The Silence. Joss Stirling

– of course they had – but Jenny thought that it was better sometimes not to know.

      Louis waited for her in the café, eager to hear how her introduction to Gallant House had gone. Jenny was pleased to see that he was joined by Kris, who had chosen his favourite seat overlooking the river. A big man with sandy hair, jug handle ears and a flushed face, Kris appeared the least likely person to have the soul of a poet. That just went to show prejudging was a waste of time and energy; people were rarely what they seemed on the surface. She gave both a wave and dived into the staff room to stow her violin in her locker and put on her uniform.

      When she returned, her manager beckoned her over. ‘I’ve got you tea. We’re quiet at the moment so, come on, tell us all about it.’

      With a smile, she sat next to Kris. He kissed her cheek. ‘What do you think of the inimitable Bridget?’ His voice was a deep bass rumble, the kettledrum in the Festival Hall orchestra of visitors. ‘Has she got you curtseying yet?’

       Not quite yet. Maybe that’s day two?

      ‘And have you met my guy, Jonah?’

      What was it about the man that everyone wanted to adopt him as theirs? She nodded.

      ‘And?’

      Jenny debated withholding the information about dragging Jonah into her bedroom but decided that an embarrassment shared was an embarrassment halved.

      ‘You didn’t?’ Louis chuckled, after reading her confession. ‘You don’t let the grass grow, girl!’

      ‘I bet poor Jonah felt all his birthdays and Christmases had come at once.’ Kris patted her hand in consolation. ‘A classy lady like you enticing him into her boudoir. Want me to have a word with him?’

      She’d prefer just to forget it. If he mentions how a nymphomaniac has moved in then yes. So what about the house?

      ‘The isle is full of noises,’ said Kris. ‘Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and not hurts.’

      The Tempest? She’d seen that at the Barbican.

      ‘Correct.’

       So I should just ignore the waltzing?

      ‘Put it like this, I lived there three years and heard odd things all the time. I considered for a while that there was a mad woman in the attic …’

      ‘How very Jane Eyre,’ murmured Louis.

      ‘… But when I looked I just found bird nests and a broken window.’

      Jenny felt a surge of relief. Her imagination had begun to people the mysterious attics with all kinds of horrors. It was just an attic floor.

      ‘I decided after that not to worry. It never progressed – no ghostly apparitions, no clanking chains, just noises. Old houses have quirks.’

      It was reassuring that she wasn’t the only one to hear things. Did you read Bridget’s history?

      Kris rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t say she’s trapped you into reading that already? Damn, that’s fast work. She’s been beavering away on that for a decade. I think it’s become something of an obsession. I told her to get out more, volunteer as a reader at the local primary school, or join a gardening club, but she is attached to that place like a limpet to a rock. She says the best day in her life was the day she was able to do her shopping online.’

       She never leaves?

      ‘Not that I recall. Maybe she did at the beginning but by the time I left, I can’t remember her going as far as the corner shop. She even gets Norman to make home visits when she needs a doctor. You’ve met Norman? He’s always there on Tuesdays.’

      She nodded.

      ‘Don’t sign on with him. I started out on his list but quickly caught on that he’s no longer what he once was. They’ve shuffled him into a figurehead role and his retirement is imminent.’

       Recommendations?

      ‘Dr Chakrabarti if she’s got space.’

       How are you now?

      ‘Aw, sweetie, thanks for asking. I’m much better, due to the tender loving care I’ve been receiving. If you’d met me a month ago, I wouldn’t’ve been able to come out like this. I was getting as housebound as Bridget.’

      ‘So she’s an agoraphobic?’ asked Louis. ‘You never said, Kris.’

      ‘I wouldn’t describe her like that exactly as she loves her garden. Is there a word for someone who doesn’t want to venture into the outside world?’

      Scared, thought Jenny, feeling kinship with her landlady. That had been her for a year between fourteen and fifteen. The violin was the thing that had dragged her out of seclusion as it was the only way she could get to play with others. Her mother had always said it was a blessing she hadn’t taken up with a solo instrument like the piano or she would never have emerged.

      ‘I’m not sure I’d even call her a recluse as she loves having people round. I’d say she was an original. So, Jenny, what’s on your agenda today?’

      She told them about the performance of Petrushka that afternoon for invited schools. Thank goodness she wasn’t involved in the children’s workshop beforehand. No one escaped those raucous sessions without a headache.

      Kris laughed. ‘No, I’ve never thought of you as a particularly child-friendly person.’

      Jenny was oddly hurt by this, it was like being told that animals didn’t like you, suggesting some inherent flaw. I like little ones. The ones that did not require her to speak.

      ‘I stand corrected. What’s the story of that piece? Forgive my ignorance but the only ballets I have any idea about are The Nutcracker and Swan Lake. I saw those as a kid.’

      ‘You went to see Humanhood with Hazel at Saddler’s Wells last week,’ said Louis.

      ‘Doesn’t mean I had the first idea what their performance was all about. I just went to admire the dancers.’

      ‘See what I have to contend with?’ said Louis in a stage whisper. ‘He ogles Rudí Cole and then comes back home to me.’

       Cole?

      ‘The most gorgeous dancer God made.’

      ‘But he probably doesn’t give as good back rubs as you,’ said Kris consolingly.

      ‘He probably does.’

      They both gave sad sighs in unison. These guys were such a good duo.

      ‘OK, enough, Petrushka. What’s it about?’ asked Kris.

      Jenny’s fingers danced over the keys as they read over her shoulder. Weird Russian story. Starts at a fair – usual street scene – then a puppeteer arrives with three marionettes – Petrushka, who’s this kind of the fool figure in Russian stories, the ballerina, and the Moor.

      ‘The Moor?’

       Totally not PC these days, but this was made up around 1910 in Russia. The dance suggests a love triangle between the three. Petrushka loves the ballerina, the ballerina fancies the Moor, and the Moor prefers his coconut tree.

      ‘I see what you mean about not very PC. What do they do with it these days for schools?’

      Jenny shrugged. Her business was the music not the visuals. And then it gets wacky.

      ‘Only then?’

       The next act is inside Petrushka’s box – very surreal. The one after that is in the Moor’s room where, after worshipping his coconut, he gets it on with the ballerina, breaking Peeping-Tom Petrushka’s heart.

      ‘And