Nothing Worth a Song or Dance About

CONTENT WARNING; mental health, self harm, swearing

The person in number 5 Orpheus Lane has a scar, at least that was what they all said.

“A scar?” Hamish thought to ask when he was told, his voice filled with the sort of tone that showed quite clearly, he considered this to be about as noteworthy as the mayors’ new haircut or any other of the nonsense drivel that seemed to drive the town of Rosebridge.

“Aye, a scar” said Mrs Flannagan, shaking her head disapprovingly her thin lips pursed “but not just any old scar I will tell you that, a very odd scar indeed. How did you describe it Gail?” she turned to Gail an equally disapproving looking old bat who was in the middle of picking her way through a child’s size fish and chip meal. She always bought two of those and Hamish never thought to ask her why she didn’t get a medium like everyone else.

“exceptionally out of the ordinary” said Gail over a nibble of deep-fried fish flesh “and not like any scar I did ever see before. Frankly put its just weird.”

“Well what’s it look like then?” Hamish asked

“What?”

“The scar… what’s it look like?”

“Well…” but Hamish did not get to hear the rest for the ladies had been called away at that point by a third one arriving, Mrs Spencer who was by far the most decrepit, and yet viciously astute of the lot of them.

“Oh quit eating that filth Gail, your thick as pudding as it is.”

Gail dropped the fish into the greasy bag with a plop as Mrs Flannagan bust out a cackling laugh.

“You are just the worst ent you, so then what’s going on up your side of the hill?”

“you wouldn’t believe me darling if I told you… But I will give it a shot I suppose.” They left Hamish there, hobbling along across the beach like some scene from Macbeth. Easy as that he was sliced out of the conversation as if he had never been there.

“Bubble double toil and all that trouble.” Hamish muttered to himself as he groaned to his feet. He did not remember the exact line, it had been many years since he had taught in school and his subject had been history to be fair. Still he knew it was an omen of bad things to come, storms brewing and all that malarky.

He pitied the man who had moved into number 5, really he did. It did not feel that long ago that Hamish had moved here himself from London, chasing love over a career and watched both burn before his eyes. Then he had coming face to face with the brutality of small-town politics. Even now people asked him where he was from, after thirty years all that mattered what that his accent was slightly different, and his skin was slightly darker. They would churn over the question of the scar just like they had churned over their questions about Hamish, like why sweet Sarah and settled for him when there were sweet boys a plenty in town? And why had he moved here for her, didn’t he know that they didn’t have any exotic food stores or eastern supermarkets.

Hamish had never even seen India, he had been born in London to a second-generation immigrant family who had named him specifically different to get away from all that, and yet still it persisted. It had taken many years to move past it all but still he was not always fully included as he might wish to be.

Another cackle of delight echoed down the beach and Hamish turned to head for home. He did pity the poor boy, he really did.

A guitar played the sweetest music Hamish had ever heard, but the fingers that played were bleeding. Each time they plucked and strummed the strings more blood would flow over the body and down the neck of the guitar.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you

There was a woman now, young and sweet. She was tumbling into darkness over and over again, her dark curls always obscuring her eyes. He had to see her eyes, he had to look into those eyes, he had to.

exceptionally out of the ordinary

she hit the water, clear water, and yet black at the same time. Her hair was out around her now as she drifted deeper and deeper and then he saw.

White eyes, empty eyes, familiar eyes.

Hamish woke with a start and turned on the light. He was alone. from the walls looked many eyes, the eyes of family long dead back in London, only remembered by their pictures and the funerals that he had almost missed each time. Eyes of friends long forgotten bar the odd message on that dreadful internet thing everyone was on. And then there was those eyes, Sarahs’ eyes. Hamish stood and put on his slippers, furry monster foot ones that had seen better days, an ancient gift from a once upon a time student, and he pulled on his coat and flat cap. Then he drew his trusty blackthorn stick from the umbrella stand and made his way downstairs. Then he made himself a cup of tea, for Sarah had always said that it was best to make a cup of tea before you did anything drastic. Tea in one hand and stick in the other Hamish stepped out into the night.

It did not take him long to get to number 5 Orpheus Lane. It was a pretty house, though rather dark. The light was on in the kitchen but that was not the kind of dark he was thinking about. The dark around the house seemed to be pressing, a heavy thing that would any moment overcome the two-bedroom house were it permitted.

Hamish gulped down the last of his tea and placed his mug on the fence post. It was a rather nice one though equally as battered as the slippers that said on it ‘definition of group project= 60 conspirators stabbed Caesar to death but only 23 wounds were on him. Clearly some people weren’t pulling their weight’. Then he stepped towards the door.

As he drew closer, he became aware of a great absence, a silence that transcended others. The perfect silence of an instrument gathering dust, or a long ago fallen tree, its branches shattered beneath it.

Hamish’s knuckles rapped against the door shattering the silence like a rock in a pond.

“Um… Hello” there was no reply the silence began to reform and Hamish found that strangely terrifying all of a sudden so he added “I uh… I heard you were new to the neighbourhood, thought I might come by and… well and… just welcome you I suppose…” he trailed off. Somehow, he knew that whatever this person was inside they were listening intently to him. This whole thing seemed absurd now, what kind of person would welcome someone at midnight.

“Now I know what you are thinking” Hamish said trying to sound cheery “you are thinking that its rather odd to come round someone’s house at midnight to welcome them to the neighbourhood. And you’d be right… I suppose” he cleared his throat and valiantly continued “that’s just me though, weird old Mr Paramar. I used to dress up as a knight for the kids when we did the battle of Hastings. Brought in real swords for them to see and all… which was irresponsible of course.” What was he doing? Why was he standing here and monologing to a door, was he going mad “I-I had a dream… about my dead wife… I just felt like I needed to come here. To see you. I don’t know why, maybe…” he did not get to finish that sentence for the door was opening and a man was standing in it.

He did not look at all like Hamish had imagined he would. He was not sure if he was disappointed or relieved. He was in his forties or fifties, a sort of careful messy look to him. He wore a white shirt and jeans with pitch black shoes. His arms were covered with bracelets and his hands with rings. Dark eyeliner surrounded his eyes though his grey/white hair was cut short. The first thing Hamish noticed was the absence of the scar. Then it dawned on him.

“Come inside mate.” The man moved into the house and Hamish followed stepping through a quaint little kitchen and out into a sitting room with several ugly green sofas that must be extremely comfy to be worth their appearance.

“Tea?”

“No thanks… had one on the way here”

“Sure thing”

Hamish couldn’t pin his accent, it sounded like it was from everywhere and nowhere. He could hear hints of one but the soon as he put it down it changed. He desperately wanted to say ‘where are you from?’ but knew how much he hated that question himself and couldn’t bring himself to. So instead he opted for.

“How did you get it?”

The man smiled, a knowing half smile. The kind of smile that Hamish considered particularly noteworthy, like the importance of the treaty of Versailles or the independence movement of India. That smile encompassed many things inside it. It seemed to say ‘its ok, I know what you are going through’ while at the same time saying something more. It said ‘I know that I have many scars, I know they disappear and come back when you least expect. I know the one on my forearm is the same as the one on yours from when you fell from that tree. The one you see beneath my shirt on my chest is your mothers when she had to get the surgery. The ones on my wrist remind you of the friend you lost years ago and regret. And the one on my skull is always drawing your eye, pulling you back to this place and never letting you go. I know I have all of these and none of these at the same time and that they are real scars and hidden scars all the same, the ones talked about that are as vivid and clear as the ones on flesh. And that I am a walking mark upon the earth of all the things we used to have.’

“I fell of my bike.” He said with a grin and Hamish felt all his fear slide away at once.

“ouch” he said and smiled back. “you must get sick of it though”

“that’s the thing my friend… scars, scars are fucking beautiful.” And Hamish could tell he really meant it.

The man laughed then went to get the kettle from where it was whistling on the stove. He poured two cups of tea, even though Hamish had said he didn’t want one but was grateful nonetheless, and sank into the sofa. Hamish did likewise and knew at once why these sofas had been kept. They were ugly as hell but comfy as well… something an awful lot comfier than hell.

“My turn to ask the question.” Said the man “you said you had a dream… tell me about it.”

Hamish told him and the man listened nodding carefully. Halfway through the story Hamish noticed that there was a guitar in the room, one not to dissimilar to the one in his dream. He went to it and took up without ever asking the man who only smiled and let him. Hamish had never played the guitar before but he knew that this was an exquisite thing he was holding, battered and beaten as his slippers but something that could never be replicated. He took the guitar in hand and started to play. He didn’t know how he did it he just did. It was like he had the moment right there and he knew he was able to play because here he was doing it. He played slowly at first. A tune of whispers and glances, a tune of many moments stitched into one, half glances, barely heard mutterings and made-up voices in his head. He played of love and the things he did for it, the things he bore for it until it vanished when he wasn’t looking. How the whispers had gotten louder after that, of they had seen it on him and torn it open again and again. And how he had helped them, and done it himself.

Slept with another man

Died in her hospital bed

Never even had a plan

Did you hear what the preacher said

Never should have come here

Always dressed too fine

Shut up he is coming near

He finished the tune and felt immediately stupid, like he had expected something to happen, when in truth he was just an old man, standing in a stranger’s living room in his pyjamas and playing an instrument he did not know how to play. He sat suddenly and realised he was crying

“She’s not coming back, is she?”

“No… no she’s not. I tried that myself… I am afraid there is nothing in the world that changes that. But being free of it. That’s another story.”

They sat like that for a very long time. The silence stretching between them. Though this time it was a good silence, the silence after the finished note of an orchestra or after someone whispers that they love you.

They sat like that till the sun began to rise and the strange man picked up the mugs. Hamish stood and bid his goodbyes.

He stepped outside into the sun and began to walk home. He left his mug where it stood. A silly £10 totem that he did not need anymore. On the way back he was just in time to catch Mrs Spencer stepping out her door to let out her dog. She caught eyes with Hamish and hers glimmered with the hungry glee of a new rumour to be plucked.

“Hammmisssshhhh” she called with exaggerated fake affability “how are you? What on earth are you doing out in your pyjamas. I thought for a moment I might have seen you through my window coming out of number 5. Tell me now, what did you think of that disgusting fellow?”

Hamish drew in a deep breath.

“Mrs Spencer” he said

“Yes?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

And with that he walked home and began to pack his things.

If you are around Rosebridge these days you can hear the talk the moment you arrive and you might even hear something like this.

“You hear about the man in number 5, they say he’s got an ugly scar and no mistake. Goes around waving it in everyone’s faces like he’s something special talked to old Hamish whattshisname from down the bottom of the hill. The foreign fellow, aye the one with the weird voice our Sarah married way back. Well he had a word with him and next thing you know the old fool packed his bags and moved away. Left his house as empty as sin and gave not a word to where he was going, no thought at all to his wife’s grave I might add. I hear he went to India and is travelling around the world from there, going to all the big places, Rome, Paris, Hastings even. What kind of life is that! Nothing to sing and dance about I will tell you that!”