Meet Francine Pt. 2
Francine has returned to the Isle of Mull after the funeral of her parents, who were killed in a car accident.
I’m on my way to Dhiseig. A gentleman there has an upright piano for sale. All I had was a phone number. On the phone, he was insistent that he wouldn’t take less than two thousand pounds. It’s an upright 1980 Wurlitzer 45" with a bench. It’s more than I can afford, even if it’s a bargain. I’m hoping to sweet-talk him.
I’m ignoring Gilda’s call. I have yet to respond, though I did have time this morning. I’m concentrating on my music writing first, and if this kind gentleman considers fifteen hundred for the piano, I have some lyrics I’m ready to put to music. It’s just under twenty miles from Tobermory, about forty minutes, but my car is in sad shape, and the rain is coming down straight as stair rods. It’s 3:30 p.m. as I leave.
So far, coming into the one-lane road section and passing Craignure, I’m giving way to tractors with trailers every half mile. Each time I give way, I hope it might be Brannon. Anyway, yes, you’re right, it’s dumb. I know it. I’m already forty minutes in the car and still seven miles away.
Okay, here we are. This is the address. Talla Rainbow. I’m driving very slowly as the rain is becoming heavier. The lane takes me a quarter mile from the road to a cottage set in a thicket at the bottom of a mountain. Driving into the courtyard, I am struck by the serenity of the surroundings.
The white door has a black, heavy door knocker and a ram’s head. It drops with a thud.
The door opens. “Well, hello there. You must be Francine. Come along inside, lassie,” he says.
“Thank you, yes. I’m Francine. You have a beautiful place here,” I say, stepping inside the door.
“Aye, tis that. Can I take your jacket? Am I hearing a Glasgow accent, lassie?”
“Yes, but I don’t miss the place.”
“That’s a big change, Glasgy to Mull. Come this way, I keep the piano in the front room. It has a nice view from the window, across the lock to Eorsa.”
Inside, the cottage is exquisitely furnished and comfortable, making me want to sit in one of these Victorian armchairs and be at peace with everything.
“Here ye go, this is the piano. I tuned it a couple of weeks ago if you’d like to sit down and play something?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I haven’t played in three years. I’m so rusty, my muscle memory has all but disappeared. You know, Mr., er…”
“Call me Bunny, will you? All my friends do,” he says with a ticklish grin.
“Bunny, okay, well, I’m just getting back into playing, and look, I want to be honest before we go any further. I don’t have a lot of savings. I was wondering if there’s any room for negotiation?”
“Let’s see how you like it first, go ahead and sit down. You play for a few minutes; I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
Bunny has a short, white beard, and his hair goes the same way. I’m thinking he might be sixty, sixty-five. There are no family pictures, and the stunning cottage has a masculine feel. Above the bookshelves are models of fighter planes. And sitting on a beautiful dark mahogany coffee table is a model of Virgin Galactica. The only reason I know such a thing is that Clive was always talking about it.
“Take your wee time, there’s no rush on a morning like this one,” he says, “I’ll put the kettle on.”
The log fire in the hearth is ablaze, and the cottage feels like something out of a Hansel and Gretal story. I touch the lid before opening it, running my fingers over the beautiful oak wood. Then, I lift the lid and sit on the stool. I’m afraid to begin. Maybe I’ll start with one of my compositions.
I play with soft fingers, mental notes flying through my mind and down my veins to my fingertips.
Bunny’s left the door slightly ajar, on purpose, I’m sure. The tone and the lightness of the critical pressure enthral me. The piano has been well cared for and worth all he asks. On the mainland, a thousand more. For ten minutes, I review a repertoire of music I’d written some years ago.
The door is pushed open wide. Bunny comes in carrying a tray beautifully set with a china tea service with a thistle design and shortbread. I was a kid the last time I saw a knitted teapot cosy being used. He sets the tray down on a table next to the settee.
“So, you’re Francine Murray,” he says, smiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, but the melodies are unmistakable. I can always tell when a pianist is playing something he or she composed.”
I feel embarrassed—not because of my rusty playing, which is embarrassing, but because he recognizes the music, and I am asking him for a lower price.
“Do you play, Bunny? or is that a dumb question?”
“Not dumb at all, lassie. When my wife was alive, she’s been gone near twenty years now.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Nay, lass. I have her with me. The cottage is too much for me now, I need something smaller and closer to town. What’s left inside this cottage, well, they are mere things.”
“It must break your heart to have to move. When my parents decided to move to a new home, they too were looking for a smaller place, somewhere on the mainland. The cottage they loved turned out to be in the Lake District.”
Bunny is pouring the tea. “Milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, please. Thank you.”
“That’s a long way to visit, Francine.”
“It would have been, Bunny.”
Bunny gives me a puzzled look. “Would ?” He says, stressing the sound.
“They were killed in a road accident less than a month ago,” I say and cannot stop watery eyes from forming.
“Good Heaven’s, Francine. You dear thing. I’m truly sorry for your loss?” He reaches over the armchair to a box of tissues on the small round table.
“Thank you, I didn’t mean to…”
“Nay, lass, never be ashamed of tears.”
“Do you play often?” I ask
“Most days, an hour or so. My fingers are weakening, the stretch growing less.”
Okay, I know. Whatever I said back there, forget it, I will agree to the price. I’ll find a way to cut back on other things if need be. What would you do in my place?
“Bunny the piano is worth the money you are asking. I will pay the price, but before I leave, might I hear you play something?”
“Yes, of course. Enjoy your tea, I’ll come up with a little melody,” he says.
Bunny moves to the piano. He sits and intertwines his fingers into a backhand stretch and pauses his hands over the keys. I can see the movement of his fingers, like little beings, as they play a haunting sonata. Am I witnessing his last performance on this piano, perhaps on any piano?
As his hands move and fingers fall, the melody is soothing, like a sunset in my mind. But then I hear the intrusion of overwhelming forces as he plays, angry waves crashing, but his upper body remains still. He plays until everything is swept away—the man, the piano, the music—all . . . gone. . . And again, his hands pause over the keys as the silence grows, and only the Firefall makes a sound.
“Bunny, I’ve never heard anything so beautiful,” Now my eyes are watering, not for anything other than the sheer beauty of perfection.
When he turns to face me, his cheeks are wet, eyes flooded. I reach for the tissues and hand him the box; one tissue doesn’t do it for him.
“Thank you, Francine. I’ll join you in that cup of tea now.”
Bunny gets up and goes back to the armchair. He is handsome, and hell knows how attractive he is at thirty, but I suspect age has been kind to him. His look is very distinguished and thoughtful, reminding me of a movie star, maybe a Sean Connery kind of handsome.
Looking out the window, a storm is fast encroaching the shoreline. The rain hasn’t stopped. I go to my bag to reach for my chequebook.
“Francine, maybe you could do me a favor,” he says.
“Favor? Bunny.”
“Did I hear you right, when you called, I think you said you had leased Warren Cottage?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, I have a proposal. You’ve taken a year lease, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“How about if you take the piano for a year, make sure I can manage without it. If it gets difficult, maybe you’d let me come and play there. Is that possible?”
“Bunny, that’s amazing. Would you be prepared to do that?”
“Then it’s a deal. Another cup of tea?”
Bunny refills my cup and tops it up with fresh tea.
“How long have you lived in this beautiful place?”
“My great grandfather built it. Talla means ‘floor’ and the story goes that a rainbow touch the ground on this spot. The island is a big community, mostly fishing and farming communities. Today, of course, tourism is our biggest industry. Mainlanders flood here during the summer months, but the island invites people all year round,” he tells me.
As he talks, my mind wanders to how comfortable I feel, his company, his gentleness.
“Francine, does your husband have a truck, something big enough to transport the piano?”
“I live alone. I will hire a truck and have a couple of men move the piano. It is so kind of you, Bunny. I’ve been working on some music and am quite excited to get started. But look at the time, I must get home. It doesn’t look like this rain is going to stop anytime soon,” I say.
“Yes, of course. Look call me tomorrow; I may know someone who can help us.”
“That’s wonderful, you’re too kind. I will call mid-morning.”
“Aye las, that should be perfect. Here, let me help you with your jacket,” and Bunny holds it up for me to turn into.
“May I give you a hug, Bunny, I’m so grateful.”
“Aye, lass. I’m not one to turn a hug down,” he says, smiling and holding his arms wide. “Drive carefully; the roads can be tricky.”
“I will, thank you again.”
My hair and shoulders are soaked as I climb into the car. I feel so happy for the first time in so long. What a remarkably kind man. I knew he wasn’t lonely; I believe what he told me is true: He carries his wife with him. Oh no, the car won’t start! The battery is flat. I looked to see that I had left the lights on when I arrived. There’s no cell reception.
I’ll have to go back and ask Bunny to call a repair shop, or maybe he has something to start the car. Oh, hell! Bunny startles me at the car window with an umbrella, knocking on the glass with his knuckles. “Come back inside, Francine,” he says.
I open the car door. Bunny holds the umbrella over me and, holding my upper arm, escorts me back into the cottage.
“You’re soaked, lass. Get that jacket off you.”
“I’m sorry, Bunny, the car battery is flat.”
“Yes, I was looking out the window and saw the headlamps dimming as you tried to start your car. That’s a sign of a dead battery. We can sort that out, but first, we’ll go back in by the fire. I’ll call someone to help.
I walk back to the front room and crouch down by the fire.
I lived in Glasgow most of my life and never met a finer, gentler person than Bunny. It makes sense why his friends refer to him by that name.
