The Silence. Joss Stirling
and breathed to ease the tension in her back muscles. She tried to summon up her impressions of Tsarist Russia: bright peasant clothes, long winters, furs, puppet shows, dancing bears, sleigh rides. Ready now, she set the violin in its notch under her chin, ignoring the familiar twinge of pain, and launched into the first song. Yes! That felt good. The high ceiling flattered the sound of her violin solo. It was so much better practising here than in her old house. Reaching the end without a mistake, she held the last note.
Applause shocked her. Spinning round, she saw that she wasn’t alone as she had assumed. Jonah was on the balcony, cigarette in hand. If she could speak, she would’ve shouted at him for creeping up on her.
‘I don’t know what that was but it sounded great,’ he said easily, taking another puff. ‘Don’t mind me. I sneak out here as Mrs Whittingham doesn’t allow smoking in the house.’
The last five minutes that had felt so perfect were now tarnished by the knowledge she’d had an eavesdropper. She had thought she was sailing on her classical ocean alone and Jonah’s appearances was as shocking as a U-boat surfacing next to her. She put the violin down and gathered up her music.
‘Don’t stop.’ Jonah stubbed out the cigarette, pinched the end and slipped it in his pocket. ‘I guess I should’ve announced myself but, you see, I’m not supposed to be out here.’ He gestured to the rusting balcony. ‘Mrs Whittingham is always full of warnings of dire disaster but I figure that the vine will hold me if the ironwork doesn’t.’
Jenny told herself to slow down, not to flee as instinct was telling her. He had been here first and that it was her negligence to check that meant she’d been overheard.
‘Are you all unpacked?’
She nodded.
‘Got time for another tune?’ He pointed to the violin. ‘I’ve never been to a classical concert. Don’t you want to expand my horizons? People keep telling me they do.’
She shrugged.
He laughed and clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Jenny, you wound me. You’re saying you don’t fucking care one way or another? You’re right. No need to care about me. I was just curious. I’ll go.’
She held up a hand. She might as well try to make a friend of him if they were to live together – it would be safer that way. And it was hard for her to imagine a life that hadn’t included concerts. Going without classical music was akin to missing out on a sense.
Jonah perched back on the rail of the balcony, surely testing its strengths to the limit. He saw her aghast look.
‘Chill, Jenny. What’s life if not just another day cheating death?’
He had a point. Since her fourteenth birthday, she’d shared that philosophy. Everyone lived on borrowed time. So, what to play him? She needed a piece where the violin part was complete in itself, something in the easy listening category, and that she happened to know by heart. She settled for John Williams’ theme for Schindler’s List. If Jonah could listen to that and not weep then he had a heart of stone. Setting bow to strings, she yearned her way through the music, putting into it all the senseless pain of the tragedy it described, rising on to the balls of her feet as she did when caught up in a theme. She’d heard the piece during a televised Prom when she was a teenager and it had set her on the path to her current job, that ambition surviving even her own personal tragedy. God, she loved this: it felt like the top of her head opened and she was floating. There was nothing more powerful in life than this, not even pain, not even violence, not even love.
Jonah was still, with the pent-up tension of a predator crouching, ash drifting unregarded from cigarette tip.
The silence went unbroken when she finished, strings still resonating with the last sweet high note.
‘Fuck me, what was that?’ Despite his crudity, his voice was reverential. ‘It was amazing. Can I stream it?’
She nodded and jotted down the name of the piece.
‘John Williams. Is he the same as the Star Wars guy?’
She drew a tick.
‘Amazing – I know something about music. I’ve surprised myself. Can we talk without this?’ Jonah tapped the iPad.
She made the gestures for ‘Do you know sign language?’.
He followed her hands like he was studying her. ‘Is that sign language?’
Duh, yes. She nodded.
‘Teach me.’ He patted the spot on the rail next to him. ‘Come on, it’s nice out here. Trust me, it’s not given way yet and won’t tonight.’
Jenny was wryly aware that the dynamics of the playground were in operation. He was daring her, seeing if she was on his side or Bridget-the-rule-maker’s. She’d hated that when she’d been a schoolgirl; she wasn’t much fonder of it now. Putting down the violin – she wasn’t risking that – she stepped out onto the balcony. It creaked a little which made her gasp.
‘Steady now.’ Jonah caught her sleeve before she could retreat. ‘It’s just adjusting.’
There were no more creaks so she perched next to him, her back supported by the thick stem of the vine. She’d already planned to grab that if the balcony gave way. Jonah didn’t appear to need such reassurance. He sat with nothing but a drop behind him.
She held up her index finger. First sign. She ran through the basics: yes, no, please, thank you, ‘how are you?’, ‘what do you want?’. He mastered them quickly.
‘We’re studying movement at drama school,’ he said, which might explain his aptitude. ‘I should ask them to include this. Give me something, I dunno, emotional? Can you swear in sign language?’
Of course. She gave him a few of the mild ones.
‘That’s “wanker”? Right, I’m using that tomorrow. There are a few of the other students who really deserve that.’
She made another sign.
‘What’s that?’
She typed the translation. Be careful. You never know who understands.
‘It’s OK. They expect that kind of language – and worse – from me. So how did you lose your voice? Bridget said it was an illness. Was it cancer?’
He certainly tackled things head on. She shook her head and made the universal sign for ‘goodbye’.
‘You’re going? OK, sorry for being so nosey. Thanks for the song. The cast and crew are going to think I’ve gone all uptown when they hear that playing in my dressing room.’
Jenny contemplated trying to explain to him how music wasn’t the preserve of the posh but decided she wasn’t up to challenging the commonly held view tonight. She made a final sign combination.
‘What’s that.’ Jonah watched her lips. ‘Sweet dreams?’
She nodded.
‘Never had any of those, but thanks, Jenny. Goodnight.’
The House that Jack Built – Chapter Two – Foundations
The turf peeled away revealing the black soil beneath. In the first spadeful – not that anyone noticed – was a scrap of ribbon let fall by a careless maid who once attended the fair on this very spot. She should never have trusted the promises of her sailor. Next came a penny from Sir Thomas Wyatt’s pocket. He dropped it when he pulled out gold coins to bribe his flagging supporters as his rebellion against Mary Tudor faltered. Further digging turned over the blood, sweat and tears of yet more thwarted revolutionaries: Lord Audley, the Yorkists, Jack Cade, Wat