When Michael Dunbar married the Broken-Nosed Bride, the first thing they did was drag the piano back up Pepper Street, to number thirty-seven. It took six extra men from the neighborhood, and this time a carton of beer. (And not unlike the Bernborough boys—if there was beer it had to
be cold.) They worked their way round the back of the house, where there weren’t any steps to get in.
“We should actually call those other guys,” said Michael, later on. He leaned an arm on top of the walnut, like he and the piano were friends. “They got the address right after all.”
Penny Dunbar could only smile.
She had one hand on the instrument.
The other hand on him.
* * *
—
A few years later, they moved out of that place, too; they bought a house they fell in love with. It was relatively close, in the racing quarter, with track-and-stables behind it.
They looked on a Saturday morning:
The house at 18 Archer Street.
An agent waited inside, and asked them for their names. Seemingly, there’d been no other expressions of interest that day.
To the house itself, there was hallway, there was kitchen. There were three bedrooms, a small bathroom, a long backyard with an old Hills Hoist, and both of them immediately imagined; they saw kids with lawn and garden, and the outbreaks of childhood chaos. It was paradise as far as they were concerned, and they were soon to fall even harder:
With an arm on the pole of the clothesline, and an eye in the clouds above her, Penny heard the sound. She turned back to the agent.
She said, “Excuse me, but what is that noise?”
“Sorry?”
He’d been dreading this moment, for it was possibly the cause of losing every other couple he’d taken through the property—all of whom had most likely had similar dreams, and thoughts of how they’d live there. They’d probably even seen the same laughing children getting in fights over unfair football tactics, or dragging dolls through the grass and dirt.
“You don’t hear it?” she persisted.
The agent adjusted his tie. “Oh, that?”
* * *
—
The night before, when they’d looked in the Gregory’s street directory, they’d seen the field behind the house, and all it said was The Surrounds. Now Penny was sure she heard hooves coming down the back, and deciphered the adjacent smell—of animal, of hay, and horses.
The agent tried to hurry them back in.
It didn’t work.
Penny was drawn closer, to the clopping she heard at the fence line.
“Hey, Michael?” she said. “Could you please lift me up?”
He walked the yard toward her.
His arms and her stick-thin thighs.
* * *
—