Imperfect Harmony (25 page)

“I hope so too.”

Maggie patted him on the arm. “Chin up, love. Now come on. Let’s get singing. You’re always telling us how therapeutic it is. None of your troubles will seem so bad after a good sing.”

She was right. As always, the music was healing and uplifting. At the end of the session, Rhys felt more centred than he had in days. A sense of calm inevitability had settled in his chest.

He walked home, breathing in the chill of the February night. A few drops of rain were beginning to fall.

What will be, will be
.

He’d made his case to John, and now he was giving him time to think. But whatever happened, they’d see each other again at the funeral on Friday, and Rhys would get another chance to convince him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

John lay in bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling in the dim light. He’d slept badly again. It had been one of those nights where he tossed and turned, kept looking at the clock, and felt as though he’d spent more time awake than asleep. Rhys was constantly in his thoughts.

John stopped fighting it and closed his eyes. He could see Rhys’s face in his mind: the sweetness of his smile, the vivid blue of his hair, and the paler blue of his eyes. John’s heart tugged in his chest as though attached to an invisible string that led to the man he was missing.

Today he was going to see Rhys again.

The week of separation had crawled by, each day an interminable challenge to get through. He kept hoping that as the days passed, it would get easier. Perhaps if he got used to being without Rhys, it would help him make a decision. If this was only infatuation, maybe going cold turkey for a week would make the craving pass.

But the loss of Rhys had only deepened and hurt more as the week progressed. And the stupid thing was that John was inflicting this suffering on himself. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call Rhys, apologise, and tell him he’d made up his mind—he wanted them to be together. He’d almost done it so many times… but he couldn’t hurt Rhys again with more uncertainty.

He had to be sure.

John felt torn in two. His heart pulled him in one direction and his head in the other. Maybe his feelings were more obvious after a week apart, but his anxieties persisted.

As he pulled up outside Rhys’s house at eleven o’clock as agreed, John’s heart was pounding and he was sweating in his suit. Stiff and uncomfortable, he was dressed more formally than he was used to. He took a deep breath, bracing himself to face Rhys, but before he could get out of the car, the gate between the house and flat opened and Rhys emerged.

He was dressed far more smartly than John had ever seen him, in slim-fitting dark trousers—not jeans—and a charcoal jumper that clung to his lean frame. Long sleeves covered his tattoos, and his shock of blue hair stood out, electric in the sunshine. It was the only outwardly unconventional thing about him, and all the more startling for that. He looked at John and gave him a tentative smile as he approached the car. It took John’s breath away.

“Hi,” Rhys said as he opened the passenger door and got in.

“Hi,” John managed.

He curled his fingers around the steering wheel and held on tight, desperate to touch Rhys but sure he’d be rebuffed. He’d lost the right to touch him when he’d driven a wedge between them last weekend. He wanted to hug him, to kiss him, to tell him how much he’d missed him. But now wasn’t the time. They had a funeral to get through. It was going to be difficult enough for both of them without adding anything else to the cocktail of emotions.

“Ready?” he asked instead when Rhys had fastened his seat belt.

Rhys gave a small nod, looking straight ahead. “Let’s go.”

John drove, forcing all his focus onto the road.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

“The only funeral I’ve ever been to before was Lyle’s,” Rhys finally said, the words coming out in a rush. “That’s pretty fucked up when you think about it. My first funeral was for a twenty-one-year-old.” His voice was tight with tension. “It’s going to be really weird being at another one. But at least Mrs P was properly old. It doesn’t feel like she’s been cheated out of anything… like Lyle was.” His voice cracked. “Fuck.”

John couldn’t take his eyes off the road, but he reached blindly for Rhys, touching his thigh, and then Rhys took his hand and squeezed in a painful grip.

“Bollocks,” Rhys said after he’d drawn a few shuddering breaths. “I need to hold it together.”

“You are allowed to cry at funerals, you know.” John gently extracted his hand so he could change gears to slow down for some lights.

“Yeah. But we’ve got to sing!” Rhys sniffed.

Movement at the edge of John’s vision suggested Rhys was wiping his nose. He reassured Rhys. “Between us, we’ll manage it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” John felt Rhys’s hand settle on his knee, a small point of comfort.

For the rest of the drive, whenever he didn’t need it to change gears, John let his hand rest lightly on Rhys’s, sliding their fingers together.

When they pulled up in the car park at the cemetery, John turned to Rhys. “Okay, are you ready?”

Rhys set his jaw, his blue eyes blazing with determination. He seemed to have got over his wobble of earlier. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

They walked together along the path that led from the car park to the chapel. It was a fine morning, mild for February, and the flower beds lining the path were full of yellow and purple crocuses, their petals bright in the sunshine.

There was quite a crowd gathering outside the chapel, mostly waiting in silence; one or two people were speaking in hushed tones. John and Rhys filed in slowly with the other mourners for Mrs Pickering’s funeral. Rhys quietly told the usher they were there to play, and they were shown to some seats that had been reserved near the front, behind the rows saved for the family.

The chapel wasn’t full, but there was a good turnout. There were several elderly people John recognised from Beech House, with friends or family helping them to their seats or pushing their wheelchairs. He also spotted some of the carers, including Hilary.

Mrs Pickering’s daughter, Pam, sat in the front row. She turned, caught John’s gaze, and gave him a small smile of recognition. He nodded back.

The last funeral John had been to was his mum’s, held in this same chapel. The one before that was David’s. The loss of all the people he’d loved lay heavy in his chest as he waited for the service to start.

Rhys was tense beside him, the lines of his body taut. One of his knees was jiggling slightly as though he couldn’t hold himself still.

Most of the service passed in a blur for John. He let his mind wander away from the spoken words, focusing instead on little details: the delicate curves of the flower petals in the arrangement on the coffin, the curl of the font used on the order of service.

John stood when instructed, joined in with hymns, and sat with the rest of the congregation. It wasn’t until Pam got up to read the eulogy that John’s attention was truly back with the occasion.

It was a lovely eulogy, obviously planned with care and attention to detail. Pam’s words painted a picture of Mrs Pickering and who she had been before old age and dementia took their toll on her.

She’d been a teacher for many years and in later life taught literacy in prisons. She’d led a rich and full life, and it made John happy to hear. He hoped it took away some of the sting for her family, although losing someone was never easy.

When Pam finished, John’s stomach gave a nervous flutter. They were up next. John glanced sideways.

Rhys had bowed his head, and a muscle ticked in his cheek. As though he sensed John watching him, he turned and their gazes locked for a moment.

John raised his eyebrows, mouthing, “Okay?”

Rhys gave a quick nod and looked up as the celebrant started to speak again.

“And now to finish our tribute to the life of Mabel Pickering, the family have prepared a slideshow of photographs from her life, accompanied by one of her favourite songs, ‘You Make Me Feel So Young,’ by Myrow and Gordon.”

John and Rhys stood and took their places at the front, John at the piano and Rhys standing beside him.

“Ready?” John asked quietly.

Rhys nodded.

John could almost feel the mood in the room lift as the first notes started. Knowing the song well now, he was able to look up from his music to catch a glimpse of the images projected on the wall as he played. A black-and-white portrait of a baby, then a toddler, followed by a prim-and-proper-looking child wearing school uniform.

John started to sing, and Rhys’s voice joined his. He stayed on the tune with John at first, then split off and wove around the tune in the subtle harmonies he’d developed. Some of the people in the congregation began to join in, mostly the old folk from Beech House who were used to singing with them.

Rhys nodded his encouragement and lifted his arms. “Yes, please do join in. Let’s raise the roof.”

The photos on the screen now showed Mrs Pickering as a young woman, polished and posed in studio photos, then relaxed in some candid shots on a sunny beach. Next came a photo of her with a man who had his arm around her and a fond look on his face. The same man appeared in wedding photos with the young Mrs Pickering, the couple holding hands and gazing at each other rather than the camera.

They launched into the second verse. The words were printed in the order of service, so even people who were unfamiliar with the song were doing their best to join in. John caught sight of Pam wiping a tear from her eyes, but she was smiling too, clapping her hands and swaying in time to the music.

During the final chorus, Mrs Pickering and her husband were older, in family shots with children. A younger version of Pam was recognisable with a brother and a sister. The children in the pictures became adults, and grandchildren appeared, held proudly on Mrs Pickering’s lap. As the song drew to a close, the slideshow ended with a final picture of Mrs Pickering as a child, standing in a meadow surrounded by long grass and wildflowers. The wind whipped her hair, and she was smiling at the camera, young and carefree, her whole life in front of her in that captured moment.

The last note died away, and John scanned the watching people. There were smiles and tears too—as there should be. John took a deep breath and blinked against a sudden swell of emotion.

They escaped back to their seats for the final prayer.

Rhys’s eyes were wet, and he dashed away a tear with his knuckles. John reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a hanky. He passed it discreetly to Rhys, and their fingers brushed as Rhys took it. He gave John a watery smile.

Once the service was over, they filed out into the sunshine again and stood blinking in the brightness.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

Rhys shrugged. He still had John’s hanky in his hand and his eyes were red. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Pam came over, with a smile on her tearstained face. “Thank you so much. That was wonderful. She would have loved it.” She took Rhys’s hand in both of hers, clasping it and shaking.

“You’re welcome,” Rhys managed.

Rhys’s voice was low and rough, and John could tell he was barely holding it together.

“It was our pleasure, really,” John said to get her attention away from Rhys. Pam took John’s hand then. “And that was a lovely service. We were honoured to be a part of it.”

Tears filled her eyes again. She released him to get a tissue out of her handbag. She dabbed at her eyes. “Are you coming back to the Castle Hotel for a drink? You’d be very welcome.”

John looked at Rhys, his face set and pale. He looked to be on the edge of tears again. “No, I’m afraid we can’t. I have to get back to work this afternoon.” The lie tripped smoothly from his lips. Rhys’s gaze shot to his.

“Okay. Well, thank you again. Both of you. I’d better get going. I need to make sure everything’s okay with the caterers.” She put the tissue back in her bag. “Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye,” John replied, and Rhys echoed him.

Rhys looked lost, bewildered by the crowds of people encircling them. John took his arm, guiding him through the throng. Several people tried to speak to them as they went, complimenting them on their performance. John pasted on a smile, nodding and murmuring his thanks, but he didn’t stop.

When they reached the car, he opened the passenger door and guided Rhys in. Rhys crumpled into the seat, putting his face in his hands as John closed the door. John got in beside him. Rhys’s shoulders shook, the sobs silent but racking his body.

John reached across to put Rhys’s safety belt on for him. “Here,” he said, making Rhys move his arms just long enough to make sure he was secure. Rhys was still clutching John’s hanky from the chapel. Tears flowed and he wiped them away, but still they kept coming.

Torn between wanting to hug him and get him out of there, John went with the latter. Taking a shaky breath of his own, he put the car in gear and pulled out of the space.

Rhys didn’t speak on the journey back, but gradually his sobs subsided, and by the time John parked the car and turned off the engine, he was calm again.

“Why are we here?” Rhys looked out at John’s house.

“I didn’t want you to be on your own this afternoon. Is this okay?”

Rhys sniffed. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t really want to be on my own right now.”

John had no desire to spend the afternoon alone either, but he was trying to focus on what Rhys needed. Once in the house, he led Rhys to the sofa. Rhys was shivering, as if in shock, so John got a blanket, tucked it around him, and then went to put the kettle on.

He returned with tea. On the sofa beside Rhys, he put his arm around him, and Rhys leaned into John. John’s heart twisted. He turned so he could get both arms around Rhys, and they held each other tight.

Rhys’s tears had stopped now, and he was quiet, but he let John hold him for a long time.

Finally, Rhys pulled away. There was colour in his cheeks again, and he managed a small smile. “Thanks. I’m sorry I fell apart on you. That was so much harder than I thought it would be. It brought back a lot of memories for me—not good ones.”