Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

29. Wise up, girl

"Mum, what happened?" Celia asked her mother, who was on her knees cleaning a splatter of brown muck from the kitchen cupboard.

"Hello, Cecelia."

Nora sighed and placed a paper towel full of gunk into the bin beside her.

"What is all that?" Celia grimaced.

"Explosive diarrhoea," was the sniggering reply Celia received from her little brother standing in the doorway.

Nora's head snapped upwards. "Harrison!" she exclaimed, her green eyes wide. "I just warned you about saying filth like that."

"Well if it is, it's from one of your nappies, Haz," Celia chimed. She smirked at the boy in his grey school shorts. His eyes narrowed and he stuck out his tongue. Celia did the same back.

"Get back in the front room please, Harrison," Nora said. "I don't want Mr Tarbard to see this when he arrives." Nora flapped her hands at the mess surrounding her feet.

Mr Tarbard was Harry's handsome and virtuosic, piano teacher. Half English, half Italian. Tall and dreamy. Much too young for Nora, much too old for Celia—much to their disappointment. The fancy they had for him went unspoken between mother and daughter, but the two of them always seemed to glance in the mirror more often than not before he came round. They always made sure their hair was neat too. Good hair, of course, was everything.

"Mr Tarbard's coming now?" Celia asked, surprised. She unconsciously tucked a loose blonde strand behind her ear as she glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. "But Harry's lesson's are supposed to start at four o'clock; it's almost five."

Nora tutted. "Yes, I'm well aware of that, Cecelia. Mr Tarbard had a prior engagement and kindly asked to reschedule."

"Mum forgot," Harry said, a crease appearing on his frowning forehead. He was leaning against the doorframe, foot crossed over his other. "And now Dad's annoyed that Mr Tarbard's staying for dinner and Mummy's having a mare because dinner's on the floor."

"Dad's home?"

Harry nodded.

"I am not having a mare, don't use that language," Nora condemned. She lifted her arm and pointed a finger towards the kitchen door. "Sitting room, now."

Harry's shoulders drooped and he groaned in despair.

"But Mummy, I don't want to play the piano," he wined, resting his head on the door.

"You've only been playing it for three months, Haz," Celia reminded him, her eyebrow raised in amusement.

He'd seen the televised performance of pianist-turned-actress, Diana Lynn playing Chopin's "Minute Waltz" in just sixty seconds. Harry was infatuated by the pretty child prodigy and decided there and then, that he wanted to learn how to play the piano. Neither Celia or her parents thought he was serious about it, though. He'd never expressed any musical interests up until then, and he was a kid who, when not being forced to do his homework, enjoyed spending most of his time kicking a ball about with his other little Dovedale primary mates— all of them convinced that they were going to become famous footballers. Besides, Harrison got bored easily; he'd start one thing and then be onto the next at the drop of a hat. He was adamant, however, and decided to prove his passion for his newfound hobby by sitting at the piano and playing  'Happy Birthday' a thousand times over (their father said he'd smash the piano to pieces if he ever heard that damn song again) until his mother finally booked him in for weekly lessons. Some passion it was— twenty-odd sessions later and the little sod's face contorted anytime the word piano was mentioned.