Practising Night 1962 Poem by Terry Collett

Did you sleep well?
Yochana's mother
asked Benedict
at the breakfast table
next morning.

Yochana sat opposite;
her father sat
at the other end.

Yes,
very well,
Benedict said,
looking at Yochana shyly,
then at her father
who was reading
a newspaper.

Good,
that is
what I like to hear,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict,
then Yochana.

Benedict smiled
weakly.

Yochana had crept
to the bedroom where Benedict
had been place,
making sure her parents
were asleep first,
her parents snored
so it was a good sign
all was clear to move
across the landing
to the room carefully,
and close the door softly.

Benedict was surprised
to see her enter the room,
and close the door
and leaving them
both in darkness,
he was even more surprised
when she entered
the bed beside him,
and snuggled up to him.

Must be quiet,
she said,
or Mum will hear.

He lay there
feeling her
touch him.

She unbuttoned
his nightwear
and felt around.

Do you want to?
She asked
in a whisper.

Want to what?
He asked,
gazing at her outline
in the light
from a street light.

Kiss,
she said,
here,
out of their sight.

That is a good
room and bed,
the mother said,
breaking into
Benedict's thoughts,
we have guests there
when we have any.

Yochana gazed
at Benedict,
she had been unnerved
creeping across
the landing to the room
where Benedict was,
but she wanted to
be with him,
be near him.

They had kissed
in the bed together,
she had unbuttoned
his nightwear,
then didn't know
what to do next,
so kissed him.

They lay there
beside each other.

They listened
for sounds.

He kissed her.
He felt her thigh.

Felt unsure
of himself.

Sometimes we have
guests who come
after concerts,
the mother said,
Yochana will give
concerts one day,
won't you dear?

Yochana looked
at her mother,
dismissing the image
of Benedict
beside her in bed.

Yes,
I hope to,
she said.

Yes,
she is a good pianist,
Benedict said,
I have heard her
at school.

Practice and practice
is what she must do,
the mother said.

The father said nothing.

He turned another page
of the newspaper.

Yes,
practice,
Benedict said,
that's the thing,
eyeing Yochana,
thinking of her and him,
practising,
practising.