'I was in bed with the viola teacher for what turned out to be the last time, when the doorbell rang. We had moved on to talking about exam pieces, certain pupils of his, whether my daughter would need a new bow soon. He was smoking a cigarette; he would give up soon, he said, inhaling and closing his eyes, his rosin-smelling fingers laced into mine. A languid, hirsute, dishevelled man, he had a habit of leaving the ends of sentences unsaid, of always tripping over the bedroom rug, of walking about the house, barefoot, examining the photos on the walls with forensic zeal.'
This is what I wrote:
I
wasn’t expecting anyone at four-thirty in the afternoon.
`Don’t
go anywhere!’
I
rushed across the panelled room, painted toes pushing through the thick rug
like a troupe of exotic beetles, and leapt down the curved staircase of this elegant
Victorian pile I’ve inherited from Joanna, my mum. I tightened the sash on my
kimono and peered through the spy hole. It was my daughter at the door. She was
supposed to be having tea with one of her little friends.
`Just
a minute, darling!’ The slate tiles felt cold underfoot as I grabbed my purse
from the kitchen.
`What
happened?’ I opened the door a few inches and crossed my arms to keep myself
decent, caught a spike of cold sweat. `Mummy was just having a little
lie-down.’
`Hannah
wasn’t in school today. Sorry, Mummy. I didn’t know what to do.’ My daughter
hopped from one foot to the other in her black Ladybird patents.
I
pinched the inside of my lip between my teeth.
`Don’t
worry, darling. We’ll have a lovely tea here, instead- I’ve asked Mr Tipaldi
over to chat about your bow, so here, take my purse.’
I
passed it through the gap. She stopped chewing her fingertips to take it from
me. Is lefthandedness genetic? My real parents were both right-handed.
`Pop
along to that little patisserie we love on Regent’s Park Road and pick out some
cakes, sweetheart. Two each, I think, for a treat, each one different, and get them
to put them in a big enough box. And we need some more lapsang souchong tea-
you can get it in those darling little tins from the deli? And sugared almonds,
all the colours. So pretty in my new glass bowl! Everything must be just right,
so take your time! I’ll jump in the shower, while you’re gone.’
`Yes,
Mummy. Can I go and see if Sophie wants to come for tea? I’ll pass her house on
the way. I know she likes strawberry tarts the best!’
`Good
idea- you’ll have someone to play with, after. Now off you go!’
I
closed the door, put the chain on and returned upstairs.
The
room smelt of the Sobranie Black Russians he affected to smoke. Joanna used to
smoke those silly cocktail cigarettes that come in bright shades, mauve, pink
and yellow, to match her outfits. And the sugared almonds.
He
was already dressed in his crumpled linen trousers and chocolate shirt. He
never wore any underpants and disdained socks. He was staring at a framed photo
on the wall. This had been my parents’ bedroom and I hadn’t changed much,
beyond emptying the wardrobes.
`How
old were you in…?’
I
studied the ringletted child on the bare stage. She’d finished playing, had
taken her bow, was standing with her bow in one hand and her viola in the
other, head tilted, as if she was wondering what to do now. Funny language,
English, two identical nouns, pronounced entirely differently. I didn’t speak
much, when I first came into this house, was worried I’d use the wrong words or
say them wrong. But I’ve always been a quick learner.
`Seven,
I think.’
Except
it wasn’t me.
He
bent and peered closely at the photo again.
I
remembered the first time I laid eyes on her.
There
was an old music shop in Camden, near the estate. The owner lurked in the
depths of the interior. With his thick glasses and narrow teeth, he looked like
a fangtooth fish. I’d never dared venture beyond the door, but in summer he’d
sit outside on a rickety wooden chair. One day I tripped over an empty beer bottle
and cut my knee. He brought me inside and found me a plaster that had lost its
stick.
After
that he let me sit on a high stool behind the glass counter and count out the
correct change for the customers, who bought sheet music or occasionally one of
the instruments that hung on the walls. I’d have to hold the ladder, while he
fetched one down. There was a viola a customer decided against and I begged him
to give me lessons, instead of putting it back in its place. Instinctively, I took
the bow in my left hand, but he said I’d have to play right-handed. If I was
any good, I’d want to play in an orchestra, eventually. Left-handed viola
players looked so untidy; trying to seat players so as not to collide bow arms
was also notoriously difficult.
Soon
I’d come in every day after school- anything to delay going home- and as he
taught me how to play, he’d tell me stories about being sent to London just before
the war, with a label round his neck and a cardboard suitcase.
One
winter’s afternoon, my little sister arrived into the shop with Joanna. We
looked very similar, except she was a bit taller and sturdier than me and my
hair was still in the long plait I had. Before the night when my dad got on the
gear and decided to hang me high up on the wall by my hair, like one of those
musical instruments.
Joanna
wanted a left-handed viola for her daughter, but the old man didn’t have one. I
drew my sister outside, already wondering how I could contrive to swap my life for
hers. The adults were deep in conversation, discussing addresses, possibilities...
`What’s
that, there…?’ My lover pointed to a detail in the picture. `Like a love bite!’
`Allergic
to the varnish! I still always get that sore patch on my neck, when I’ve been
playing.’
`Yes,
yes,’ he said impatiently. `The princess and the pea! But you don’t play
left-handed…’
`I
know that! The mark’s on the left!’ I couldn’t understand what he meant.
`I’m
not one of your instruments, Lucy. Don’t try to play me! Cameras always reverse
the image.’
That’s
when I decided he’d have to go. But then the doorbell rang again.
