As She Left It, by Catriona McPherson

Doolal got back into his car, revved the engine as if he was getting ready to launch a space rocket, backed up a bit, and roared off down the street again.

Opal turned and pressed her face against the glass, watching until he had gone, and she was still looking when a red Transit van chugged impossibly slowly round the corner and pulled in across the street in front of No. 1. The driver’s door slid open and one after the other, four old men climbed down. She laughed out loud. It was the Mote Street Boys, still dressed in their shiny suits and narrow ties. Opal took hold of the rings at the bottom of the window and slid it very quietly open.

“That piano stool’s like a bed of nails,” said Pep Kendal, knuckling his back.

“It’s a good gig,” said Big Al. “Steady money.”

“Tea dances!” said Jimmy D, the drummer.

“I’ll rustle us up some dinner,” said Pep. It was his house, Opal knew. His kitchen.

“You’re going to cook?” said Mr. Hoadley. “I’ll maybe just shoot off home.”

“I’m going to phone,” Pep said. “Pizza.”

“Aye well, all right,” said Mr. Hoadley. “No olives, mind.” He lowered his double bass case carefully out of the back of the van and stepped down.

“Fish!” shouted Big Al. “Pizza?”

Opal caught her lip and waited. The passenger door rocked slowly along its rail and then, hat on the back of his head, white hanky foaming out of his breast pocket, battered trumpet case clutched in one hand, out stepped Fishbo—Mr. Gordon, her old music teacher. How in hell was he still alive? He had already been an old man when she was tiny, and he looked truly ancient now, mummified nearly, all 14