The pantry and scales
She slipped into the pantry not to seek out memories, but for a jar of pickled onions for her afternoon salad. On the top shelf, behind a box marked Christmas lights, the corner of an old black case poked outone she barely recognised, half-convinced it belonged in another flat, another life. The cloth was faded and the zipper stuck fast. With a tug, the case slid forth, long and thin, like a shadow stretched in late sunlight.
She placed the onion jar on a kitchen stool by the door, just in case she forgot, and crouched right there in the walkway, as though that made indecision easier. On the third try the zipper gave way, teeth snapping open. Inside lay the violin. The varnish had dulled in places, strings sagged sadly, the bow looked like an ancient sweeping brush. But its shape was familiar, and for a moment, something clicked inside her chest, like a light switch flicked under skin.
She remembered carrying it through the estates in Year 9, embarrassed by how peculiar she must have looked. Then college came, then work, then wedding ceremonies and flat paint, and one day she just stopped going to music lessons because there was another life to rush off and catch. The violin ended up at her parents, later followed her things into this flat, and now sat among plastic bags and Christmas boxes in the pantry. Not rejectedjust forgotten.
She lifted it carefully, as if the wood might scatter like dry leaves. It was warm against her palm, even though the pantry air was cool. Her fingers instinctively settled on the neck, but immediately, she felt awkward: her hand no longer remembered how to hold itlike borrowing someone elses object unasked.
The kettle in the kitchen was shrieking. She closed the pantry, but left the case propped in the corridor, leaning listlessly against the wall, and went to turn off the hob. Salad could be made without onions anyway; she caught herself making excuses already.
That evening, after the washing up, when only crumbs lingered on the table, she brought the case into the living room. Her husband sat channel-hopping, hearing nothing. He looked up.
Whatve you dug out now, love?
A violin, she replied, surprised herself at the calm in her voice.
Is it still alive? he joked, not unkindlyjust a hint of old marital teasing.
No idea. Well see.
She laid the case on the sofa, covering the cushions with an old towel to avoid scratches. Out came the violin, the whittled bow, a tiny cracked rosin box. The rosin looked split as a winter puddle. She drew the bow across it, only wisps of hair grazing the surface.
Tuning was its own quiet humiliation. Pegs stuck, strings groaned, one snapped and smacked her finger. She muttered something unprintable, quietly so the neighbours wouldnt hear. Her husband made a low sound.
Maybe take it to a shop? he suggested.
Maybe, she echoed, though inside she felt a sting: not at him, but herself, for failing at something so simple.
She downloaded a tuner app, balancing her mobile on the coffee table. The screen flashed letters, the needle jittered. She turned the pegs, listening for a note that wasnt too flat or feverish. Her shoulder grew stony, fingers aching from effort unused.
When the strings stopped sounding like telephone wires in the wind, she raised the violin to her chin. The chinrest was cold, and she felt as though her neck might shrink back into herself. She tried to stand properly, as shed been taught, but the posture had gone missing. She laughed quietly.
A concert? called her husband, still not looking up.
For you, she replied. Brace yourself.
The first sound was a rustle and a complaint, more than a note. Her bow trembled, her arm betraying her. She stopped, took a breath, tried again. Marginally better. Shame clung to her anyway.
It was a different shame. Not the adolescent kind, when it feels like the world is watching and snickering. Here, only the walls, her husband, and her own clumsy hands watched. Everything else hummed on.
She played open strings, counting slowly as she had as a child. Then tried a D major scale; left-hand fingers muddled their order. She couldnt recall which finger was which. Her knuckles were thicker, the tips softened. Instead of the old bruising pain, there was just the uneasy sense that her skin was too gentle now.
Its alright, her husband said unexpectedly. Well cant expect it to be perfect off the bat.
She nodded, unsure who needed this reassurancehim? Her? The instrument itself?
The next morning she took the violin to the repair shop near the tube station. There was nothing grand: glass doors, a counter, guitars and violins hanging behind, and the sharp smell of varnish and dust. The repair lad, a youth with a silver hoop in one ear, lifted it expertly, as if holding a professional tool.
Definitely need new strings, he said. Grease the pegs, fix the bridge. Could rehair the bow, but thats pricier.
She heard pricier and tensed. Her mind flicked through bills, medicines, the upcoming birthday present for her granddaughter. She nearly said, Leave it then. But asked instead:
What if we just do the strings and bridge for now?
Thatll work, he nodded. Itll play.
She handed it over, took the paper slip and tucked it into her purse. On the street she felt as if shed handed over not a thing, but a portion of herself whose function was being restored.
At home, she fired up her laptop and googled adult violin lessons. The wording was oddadults, as though there existed a species of person who needs things explained more slowly, more gently.
She found a handful of listings. Some promised results in a month, others spoke of bespoke tuition. She closed the tabs, unsettled by marketing-speak, then reopened them and sent a brief message to a woman teacher in a neighbouring postcode: Hello. Im 52 and want to regain my skills. Is it possible?
She instantly regretted it. Wished she could unsend, as though it gave away too much softness. But it had gone.
That evening her son popped in, kissed her cheek in the kitchen, asked about work. She filled the kettle, pulled out a packet of digestives. He clocked the case in the sitting room.
Is that a violin? he asked, genuinely surprised.
Yes. Found it. Im thinkingof giving it another go.
Mumare you serious? he smiled, a little bewildered, not mocking. You havent in ages
I havent, she agreed. All the more reason to try.
He sat, rolling a biscuit in his fingers. But why bother? Youre always exhausted.
She felt the familiar urge to explain, to justify, to command her entitlement. But explanations always sounded faint-hearted.
I dont know, she said truthfully. I just want to.
He looked at her, really looked, as though finally seeing not just Mum the Provider, but a woman who wanted something just for herself.
Well alright then, he said. Dont wear yourself out. And spare the neighbours!
She laughed.
The neighbours will manage. Ill stick to daylight hours.
When he left, she realised she felt lighter. Not for his permission, but for not making excuses.
Two days later, she fetched the violin from the shop. The strings sparkled; the bridge stood clean. The repair lad showed her how to wind the strings gently, how to store it safely.
Dont leave it by the radiator, he warned. And keep it in the case.
She nodded, feeling oddly like she was back at school. At home she set the case upon a chair, opened it and just gazed, nervous to ruin it anew.
For her first exercise, she chose the simplest: long, steady bows on open strings. As a child, it was tedious penance; now it was deliverance. No melody, no judgement. Just sound and the effort to make it smooth.
After ten minutes, her shoulder throbbed. By fifteen, her neck was stiff. She stopped, packed away the violin, zipped it closed. Inside, frustration boiled: at her body, her age, the way everything came harder now.
She headed for the kitchen, poured a glass of tap water, and stared out the window. Teenagers whirled round the playground on scooters, shouting and tumbling. She felt a pangnot for their youth, but for their shamelessness. They fell, got up, circled again, and not one seemed to mind that it was late to learn balance.
She returned to the sitting room and reopened the casenot because she must, but because anger wasnt where she wanted to stop.
The teacher replied in the evening: Hello. Certainly possible. Come alonglets start with posture and simple exercises. Age isnt a barrier; it just needs patience. She read it twice. Patience was honest, and she felt comforted.
For her first lesson, she travelled with the case hugged to her chest, cradling something precious and fragile on the Central line. Strangers glanced over, some kind, some curious. She met their eyes. Let them look, she thought.
The teacher was a petite woman in her forties, short hair and attentive gaze. In her sitting room stood a piano, a shelf of sheet music, a child-sized violin on a chair.
Lets have a look, she said, inviting her to hold the instrument.
She did so, and instantly it was obvious she didnt remember. Shoulder bunched, chin clamped, left wrist stiff as a plank.
Dont worry, the teacher soothed. Its been a while. Lets just stand first. Feel the violindont battle it.
She nearly laughed, feeling sheepish: fifty-two and learning hand positions. But it felt liberating too. No one demanded she be brilliant. Just to show up.
Afterwards her hands trembled as though shed run laps. The teacher left her with homework: ten minutes a day of open strings, then scales. Better less, but regular, she advised.
Home again, her husband asked:
How was it?
Hard, she said. But alright.
Are you happy about it?
She pondered. Happy wasnt quite rightshe felt anxious, amused, awkward, but curiously clear.
Yes, she said. Feels like Im doing something again, not just working, cooking.
After a week, she found the bravery to try a tiny tune she remembered from childhood. She printed the music at work, sneaking it into a folder so colleagues wouldnt ask questions. At home, she propped the sheets on a makeshift stand of novels and boxes.
The sound was wonky, the bow snagged extra strings, fingers slipped. She stopped, began again. At some point her husband peered in:
That sounds nice, he ventured, as though afraid to jinx it.
Dont fib, she shot back.
Im not. Its recognisable.
She grinned. Recognisable was almost praise.
On the weekend, her granddaughter came round. Six years old, she spotted the case instantly.
Grandma, whats that?
A violin.
Can you play it?
She was tempted to say, Once, a long time. But her granddaughter only knew the present.
Im learning, she replied.
The little girl parked herself on the settee, hands folded, wedding-day neat.
Play something, she demanded.
Terror squeezed her. Children listen differently, she thought. Children are honest.
Alright, she agreed, picking up the violin.
She played that same tune shed wrestled with all week. By the third bar, the bow slipped and the sound shrieked. Her granddaughter didnt flinchjust cocked her head.
Why does it sound squeaky?
Because Grandmas bow is a bit wonky, she laughed.
Her granddaughter laughed too.
Again, she insisted.
So she played again. It went no better, but she didnt stop out of shame. She finished to the end.
That evening, alone at last, she sat in the still room. Printed music lay scattered, a pencil marking tough spots. The violin slept in its case, zipped but not banished back to the pantry. It stood vigil by the wall, a reminder this was now woven into her routine.
She set a timer for ten minutesnot as compulsion, but to keep herself from burning out. Opened the case, drew out the instrument, checked the rosin, tightened the bow. Raised it to her chin, breathed deeply.
The sound was softer than that morning. It flickered, sputtered, came undone again. She didnt curse, just reset her hand and pulled another smooth bow, listening to the note shiver and ride the room.
When the timer rang, she lingered for one last stroke. Then tucked the violin away, zipped up the case, and placed it neatly by the corridor wall.
She knew tomorrow would be the same: a swirl of embarrassment, a dose of fatigue, a handful of clear seconds worth opening the case for. And that was enough to continue.
