Chapter Two
807 Words
Chapter Two
Rosetta held her breath and waited for Matthew to commence. Matthew frowned down at the page in his hands. Claude tiptoed away.
Someone in the audience raised their hand. Claude turned and acknowledged them. From where she was sitting, Rosetta couldn’t make out what the person was saying. A mop of dark hair was the most she could see. The head wasn’t much higher than the back of the seat. A child perhaps? An arm flew sideways. A finger pointed to one side of the hall. Rosetta watched as Claude, and then Matthew, turned in unison to their left. Leaning against the wall was a shiny electric guitar.
Claude nodded in approval and said to the anonymous gesturer, ‘Of course,’ and Matthew, dashing towards the wall, was saying, ‘Thanks! That’s really good of you.’
Matthew concentrated on plugging in and setting up the guitar. The audience members murmured amongst themselves.
Claude took up the microphone again and said, ‘Ladies and gentleman, what Matthew is doing, I want you to understand, is not in any way against the rules. You may have noticed my recent request on the Poet’s Garret newsletter for musical contributions from lyricists. We’re making every third Tuesday “Lyricist Night”. Has anyone else brought along an instrument?’ Claude scanned the crowd hopefully.
No response.
‘Not to worry,’ said Claude. ‘There’s always a next time. And as for you, Matthew, being a bit different to everyone else tonight will make you all the more memorable! Are we ready?’
Matthew, looking far more at ease now that he had a musical instrument in his possession, acknowledged he was right to go.
At Claude’s request, Rosetta and the rest of the audience welcomed Matthew a second time with applause. Claude, head bowed humbly, scuttled off in the direction of the trestle tables. Matthew, eyes growing wider again, launched into his performance.
In the first few seconds, Matthew strummed some chords.
The discomforting stretch of silence that followed made Rosetta cringe. Without taking her eyes off the reluctant entertainer, she leaned forward. Matthew was gazing at the floor, looking lost. He was clearly suffering from nerves.
The man beside her fell into a coughing fit. In the row in front, Poets Garret members were shifting restlessly in their seats. And then, instead of singing, Matthew spoke.
‘I’m not much in the habit’
Strum!
‘Of guessing who’s a rabbit
And soon I learned I’d got it doggone wrong’
Rosetta leaned back in her seat, feeling faint and uneasy all at once.
‘But lady you could be
Almost anything to me
And still I’d want to sing this tribute song’
A pause.
Rosetta waited. Matthew’s voice rose into a melody.
‘Mystery woman
Hurtling down the street
Mystery woman
With the bouncy feet
You keep me guessing
But guessing games are kind of neat’
‘Great voice,’ whispered Eadie when he sang the next stanza.
Encouraged by the comment, Rosetta admitted, ‘I was thinking that too.’ Prior to that she’d doubted her own objectivity.
‘I’m still guessing.’
He was onto another stanza.
‘Guessing, guessing...
I’m still guessing.’
He repeated the line twice more. And then he repeated it again.
‘Guess-guess-guess-ing.’
Rosetta tried not to feel concerned about the monotone mantra he’d lapsed into.
‘Still guessing.
I’m…hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo…guessing’
Eadie, unable to stifle her giggles, said to Rosetta in a hushed voice, ‘I’m guessing the poor guy’s forgotten the rest of his lyrics.’
‘You keep me...ee...guessing.’
Torn between respect for Matthew’s attempt at a song and amusement at Eadie’s remark, Rosetta relented to laughter. She folded forward, guiltily trying to silence her snorts. Eadie, giggling contagiously beside her, had demolished any hope of regaining a polite state of seriousness.
Eadie’s flippant little throwaway line was only a minor contributor to Rosetta’s mirth. Joy was bubbling over her in bucketfuls. Matthew was here, in the same room, and he was singing a song about her! And the song couldn’t have been seen as sarcastic in any way. Matthew’s send-up of their first encounter wasn’t cold or cruel. There was nothing Rosetta could have taken offence at, except perhaps, and only if she resorted to being picky, his poor use of the words ‘sad’,‘bad’ and ‘mad’.
Finally able to compose herself, she lifted her head and went back to watching him.
Matthew’s eyes, gorgeous and green, found hers. She caught her breath. Matthew’s calm expression clouded. His gaze fell away from her. A furrow crept onto his forehead.
Oh God, she thought. He saw me laughing.
For an awful moment, Matthew faltered. And then he sank into another uncomfortable pause. When he resumed, the lyrics crashed into each other. Was he singing in English? Or...
Matthew, visibly stunned at his blunders, gave up on playing and observed the other poets seated before him. His eyes, Rosetta noticed, closed briefly. He looked once more around him, face breaking into a rueful smile, and started up the guitar. The music he strummed this time—chords leaping into a succession of lively rhythms—was thankfully free of confusion.
‘I’m guessing
I’m confessing
That I’d like to be your friend
And hope Charades can still be played
But this time till the end’
- Writer
