also responsible for hindering the most basic of human responses?
All of a sudden, as if snapped into life, Reggie leapt to his feet, withdrawing his hands immediately. The leap sent an electrical current of pain from the initial impact point through his wrists, up his forearms and across his biceps into his shoulders.
Small explosions were flaring inside every inch of his body. With the journey of the electrical shock buzzing underneath Reggie’s skin, the remainder of the journey to the brain sparked a surging pulse into his neck and cheeks, as the rest of the body was set to implode into flames.
How does Guy Fawkes feel as he sits atop a burning bonfire? How does a scarecrow feel as the straw within rapidly inflames and with it the heat of each of his limbs intensifies until they fall from his torso?
Reggie stood ablaze, the skin from his arms flaking into ash and dropping to the floor by his feet. Should he run to cool the flames? Or drop to the floor and smother them beneath his body?
There was a third option. With his arms now no more than bones with tiny shreds of melted skin and hands consisting of nothing but charred bone, Reggie reached into his dressing gown and deep within his stomach where he proceeded to remove handful after handful of blazing straw from his interior. The flaming straw fell to the floor and formed a ring of fire around Reggie’s feet, the flames flickering high into the air all around him.
There was a voice emanating from the flames, a soft pitched voice, like a woman singing; but too soft in amongst the crackling of the fire to be able to identify the song. Like the flickering of long, golden hair, the tips of the flames licked the sky, spraying puffs of smoke out with every flick.
Was it even a song? As the volume increased, what at first sounded like a melodious tune had turned into a seemingly relentless shriek. The hair began to fling across the top of the fire and wherever he looked into the flames, Reggie could see thousands of eyes burning into him.
With each handful of straw that was removed and distributed amongst the flames, Reggie’s physique diminished rapidly until he appeared as a skeleton draped in a baggy dressing gown. His bony hands were raised in the sky shielding his eye sockets from the hot smoke that was drawing in around him, pushing away the fumes with his palms.
And in the next moment the fire was gone, Reggie stood still with his arms raised, and his eyes fixed on the red marks across the backs of his hands. There was a faint sore that flickered across his knuckles as he wriggled his fingers. The pain was minute, no worse than his recent sensation of arthritis that had begun to complement many of his activities on a cold morning.
“Are you going to give it a go?” Bernie’s voice came from behind him.
“In my own time.” Reggie snapped back in reply, refusing to look behind at the figure stood over his shoulder.
The flames and smoke had gone, almost instantaneously like the changing of a scene with the drawing of the curtains. And with the disappearance of the clouds of smoke, his entire surroundings would appear to have changed entirely with the only consistency being that of the piano that stood before him.
Reggie was once again sat within the circular room situated within the old oak tree. Or at least, the room which had appeared to him during that previous night’s expedition with his old friend Bernie. But as to his exact whereabouts, he was still not certain, and so would have to concede in identifying the place as such as being that which he believed it to be through his own vision and memory.
Speaking of which, when did I leave this place?
How do you mean?
I must have left the previous night, to have returned.
Who’s to say the occasions are not concurrent?
Me. I have done so much since.
Are you sure? Or were you merely recapping over previous experiences in between rehearsals?
On the contrary, how am I to know if I am now doing no more than reliving a previous experience within the intermission of the real world?
I suppose only you can answer that question for sure. Assuming you choose to accept the passage of time as a mere linear experience.
It feels as if I never left this stool, but of course that would be insane.
Of course. Why should you trust your instincts above the evidence provided to you within the bias of your own consciousness?
Are you saying my own mind is lying to me?
I’m saying to evaluate all of the evidence before you, not just that which is provided to you in the simplest of formats.
He pulled the stool out and sat down; facing the piano, his hands stretched out, fingers resting on the keys. Almost out of instinct, the thumb and little finger on his left hand found the two black Eb notes an octave apart to the left of the keyboard, the index finger on the Bb between them. And with his right hand, his fingers hovered over the octave covering the G, Bb, Eb, and higher G notes.
Reggie paused where he was, “Why have you done all this for me?”
“Done what?”
“This. This room, this piano. This whole place you’ve brought me to.” Reggie raised his arm and waved it around the circular room, before returning them to the smooth surface of the grand piano’s keyboard.
“I just want to help you. Let’s just call it pay back.”
“Payback? For what? You don’t owe me anything do you?”
“Maybe not now, but for sure that will change in the future. And even if this is merely but a splash in the ocean for what I will eternally be indebted, I hope in some way it will serve its purpose.”
He pressed down with the three fingertips of his left hand and played the opening chord. Reggie knew that he didn’t have a great ear for music, but it sounded about right.
“Nice Reggie, have you been practising?”
Surprised at the suggestion, Reggie responded, “No, this is my first time. You know that.”
“Well, for a first time, that was pretty good. Are you sure you’re not having private tuition somewhere else?” Bernie teased. “You didn’t even look at the music.” With that, Bernie reached over Reggie’s shoulder and placed an open book on the music stand above the keyboard. Reggie glanced up and saw the words across the top of the page, “Your Song”.
When did I tell him what song I was going to play?
“It’s alright Reggie.” Bernie’s voice cut into Reggie’s thoughts. “It was an obvious choice, I recognised the opening chord.”
There was a pause as Reggie’s eyes glanced over the arrangement of notes across the double page.
“I remember how much she used to love that song.” Bernie’s voice contained a hint of nostalgia. Valerie had never been shy in expressing her love for music, even if she had chosen Reggie over her rock star boyfriend.
“Reminds me of a story my father once told me.” Bernie continued.
“Ay?” Reggie was only half listening, most of his attention was being paid to reading the notes on the pages. Which notes were to be played flat? Reggie found himself remembering the basic stave structure as he counted up the notes, “F-A-C-E,” he mumbled to himself as he first observed the top lines.
“My father, he was a great man, always keen to pass on his knowledge to his kids. You remember him don’t you?”
 Reggie commenced flicking the notes with the fingertips of his right hand. Despite the ever increasing signs of arthritis, his fingers felt incredibly nimble, as if they had gone back in years to their youth.
“He used to tell me this story when I was younger, for years I didn’t understand what it meant.”
He had no idea whether Bernie was waiting for a response or whether he would continue speaking regardless. To Reggie, the content was quite inconsequential; however the murmur of his acquaintance’s voice buzzing in his ear seemed to fill him with a warm sense of confidence as he continued to slowly identify the relevant notes in accordance to those depicted in the book.
“It was about a man who lost faith in God after the death of his wife. For months he sat alone with just his grief in his home, refusing to enter the world outside. The man became broke and soon lost all of his possessions to debt collectors and thieves. He blamed God for the misfortune that had become of him, for not saving his wife from illness and allowing, as a result, his life to turn to dust. He chose to no longer believe in him, for a deity who did nothing to protect his own children from pain was no more a deity than the child who had placed him upon such a pedestal.”
“One bitterly cold evening, he made his way to the top of the highest mountain and reached up to the Heavens and pulled down a long white cloud from amongst the others and wrapped it over his shoulders. He then reached up again and took hold of two birds that were flying amongst a flock and attached them either side of the cloud using their claws.”
“With the absence of a cloud in the sky, a single bright beam of sunlight shone down over the earth. The man saw this and reaching his hand through the blue sky, took hold of the sun and placed it over the scarf, attaching it to the beaks of either bird like a broach.”
 “The sky turned dark, and the man stood tall, proud of his new acquisitions. A voice then appeared from the heavens. ‘Why did you steal my cloud from the sky? Or my birds from their flock? Or my sun from the Heavens? What joy have you gained from the theft of these things that I provide for you?’”
“The man turned to God and responded. It is you who brought the clouds to protect me from happiness, whereas I have taken it to keep me warm in the cold you created. It is you who brought the birds past my eye to carry my worldly goods away from me forever, and yet I have taken them to harness my possessions, and it is you that has hidden the sun in the sky to shine on the unrighteous and unworthy dependent on their position in the world as opposed to their worth, whereas I have taken it to light my way and shine on those that I know to be worthy of such heavenly glory.’.”
“God responded calmly to the man ‘You do not believe in me, and yet you blame me for those things that are beyond your control?’”
“The man replied ‘I do not believe you use what you have provided for the good of the land, to protect the just. In that way I have taken into my own hands those things that you have allowed to be used for ill means, to be a means for good.’.”
“But God quickly replied ‘Do you not see, that when these things of purity are corrupted by the hand of man or God, they no longer shine. When you take protection for yourself, you open yourself up to dangers from all around; when you take possessions for yourself, your greed will never be satisfied until they have all gone; and when you choose to bring praise only to those that satisfy you, you will find the road you head on to be a dark and lonely one.’.”
“The man responded to God and asked him, ‘If you are so righteous, why do you allow me to be here today? Why do you allow my life to shatter, when thieves and murderers walk the streets under your protection?’.”
“God replied, ‘A man must choose his own path, wherein he will find his own ends. For those who view from a far may not see what is under their noses. I give to you the gift of choice, and with that the purity of a path untrod by any feet, including my own.’.”
“He looked down to the scarf and the items he had taken from the Heavens. But the sun soon lost it’s glow and turned cold and dark and sat upon the man’s chest like a piece of coal. With the weight of the coal too much for either bird’s beak to hold, they released the stone and it fell to the ground. The birds then proceeded to peck at the cloud around their feet until they pecked their way free and flew back to their flock in the sky. The cloud around his neck remained, but with its frayed edges, fell apart in his hands as he attempted to hold the two ends together until it also dropped to the ground in small threads.”
“On realising his mistake and the harm it had caused, the man pleaded God for forgiveness, but there was no reply.”
“The man stood on the top of the hill, cold and alone. He could no longer see the path that had led him up the hill to this place. So he leapt high into the air in the hope he would land on the path. But in doing so drifted high into the clouds never to see the Earth again.”
Reggie had paused from his piano rehearsal and turned to face Bernie, whose face was looking pale and withdrawn. “What the hell was that all about?” He asked, breaking the brief silence that had fallen between them.
“It was a tale my father told me when I was young. It had been passed on through generations.”
“No it hadn’t.” Reggie interrupted. “It was another one of his drunken rants. He used to make those stories up all the time down the pub. He was relentless.”
“Not so, you must be mistaken. Surely you remember my father, always the philosopher.”
“Not when I knew him. I don’t recall a meeting when he didn’t possess a glass in his hand and a further bottle down his throat.”
“He was a deep thinker.”
“He told his young son crazy stories about a man who loses his wife and belongings then jumps off a cliff! He was crackers.”
“The man was a tortured soul.”
“The man was a womanising drunk, with a gambling problem whose one skill in life was opening beer bottles with his bare toes.” Reggie’s words were harsh, and he felt himself shiver in guilt at the bluntness of his statement, but at the same time everything he said was true, and maybe as Bernie’s friend it was time he heard the truth.
Bernie refused to answer and instead stared into the distance.
“Are you OK?” Reggie asked of his friend.
“Just a little thirsty.” He gave a little, dry cough. “I suppose you never really see the obvious until it is pointed out to you by someone who cares.”
The comment seemed somewhat melodramatic, and a little too emotional for Reggie’s liking. But it also seemed to indicate that maybe the reason for Bernie’s demeanour was one of reflection as opposed to one of malice or hurt.
Moments passed, maybe minutes or hours.
With no concept of time, Reggie had no idea as to how long they were to remain there in silence until it would be reasonable to speak again. It felt queer to be sat in a room with no clock, or window, or any other object that changed in any way sufficiently to at least give some indication of time passed. In here it was true what Bernie had said, time really had no significance.
Finally Reggie chose to turn around and commence with his piano practice. He would wait for Bernie to make the first comment, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to last for long.
A noise came from behind him. At first it sounded like a light tapping, possibly Bernie walking over to where he sat at the piano. But then, after a brief pause, he heard the noise much louder than before and he realised that it wasn’t Bernie at all.
There was a knock at the door with a thud, thud, thud.
As if attached to an elastic band, his head then spun anticlockwise around his neck, until once again he was facing the door, having surveyed the entire left hand side of the room.
What he was expecting to see he did not know, but there was an uneasy feeling in Reggie’s mind that he was being watched. Not that it mattered, when Bernie had shown him the place, he hadn’t mentioned the fact that it was out of bounds, or what would happen should he be caught.
Nobody else knows about this place.
Those were Bernie’s exact words. But how could he know that for sure? And how had he become aware of this place without it being prone to discovery from any other midnight explorer?
There was no way of knowing for sure, but the chances of anyone stumbling across this location, having taken the same route by coincidence was highly unlikely. That thought humoured Reggie, but also alarmed him. The very concept of the circumstances surrounding what he had just considered were absurd, and yet those were the actions that he had taken to find himself where he was now sat.
But if that is the case, how is there someone knocking at the door?
Reggie rose to his feet and found himself leaving the living room and stepping out into the hallway facing the front door. He opened the door, and stood before him was a tall, black man. He was about six foot tall and fairly large, and had a small black beard. His eyes were tiny and piercing, which along with his large physique gave him an intimidating air of authority.
“This is the place Mrs Smith.”
“Very good Your Grace.” Behind the male, was a short, chubby black woman, wearing a big, dark green coat. She was holding a clip board in her arms, and was stood in a very submissive position, peering around his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” Reggie answered, somewhat puzzled at the doorway. “Do I know you?” Reggie was never to learn the names of the two figures stood in his door way, further than the initial introduction of Mrs Smith.
“Very sorry for the intrusion Mr Dudgeon, may we come in?” The lady had a warm and gentle voice, but what struck Reggie’s mind was how she knew what his name was.
“Do you know me?”
“Yes, this is the place OK, I can feel it.” The male took a deep breath of the air inside the house and pushed himself past Reggie as he entered the house, partly knocking Reggie back as he did so. “Yes, this is the place, can you smell it Mrs Smith? The aroma is so fresh, as if the tin has only just been opened. Yes this is the place.” He spoke with a ridiculous pace that made Reggie feel dizzy just trying to keep up.
The man also seemed to have a rather annoying habit of sniffing the air as he wandered hastily around the room seemingly confirming some state of affairs to himself.
“Excuse me.” Reggie attempted to grab his attention, but the male seemed to be constantly changing his direction as he pounded the carpet around the house like a tiger eager to leave his cage.
“Excuse me.” Reggie again tried to step in front of the male, who in encountering the obstruction, took a side step to his left and then continued into the kitchen.
“It’s OK.” The female attempted to explain apologetically. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“He may do, but I don’t. What is he doing in my house?” Reggie asked of the woman, as he followed hot on the heels of the man into the kitchen.
There he saw the man picking up individual cups from the work surface, taking a deep breath from each one, and then replacing it, ensuring the handle from each one was pointing towards the garden door.
“Do you sleep here?” The man spun around on the spot and looked directly into Reggie’s eyes just an inch apart.
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologise, this is a splendid specimen. Yes, indeed.” He waved his nose over Reggie’s shoulder and took another deep breath before stepping past. “Yes, very suitable for a delicate slumber me thinks.”
“I don’t sleep in here. It’s a kitchen!”
An alarm began to ring, stating the bloody obvious!
“I beg your pardon?” The man stopped where he was at the doorway of the kitchen.
“I said this is my kitchen. I don’t sleep here.”
The man turned around and walked back to Reggie, and stepped up close, so much so that their noses were almost touching. Reggie could feel the man’s breath on his top lip, and the smell of mint seemed to be emanating from his mouth. “Where do you keep your handkerchiefs?” He asked with a very stern looking brow.
“My what?”
“Your hand-ker-chiefs! What one would use to wipe one’s nose my dear fellow.”
“Do you need a hankie?”
“Not for me my dear man. It is for you and your infuriating sniffing. It is rattling my brain every time that you do so.” With that, and almost with a sense of irony, the man then took a short intake of breath through his nose.
Me sniffing?! What about you, you lunatic! You haven’t stopped since you came into my house.
Even though Reggie knew it wasn’t him with the irritating nasal habit, the statement was still enough to cause him to brush a finger across his nostrils, just in case of any lingering and visible nose excrement.
“And bellows… do you smell that?” The man spun his head around to face the kitchen window. “What day is it? Thursday? Smells like a Thursday…” He paused for a second, “But it can’t be, no, far too much blue for a Thursday.”
Reggie was even more baffled as he attempted to listen to this man’s insane ramblings. He couldn’t understand the mention of blue, the kitchen was mostly yellow and had been so for a number of years ever since Valerie had elected to redecorate the room during a brief period of down time when she was feeling bored. Valerie was one for acting on impulse. One moment, he left for work with a somewhat grubby, but pleasantly white kitchen, and returned some time later to find dust sheets across the floor and various offerings of paint splattered across the walls.
Was blue one of the choices?
What choices?
The paint samples on the wall? Were any of them blue?
How would I remember? It was a number of years ago. But if I remember rightly they were mostly yellows and creams. Who would paint a kitchen blue?
“Please take a note Mrs Smith. There are too many chickens, too many!”
“Chickens? Where are there any chickens?” enquired a puzzled Reggie, as the male once again began to wander around the house.
“What did you say dear boy?”
“Chickens? Where are these chickens?”
The man took hold of Reggie’s arms and raised them, looking beneath both and in his palms. “What chickens?”
“You said there were too many chickens.”
“You don’t have any chickens.”
“I know that.”
“And yet you continue with this charade?”
Reggie finally lost his patience and his temper, and took hold of the man’s arms firmly. “What charade? Who are you, and why are you in my house?”
“My dear fellow. If you would happily indulge me, I would gladly explain my presence.”
The carpet was instantly swept out from underneath him, and Reggie released his grip on the man’s arms.
“See here sir,” He reached back and snatched the clipboard from his assistant who had remained silent for the majority of the visit, instead using her time to scribble onto some slips of paper. “I believe there are spirits at work here, evil spirits.” He announced as his eyes pondered over the documentation that had been completed during his tour of the location.
There was a silence between the three of them as the man’s thick eyebrows raised until they practically displaced his hair. “I see… interesting…” There was another pause for a number of minutes. Reggie had no idea how long, he looked across to the lady stood behind in the hope that she might give him some indication of what the paperwork contained. But instead, she seemed far too interested in staring around the corners of the ceiling, as if searching for cobwebs.
“Very interesting, very interesting indeed.”
“What is?” Reggie asked, lifting himself onto his toes and trying to peer over the clipboard at the notes.
“Excuse me?” With the look of an old school master glancing over his book at an unruly student.
Reggie was starting to feel agitated at this point having been disturbed whilst in the middle of his piano practice and failing to receive information of any consequence despite his constant enquiries. “The notes, what is so interesting about them?”
The man seemed to take no notice of Reggie’s impatient tone, as he continued his theme of asking ineffectual questions whilst frequently sniffing the air like a blood hound on the trace of a suspect, “How do you spell intergalatical?”
“I-N-T-E-R-G…” Reggie paused for a second, picturing the letters in his head as he announced them and writing them in the air with the forefinger of his right hand. “A…” He paused again, suddenly it had become harder to picture the word.
Intergalatical… INT-ER-GALA…GALA!
“GALA…” He paused allowing the man time to write it out.
“Are you sure there are two G’s” The man asked with look of puzzlement on his face.
“What? No, I only said one G.”
“Hmm, it must be my ears, I have extra sensitive ears. I often hear too much.”
“It’s true.” Like a faint echo in the background, the polite little lady quietly added her first couple of words in quite some time, before returning to her observations of the ceiling.
The response was so casually made, despite the clear inaccuracy of the statement.
“I’m sorry, how can you hear too much?”
“I heard two Gs, did you say Intergalatical had two Gs?”
“No, I said not!”
“Of course not, that would spell Intergalagalatical, which is just preposterous.” He gave a mock laugh as he spoke.
“How is that hearing too much? That’s just a case of not listening properly, probably because you’re spending too long sniffing the air. Would you like a tissue?”
Touché! Got you!
Reggie was rather proud of his quick witted response to the man’s earlier insult.
Quick witted? It’s taken you ten minutes to come up with that. You ought to ask him to stay for dinner, might be able to think of something to say about his assistant being on work experience.
“I hear words between words. The things people mean to say, but are unable to do so in a physical sense owing to the restrictions of their own minds. I hear these things. My ears transcend merely the interception of sound waves.”
“Is that why your friend on work experience doesn’t say much? Cos you can hear her thoughts?”
Ha! Hits him for six!
That was poor, I gave you that one!
 “I do not hear thoughts, I never stated that I was a mind reader. And anybody who says they are is a fraud.” The man shook his head as his eyes dropped back to the clipboard.
“Who are you? What is your name?”
“Take a look at these notes.” The man turned the clipboard around and held it out towards Reggie, indicating him to take hold of it.
Reggie raised his arms, and received the clipboard with both hands. His eyeballs dropped down to the piece of paper and the images that had been incorporated onto it.
The image he saw caused Reggie to blink several times before taking a second look, and yet still his eyes could see the same. There was what appeared to be a crude drawing of a round cog to the bottom of the page, this seemed to be turning on an axle which in turn was also causing an additional series of three cogs, all different sizes, spinning a further axle.
The further axle appeared to rise up from the paper and disappear into a small house shaped three dimensional building with sloped roof and arched door.
He couldn’t believe his eyes, if he was able to he would have literally removed them from their sockets and given them a more substantial wipe with a tissue; preferably handing his visitor one at the same time, as a further continuance of sniffing interrupted his line of thought.
“Who are you?” Reggie asked, returning what seemed to be the only relevant question in this otherwise ridiculous scenario.
Finally an answer, though as seemed to be the way with this lunatic, it was by no means clear, “I am here to save you my friend. You are plagued by spirits, and I am here to help you.” The man announced it with a straight face, no hint of irony or humour across his straight brow.
“Save me? The only thing I need saving from is nut cases who push into my house without being invited.”
For only the third time during their visit, the shy lady interrupted to offer her own view on the circumstances, “Please Mr Dudgeon, this man is a genius! He has a sense above all other mortal souls. One that has total awareness of all opposing dimensions.”
It must have been the longest sentence she had strung together throughout the visit, and not one word of it made sense; other than the initial opening, when once again she referred to Reggie as being Mr Dudgeon. Although with all his years, Reggie did appreciate the respectful terminology used, it still made no sense how she knew as to whom she was addressing.
“So how is it that this genius (he used the word with a degree of sarcasm) is going to save me?”
“My dear friend.” The man commenced, “Your house has become a location for visitations of a spiritual type. I am here to free you from these nightmares.”
“Nightmares? What nightmares?”
“The ones you are living through old boy. Like this!” He swung his arms theatrically all around him. “All of this you see before you! I can save you!” He smiled.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, but I would like you to leave please.”
“How do you know you are awake?”
“I’m sorry?” It seemed a strange change of subject.
“Are you awake at this moment in time? Or is this merely a realistic network of dreams formed by the intrusion of an evil spirit within the mind.”
“I know I’m awake, because I am. I can feel this clipboard in my hands, I can smell your breath on my face. I can hear your infuriating sniffing!” Reggie snapped with the latter statement as once again the man took a deep inward breath nasally.
“Sniffing? Me? Or is it you? All of the senses, including touch are reliant on the mind’s interpretation. Therefore, as this is also the case for dreams, it is entirely possible that the mind would be able to interpret such sensations from mental stimuli just as much as from the physical.”
“Well, if I’m asleep, that makes you nothing more than a figment of my imagination.”
“And vice versa.”
This was the first time Reggie had managed to engage the man in any sort of conversation, and yet as they made their way through the various lines of enquiry, he almost felt reluctant to continue in its pursuance. “You mean I may be a figment of your imagination?”
“How would you know if you’re not?”
“You came visiting me. I existed far beyond your arrival.”
“And I before you. A postman has a number of houses to visit during his rounds, your house in particular is no more real to him than a number amongst many others as he goes to his work, much like Father Christmas.”
Reggie gave out a laugh. “Are you comparing a postman to Santa Claus?”
“They are both occupied within the delivery service, and both live either side and independent of those routines. But to you it is only on the arrival and distribution to your address that you are interested in either of their existences. Does that make either one of them less real than you?”
“Of course it does! Santa Claus isn’t real.”
“Reality is a state of mind.”
Reggie wasn’t ready to respond, all this talk of spirits and dimensions was enough for him to ask them to leave, let alone the suggestion that Father Christmas was actually alive and kicking and possibly living in a two bedroom semi in Clapham.
But just as he was about to withdraw his eyes from the clipboard, they became transfixed on the seemingly impossible three dimensional drawings that were protruding from the paper and apparently moving as if formed of anything more than graphite and paper. It appeared to be that of a small windmill, with sails turning in a clockwise direction; the arched door way then sprung open and a small, blue cuckoo leapt out of the paper and literally pecked him on the nose.
It wasn’t the force that caused Reggie to stumble backwards, but rather the shock of the occurrence that found him falling to the ground and landing hard on his backside with a thud.
Reggie felt a pain vibrating up his spine from his soar backside all the way to his jaw. His head felt dizzy, as if a canary that had been shaken in its cage, and yet other than a few aches, Reggie felt surprisingly fresh in spite of his age.  
“What are you doing on the floor?”
Reggie, laid back onto his back, looked up to make out the blurred shape of Bernie stood over him sipping on another glass of water. His cheeks now looked a slightly healthier shade of pink, and his head seemed to be haloed by the bright back light.
“Mate, I thought you were gonna get some practice in.” There was a laugh that followed that statement, and as Reggie slowly started to distinguish his old friend’s facial features. This was followed by the appearance of a hand directed towards him, and attached to a long arm that reached way back into the light above.
“Come on mate,” The arm gripped hold of Reggie and with one swift movement, raised him to his feet, “This is starting to become a habit, you falling over. Let’s get you back up shall we?”
He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened as his head continued to reconfigure its surroundings, but within a matter of seconds he found himself perched on the piano stool once again facing the black and white keys.
“You were doing so well Reggie, what happened?”
“I don’t know.” Responded Reggie, looking around himself for the bizarre couple that no more than ten or fifteen minutes ago, had barged their way into his house.
“How do you manage it?” Reggie finally asked realising it was a question that had seemed to got stuck inside his head some time ago and was waiting for a moment to escape.
“Do what?” Bernie asked.
“Just now, you lifted me with virtually no effort at all. And then there was the other night walking up the hill, and in the field. How do you manage it?”
“My dear friend. You are hardly the heavy weight you were in your youth, most grown would be able to lift a man of your age and stature.”
“But you’re not most men, you’re in fact a man of my own age and stature. How can you lift me with just one arm and seemingly not even break into a sweat?”
“Have you tried yourself?”
“Me? What do you mean?”
“Have you tried raising yourself from the ground?”
“Of course not, I’m the one on the ground.”
“Then do not doubt your own strength in doing so or that of your friends. It is one thing to question your own faith, but an entirely different one to question the love and trust of those around you.”
Reggie paused for a moment, there was a rush of blood to his head, like a tidal wave crashing against a cliff, he bent over in pain. The initial burst lasted just a few seconds, but as Reggie began to sit up again, he could still feel the aftermath of the collision ringing around his brain.
Had he hit his head during the fall? Reggie clutched the sides of his head with both hands as if the additional pressure would in some way alleviate some of the pain. But the discomfort was all too familiar, it had become more and more frequent in recent months.
Reggie removed his right hand from his head and placed it in his dressing gown pocket to reveal the letter he had received the day earlier.
 
Specialist appointment…Monday 14th September 0900 hours…Sienna Place Surgery.
 
That was tomorrow. Reggie would hopefully have some answers in the morning, and maybe then he would be able to concentrate more fully on the task in hand.
There was another wave of pain that caused Reggie once again to clutch his head in agony. He knew that there was a problem, he didn’t need to be a specialist to know that things weren’t right and along with the pain, he felt a shudder of fear. It was now more important than ever for Reggie to continue his work on the piano, after all, this could be the last opportunity he had to truly commemorate his relationship with the beautiful lady that had warmed his soul for so many years. 
Lifting his head to gaze at the musical notations, Reggie placed his hands back on the keyboard and pressed down hard. The sound wasn’t pretty, but in his head he could hear the words being sung out loud.
 
Hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in the words.
How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world.

To be continued...
Track 5 - First Episode At Hienton