Songs in a Room by Judy Mitchell

 

The breeze sucked the orange curtain against the open window and I heard the soft flack of fabric as it bellied then flattened against the chipped metal frame. Outside, kids played football in the cul de sac, running off and on neighbours’ gardens, each one George Best, selfish with the ball, desperate to get past Mrs Worthington’s and Old Man Humphry’s in their worn-out pumps before reaching the corner and the shot at goal that was the Fishers’ gateposts.

Inside, behind the half-closed curtain, we sat on the rug, smoking, flicking ash into the empty grate as mournful lyrics told us of sorrow, regret and lost love in those places where he had loved so many women – downtown New York, Quebec, a Greek island. I wanted to be in those places, independent, away from the confine of days in school uniform, the sound of bells measuring the day into lessons, feet on corridors, slamming doors and the scrape of chairs on parquet floors. That evening, the school day was swept aside by that deep, melancholy voice frayed by cigarettes and whiskey: the half spoken, half sung poetry of Leonard Cohen.

We sat and mouthed the words of every song, sharing the burden of love and loss as the sun dropped behind the allotments and the children were called inside. We kissed, our bodies entwined on the black rug. The record ran out and we left those places by rivers and temples to return to the Yorkshire pit village and the sticky dust of summer.

Later, he walked me to the corner, to the bus stop, both of us tipped into introspection by the singer’s words. Then the grinding of the downward shift of gears, the faint squeal of the double decker’s brakes as it came to a stop. I found a seat and as the bus pulled away, I looked behind me but he was already on his way back to the house and the room with the orange curtain.   

I left him without a word. No way to say goodbye.