accordion’ Mother eyes me coldly, ‘We can’t do that! He’ll have to keep the instrument with him or do without’ I’m not surprised my mother can be so mean, but what happened to all that Christmas spirit? And right now I can’t believe what I’m saying to her, ‘I’m just going to take him to the pasty stall. I’ll get served faster than him. Just watch his music box thing for a few minutes’ I crawl out from under the stall to the accompaniment of howls of protest, then, turning to the musician, ‘Just come with me, and we’ll get something to eat’
I reach out my hand to him, gesturing rather than inviting, but he takes it and I shiver. This is the first time in my life my hand has been held by another man my age. I hesitate for a second, awaiting release, but it doesn’t come. Turning, we forge through the crowded street towards the food truck. I’m conscious of shoppers staring at those hands but I don’t care, I feel good, ‘What’s your name?’ He smiles, but says nothing. I relish the feel of his strong hand and give it a slight squeeze. I instantly regret the action, but he repays it with a much stronger grip. I feel giddy with a kind of childish joy. The pasty stall is busy. I direct my friend towards what’s on offer, vainly describing the items in a language he doesn’t have. Occasionally he turns and smiles. As we are served I offer to pay but he resists, and, fishing a pile of coins from his pocket he holds out cupped hands to the assistant, paying for us both.
Stepping away from the stall, he points to himself, ‘Marek.’ I reply with ‘Michael.’ He repeats my name haltingly; then devours his pasty. We don’t hold hands on the way back but he remains very close to me, and I feel comfortable – no!, more like elated. Then, as we reach the street corner Marek screams out in anguish, the words mean nothing to me but the problem’s clear. Together we stare helplessly at the rug he’s so recently occupied, and the space where the accordion was. I look over to my mother, busy with customers. ‘Mum, where’s the accordion, I thought you were keeping an eye on it?’ Her reply is as tart as her jam ‘Michael, don’t be so rude, not while I’m serving’ I’m pissed at my mother’s unhelpfulness and Marek’s circling his pitch like a mother bird that returns to find her chicks missing. He looks about vacantly and I feel useless, then he glances at me with wide brown eyes, filling with tears; there’s a look of dread on his face I can’t understand. Steering him over to mother’s stall I appeal again to her hard heart, ‘You must have seen something!’ but she’s unrelenting ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Michael. He shouldn’t have left his pitch unattended’
Marek can’t understand a word she says; just as well. I find myself putting my arm around his shoulder and drawing him close, but his shaking persists. He turns, looking into my eyes as mother drones on, ‘Michael, for goodness sake come behind the stall. There’s nothing you can do, he’s probably an illegal. You’ll get us all into trouble’ I blot out her wittering and hold his hand. His eyes have never left me, and I’m just seconds away from a unique life experience. Nobody has ever needed me; that’s about to change: in fact, everything’s about to change. He squeezes my hand, ‘Please...., please help me.’
The sun is full now, but the air is still frosty and it catches my throat; mother’s fussing about, selling jam to people who neither need nor want it, so that she can feel good about restoring a crumbling old church for people who neither need nor want it. See a pattern here? But Marek’s frozen to the spot. I take his hand and almost drag him into the street café. I’m going to sort this out. I lead him to a window seat and watch as he crumples into the leather sofa. I make a show of confidence as I order coffees, realising I have no idea what to do next. He nods a silent thank you as I set down the steaming mug, but he does not touch it. I mime playing his accordion, then wince as I see the terror return to his eyes, ‘We’ll get it back, don’t worry’ I can’t get my head around this; it’s only an accordion. I want so much to help, desperately hoping the caring in my voice will convey what the words don’t. Fortunately, Marek’s grasp of my language is 100% better than my knowledge of his, ‘I much trouble. Bad thing happen me. Where my music?’ I reckon he’s trying to tell me the accordion’s not his, and move in closer. He doesn’t reject my nearness but I sense I’m not really helping. And as I gaze abstractedly out of the window I can see Sarah Bradbury talking to mother. It doesn’t make me feel good; but worse follows, she stops and comes directly over to where we’re sitting. I feel like an idiot, and the ice queen is looking impossibly cool as she sits down opposite, ‘You both look like you could use some good news.’ My jaw drops open. Marek looks intense, eyes darting from me to her. Then she puts us out of our misery, ‘The market inspector picked up the accordion. He probably did that because your friend doesn’t have a busker’s permit, or maybe just ‘cos it’s a hazard, left unattended’
I gawp at Sarah; how come she knows everything about everything and looks amazing at the same time. I’m fishing for words that don’t make me look even stupider, ‘Where is the inspector?’ She replies airily ‘He has a trailer in the car park. He’ll be there till about five.’ Marek looks at me with spaniel eyes, none of his gestures missed by the serene Sarah. I smile back at him giving the thumbs up. In an instant he puts two and two together and thanks our benefactor. Smiling broadly at her he mimics playing a violin, humming the tune ‘Away in a manger’ The ice queen smiles, her blue eyes still sparkling from the cold, ‘I’m impressed. And he’s got the key right too! I think your friend must be a good musician.’ I mull over how she calls him ‘your friend’ as I blurt out thank you to her. Is that what he is, my friend? Triumphantly I lead Marek from the coffee shop, down the crowded street and to the town car park where, in a matter of minutes he’ll be reunited with his beloved instrument.
Mother’s SUV is only yards away, parked by bushes in a snowy corner. Marek follows me, unquestioningly. Even when I reach the back door and open the van there is no obvious reaction from him. I reach in and move the empty boxes to one side revealing plenty of carpeted floor space. I signal to him to hand me his precious accordion and, climbing in I lay it on the seat. He gets in and I close the door. I don’t have a plan; I love that I don’t, and that it doesn’t seem to matter. We lie down, safe, warm and out of sight. I look at his face for what seems like ages. His hair springs up from his forehead, not quite centred, not equal, but so beautifully. His cheek bones are high and skin unblemished. The rich brown eyes that so recently were fearful are now calm. I reach around him. To date my experiences have been with girls and it always felt like I was holding a sparrow, a delicate structure that might shatter any moment. This is so different. I know I’m holding a man, my own kind. I thrill at the muscularity under my fingers, the firmness, the strength. His lips draw me in. And I’m intoxicated by the delicate warmth rising from him. I want to hold him so tight to me that we become one. I realise my efforts are boyish and awkward, but he lets me lead and responds to my every move. He’s so sweet and patient with me as I lunge forward each time to drown in that beautiful mouth. My whole body is reacting in a way I always dreamed it would. There is no more doubt. We walk silently back to the market. I am euphoric and steal glances of Marek’s face to see if he feels the same. At the corner we part, he to resume his playing, and I to return to the emporium of jam.
Mother’s doing a roaring trade. She’s cottoned on to the fact that people will flock to a crowded rather than an empty stall, so she maintains a clutch of old women customers to hand, discussing recipes and the decline of the hedgerow! The whole marketplace now has a buzz, and though I’d never admit it I’m sort of enjoying myself. But nothing lasts, does it? And mother’s mystified when I dart frantically behind the stall, wedging myself between the street wall and the canvas.Three of my classmates approach. I hear the voice of Paul Richardson, snide and sarcastic as he asks mother about lemon curd. I literally sink to the ground. He’s a foul mouthed yob and something horrible is going to happen; my mother will put up with only so much. There’s coarse laughter from the boys as he makes another remark. I can’t quite hear the reply
but I’m praying he’s being told to go. Then I hear my name mentioned. Richardson's voice booms out, ‘We thought we saw Michael just a minute ago’ I feel sick. A minute, or is it an eternity passes; then things go quiet. The tarpaulin rustles and mother appears,
‘You can come out now.’ I wait for her lecture but she says nothing. The minutes pass, nothing. For God’s sake, mother, say something. But she’s silent. Shortly, we run low on bags and I offer to scoot off to buy some. Without a word she hands me the cash. I’m embarrassed to think what Paul Richardson and his gang said, but I’m smart enough to know that the real problem is neither him, nor his yob friends. It’s me. A year from now I’ll have completed my first term at university. Will I still be hiding then, if someone I can’t face turns the corner? I’d better hope there’ll be plenty of curtains to hide behind, and tables to crawl under. Isn’t it time I grew a pair and started to stand up for myself? Probably; but exactly what am I standing up for?
I make my