The Harmonica

He held an umbrella in one hand and a guitar case in the other, and on his back he bore a bag of books and the weight of a future unknown. Absorbed in the task of carrying his many pieces of baggage through the rain, Weston plodded home from school after band practice. He loved walking and he loved the rain, so he was content for the time being and not at all dismayed at his damp trainers or rumbling stomach. 

He had always liked how the rain struck the ground like millions of tiny gumboots running along the sidewalk. He liked how it converged into puddles and how it trickled into streams by the side of the bitumen road. He was walking past a large park, going towards Martino Plaza. Up ahead he could see the beginning of Martino Parade, a large street with small shops and eateries on either side. To his right was the grassy canvas of the parkland, streaked with paths, blotched with trees and flecked with the occasional bench. He could see a sparkle of colour in the centre where the playground was, though of course it was deserted in this weather. To his left was the busy street of Grennard Road, illuminated by the green and red hues of traffic lights and the headlights of passing cars. The grey skies, which were becoming more turbulent than ever, made everything darker than usual so that the city appeared to be approaching night before they had even made it to 5pm. 

Weston was somehow managing to keep his guitar case relatively dry, and its hard leather shell could probably be trusted to protect his beloved instrument inside. However, the renewed deluge of rain falling from the sky was starting to make him doubt its water resistance. An enormous gust of wind slammed into him along with a wave of rain, causing him to stagger backwards and receive a full-body blast of water. It looked like a storm was on the brink of arrival. 

He hurried along the pavement towards the cover of the shops of Martino Parade. This was one of the streets surrounding the main plaza that was lined with cafes, florists, music shops, hairdressers, bakeries, and whatever else a passer-by could want. Each shop was a glowing box of light, neatly arranged along the walkway and labelled with a sign hanging from the eaves over the path. Now sheltered from the storm by the overhanging roof, Weston retracted his dripping umbrella and gave it a brisk shake. This was the heaviest rain they’d had this year, and it was not the most desirable circumstance to be carrying a guitar. 

He walked a bit further before leaning against the brick wall outside a bakery and propped up his guitar beside him. Perhaps the rain would subside in a while. In the meantime, he needed to do something about his empty stomach, which had been growling at him since he had left the school gates. After rummaging in the depths of his bag for a few seconds, Weston’s hand procured a couple of coins. He hefted his backpack onto one shoulder, picked up his guitar with the other arm, tucked his umbrella under his elbow and entered the warmth of the bakery. A minute or two later he emerged with a brown paper bag and a small amount of change clutched his hand. Through the paper bag he could feel the pleasant heat of two freshly made apple danishes. He continued walking until he reached the main plaza, which was thankfully undercover and brightly lit from several lampposts positioned around its perimeter. He seated himself at a bench and propped up his guitar as he had outside the bakery. There was a bench a few metres opposite him too, where a busker was sitting and playing the harmonica.

The busker was an old man donning a coarse brown jacket, grey trousers and an unruly beard. An upturned hat rested on the ground in front of him as he blew into the boxy metal contraption at his mouth. From it emerged a tune that was strangely uplifting. Weston sat motionless with his eyes lowered to the paper bag on his lap. His mind was not on the pastries inside, but floating with busker’s melodies. The sound was somehow both hoarse and mellow, and it resonated within him with striking familiarity. With each note, he felt more and more buoyant, as if the tune was drawing him up a sloping road towards the top of a hill. The song pulled him onwards and upwards in surges as the melody rose up and stooped low and fluttered sideways. And then finally he reached the summit. And it was as if he was standing atop a hill and he saw the glittering blue horizon of the ocean, far in the distance. And it took his breath away. 

It was one of those moments, where the world is still and a single frozen point in time expands into a giant, and your core pours out its troubles until you are void of despair. Weston couldn’t help but smile as the sound of the harmonica and the thrumming of the rain washed over him like a golden river rolling over a stone. But, as the song drew to a close, time slowly resumed its perpetual march forwards and he returned to his heavy existence, where he sat alone on a bench in the spotlight of a lamppost, while dim figures walked past in indifference.

As he regained his bearings, Weston realised he was gazing at the busker, who had stopped playing and was looking right back at him. Hastily, Weston smiled at the man, dipped his head in a nod and took out his change from the bakery, which he’d slipped into his pocket. He went over to the busker and dropped the coins in the man’s hat on the ground, which was quite empty apart from a thin layer of coins at the bottom and a couple of notes.

“That was a good song sir, you play very well.” 

The busker grinned, his teeth peeking through the grey bristles of his moustache,

“Thanks, kid.”

“My dad can play the harmonica, but I don’t think he’s quite as good as you.”

“Ah, he just needs to practise,” was the man’s reply.

“That’s unlikely, sir; we lost it a few years ago on a fishing trip.” 

The busker laughed, “Why on Earth did he bring a harmonica fishing?”

“Umm, well he liked to play to pass the time, and we hardly ever catch anything so it gets quite boring. So, we were in the canoe in the middle of this lake, he was playing some tune and I actually caught a fish, and then we capsized and the harmonica fell to the bottom of the lake. And we tried diving for it, but it was lost, which was really a shame because he was going to teach me to play, and my little sister too.” Weston gave a shrug. “Oh well, that was years ago anyway." 

“I see… And why not buy a new one?”

“We haven’t had much spare cash for a while.” He paused. “Would you like an apple danish, sir?” Weston held out the paper bag to the busker, who gratefully obliged.

“Thanks very much, young man,” he tapped the bench beside him. “Here, take a seat.” So Weston sat down next to the old man and they each munched on a danish. 

After a comfortable pause, the busker made a short remark,

“You’re a musician yourself, I see,” he said with a nod at Weston’s guitar, which was still perched against the opposite bench.

“Yes, I should probably bring it over.” Weston shoved the last mouthful of pastry into his mouth and stood up, brushing his hands together. When he had retrieved his guitar, the old man smiled and said,

“How about a duet then?”

“A duet? Hmm… okay,” Weston started unbuckling the guitar case. “What songs do you know?”

“What songs do I know? All of them,” the busker replied with a grin. “How about what songs do you know.” 

“That’s a good question,” Weston laughed as he flipped open the case, revealing the pale wood and taught strings of his acoustic guitar. “Umm…” he picked the instrument up by the neck and planted it securely on his lap, running his fingers along the strings so that he felt the familiar bump of each fret. “Well, my family and I used to play together a little… Do you know the Sound of Music?”

“Mhm of course I do. So, which song then?”

“Er just a sec… Could you play an E, please?” 

“Oh yes right-o, better tune up.”

The busker lifted the harmonica to his moustache and blew a single note. The boy plucked the highest string of his guitar and started twisting one of the tuning pegs millimetre by millimetre until both instruments sounded perfectly congruous. He continued strumming each string in succession, making minor adjustments to each peg. When the Weston was satisfied, he began to play the chords to the song on his mind, probably because it was the song his dad had been playing when they capsized the canoe. The old man joined in, playing the tune to Edelweiss with no hesitation. 

The two timbres combined like complementary colours, twirling about each other and lifting the musicians with them. Once again, Weston was lead by the music, up the hill towards the glistening sapphire sea. He could picture his parents and little sister there too. The four of them were driving up the slope, music sweeping through the car as they all sang along to their favourite track. They made it over the hill to their holiday house by the ocean and not too far from their favourite fishing place, Rilton Lake. He was taken back to the holidays they had spent there, long before the sickness, and the doctors’ fees and hospital visits. Spellbound, he didn’t want the song to end, but like all good things, it did. As the final notes rang through the air, he watched the utopia collapse. The harmonica fell to the bottom of the lake, the house by the ocean was sold, and the family of four drove down the hill as three.

The next day was sunny, a stark contrast to the thunder of the previous evening. Weston returned, dropping into the bakery for a moment to pick up three finger buns in a brown paper bag. He wandered through the main plaza in search of the old busker and suddenly there he was, sitting in the sun by the fountain.

“Mr Busker sir!” Weston jogged over.

“Hey there, son. So, no guitar today?”

“Nope, band’s on Tuesdays only.” Weston held out the bag of buns, “I got you a finger bun.” They each took a finger bun from the paper bag and sat eating side by side. When they had finished, the old man asked,

“Who’s the third bun for?” 

Weston hesitated and looked down at his feet. “Umm… my sister, I guess. We always used to be together, everywhere we went. So whenever I bought anything, I would always get two — one for me and one for her. She… passed away last year, but I kind of never lost the habit of buying one extra.” There was a moment of silence.

“Oh kiddo, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. She absolutely loved dad’s harmonica, but her true love was the piano.” Weston raised his eyes from the ground and looked at the old busker. “She would have loved to meet you.”

“I would have loved to meet her too.”

The two friends sat in peaceful silence in the sunshine. Pigeons and people strutted past them, oblivious to the bond that sparked between them in the midst of the plaza. The busker was fiddling with his harmonica, spinning it between his fingers and around itself, while the boy simply watched the crowd drifting by. Eventually, the old man reached into his pocket and drew out something wrapped in a white handkerchief.

“I’ve got something for you, son. You see, I’m pretty good friends with the owner of that music shop just around the corner. Actually, I worked there before my retirement. Anyway, consider it a gift to you and your sister in exchange for eating her danish yesterday.”

He took the boy’s wrist gently and placed the cloth-wrapped item in Weston’s palm. From its solid weight and long shape, Weston could already tell what it was. With careful fingers, he unfolded the white handkerchief, revealing the gift inside. It was a perfect, gleaming harmonica.