‘Walter Muscovy and the Big Love’ by Anna Vaught

The following is a sample story from Ravished by Anna Vaught, available to preorder from our online bookshop.

‘Walter Muscovy and the Big Love’ by Anna Vaught

Walter looked a little like a duck. His nose was beaky, he had an unattractive gait which was, you have guessed it, more of a waddle, really. For a man, he was short but compensated for it with good cheer. In Walter, there was not a whiff of arrogance or the slight bitterness one sometimes sees in those who have a chip on their shoulder due to perceived misfortune. And there was one more thing: Walter was very, very funny. He had the sort of timing which would cause his friends – and he had coerced many – to double up, to have painful sides. He was also articulate without being showy. Walter loved words. Felt them in his mouth like something smooth and minty (a humbug) or rough and to be handled carefully (managed carefully with your tongue).

Walter’s mother loved him dearly; to his father, he had always been a bit of disappointment, though Dad tried not to show it. Walter was clumsy, and in those who did not know him, he might cause giggling or the foolish scorn of those who really should know better but do not. Walter, also, had never had a girlfriend – but he lived in hope. Waddling on through and making people laugh.

Walter Muscovy had secrets, of course. What man has not? Secret signs and visions and songs. And thoughts of damp parlours where he tuned bosoming cellos and climaxed over bassoons, but in a pure and tuneful way and not, oh not, with the filth.

That day, on his way to work (Walter restored fine musical instruments), he had an odd sensation that today was different; an inchoate feeling – not of dread, but of a sort of warmth spreading up through him. One might say a new kind of happiness. There was a woman waiting for him at the shop; she had a cello and was tall and willowy. She had the gentle flush of the English rose and strawberry blonde hair; she wore a white coat. Almost, he dared say, a little like a swan. Walter did not mean to look a little too intently, but then she was, to his eyes, heart-meltingly lovely. But does a swan look kindly upon a duck, or does she peck at his neck and kill him for being scant, stump and in her way? Or does she start with bill and coo and end in breaking his arm with one swoop of that prodigious wingspan?

Yes, I can restore your cello to health. A cello, Madam, likes a damp parlour such as mine. It will take this long; these are the procedures I am likely to follow, and yes – it is a truly fine instrument which you’re so right to treat with reverence and want to bring back to its former glory. He was avoiding her eyes for fear of blushing, but when he looked up, she was staring intently at him. There was an awkward silence. Now or never. He would not die if she laughed in his face. He imagined cooing and nuzzling the neck of this pen.

‘I have a break at about eleven. I wonder if you would like to come and have coffee with me. At the new shop over the road?’

Well now. They were both blushing. She had long fingers for plucking; exactly right for pizzicato. Ooooh. Sul tasto and sul ponticello. Stop, stop, Walter Muscovy! The pen took off as if on open water, and then, later, they drank their coffee and talked and talked and the next day, too. Like him, she loved to play with words, to handle them and feel their heft. And Walter worked on the cello until he had brought it back to clear, resonant notes and a burnished beauty. She struck some notes right there in the shop, and he almost cried. But she stopped him, right there, with a kiss and the world around went silent. Yes, they do make a funny-looking couple, the swan and the duck. But they laugh constantly and make the kind of music that reverberates long. With them, you hear, you feel, the grace notes: those notes between notes that you take in on a visceral level. There are three little ducks or swans. They have their mother’s grace and their father’s waddle – a curious combination, but a good one.

But it is a risk, isn’t it? Love. That he is a duck, and she is a swan. As he ages, his waddle will slow while her broad white sweep will always captivate. Overall, a sweep is always beautiful, but a waddle calcifies. At that point, will his children curse their hybridity and, in those grace notes, look askance and plan a long-beaked peck? When Walter Muscovy is a raggedy duck, will she take the bosoming cello from the damp parlour and have at it with the Elgar while the cygnets swipe and extend their wings?

Lately, this thought is keeping Walter Muscovy up at night.

By Anna Vaught from Ravished (£10.99)