The Silence. Joss Stirling
stating the obvious to say that he was much easier-going. Any communication with her was so bloody frustrating – she could hardly blame them. But she’d have to try harder, find people who would understand her need to withdraw into herself at times and not take it personally, but be there for her when she felt like mixing. Did people like that exist in London? And how did you find them?
Jenny flushed the loo and washed her hands in the tiny basin, splashing the floor as everyone did. She air-dried her fingers, having noticed that the towel was a scrunched-up biohazard. She’d been working last night but her housemates probably wouldn’t have invited her anyway. The party had still been going strong when she returned from her late shift. She’d been majorly pissed off to find people grazing on each other on the stairs, cans sprouting like cylindrical mushrooms on every ledge, raucous mating calls in the lounge – all signs of the weird party wildlife of the urban jungle. She had to chuck two rutting lovers off her futon and secure the sliding door with the flimsy lock. Then she had to rip the sheets off the bed, put on clean ones, and set the room to rights, frantic that her safe space had been violated. Only then had she been able to go to bed.
To sleep? That was a joke. With the noise she hadn’t managed that till three, barricaded inside her room.
She steeled herself to face the carnage that would be the kitchen. Some letting company was running a campaign on the Underground about the annoyance of passive-aggressive notes from aggrieved flatmates, suggesting all you need do was find a new place to stop the nagging. As if it were that easy to move. In her case, she didn’t know how far she’d have to go to get through to her flatmates. She’d need at least a passive-aggressive billboard to get the attention of the people that shared the same space with her. Three Billboards Outside Ebbisham Drive. She could see them clearly: black words on red on the approach from the Underground. Clean Up! Do Not Leave Your Sick For Others To Find! Put Out Your Rubbish! They probably wouldn’t notice. The place was beyond saving. The landlord kept packing in more tenants, subdividing rooms with flimsy partitions. Her garden view window now had a plasterboard wall down the middle, leaving her just half to look out on the wheelie bins and broken paving slabs. No one complained as it was that or have the rent increased. Yet the more people moved in, the greater the pressure on Jenny, like the person crushed at the front against a barrier as the crowd surged behind her. Hard now to remember that it had started out so well as a flat share – just three of them, Harry, Luke and Jenny, friends from the orchestra; but the centre of gravity had shifted as Harry and Luke brought in more people to satisfy the landlord’s rampant greed. Now there were six, five men and her, and personal responsibility for the house had become so diluted it no longer had any meaning.
Jenny would no longer count herself a friend of Harry, or Luke for that matter.
I’m going to find a new place today. It’s that or throw myself in the Thames. And that’s not a joke.
So what was the damage? She opened the kitchen door. It was worse than she feared. She couldn’t eat breakfast in there.
‘Morning, sunshine,’ said Harry, coming out of the front room, his good mood an insult. Adjusting waistband elastic, he shuffled past in the music notation boxers that she’d given him that first Christmas in a Secret Santa.
She gave him now a single finger. He was usually the one to invite the guests to his famous impromptu parties and there were probably several left with him on the couch in various states of undress. He was proud of being adventurous in his love-making. Horn players had to live up to the jokes, he claimed.
‘Now, now, Jenny. No need to be jealous.’ He folded his six-foot plus frame into the too-small toilet and locked the door. At least she’d got in there first before he stank the place out.
This is making me into a horrid person, thought Jenny, turning her back on the kitchen. She couldn’t cope with that. I used to be happy, fun-loving, now I’m cast as the household Grinch. She plodded upstairs.
Hearing more retching from the main bathroom, the urge to escape reached boiling point. She grabbed a set of clean clothes, toiletries and her violin from her room. Life in the flat had devolved to the stage where she didn’t dare leave her instrument, fearing someone would throw up on it or use it as a cricket bat in one of their ‘hilarious’ drunken games. It was worth more than a year’s rent in London. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, the instrument case over the other, she hurried out of the house, and headed by bus for the sanctuary of the Brixton Recreation Centre.
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