This One’s Yours, Bea

December 25, 2000 | Mill Grove, South Woodford, London, England

POV Oliver

At Christmas, Mill Grove always seemed even fuller than usual.

Coats were piled on top of each other in the cloakroom because every hook had long since been taken. Someone had strung a paper chain across the hallway that caught every taller child in the face, and from the common room came Christmas music, laughter, and Margaret's voice as she explained for what had to be the third time that tinsel was not meant to be eaten.

The smell of roast meat, potatoes, and something that had probably spent a few minutes too long in the oven drifted in from the kitchen.

Oliver stopped on the bottom step and looked into the room.

The Christmas tree in front of the large window was far too wide for the space and leaned slightly to the left. The decorations looked as though every person who had set foot in Mill Grove over the past twenty years had hung something on it at some point. Old glass baubles were mixed with paper stars, wooden figures, handmade angels, and things Oliver couldn't identify no matter how hard he tried.

One particularly impressive collection of cardboard, glue, and glitter hung directly in front of him.

Christmas had always looked like this here.

Not beautiful in the traditional sense. Certainly not elegant. Mill Grove was far too loud, too crowded, and much too chaotic for that.

But it felt right.

One boy ran past him, closely followed by another who loudly insisted that the first had stolen his chocolate Father Christmas. On one of the sofas, three children were fighting over the same seat, while at the other end of the room someone was pinning Christmas cards to a piece of string.

For a place full of children who had ended up here for all kinds of reasons, Mill Grove was remarkably good at not feeling like a children's home at Christmas.

Even Oliver had become more accepted over the years. Once he had started spending most of his time in Oxford, many of the other children had eventually realised that being personally looked after by Sister Margaret might not have been quite the privilege they had once imagined.

It had probably helped that Oliver kept coming back to Mill Grove during the holidays and played for the other children. At first only on the piano, later on the guitar, and by now even on the violin. Over time, it had almost become a tradition for some of them to gather around whenever he picked up one of the instruments.

"Olli! Are you going to play something later?" asked one of the boys who had only arrived at Mill Grove at the beginning of the year.

His first Christmas.

"Later. After dinner," Oliver replied.

The boy nodded and went back to one of his friends, who had successfully defended his place on the sofa.

His home.

"Olli! Are you coming?" Helen called from the dining room. She and Beatrice had arrived that morning to help Margaret and the others with the preparations.

Oliver went over to them and paused briefly in the doorway.

Peter, Margaret, Helen, and Beatrice were already sitting at the table. A place had been left open for him between them.

His family.

And today, two of the people who meant more to him than they probably realised were leaving. Helen and Bea had been there for him when he had lost everything—his life, his family, and every idea he had ever had of what his future would look like.

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Oliver sat down in the empty chair and reached for the bowl of potatoes as though everything were perfectly normal.

"I've heard L.A. has some pretty amazing music studios," Oliver said. "So maybe it's not completely shit over there."

Beatrice only looked at him without saying anything.

"Erm, do you know where you'll be living yet? I'll probably be in L.A. pretty often because of the films," he asked, trying to cheer her up a little.

"No," she said shortly.

He gave her a quick glance. Bea was staring down at her plate, pushing a piece of meat from one side to the other with her fork.

"Bea, it's Christmas. Don't you want to at least—" Oliver tried to reason with her, but she cut him off.

"No!"

"Beatrice, enough!" Helen said sharply. "Do you really want to spend our last evening together acting as though we're at a funeral?"

Beatrice shoved her chair back and stood up abruptly.

"Bea—" Helen began, but her daughter was already heading for the door.

Without another word, she left the dining room and disappeared into the hallway. A few moments later, a door slammed somewhere upstairs.

Oliver slowly let out a breath and smiled sadly.

"Kind of fitting," he said, setting down his cutlery.

Helen and Margaret looked at him questioningly, while Peter pretended not to have noticed any of it.

"The first day I met Beatrice, she ran away from this exact place because she couldn't get out of Mill Grove fast enough." Oliver glanced towards the hallway. "Six years later, on our last evening here together, she runs away again—this time because she doesn't want to leave it."

With that, he got up from the table.

"I think I know where she is," he said and slowly made his way down the corridor.

He shouldn't even have needed to think about where Bea had gone. There was only one place in Mill Grove she retreated to when she wanted to be left alone without actually wanting to be alone.

The music room.

Oliver placed a hand on the handle and carefully opened the door.

The room was almost completely dark. Only the light from the hallway spilled inside, drawing a narrow strip across the floor towards the old piano.

Bea wasn't sitting at it.

It took him another moment to spot her.

She had curled up in the corner beside the piano, her knees pulled against her chest and her face half buried in them. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and even from several metres away Oliver could see the tears running down her cheeks.

Oliver sat down at the piano without saying a word.

For weeks, he had been trying to write a song for Bea. Not one from his future, not one from this time. Something of his own.

Something from him to her.

And he had written plenty by now. Several songs, in fact.

But none of them had really said what he wanted to tell her.

Oliver rested his hands on the keys without playing.

"Bea," he said quietly and paused for a moment. "There are so many things I wanted to tell you that I don't think even a hundred songs would be enough."

So this one's yours, Bea.

♫♪♬

[Original Song]

♪

You read my lips across the room,

I tried to read your hands.

You rolled your eyes and showed me twice

Till I could understand.

♪

We'd try to look so innocent

When Margaret walked in.

You didn't have to say a word;

I knew that wicked grin.

♪

So this one's yours, Bea,

I wish that you could stay.

I'm no good at goodbyes, you know;

I'd rather sit and play.

♪

The Christmas lights will come down soon,

But one thing will stay true:

Whatever else these hands may play,

They learnt to play for you.

♪

We played that song about a star,

Your hands beside my own.

You closed your eyes, and for a while,

The room was ours alone.

♪

Your mum is waiting by the tree,

Your coat is by the door.

I keep on playing one more verse,

Then finding one verse more.

♪

So this one's yours, Bea,

I wish that you could stay.

I'm no good at goodbyes, you know;

I'd rather sit and play.

♪

The Christmas lights will come down soon,

But one thing will stay true:

Whatever else these hands may play,

They learnt to play for you.

♪

So call me an idiot, Bea,

Just like you always do.

I couldn't let you leave without

One song that's just for you.

♪

So this one's yours, Bea,

For when you're far away.

And when you come back to Mill Grove,

Just ask, and I will play.

♪

The Christmas lights will come down soon,

But one thing will stay true:

Whatever else these hands may play,

They learnt to play for you.

♫♪♬

The last notes slowly faded from the room. Oliver left his hands resting on the keys for another moment.

Behind him, Bea's quiet sobs echoed through the room.

He stood, sat down beside her, and pulled her tightly against him.

"I don't want to go," she managed through her tears. "First Nottingham, now America! Why is it always me?"

"I don't want you to go either," he said, and he meant it. "But I want you to be okay. I want you to hear even better than you do now, and I want us to be able to make music together."

Bea's sobs grew louder.

Oliver held her a little tighter.

"And when you're ready, I'll be here and play whatever you want."

Bea only clung to him more tightly.

"Promise?" she asked quietly.

"Promise."