A Certain Age by Lynne Truss

looking in the other direction. “Look, there’s Thames Street, where Mrs Watson lives,” I say. “Mm,” he says, with his eyes closed. He just won’t look at me; it’s horrible. So I try another tack, try talking about home instead, to take his mind off it. “David,” I say, “I found some old records in the living-room, do you think they could have been your mum’s, it’s just she never mentioned them.” And he looks up at me, almost fierce, and says, [
he’s still upset by what David said
] “Look, stop it, Dad.” Just like that. “Stop it, Dad.” Well, I’m hurt. I say, “What? Stop what?” And he says, “Stop worrying! Look, if people don’t tell you things, it’s only because they love you!” And I think, “Whoa!” I think, “Oh my God, David.” And I look out at the big rainy sky above the big rainy town and I think, well, that’s that for me and David, then. We’ve had it.
    [
Cello
]
    [
Dead
] I wish he’d stop. I do really.
    Scene Four: the cello is playing something mournful throughout the scene; as the scene progresses, we realise this is a good thing, but at first it is ambiguous. John is having another look at the records; he’s hurt
    [
He flips
] So these ARE Kaff’s records, then. I asked her sister and she told me. [
Flip
] Apparently, she loved them, but she used to hide them from me, you know, the usual thing: protect John by lying to him; protect John by excluding him; don’t tell him anything and then say it was love and concern what stopped you. I mean, if she was here, I’d have a right go at her. You know what she thought? Well, I reckon she thought if I heard these records, I’d get upset remembering my horrible old dad, and how he was so “cruel” to me when I wanted a cello. So she shared them with David instead, and the upshot is – and this is dead funny, this is – the upshot is he now plays “Air on a Bloody G String” all day and all night, so it didn’t work, Kaff, did it? It didn’t work in any case! That’s what you call irony, that is. Oh what a mess. Blimey, I’d of been able to cope with a bit of Paul Tortelier once in a while, Kaff. I’m just a bit of a worrier; I’m not a bloody psycho.
    It wasn’t easy, but I went and asked Mrs Watson what the hell was going on, like. I was sick of it. There’s this boy in the house, see, this lovely boy, and I’ve been loyally defending him against everyone, saying he’s doing brilliantly, coping brilliantly, handling it, but it turns out, I’m not being funny, I’ve only been doing that because I’m stupid. So I say, all right, Mrs Watson, you tell me. Here’s the theories so far. I produce this list. [
Rustle of paper
] They may entertain you in their diversity, if nothing else, I say. [
Ahem
] All right, David plays all the time because [
reads]:
    One. He’s a nutter, like his dad – no, listen, I’m not being funny.
    Two. He’s communing in some morbid way with his dead mum.
    Three. [
He likes this one
] He’s successfully taking his mind off his dead mum by concentrating on practical matters such as bow technique.
    Four. [
He hates this one
] He’s being brave for his dad’s sake.
    And five – oh yeah, I threw this one in, for good measure – he just happens to really like the cello.
    [
Paper folded up
] Well, she’s dead angry, as it happens. She doesn’t like my list at all. She implies it’s none of the above, like, and things get a bit heated. “Do you actually listen to him playing?” she keeps saying. “Listen?” I say. [
Scoffing
] “Of course I listen. Not much option in a house that size. I’m just glad he didn’t choose the alpine horn, mate, that’s the only thing that could of made it worse.” “He wants you to hear him, John, THAT’S WHY HE PLAYS ,” she says. And I say, [
exasperated
] “Look, I hear him all the time!” “No you don’t!” she says. “All right, John, what do you FEEL when you hear him playing?” “Oh, don’t you start!” I say,