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Authors: Stuart Ayris
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turn would look past her through his beautiful eyes at the sad and tortured figure of his dazed father.
When Elaine had discovered that Tom had left home, her mind had burst. She had suffered too much, been pushed too far. The intensity of her love for her two children had left her maimed. It had been just over two years since Little Norman, and now Tom too was gone. Her love had undone her.
There has always been a market for those who love too little and who think hardly ever. It is the only market that will ever flourish in times of austerity; whilst the rest of us burn.
George took Elaine to stay with her sister in the north. No other mind could have withstood what she had been through. Her boys had left her, one after the other - gone. It has nothing to do with strength and less to do with gender. It has nothing to do with spirit or character or desire. She just fell apart. When the object of love departs, neither man nor god has right to pass judgement on the reaction to that loss.
Two days after his son’s disappearance, George reported him missing to the Police. ‘Ah, missing person, I see. Young lad, maybe in Big Town? Well, Big Town is a big town. If that’s where he’s gone of course. Most of them go there, Lord knows why. Could be anywhere. Not much hope I’m afraid. But, we’ll do our best…Next…Ah, missing person, I see. Young lad, Maybe in Big Town? Well……….’
George telephoned Charles Grandon’s office, but he was in hospital having a footlight removed from his head.
So, here we are. Almost a week has passed since Tom's departure. George sits down in his armchair. He is alone in the house. It is dark and it is quiet. And he feels something within him, deep within. He cannot describe the feeling because he has never felt it before this moment. It just grips him and takes hold, shaking him, jolting him until he leans sharply forward as if released from the taught bow of his own anguish. And he smashes his fist through the glass top of the coffee table before him.
Silence again.
Darkness still.
A torn hand trembles a little.
And a father resolves to bring home his son.
Chapter 6
Tom felt Michael’s lips close to his ear, not touching it, but close enough to make him instantly withdraw.
“You know, Tom,” said Michael, himself straightening up, “I’ve not heard you play your guitar yet. You must play for me.”
Tom sat up and edged away a little so he was now resting against the arm of the bench and he untangled himself from his torpor, the thick curtain that had fallen across his dreams lifting a little. The child within him stirred momentarily, that child that had remained so silent for so long - the Beautiful Guitar.
“What do you want me to play?”
For a moment, he was the expert, the master.
“Anything, Tom, anything at all. But please play for me.”
So Tom played the Beautiful Guitar. The notes crept deep and lonely, flattened and saddened, exuding despair and loneliness, fear and rage. The arena into which the notes were set free gave them vitality, meaning and body. Progressions that he had played in his bedroom through mechanical, tedious hours were now emboldened with a fundamental depth and spirit, sweet, sultry and fantastic.
The birds shuffled about on the grass, listening to this strange and lonesome sound. The anguish deep within the boy’s soul was being drained through his fingertips, emerging from the very heart of the Beautiful Guitar.
And after what may have been hours, one last, long, lingering note was carried away on fragile wings and swept down to the muddy waters of the majestic Mississippi River.
Within the frame of a twelve bar blues, Michael learned more of how Tom felt than he would have learned through any form of speech. Neither of them spoke. The silence was too precious. For where the soul is King, words are mere vagabonds.
The evening sun
When Elaine had discovered that Tom had left home, her mind had burst. She had suffered too much, been pushed too far. The intensity of her love for her two children had left her maimed. It had been just over two years since Little Norman, and now Tom too was gone. Her love had undone her.
There has always been a market for those who love too little and who think hardly ever. It is the only market that will ever flourish in times of austerity; whilst the rest of us burn.
George took Elaine to stay with her sister in the north. No other mind could have withstood what she had been through. Her boys had left her, one after the other - gone. It has nothing to do with strength and less to do with gender. It has nothing to do with spirit or character or desire. She just fell apart. When the object of love departs, neither man nor god has right to pass judgement on the reaction to that loss.
Two days after his son’s disappearance, George reported him missing to the Police. ‘Ah, missing person, I see. Young lad, maybe in Big Town? Well, Big Town is a big town. If that’s where he’s gone of course. Most of them go there, Lord knows why. Could be anywhere. Not much hope I’m afraid. But, we’ll do our best…Next…Ah, missing person, I see. Young lad, Maybe in Big Town? Well……….’
George telephoned Charles Grandon’s office, but he was in hospital having a footlight removed from his head.
So, here we are. Almost a week has passed since Tom's departure. George sits down in his armchair. He is alone in the house. It is dark and it is quiet. And he feels something within him, deep within. He cannot describe the feeling because he has never felt it before this moment. It just grips him and takes hold, shaking him, jolting him until he leans sharply forward as if released from the taught bow of his own anguish. And he smashes his fist through the glass top of the coffee table before him.
Silence again.
Darkness still.
A torn hand trembles a little.
And a father resolves to bring home his son.
Chapter 6
Tom felt Michael’s lips close to his ear, not touching it, but close enough to make him instantly withdraw.
“You know, Tom,” said Michael, himself straightening up, “I’ve not heard you play your guitar yet. You must play for me.”
Tom sat up and edged away a little so he was now resting against the arm of the bench and he untangled himself from his torpor, the thick curtain that had fallen across his dreams lifting a little. The child within him stirred momentarily, that child that had remained so silent for so long - the Beautiful Guitar.
“What do you want me to play?”
For a moment, he was the expert, the master.
“Anything, Tom, anything at all. But please play for me.”
So Tom played the Beautiful Guitar. The notes crept deep and lonely, flattened and saddened, exuding despair and loneliness, fear and rage. The arena into which the notes were set free gave them vitality, meaning and body. Progressions that he had played in his bedroom through mechanical, tedious hours were now emboldened with a fundamental depth and spirit, sweet, sultry and fantastic.
The birds shuffled about on the grass, listening to this strange and lonesome sound. The anguish deep within the boy’s soul was being drained through his fingertips, emerging from the very heart of the Beautiful Guitar.
And after what may have been hours, one last, long, lingering note was carried away on fragile wings and swept down to the muddy waters of the majestic Mississippi River.
Within the frame of a twelve bar blues, Michael learned more of how Tom felt than he would have learned through any form of speech. Neither of them spoke. The silence was too precious. For where the soul is King, words are mere vagabonds.
The evening sun
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