Three Things, Including the Drain

Monday

Three things, Colin said. Every night, write down three things you’re glad of.

I asked what happened if there were only two. He said write two. I asked why he’d said three, then. He went home.

1. He went home.
2. The kettle works.
3. Nobody expects me to enjoy this.

Tuesday

The drain in the shower cleared. I have spent five weeks showering beside a small rising lake. Today the plumber pulled out something that looked like a drowned hat and the water went away.

She charged what she had said she would. That is another thing.

The third is that she did not ask about Ruth. I had been afraid she would. People notice the two names by the door and ask whether we’re both retired.

Wednesday

Liv from downstairs caught me beside the piano. She wants it back.

It is on the landing because Ruth thought it would fit in the flat, and it didn’t. Liv lent it to her while Liv was away for work. Ruth practised on the landing in the afternoons. The neighbours complained, then requested tunes, then complained about those.

I said it would need movers. Liv said she knew. I said the stairs were narrow. She said she lived below them.

She has booked a room in a house across town. A ground-floor room, she emphasized. She wants to leave at the end of the month.

I told her I was in the middle of something. She looked at the loaf of bread under my arm.

I am not grateful for that conversation. Colin said I wasn’t obliged to be grateful for everything.

The bread is good. Liv did not ask about Ruth. The bathroom floor is dry.

Thursday

Colin read yesterday’s page because I left the notebook open. He says “Liv did not ask about Ruth” is not quite true. She asked for her piano, and that was asking about Ruth without making me tell the story again.

I told him to stop reading my notebook. He apologized and put it down. I appreciated that more than his interpretation.

The piano is an upright with a damaged corner. Ruth put a little crochet cloth over the damage. We had no crochet cloths before the piano came. She bought one specially, though she said she could have made it if anyone had taught her.

The cloth is still there. I have been carrying groceries past it for four months.

Friday

One thing only. I called a moving firm.

It took nine minutes, including being on hold. The woman asked whether the piano belonged to me. I said yes. Then I said no.

We began again. She said I should have its owner call, because the destination and the insurance needed to be in the right name. This seemed reasonable after I stopped wanting to hang up.

I wrote down her number for Liv.

Saturday

Liv opened the door wearing a coat. Boxes were stacked behind her. I handed her the number as though this completed my part.

“I’ve already got someone,” she said. “I need you to clear the landing.”

There were three boxes of Ruth’s sheet music between the piano and the stairs. I had forgotten they were there. This is a ridiculous thing to write. I saw them every day. I had stopped treating them as things that could move.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“By Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. I asked what she had been going to say.

“I’d like to play it before it goes. Check which keys are sticking.”

I told her she could play it any time. It was hers.

“I know that,” she said. “But you come out when I play, and then you go back in. I can’t tell if you want me to stop.”

I had not realized she had seen me. The piano faced away from our door; I thought the raised lid hid me.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

We stood with the number between us. Eventually she took it, though she didn’t need it, and I went upstairs.

Three things: She asked instead of guessing. I answered. She has someone to move it.

Sunday

I cleared two boxes. The third contained loose pages with Ruth’s pencil marks. The marks were more irritating than sad. She had written SLOWER over a part she always played too fast. I could hear the resulting tangle of notes.

I made tea and put the pages on the kitchen table. Then I went out and lifted the lid.

The keys looked yellow in the landing light. I pressed one. It was loud enough to make me feel I had called out in a waiting room.

Liv came to the bottom of the stairs.

“Did it stick?”

“No.”

“The one next to it does.”

She came up. I gave her the page Ruth had been trying to learn last winter. Liv sat on the bench and read the pencil marks.

“Would you play it?” I asked.

“I don’t know it.”

“Neither did she.”

Liv laughed, then put her hand over her mouth. I said it was all right. That made her embarrassed, as though I had given a permit she hadn’t requested.

She began. She played more slowly than Ruth, stopped in a different place, and started again. The sticking key sounded twice. After a while I sat on the stairs.

It was not Ruth playing. I had thought that would be unbearable. Instead I heard the tune Ruth had been reaching for, not quite the tune either of them made.

Liv finished and asked if I wanted it again. I said no, thank you. Once was enough today.

Monday

I found the invoice for the crochet cloth inside one of the music books. Three pounds. Ruth had kept the receipt in case I said it was a waste.

I might have said that. I can’t remember.

Liv says the cloth is mine. I asked whether she wanted the music. She wants a few books, not all of it. We made a pile. The rest is in the cupboard now, which is not the same as having decided what to do with it.

I am glad I don’t have to decide tonight.

Tuesday

The movers arrived at eight. They brought a padded cover and straps. I stayed inside the flat because they needed the landing clear. Through the door I heard instructions, a scrape, a pause, then more instructions.

Nobody dropped it. There was no moment when I felt ready.

Afterward Liv knocked. She gave me her new address and said there was a bus. I told her I would come, which was too much. I said I might come after she’d settled. She said that would be better; the room wasn’t unpacked yet.

She left. I opened the front door again.

The landing looked ugly without the piano. There was a pale rectangle on the wall, and dust in the corners I had not been able to reach. I fetched the small brush. I swept until the next-door neighbour came out and asked whether she could get past.

I moved aside. She said she would miss the music. I said I would too.

Wednesday

The kettle. The dry bathroom floor. A letter from the electricity company that was only a statement.

I haven’t become grateful for an empty landing. Tonight there are three things anyway.