The Old man and his Guitar

/Not finished, but there you go/Beatrice Hallmark

Smooth strands recognizable as Barbara Allen, issued from the small pub in the high street. The folk song struck a chord in the old man, touched a piece of him he hadn’t touched for a long time. It was live alright, although he couldn’t see the musician, the quality of the sound told him as much. Yes, he could tell it was live, the best sort of music. The woman, young by the sound of it, was a good singer, her voice chimed in pleasantly with the strings of her guitar. A warm, lonely, but not unhappy sound issued, perfect in the pub as the night wore on. The softly illuminated windows formed deep set yellow squares on the scruffy brick exterior of the Autumn Oak, in dire need of re-pointing. The pub was a small, but upright, stately building in the middle of the high street. Not your average country pub, white-washed with dark beams, oh no; as a shell it was rather unromantic, just like the rest of the hastily re-built post-war village. But the owner had made the best of it and resurrected the hub of the village. The sign above the door, painted with an ancient, gnarled oak in autumn dress, swung to the rhythm of the music. The pub music beckoned to him, like an invisible finger through the crack in the doorway. He paused in his step, arrested by a long, wavering high note from the singer. The finger of the music stretched further out and nearly drew him in by the neck of his greatcoat, but he stood his ground, unease rooted him to the spot. He hadn’t been through that door for many years, into the home of the drink that had so nearly taken his life. He had vowed never to enter that place again and he wasn’t about to break his promise. The drink and the subsequent drive on that fateful night had ended his career, if not his life. His old guitar had made it, strapped in the back seat by the seatbelt but he had lost his arm in the accident and to him that had been as good as losing his life.
He had been a guitar teacher and the local pub troubadour, entertaining once a week with his guitar and his song. Even when it wasn’t his night he would sit in the pub, he would have the guitar because he had been giving lessons during the day and people would ask him to play a song. He would accept, open the case and take the guitar out slowly, rest it on his knee. He stroked its neck once as if to make the swan sing, he was sure it wouldn’t otherwise. He would test the strings in case they were out of tune from the cold of the night, and then strike a first chord.
The lost arm precluded him from ever performing that ritual again. When he stopped playing he was dearly missed by his pupils and the patrons of the Ancient Oak, but a guitarist is no good if he can’t pluck his strings. After the accident he never entered the pub again, not even to say good bye. He couldn’t bear people’s questions and their pity. He felt naked without his constant companion. The cloak he had woven from music, with silk spun in the body of his faithful friend had all of a sudden become threadbare. And he could never repair it, what had happened could never be undone, the unspun cloak would never be re-spun.
He shrugged out of the grip of the music and continued down the high street, he wasn’t about to reveal himself and break his promise. The invisible finger in the doorway flailed helplessly behind him and then withdrew, breaking the spell.
His wife met him at home, dinner served on the table in the homely sitting room. Her smile elicited a sad one from him, her quick embrace brought back memories of her support, and lifted some of the burden once again. She was the only one who had helped lift the heavy veil of sadness he had drawn over himself. She had never replaced that veil with pity, merely stood there and smiled a bright smile at him, which couldn’t help but tear away at the walls he built. He had started delivering letters instead, walking to every house early when not too many inquisitive and commiserating souls were up. He thought the physical exercise did him good, it certainly helped him forget, no, not forget-survive.
Now, years on, strong emotions had faded. He plodded along, people understood he did not wish to talk about what had happened, but he still shied away from the pub, its talkative landlord and the music he used to play. His wife still played their old records at home, he still loved music. At first he couldn’t stand hearing the songs he used to play, when they came on and the web of sad memories covered his eyes she would just switch the record player off and take a board-game out to take his mind off it. Now he would merely smile sadly, uncertainly, but leave the song playing, old wounds smarted again but not beyond endurance.
She had read his sad smile when he came home and asked what was the matter:
”A girl was playing live in the Autumn Oak, my old stuff”
”Well, that’s nice, why didn’t you go in? She asked, in part knowing the answer. ”Dinner can always wait when there is some good entertainment”
”I didn’t want to” His standard reply, but now he volunteered more: ”she sounded good