‘Teach me the Ukulele...’ and ‘Wilfred’s Glasses’ by Sal Page

‘Teach me the Ukulele and I’ll Teach you to Bake’

Sam had spoken to her occasionally but only with others present. The one time he could look at her was when he was playing. He would smile and tilt his head as if he were George. Once he even winked.

One Saturday they’d met in town. She’d said hello but he couldn’t answer. He pretended he hadn’t heard, hummed to himself and scurried away. He wondered why he did but shrugged and accepted it then indulged in picturing the two of them going for coffee. She would choose a cake and he’d look into her melted-chocolate eyes and say the cakes weren’t anywhere near as good as hers. He loved the lemon muffins and buttered malt loaf she brought to church socials.

Sylvia was making a sponge cake. She’d made so many she didn’t need to follow a recipe or concentrate on what she was doing so she could think about Sam. She had dared say hello in town once but didn’t know what to do next so just carried on walking as if that’s what she meant to do. As she wandered into a department store she continued their conversation in her head, safe to do now he was gone. She began to imagine herself and Sam choosing cushions.

She found herself in the bedroom section and the sight of all those mocked up bedrooms made her blush. She wondered if Sam ever sat up in bed practicing. In stripy pyjamas, she decided. She could listen to his strumming for hours. It reminded her of her Dad watching George Formby films on rainy afternoons. The sound of Sam’s playing gave her bats – never mind butterflies – in her stomach. She put the cake in the oven, thought about Sam’s soft-brown-sugar hair and went to look for some jam.

Sam’s sitting on his bed. He’s writing a new song that he wants to dedicate to Sylvia. He writes with green biro. The ink transfers itself to his fingers and the ukulele strings. He keeps working till gone midnight, puts his ukulele down, lies back and thinks about her. He feels the song’s ready, imagines playing it to her but knows he never could. He pictures her in a pink apron, stirring something in a large bowl and licking buttery fingers.

Sylvia’s making her ordinary rectangular sponge cake into an extra-ordinary ukulele shaped cake. It has to be ready for Saturday. Someone said it was Sam’s birthday. The icing has cocoa in it. She’s carefully piping the strings with white chocolate. She thinks about Sam’s fingers on the strings and hums the tune of the song he played last week.

She tries to imagine Sam’s face when he first sees the cake. She thinks he will look straight at her then smile. She must - she will - breath deeply, then she must - she will – smile.

And not run away.

She has something to ask him.

‘Wilfred’s Glasses’

He took the glasses out of their snappy case and opened up the handles or arms or whatever they were called. He reached to the bedside table for his book.

Wilfred loved this book. He’d found it in the charity shop a Saturday-or-so-ago when he and the others had gone to town on the bus with Glenn. The short lady, Billy and Marian. Fifty pence. A bargain. Glenn said to buy it if it was what he wanted.

It had a cover the colour of blackcurrant drink and shiny gold letters on the front. He liked the silky ribbon trapped between the pages that could be used to mark your place. He brought the book to his nose and breathed; a delicious combination of ripeness and dust and a faint trace of shop-smell underneath. Wilfred loved the smell of the PDSA shop.

He flicked the book’s pages with his thumb. They made a nice slapping sound as he searched for a place to start. Wilfred reached the middle and moved his palm across cool dryness. He put the glasses on, nearly poking one of the handle-arms into his eye. It was tricky but he’d get the hang of it. He gazed down at the jumping-around words then focused on the white spaces between.

Glenn had held the door open for them, the others had spread out to examine rows of eyes staring from around the edges and Wilfred had told the optician he needed glasses. For reading, he said, patting his duffle coat pocket, where he could feel the book wedged in and waiting for him. The optician-lady pointed to a big sign with letters and Wilfred read three from the top.

The lady had smiled, nodded to Glenn and decided Wilfred didn’t need to bother reading the getting-smaller-and-smaller blocks of writing lower down. Yes, he was right. He needed reading glasses and did he want to choose some frames? He chose these green ones and they all went to the café.

Wilfred had an Eccles cake. Glenn had to ask for a cloth when Billy’s hot chocolate got spilt and crept across the table towards the short lady’s toasted sandwich. Wilfred was busy thinking about the book in one pocket and the new glasses in the other. As he brushed Eccles-crumbs from Wilfred’s front, Glenn said to leave them where they were till they got back.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bed, Wilfred could pick out the odd letter. There were a lot of ayes, bees and esses and whatnot. He knew most of them. He adjusted the glasses and waited a few seconds. He turned the pages; more blocks with dazzling white between and numbers at the top.

Wilfred pulled the glasses from his face and stared at them. He folded them back up and snapped them into the case. He smoothed the ribbon down onto the page and carefully closed the book.

Wilfred sighed. He’d had high hopes for those reading glasses.