The Ship’s Piano

Earlier this evening a dear friend of mine took me and his son to a village up river to celebrate the marriage of a local farmer to his longtime partner.

The half hour journey was punctuated by the bickering of my companions, who managed to pick holes in everything either of them said or did.

I was used to it, but it always upset me, because it brought back memories of how I seldom had a disagreement with my son, who was set to take my place when I retired from the Business.

However, this was not to be, as he died aged 21 of a cerebral aneurysm as me and his fiance fought to resuscitate him.

It was good to see the locals who filled the pub to drink the health of the happy couple.

After half an hour or so, I found myself standing beside the piano, it's lid was closed, and on it was a framed picture with the words:

'please do not play this piano'.

It brought back memories of a sunny afternoon, when I entered the almost empty pub and heard someone playing a Chopin etude.

The pianist was a handsome young man with dark hair, who turned and smiled at me as I approached. Something about the smile, and the quiet confidence, reminded me of my son.

We talked about music, and when I mentioned that as a teenager I had a jazz band, he played me some Scott Joplin, with a bit of improvisation.

It was magic.

Then, he said he had to go back to the bar – that was his job, but I sensed that music was what was in his blood.

I saw him a few times on and off, when I called into the bar, but he was always too busy to play the piano, and I never thought to ask his name.

I got talking to a lady and told her about how I had enjoyed listening to the young man playing it, and I asked her about the sign.

Didn't you know, she asked.

Three weeks ago he died with his friend in a car accident not far from here.

I had heard about it, but didn't the names didn't connect for me.

Suddenly, I was engulfed by a wave of emotion.

My daughter, she said, was his girlfriend.