Joss Stirling - The Silence

‘You went to see Humanhood with Hazel at Saddler’s Wells last week,’ said Louis.

‘Doesn’t mean I had the first idea what their performance was all about. I just went to admire the dancers.’

‘See what I have to contend with?’ said Louis in a stage whisper. ‘He ogles Rudí Cole and then comes back home to me.’

Cole?

‘The most gorgeous dancer God made.’

‘But he probably doesn’t give as good back rubs as you,’ said Kris consolingly.

‘He probably does.’

They both gave sad sighs in unison. These guys were such a good duo.

‘OK, enough, Petrushka . What’s it about?’ asked Kris.

Jenny’s fingers danced over the keys as they read over her shoulder. Weird Russian story. Starts at a fair – usual street scene – then a puppeteer arrives with three marionettes – Petrushka, who’s this kind of the fool figure in Russian stories, the ballerina, and the Moor.

‘The Moor?’

Totally not PC these days, but this was made up around 1910 in Russia. The dance suggests a love triangle between the three. Petrushka loves the ballerina, the ballerina fancies the Moor, and the Moor prefers his coconut tree.

‘I see what you mean about not very PC. What do they do with it these days for schools?’

Jenny shrugged. Her business was the music not the visuals. And then it gets wacky.

‘Only then?’

The next act is inside Petrushka’s box – very surreal. The one after that is in the Moor’s room where, after worshipping his coconut, he gets it on with the ballerina, breaking Peeping-Tom Petrushka’s heart.

‘And children watch this?’

That last part’s implied. I’m more worried by the messages they get from the coconut bit. Last act the Moor chases Petrushka back to the fair and kills him for interrupting. The crowd is about to turn on the Moor but the puppeteer points out Petrushka is just a doll. He carries the slain mannikin back to the puppet wagon. Jenny was enjoying herself. She had always liked this bizarre story with its shifting perspectives.

‘Is that the end?’

In a poorer ballet it would be, but no! She grinned, fingers hovering.

‘Stop teasing us. Tell us how it finishes.’

The puppeteer is now alone and the stars are out. The spirit of Petrushka rises from the doll for a final defiant gesture. You are left wondering what is real and what is not? Was Petrushka to be considered a doll or human? And then, it’s all a show anyway so what do we believe? Everyone was acting roles.

‘Very Russian,’ said Louis. ‘Anguished and melancholy. I blame vodka and long winters.’

It’s beautiful. There’s a fantastic chord in the middle that’s known as the Petrushka chord. Two major triads clash – it’s really bold.

‘I guess we aren’t talking Chinese gangs?’ said Kris.

She elbowed him. C major and F# major.

‘I forget when I look at my hardest worker cleaning the tables that she had all this culture at her fingertips,’ said Louis.

‘And when she looks at her boss, she probably forgets that she’s looking at one of London’s top Jazz vocalists,’ said Kris.

We are all overlooked treasures.

‘If we weren’t on duty that would be the cue for the group hug.’ Louis stacked their empties on a tray and got up. ‘Unfortunately, us overlooked treasures have overlooked customers to serve.’ A small queue of early birds had gathered by the till with only Frieda to serve them.

Kris put his hand on Jenny’s arm before she followed. ‘I hope you like the house, Jenny, but I think it’s a bit of an acquired taste. If you have any problems with Bridget or Jonah, let me know, OK? I can talk to them for you.’

She patted his cheek in thanks and blew him a kiss.

‘I can’t help worrying about you!’ he called as she moved away to her cleaning station.

All the guys in her life seemed to feel that way. She’d prefer someone just to love her but that didn’t appear to be on the horizon. A selfish schoolboy ex and two gay pals: not promising prospects. She really should make the effort to get back on the dating circuit. Now she had a nice place to bring someone home to without Harry looming in the corridor, maybe she would.

Today I’ll go beyond the front gate.

Duster in hand, Bridget stood at the window of Jenny’s bedroom gazing down the path to the untrodden green beyond. This room had the best view of Blackheath; hers looked out on the garden, to the lilac tree and the shrubbery, a closed, safe prospect. She came in here at least once a day to challenge herself.

I’ll put on my coat, make sure I have my keys in my handbag, and I will go for a walk in Greenwich Park. Simple. Nothing to fear in that. I remember the park well and it won’t have changed too much, not that little red brick museum on the hilltop with the absurd ball on the roof. I’ll watch the tourists straddling the line marking Greenwich Mean Time, holding sticks up to take selfies. Ridiculous, funny people. They’ll make me laugh. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

Admiral Jack had built the house here because it sat on the exact same longitude as the observatory. Bridget imagined the line running through her front door, through this room, and out through the lilac tree, hopping over the fence and continuing beyond. It was like Mercury, messenger of the gods, circling the globe so fast you only saw the grass bending in his wake. It linked her to all those foreign countries that lay on the same line on the map: France, Spain, Algeria, Burkina Faso. Who lived in Burkina Faso? It sounded as made up as Timbuktu, which was also a real place apparently, in Mali, another country on the Prime Meridian. Ghana, Togo, the long stretch of the Atlantic and finally Antarctica. Bridget closed her eyes, summoning up the eerie vastness of the southernmost continent. Her husband’s great-uncle had died with Scott somewhere out there. His family were full of people who went on adventures and never came back. The empire was casual about its sons. The Jack dynasty never learnt the lesson that it was safer to stay at home.

She idly wiped a fingerprint off the pane. Her new tenant must have tried to open it but the lower sash was broken. Only the upper one slid on its ropes. Bridget pulled it down a little to let some fresh air into the room. Jenny used a strong perfume; Bridget could still smell it even though her lodger had left several hours ago. Jenny favoured that fake strawberry scent that was in so many of the cheaper deodorants. Bridget found it unpleasant but she could hardly ask the girl to change something so personal.

Bridget emptied the bin into the plastic bag she carried. What were dead poppies doing in there? She should remember to mention to Jenny that there was a compost heap behind the gardener’s shed and not to use the waste basket for recyclables. She hadn’t yet made up her mind about her new lodger. Change was not easy, not for Bridget. Kris had filled the house with his booming bass and his immoderate laughter. She’d like the military forthrightness he brought to every situation, the precision with which he’d made his bed and folded his towels. He played his new songs to her, flattered her outrageously, and managed to head off any arguments with some novel distraction techniques learned from his army days. Her favourite was when he had prevented her bickering with Norman about who was suffering from the worst aches and pains by throwing his prosthetic at them both. As a dramatic gesture it had been priceless. She and Norman had been properly shamed into not mentioning health matters on a Tuesday again. In fact, it had been solemnly entered into the list of house rules right at the bottom. Number twenty-four: thou shalt not moan about thy health in company.