Page 54 of Second Song

Isolated.

That’s what I can’t help seeing in Teo. Maybe that’s why a question pops out. “Would you come along if your friend were here? The one in France? You could always tell him about it, you know, in case he’s missing—” I stop myself from saying you, substituting the word school instead. “Might help keep him in the loop until he’s back in?—”

“Another eight days?” Teo sighs. Then he does drum, furious and fast, his complexion darkening. I can’t say if that’s due to exertion or because he blushes. I’m not about to pry, not when someone rings a handbell outside, signalling that the historian is getting started.

I head for the library, making my way through boarding students who crowd the barriers outside it, and that’s where I find Liam.

He’s back in that trench he dug out, the same one he made sure I couldn’t fall into. Now his hard hat contrasts with smarter clothing than his usual dusty T-shirt, but I showered after work and hesitated over choosing what to wear tonight as well, didn’t I?

It isn’t quite a date I’ve dressed for. If anything, it’s a team-building evening—all of Dominic Dymond’s crew watch, nodding along with Liam’s description of how he uncovered buried treasure. I crowd close along with them and the students to hear it.

Liam’s got such a great voice. It’s rough but it rings out.

“I was taking this extra slow and steady. Maybe slower than needed for a civilian project, but old habits die hard.”

“Why?” one of the students asks. “Aren’t demolitions meant to be quick?”

“The end result is, but the planning before getting started?” Liam shakes his head at the same time as Dom. Liam can’t notice that the head of this project thinks he’s on the right lines, not while he’s thigh-deep in an old foundation and focussed on a student. “You never want to hurry where IEDs might be involved.”

“IEDs, sir? You mean explosives?” Another student leans over the barrier as if expecting to see a cartoon bundle of TNT complete with a fuse that fizzles.

“Yep. In my old line of work, rushing could lead to real disaster.”

My stomach clenches at what could be a general statement. It’s personal. I know that after what Liam mentioned in a garden built by other soldiers who got to come home. A garden built by Ed Britten. I wonder if he felt as guilty for surviving as Liam. Because that’s how this sounds to me. Guilty.

“Hurrying costs lives.” He rubs at his ear in an absent gesture as telling to me as Teo clutching his drumsticks to his chest. “There’s precious little chance of explosives here.” Dom nods along with that statement. “Going slow is still worth it because being careful at this stage makes for a better rebuild later. By whoever gets to finish this job, I mean. Once my part of the project is finished.”

Dom stops nodding. Liam doesn’t see that either. He keeps going.

“That’s why I’ve preserved as much of the original stone as I can and chipped off the old mortar from the rubble of your old stables. That way, the new library will blend in even though it will be much bigger.” He faces Maisie’s daddy. “If that’s what you want? I can go faster if you don’t need me to be this careful.”

“Nope. We’re still just about on schedule. And we’re on the same page about preservation. Take as long as you need.”

Liam sees me then, and it doesn’t matter that a whole school listens. This sounds personal. “Good. I’m in no hurry to leave.”

Tonight’s guest echoes those no-hurry be-careful sentiments, urging everyone to be as careful as Liam is with artefacts he displays on a long line of tables, and it’s no surprise that this visiting historian uses Liam as a good example. I’ve seen how he holds fragile things already, although nothing in this time capsule bleats or wriggles. It’s full of schoolbooks and artworks, and with a collection of what look like scrolls from ancient Egypt rather than from the 1940s.

The historian is careful too with the sheet music Liam first showed me. It’s annotated by hand and is missing a title. Perhaps he also notices me lean in closer. “You can read this?”

“I… Yes.” As pieces go, it isn’t exactly challenging. It’s a simple tune that I remember helped me to master finger placement. “It isn’t complicated.”

Charles is quick to tell him why. “Devesh, this is Rowan. Remember I told you that he can play everything he touches?”

“I can’t play everything. I just…” I grind to a halt, aware that all eyes are on me.

“You just what?” Liam asks.

I focus on him, and answering is easy. “I had endless access.” It’s a reminder of what Charles said earlier this week, only Mum didn’t soak me with watering cans or rain showers. She soaked every single day in sound and rhythm. “No instruments were off-limits.” Now I can see she did it all on purpose, putting away anything too precious and leaving out anything robust so she could constantly say yes, like Charles does in his classroom.

I have to pause and swallow because this isn’t the first time I’ve faced reminders. It happens here so often that I feel closer now than ever to someone I’ve kept a tight lid on missing. Someone I’d buried. Now like an unearthed time capsule, I keep finding long-lost treasure right here in Cornwall. Maybe that’s why this comes out more tightly than usual.

“That’s why…” I can’t revisit my lowest times where I made decisions I still don’t recognise as my own. I can’t get lost in that confusion right now. Not with schoolkids listening or beside someone who’s been through so much worse and survived it. I clear my throat and manage to rasp, “Let’s just say these last few weeks have been a second chance to play in ways I didn’t expect.”

The historian finds more sheets of music. He comes back to spread them out in front of me. “How about this? Could you play it?”

“Yes. It’s for beginners.”

“Ah.” The historian has found an explanation in one of those scrolls tied with ribbon. “Glynn Harber wasn’t a new school when this was buried. Apparently, burying time capsules was already a tradition.” He finds Liam in the crowd. “You might need to keep your eyes peeled for more of them.” He unrolls yellowing paper to show a journey. “These children were evacuees. They all drew where they came from.” He unravels another. “I can’t read this one.”

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