Joss Stirling - The Silence

Avoiding the pool and its battalion of early morning lengths swimmers, Jenny took a long time under the shower, soaping her body clean of the grim her house left on her. She fantasised about living somewhere completely under her control; one of those Japanese pod bedrooms would do for her, clean lines and minimal furniture. The best thing about the pod would be that she’d be alone when she chose. Completely Robinson Crusoe before Man Friday showed up alone. No need to communicate with a soul. No Harry. Just her and her music.

Her slippery fingers wandered to her throat, gentling over the scars left by surgery. A ghost of a touch still lingered; fingers squeezing, squeezing … White streaks lightninged across her lids. She dropped her hand, braced herself against the shower stall, and breathed through her nose. Not this. Concentrate on the here and now. Find something to focus on.

The ache in her neck was back. She didn’t want to think about the pain but it was better than the panic. She’d better get out of the shower and deal with it. Yes, that was good. Pain was like the conductor’s baton bringing scattered thoughts to attention.

Wrapping a soft white towel around her chest, tucked under her arms, she padded to the sinks. Filling a plastic bottle at the tap, she downed a couple of Tramadol in a gulp. It was a strong painkiller. Give it a few minutes and the relief would kick in with a little flip of pleasure; she’d feel near human again.

Tension easing, Harry struck up in her brain – her subconscious playing dress up. Other people her age liked Saturday-night parties. Why did she get in such a bloody twist about them? Mess was just mess. There were worse things in life as she well knew.

It was hard to explain to him, though, the sheer distress it caused her to find that her safe space was not safe, that Harry and her other flatmates thought it fine to let friends shag on her duvet, that they didn’t listen to her. She was screaming for help and they had their fingers in their ears.

I can’t take it any longer.

Then stop moaning and do something about it. Sometimes even subconscious Harry had good advice.

On time for her shift at the Royal Festival Hall café, Jenny set about cleaning tables with gusto. Con Forza . The seating spread far out into the acre of square-pillar-and-glass atrium and played host to a constantly shifting population of tourists and concertgoers. These faces were always different yet somehow the same, like the river in that saying about never stepping in the same one twice. School parties – the violins. Elderly couples from the home counties – the violas. Korean girls with kitten headbands or backpacks – the piccolos. American ladies with clarion tones – had to be the brass section. Each fell into their part on her imagined stave, weaving their different notes together. She was able to work quite alone for long stretches of time, absorbed in the logistics of carrying trays and discarded cups. She let music flow through her like her bloodstream. If she hadn’t had her violin to sustain her, she knew she wouldn’t have survived; it was the only thing that brought pure joy to her life. She craved it more than any lover or drug. For nothing less would she put up with crap pay and ridiculous hours. As she tidied, she let the exuberant strings part of Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn’ run through her mind. Yes, she knew that the piece had become a cliché, ruined by lifts and hold music, but it was still the best workout for a violinist’s fingers. Harry and his boxer shorts, the bathroom, the rubbish-strewn kitchen, all were blown away.

She was so absorbed in her mind-music that she didn’t see the lady who was getting up from a table behind her. Jenny collided, spilling the dregs from a teacup over them both. She stared at the lady’s stained white coat in silent horror.

‘Well, really! What’s wrong with you?’ trumpeted the customer. ‘You could at least have the decency to apologise!’

Frustration mounted inside Jenny. How to explain? God, she hated herself sometimes. She held out a cloth.

‘I’m not using that thing. This is a wool-cashmere mix!’ The woman blotted the stain with a clean tissue.

Her manager and good friend, Louis Palin, appeared at her elbow with his admirable ninja skill of sneaking up on her. Not bad for a heavyset guy the far side of forty. ‘Is something the matter, madam?’

‘Look what she did to my coat!’

‘I see – please accept our apologies. Here’s my card if you wish to contact me further about this.’

The woman grabbed her coat and the card. ‘It’s probably ruined.’

‘I sincerely hope not, madam.’

With a sniff, she exited.

‘Why the fuck is she leaving a priceless coat on the back of her chair in a canteen?’ marvelled Louis. ‘Stupid cow.’

Jenny rested her head on his shoulder and he patted her back.

‘Forget it, Jen. Women like that won’t be bothered to follow through with a claim – it takes too much time and she probably has six in her wardrobe. Sweetie, can you do a double shift today?’

Jenny nodded, eager to oblige her rescuer.

‘What do you think about doing a stint on the counter?’ asked Louis.

Jenny gave him an ‘are you sure?’ look. Not being able to speak due to the scarring on her larynx made customer-facing roles a tortuous challenge. Most musicians made ends meet as teachers but her disability meant that wasn’t an option for her. She was lucky they knew her here and looked after her.

‘We’ll give it a go, all right? See how you get on.’ Louis helped her clear the table. ‘It can’t be as bad as that woman and there’ll be others on hand if you can’t manage. It’s just that I’m really short-staffed for the pre-concert rush.’

All right for him to speak, thought Jenny, then realised the irony. See what I did there? She told subconscious Harry. I do still have a sense of humour. Just about.

‘How are you fixed for tomorrow?’

Jenny got out an iPad that she used for people who didn’t know sign language. It had revolutionised the speed of her messaging with its predictive spelling and she felt it was another instrument for her as her practised fingers flew. If she felt like it, she could even get it to talk for her, though she avoided using that function as she didn’t like any of the voices. None of them sounded like she did in her head. Rehearsal tomorrow at 11.

‘ After that?’

Can do five hours. That would leave one hour’s break before the concert. Living on breadline wages meant she had to take all the shifts she could when the orchestra was in London just to make the rent.

Which reminded her. She cleared the screen, her signal for a new subject. Do you know anyone who has a spare room? I’m going crazy.

She had told Louis something of her struggles with her current living arrangement. ‘That bad, hey?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘Funnily enough, I do know someone who’s just moved out of a place. I thought of you when he mentioned it, but it’s on Blackheath.’

Her hopes flew skyward and wheeled like doves. She waved her hand asking for more information.

‘Blackheath’s on the hill above Greenwich. I realise most the people you know are mostly central and south-west London, so I thought it would probably be too lonely for you?’

Your friend moved out? Why? She didn’t want to step into another nightmare flatmates scenario as the other person fled.

‘He’s finally seen sense and moved in with his boyfriend – which would be me.’ Louis gave her a wink. Louis had been wooing ex-serviceman turned singer-songwriter Kris for months now, using Jenny as his agony aunt through the ups and downs.

Kris had given up his old place? It must be love. Jenny tapped her right palm on her left in the sign for happy. Even Louis could understand that.