It’s the long silences that are hardest to bear.
Yet when sounds come: a burst of bird song; the rain on the roof; the wind through the eaves, I envy their melodies and rhythms. They remind me of the past when I too had the power of sound and could lift hearts, raise spirits and move people to tears. Each time my memories are stirred, the silence below becomes more oppressive.
I’ve been propped up against this old trunk for too long. There’s a pain in my neck, my whole body aches and my joints are stiff. Sometimes the sun finds my tiny attic window and gently warms me, but its visits are too rare and they no longer ward off the cold and the damp.
Voices
Startled, I listen to some new intriguing sounds below. They ebb and flow. Doors open and snap shut, drawers slide on their runners.
The noises get louder and I’m aware of movement through my floor. Hard shoes run up the wooden stairs. Suddenly, the attic door flies open, its hinges squeaking, making waves through the still air. The dust on top of the trunk, settled for so long, lifts then falls back over me.
“What a glory hole! Probably not even worth sorting and cleaning!”
Her voice unsettles me. Not because it’s close, but because it’s familiar. It’s lighter, maybe younger, but it strikes chords in my memory.
“It stinks too!” Another voice. More shrill in tone but again I feel sure I should recognize it.
“Fresh air’s what it needs. Does that window open?”
The hem of her dress brushes against me as her footsteps cross the floor. The warm light is blocked. The window is stiff and it creaks with age as it is pushed open, then the warmth returns with a gentle breeze.
Their steps echo harshly on the bare boards as they move round the attic.
“Well if it isn’t your Granddad’s old trunk of treasures!”
A nasty scraping sound. They are moving my support and I tumble over and over. When I come to a rest, I’m relieved to find nothing is broken but the warming light no longer falls on me and now I’m hidden in the dark.
“Granddad would disappear up here and rummage in this trunk for absolutely
ages. Sometimes he’d just sit on it and stare out of the window.
“Is it locked?”
“Let’s find out.
The lid of the trunk yawns wide to reveal its secrets. There is a rustling of papers and a scattering of boxes.
“Most of this is before my time, even before he met your Gran.”
“Why is there all this music?”
“He loved his music did your Granddad. He used to play up here and when he got started it could be hours later before he would come back down.”
A tremor runs through me. Yes, I remember him too and a yearning fills me for past sounds: gentle waltzes rising and falling, one.. two.. three, one..
two.. three; simple haunting tunes with melodic lines that went on for ever; pounding, pulsating marches telling of glory and comrades fallen … but not forgotten.
And then like the links in a chain these memories lead me on to other times we had spent together. Those magic moments of quiet anticipation. The sound of starched shirts crackling and half-controlled coughs. And we were not alone - I can feel them all around me even now.
Heightened tension then glorious, triumphant sound everywhere, rhythmic, throbbing, advancing to crescendos, retreating to diminuendos, faint in the distance, close at hand. With intricate shades of light and dark that filled me with sensation until there was no room for any more and I wanted to cry out:
“Enough! Let me rest.”
And that is all I can do now. Rest. He slowed down and those beautiful riots of harmony and vibration became less and less frequent. Then eventually he lost the strength to play at all. Even quietly, by himself. He would sometimes hum the tunes as he sat on the trunk. He nursed me then but it was not the same.
As time passed, the memories became dim and the longing diminished. Then he stopped visiting. I could still hear him below but becoming more and more subdued. I turned to the sounds outside for company as all became silent downstairs.
“What’s this, Mum?”
I am in the air. Small hands grab me, holding me awkwardly, turning me round and round. Soft lips apply themselves to my mouth, a sleeve wipes off the dust, then the mouth tries again. She blows vigorously. I do my best with the untutored breath she gives me but all I can manage is an awful shrieking sound. I feel ashamed. Her soft hands grip me cruelly. She strains me almost to breaking point where I should be touched gently with the sort of love and care that will leave me tingling with pleasure.
“Not like that, Julie! Give it to me and I’ll show you how to do it.”
“Hang on, Mum, give me a chance. I’ll get it in a minute.”
There is more vigorous blowing into my mouth. Fingers hammer down on me in a meaningless order I can do nothing with. I scream with a pain I can’t control.
“Give it here. You’ll never get anywhere like that.”
Her voice has a sharpness to it now, but as she lifts me out of the hands of the young tormentor, I know that these are hands that have learnt how to hold me. I remember the touch.
A soft and generous mouth comes to me. Warm, sweetly scented breath flows into me creating a mellow sound that moulds us together in one long note.
“I didn’t know you could play, Mum.”
The soft kiss goes away. I call out.
“I remember you! Don’t give up. We’ve hardly begun. I love to feel your lips against me. Give me time to get used to you. I’ll get better. Please try again. Don’t go.”
“Your Granddad gave me some lessons when I was about your age but I never really became any good. It takes lots of practice and I never seemed to have the time.”
“How can you say that.” I scream silently at her. “What other purpose can there be but to make lovely sounds. Why couldn’t you see that then and why can’t you see that now! Don’t give up again. I’ll try really hard for you. Just give me your lips again and give me some of your gentle life.”
“Could you teach me, Mum?”
“I don’t know enough and anyway you don’t settle at anything for more than five minutes.”
“Oh, please Mum. It was Granddad’s.”
My spirits rise. She could learn, with time. Somehow, he would help her.
“Take me from this place, take me home with you.”
But the hard window ledge replaces the softness of her fingers. My plea is unheard and I am dismissed as she pulls the window shut.
“I don’t think so. It really is no use to us. Come on, Julie. We must be on our way. It can go to house clearance with the rest.
The attic door squeaks again, the footsteps disappear down the stairs. They are gone and I am rejected.
I feel exposed by the window. I miss the old trunk that had kept me company throughout those long months. Re-awakened memories are more painful in the restored silence. There is an emptiness too. She doesn’t want me, and it hurts.
But then this silence is brutally broken. Raucous sounds come bursting in, drowning all others. Bursts of machinery roar outside. Then a growling all the way up the drive. A cacophony of bawling and banging, clanking and crashing comes from everywhere with the moving of furniture and the ripping up of carpets.
I hope they do not find my attic. But they come thudding up to my door. They move quickly and the dust swirls. I am grabbed round the throat, rolled in a moldy blanket and my journey begins.
The movement is constant. I find myself in a droning machine which jerks and sways. I’m grateful for the blanket that keeps me from harm and muffles the roar.
The jolting stops. There are many different voices. My protector and I part company. Rough hands grasp me and toss me with little care from surface to surface. I’m moved from one noisy place to another.
In rare moments of stillness, I try to recall those marvellous waves of sound and vibration that had been part of me. But they are all so far away that they bring little relief. I wonder if I will ever know harmony again.
Now I am by another window. The sun scorches me and the air is again full of growling. A constant reminder of my journey. The insistent roar leaves no room for half-remembered melodies.
Occasionally, I am lifted up, held, turned, inspected. All sorts of hands; often rough and uncaring but occasionally kind. These kind hands understand my feelings. They hold me with respect, cradle me comfortably.
These are the ones I call out to.
“Take me away from here. I can’t bear it any longer. There are no melodies. There is only a roar and my body is cracking with the scorching sun.”
But they come and depart without me. Sometimes I feel their lips against me and I try to make my sweetest sounds for them. But they leave alone. I feel ashamed and used.
One day, the scorching sun is replaced by a gentle warmth. The season has changed; with little light outside, the window is lit by bright bulbs. A soft nest has been made for me to lie on and the pain in my body recedes a little.
Above the roar outside, I begin to hear more familiar sounds. Songs and harmonies, even a band. More hands come to look at me.
I know straight away that she’s for me. There’s an instant connection between us. She doesn’t ask to see anyone else. Only me. She lifts me gently from my resting place and holds me close. From her hesitant touch I wonder how much she knows and whether I will be able to sing for her. But her touch is full of respect and kindness and I am reassured.
I am aware of deep voices talking of me then I am taken from her and placed on soft velvet in a bed that fits perfectly. Another journey. A gentle hum replaces the roar and I feel that I am safe. I am taken somewhere warm and laid under a tree until morning. From my cradle, I hear happy sounds and cheerful music. I so want to be a part of it. I feel lonely though and desperately want her to touch and hold me again. As my eagerness grows, it is hard to be patient.
Now excited voices, ripping paper, happy laughter. Now quieter. Footsteps move towards me gently across the carpet. She comes closer and then lifts my box from under the tree. Opening it, she caresses me with the back of her finger.
“Now for your Christmas present.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
She rubs me with a soft damp cloth. The liquid she uses soaks into me and, as if by magic, the aching cracks melt into my memory as a bad dream at the first light of morning. I begin to feel better.
She rubs me all over, adjusts a little bit of me here, eases a little bit there. Some cleansing oil for one part and a gentle change of position for another.
And all the time she talks, telling me what she is doing, dispelling my fears.
“You looked so unhappy there in the shop window. You’ve been in the wars but I just knew that you could look beautiful with a little bit of care. Will you play for me beautifully when you are well again.”
“Yes! Yes!” I shout out to her, willing her to hear me. Anything she wants, I will do for her. Anything at all.
She leaves me, but I know it won’t be for long. She’s not far away. I hear her footsteps coming back into the room and sense her peering at me. I know she wants to be with me.
Would she wait if she knew how I long to feel her lips against me. To feel her young breath fill me with life. But I know she’s doing what’s best for me.
Her gentle hands take me again but this time her fingers move fleetingly over my body to prepare me. Her lips come to me in a long drawn out caress and as her breath comes into me, I return to a time that I thought I had forgotten.
Lightly her fingers run up and down me sounding the scales. She is teasing, testing me. Listening for weaknesses. Measuring strengths. Then arpeggios, rising and falling, loud then soft. Brilliant major chords then somber minors. My whole body is full of vibration. I feel the column of air inside me reach out and join with the air in her throat and her chest until she and I are playing as one. A wild exaltation fills me as I realize her hands are experienced beyond her years. It is a wonderful but terrifying thing to be played like this again.
Then, unbelievably, she moves to a higher plane and takes up a folk jig. I swoop up in fast triplets then the notes toss and tumble. I tremble as I respond to her touch and breath. She challenges me, forces me to reach right down into the furthest corners of my experience. Her playing draws out of me more than just a tune; the past and present unite.
Then, somehow, I am aware that we are no longer alone - others are listening. Quietly, her family has crept in, not wanting to disturb the moment. I sense their approval, their pride and their love. I feel her happiness and theirs. At last I know my days of solitude and silence are past. Soon my music will again reach the ears of many as it did before.
Slowly she lets the sounds of the music subside but I know music like that can never disappear. I may be a simple wooden flute but, in her soft hands, my sounds will once again mingle with the great harmonies of all time.
The End
© Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2007, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
