The Box Room and Scales
She hadnt gone into the box room hunting for memories; she was simply looking for a jar of pickled onions to liven up the salad. Up on the top shelf, behind the tangle of Christmas lights, there was a corner of a case that most certainly shouldnt have existed in her flat anymore. The cloth was faded, and the zip stuck halfway. She tugged, and out slid a long, slender shapethe violin case, narrow as a stretched shadow.
She set the jar on a stool near the door, so as not to forget it, and crouched down, almost as if not standing made choosing easier. On the third try, the stubborn zip gave way. Inside, nestled amongst velvet gone dull, sat her violin. The glaze had worn in places, the strings drooped, the bow looked more like a worn broom than an instrument. Yet the shape was unmistakable, and something clicked inside her chesta bit like a light coming on.
She remembered lugging this very case across their neighbourhood back in Year Eleven, awkward and self-conscious, certain she must look ridiculous. Later came college, the job, the wedding; one day she simply stopped going to music lessons, there was another life that needed doing. The violin had gone to her parents for safe keeping, then moved with the rest when she got her own place. Now it sat in the box room, not unloved, not lostjust forgotten.
She lifted it gingerly, as though it might crumble. Despite the chill in the little storage room, the wood seemed warm against her palm. Her fingers automatically found the neck, and she felt a flicker of discomfort: her hand didnt remember how to hold it, as if it were some strangers possession.
The kettle in the kitchen was just starting to boil. She got up, closed the box room, but left the case where it was, propped in the hallway. She went to turn off the hob. Maybe the salad could do without onions, after all. She realised she was already making excuses.
That evening, with the plates washed and nothing left on the kitchen table save a few crumbs and a mug, she fetched the violin case into the sitting room. Her husband was flicking through the telly channels, not paying attention to anything in particular. He glanced up.
Whatve you found there?
Violin, she replied, surprised by her own calmness.
Oh? Is it still kicking? he smirked, gently teasing in that familiar sort of way.
Not sure. Ill see.
She opened the case on the sofa, laying an old tea towel beneath to protect the fabric. Out came the violin, the bow, and the little box of rosinsplit and cracked like thawing ice. She ran the bow across it; the hair barely scraped the surface.
Tuning was its own humiliation. The pegs stubborn, the strings screeching, one snapping and flicking her finger. She cursed quietly, not wanting the neighbours to hear. Her husband chuckled.
Maybe best leave it to the shop?
Maybe, she agreed, but her frustration wasnt at himit was at herself, for not even knowing how to tune anymore.
She found a tuner app on her mobile and set it on the coffee table. Letters danced on the screen, the needle jumping. She twisted a peg, listened while the tone dropped or soared too high. Her shoulder stiffened; her fingertips ached with unfamiliar effort.
When finally the strings no longer shrieked like wires in the wind, she raised the violin to her chin. The chinrest was coldthe skin on her neck felt raw. She tried to stand straighter, just as shed been taught, but her back wasnt obliging. She laughed at herself.
Going to treat me to a concert, are you? her husband asked, eyes still on the television.
For you, she said. Brace yourself.
The first note startled herno proper pitch, just a complaint, the bow tremulous, her hand failing to keep a straight line. She paused, took a breath, tried againit sounded a touch better, but shame lingered.
A grown-up sort of shame, unfamiliar. Not like the old adolescent embarrassment that made you feel like all the world was watching: the world wasnt watching, only the walls, her husband, her own doubting hands.
She played open strings, slow and counted, as when she was young. Then attempted a D major scaleher left hands fingers tangled and unsure. She couldnt recall where her second finger was meant to go, nor her third. Her fingertips had grown thick and blunted, the skin too soft now, lacking that familiar sting.
Never mind, her husband said gently. You know these things take time.
She nodded, not really sure who he was reassuringher, himself, or the violin.
Next day, she ventured to the repair shop near the high street. It wasnt romantic: glass doors, a counter, guitars and violins hanging along the wall, and the familiar scent of polish and dust. The lad behind the desk, earring glinting, took her instrument with the confidence of a tradesman.
These stringsll need replacing, he said. Pegs want a bit of grease, bridge could do with adjusting. Bow could use new hair, though that costs a bit.
Hearing costs a bit left a knot in her stomach. Rent, prescriptions, her granddaughters birthday giftall flashed through her mind. She almost replied Just leave it, but instead asked:
Could we just do the strings and bridge for now?
Course. Shell play alright.
She left the violin with him, took the receipt and tucked it in her purse. Walking out, she felt as if shed handed over more than just an instrumentshed left a piece of herself, hoping itd come back in working order.
Back home, she opened her laptop and searched violin lessons for adults. The phrase made her laughadults, as if they were a rare species who required softer, slower instruction.
She found adverts: some promised results in a month, others personalised approach. She shut the window, spooked by all the bold claims, then reopened it and finally messaged a female teacher from one neighbourhood over. Short and simple: Hello. Im 52. Would like to regain some skills. Is it possible?
After sending, regret came swiftly. She wished she could delete it, as if it were a confession of weakness. But it was sent.
That evening her son dropped by. He came into the kitchen, greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, inquired about work. She put the kettle on, brought out the digestives. Her son spied the case in the corner.
That a violin? he asked, genuine surprise in his voice.
Yes. Found it. Thinking Id give it a try.
Really, Mum? he smilednot mocking, just a bit baffled. Its been ages.
Ages, she agreed, so I want to.
He sat, rolling a biscuit in his fingers. Why though? Youre always tired as it is.
She felt an old urge stirringthe need to justify herself, defend, argue she had a right. But explanations always sounded limp.
I dont know, she admitted. I just want to.
Her son studied her, seeing not just the mum who always coped, but a woman wanting something for herself.
Alright then, he said. Just take it easy. And spare the neighbours.
She giggled.
Theyll cope. Ill play in the daytime.
When he left, she felt lighternot because he gave permission, but because she hadnt explained, hadnt apologised.
Two days later she collected the violin from the shop. The new strings shone, the bridge was straight. The repairman explained how to tighten and store it properly.
And keep well away from the radiator, he warned. Best in the case.
She nodded obediently. At home, she placed the case on a chair, opened it, just lookedalmost afraid to ruin it all again.
Her first exercise was the simplest: long, slow bows on open strings. As a child, this was tedious punishment; now, it was salvation. No tune, no judgement, just sound and a try at keeping it even.
After ten minutes her shoulder ached, her neck stiffened. She stopped, packed away the violin. Frustration simmerednot at the violin, but at her body, her age, the way everything took more.
She went into the kitchen, poured water, watched teenagers whizz past the playground outside on scooters, shrieking with laughter. She envied themnot their youth, but their shamelessness. They fell, picked themselves up, tried again, never considering it was too late to learn balance.
She returned to the sitting room and reopened the case. Not because she felt she must, but to avoid ending on resentment.
The teacher replied that evening: Hello. Of course its possible. Come by and well start with posture and simple exercises. Age isnt a barrier, just takes patience. She read it twice. The word patience felt honestand so it brought comfort.
She went to her first lesson holding the case like something precious. On the train, people glanced, some smiled. She caught their glances and thought, let them. Let them see.
The teacher was a small woman, about forty, cropped brown hair, sharp, kind eyes. The room contained a piano, music books stacked on shelves, a child-sized violin perched on a stool.
Lets have a look, she said, gently, and invited her to pick up the violin.
She didand it was apparent that her arm, chin, and wrist held everything awkwardly.
No matter, the teacher said. You havent played in ages. Lets just stand here first. The violin isnt your enemy.
She wanted to laugh and blush: learning to hold a violin properly at fifty-two. But there was something liberating in the act. No one expected her to be goodonly that she be present.
Afterwards her hands trembled as if after PE. The teacher gave instructions: ten minutes a day on open strings, then scales, nothing more. Less, but often, she advised.
At home, her husband asked, Howd it go?
Hard, she replied, but alright.
Are you happy?
She pondered. Happy wasnt quite the word. It felt anxious, a bit foolish, a bit exposedand unexpectedly bright.
Yes, she said. Feels like Im doing something with my hands again. Not just working and cooking.
A week passed before she dared attempt a familiar tune from childhood. She found the sheet music online, printed it at work, stashed it in her folder to avoid colleagues questions. At home she set up a makeshift music stand using a book and a box.
The notes wobbled; sometimes the bow caught the other string, her fingers missed their marks. Shed stop, start over. Then, her husband peered in.
You know, thats… rather nice, he said, as if afraid to break the magic.
Dont lie, she teased.
Im not. Its recognisable.
She smiled. Recognisablealmost a compliment.
Her granddaughter visited that weekend, six years old, and clocked the case at once.
Grandma, whats that?
Violin.
Can you play?
She wanted to say, Once but for her granddaughter, there was only now.
Im learning, she said.
Her granddaughter perched on the sofa, hands folded in her lap as though at a school recital.
Play something.
Her nerves knottedplaying for a child felt riskier than playing for grownups. Children hear you honestly.
Alright then, she agreed, and took up the violin.
She played the tune shed practised all week. By the third bar the bow slipped, the sound was shrill. Her granddaughter didnt flinch; she tilted her head.
Why does it squeak?
Because Grandmas bows all wonky, she answered. That made her laugh.
Her granddaughter giggled too.
Again! she demanded.
She played it again. Still rough, but she kept going instead of stopping at embarrassment.
That evening, after everyone had gone, she sat alone. The printed music was on the table, a pencil nearby for marking tricky bits. The violin was zipped up in its case, not returned to the box room but left by the walla daily reminder.
She set a ten-minute timer on her phone. Not to force herself, just to pace. Unzipped the case, checked the rosin, tightened the bow. Lifted the violin to her chin, exhaled.
The sound was gentler now, still faltering, but she didnt swear. Instead, she corrected her grip and carried on, listening to the note hold and waver.
When the timer buzzed, she lingered, finished the bow stroke before packing away the violin, returning the case to its place by the wallnot the box room.
She knew tomorrow would be the same: a bit of embarrassment, a bit of fatigue, a few clean seconds worth the effort. That was enough, she thought, to keep going.
