Just Until Christmas

November 8, 1994 – Mill Grove, South Woodford, London

POV: Oliver

Oliver pressed the key, and a slightly muffled note rang out from the old piano and lingered briefly in the air.

"Wrong again," he muttered, slowly letting out a breath. "Fuck."

"Oliver!"

He flinched and slowly turned his head toward the door, where Sister Margaret stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know about how pleased she was with what she'd just heard.

"Sister Margaret!" Oliver gave her his most innocent smile. "I thought you were going to Evening Prayer?"

Sister Margaret stared at him sternly. "That was two hours ago." She didn't give him a chance to respond before continuing. "I don't want to hear that word from you ever again." She paused briefly. "Do you understand?"

"I'm sorry. It's just, my dad used to—"

"Oliver Bennett," she cut him off immediately. "Not even that is going to save you this time."

Damn, she's really pissed off this time!

"Come on, that's enough for today," she said at last.

"Just a few more tries. I've almost got it!" he pleaded.

Mr. Sott, his new piano teacher, had shown him three simple exercises that morning and told him to practise a little every day. But for Oliver, there was no such thing as a little, no healthy middle ground. Either give it everything or don't bother at all.

And in his head, the three exercises were surprisingly simple by now. He understood them and knew which key came next. He even knew which finger he was supposed to use.

"Five more minutes," Margaret finally relented.

Oliver grimaced and turned back to the piano. He knew better than to argue with her now. Really, he should count himself lucky that she wasn't making him copy Bible verses again for the fuck earlier.

Oliver started again. The problem was his hands.

They were small, weak, and apparently had minds of their own. His hand had started getting tired an hour ago. By now, it wasn't tired anymore. By now, it actually hurt.

But Oliver wanted to play that third and final exercise correctly at least once.

A wrong note slipped in. He stopped, took a deep breath, and started over. This time he made it further, only to mess up again just before the end.

One more time.

The first few notes came slowly and still somewhat clumsily. Then came the part where he had failed every single time before. Oliver gritted his teeth and concentrated.

This time, one clean note followed the next. No wrong note interrupted the short sequence, no sour sound forced him to start over again.

The final note rang out and slowly faded into the room.

A broad grin spread across Oliver's face.

"Finally!"

He jumped down from the piano bench, immediately shook out both aching hands, and laughed in satisfaction.

***

December 5, 1994 – Mill Grove, South Woodford, London

POV: Oliver

Beatrice sat across from Oliver and watched his mouth carefully. Oliver waited until she was ready, then slowly and clearly formed the sentence with his lips without making a sound. "Sister Margaret is afraid of mice."

It barely took Beatrice a second to sign the correct answer. Oliver pulled a face and signed at the same time as he mouthed, "You're really good at this."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Beatrice grinned with satisfaction. Now it was her turn. Oliver focused on her lips as she slowly formed a sentence. He frowned. That couldn't be right. Not after he'd just praised her so generously. "Again," he demanded.

Beatrice repeated the sentence, this time even more clearly. Oliver stared at her. "What do you mean, I'm just an idiot?" he asked indignantly while signing at the same time. This time, however, he'd said the words out loud.

Beatrice, of course, had no idea that he'd spoken aloud—and even less that their speech teacher was already on his way over to them. He tapped on the table, making both of their heads snap around.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Stop teaching Oliver bad words."

Beatrice stared at him as though she couldn't believe what he was accusing her of and signed indignantly: I – DON'T – TEACH – HIM – THOSE! Then she immediately put on her most innocent expression.

Oliver burst out laughing and decided it was probably better not to say anything else.

"All right, that's enough for today," the teacher finally said and dismissed them.

As soon as they were out of the classroom, Oliver turned to Beatrice. SEE – YOU – TOMORROW – BEA, he signed. But before he could make his escape, she stepped into his path.

AGAIN?

Oliver stopped. "What?"

Beatrice pointed first at him and then toward the exit.

MARGARET?

Oliver nodded. YES. I – HAVE – TO – GO – BACK.

Beatrice folded her arms across her chest and gave him an unconvinced look.

Oliver couldn't exactly blame her. Until a week ago, they had almost always stayed after class to practise sign language together. A few times, he'd even gone home with her so Helen could help them with the more difficult exercises.

It wasn't as though he'd neglected sign language because of the piano. Quite the opposite. By now, his BSL was easily good enough for everyday conversations, which probably wasn't bad for just under two months. Sure, when Bea got going and went full Shinobi on him, he still didn't stand a chance. But Oliver was pretty sure even Helen could barely keep up with her then.

For the past week, he'd been using that extra time for the piano instead. He'd only told Bea that Sister Margaret needed him for something after class. It wasn't even a particularly good excuse, but it was still better than telling her what he was actually spending every free minute doing. After all, she wasn't supposed to know about that yet.

YOU – LIE! Beatrice signed.

Oliver grimaced slightly. By now, he really didn't have a particularly good answer for that anymore. ONLY – UNTIL – CHRISTMAS, he finally signed. AFTER – THAT – I – HAVE – MORE – TIME – AGAIN.

Beatrice stood in front of him and stared. Her lower lip began to tremble, and Oliver noticed immediately.

Oh God, no! Please don't!

Oliver ran a hand over his face. With an adult, he probably could have cleared the whole thing up in thirty seconds. A little less time together, wait a few weeks, done.

To a six-year-old, apparently, one week already meant the end of a friendship.

DID – I – DO – SOMETHING – WRONG?

Oliver blinked. "What? Of course not!" He signed the words at the same time, but Beatrice's eyes were already filling with tears.

I – WON'T – SAY – IDIOT – ANYMORE –EITHER. PLEASE!

BEA – STOP! he said, signing at the same time. I – HAVE – TO – DO – SOMETHING.

IT – IS – NOT – BECAUSE – OF – YOU!

Beatrice wiped her eyes with her sleeve and kept looking at him.

YOUR – CHRISTMAS – PRESENT, he finally signed.

Beatrice sniffled and gave him a suspicious look.

FOR – ME?

Oliver nodded.

Beatrice studied him for another moment.

Then she suddenly turned around and casually walked away, as though she didn't want to keep him from his work for a second longer. One thing was apparently clear: she certainly wasn't going to stand between Oliver and her Christmas present.

Oliver stared after her in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Kids.

***

December 5, 1994 – St Mary's Church, South Woodford, London

POV: Mr. Sott

Mr. Sott leaned back slightly and watched his youngest student play.

Even after several weeks, Oliver still made for a somewhat unusual sight at the piano. A firm cushion had been placed on the bench so he could sit at the proper height in front of the keys, and his feet rested on a small stool because otherwise they would have dangled freely in the air.

His hands were barely large enough to play some of the exercises comfortably. For much of what Mr. Sott would already have shown an older beginner, Oliver simply lacked the reach. There was nothing to be done about that.

Oliver wasn't playing particularly fast or anywhere close to perfectly, but he was steady. His right hand moved across the keys far more confidently than it had during their first lesson, while his left occasionally lagged behind for a moment at the more difficult passages.

A small mistake—Oliver stopped immediately. "Again," he said quietly, started over, and played the passage once more. This time, more slowly.

Right.

Then again.

Right again.

Mr. Sott raised an eyebrow slightly.

He'd noticed it as early as their second lesson. Oliver made mistakes like any other beginner. The difference was that he barely tolerated them. Show him what he'd done wrong, and he would repeat the passage until his fingers did what he wanted them to do.

"How often did you practise the exercises I gave you last week?" Mr. Sott asked as Oliver let the final note fade.

Oliver thought about it for a moment. "As much as I needed to. Maybe half an hour a day."

Sister Margaret, sitting a few yards away, merely raised a meaningful eyebrow and gave a quiet snort.

"Sometimes a little longer," Oliver added.

Mr. Sott's gaze fell on the sheet music in front of him. Oliver had brought the piece with him two weeks earlier. Someone he knew had composed it, and Oliver had told him with complete matter-of-factness that he had to be able to play it by Christmas.

Mr. Sott had told him then that it was hardly realistic. The piece was far too difficult for a beginner, and he'd even had to simplify a few passages simply because Oliver's hands were too small.

Oliver started again. The melody came slowly and still somewhat uncertainly. He faltered in a few places and hit the wrong notes more than once, but each time he found his way back and kept playing.

Two weeks ago, he'd barely been able to manage the opening bars.

Mr. Sott looked at the sheet music and then back at Oliver. Christmas was less than three weeks away.

Maybe it wasn't quite as impossible as he'd thought.