My neighbour had a penchant for playing rock music at two in the morning. I bought my son a violin, and we began practising scales precisely at eight, just as the neighbour finally drifted off.
Every night at half past one, the ceiling of my bedroom became suspiciously lively. It started with a low rumble, as though distant thunder was approaching, soon joined by bass so deep the glassware in my cabinet rattled nervously with the rhythm of the drums.
My upstairs neighbour, Tom Jenkins, was a dedicated fan of artistrywhich involved endless looping of Led Zeppelin and early Iron Maiden albums, accompanied by questionable lager at any hour of the day.
Ive always been a non-confrontational person. I work as an accountant, raise my seven-year-old son, Oliver, alone, and my greatest wish is simply to get some proper sleep. But when youre jolted awake with the feeling Robert Plant is screaming Whole Lotta Love into your ear, even the most peaceful temperament falters.
The first time, I went upstairs around two, wearing my dressing gown and slippers. A dishevelled man in his early thirties answered, blinking blearily. The flat reeked of cigarette smoke and heavy rock.
Tom, have some decency, I said, trying to keep calm. Its the middle of the night. Ive got work tomorrow, and Olivers got school.
Whats the problem? he replied, genuinely baffled, leaning against the door frame. Its not loud, my speakers are decent, the bass is soft.
My chandelier is shaking, I said.
Fine, Ill turn it down, he grumbled, shutting the door.
The silence lasted exactly ten minutes. Then everything resumed.
The next day, I decided to play by the rules. I called the police. They arrived an hour and a half later, by which time Toms musical marathon had ended and he was snoring happily. The officers shrugged: Theres no noise, nothing to record. Write to the council, theyll have a word.
The council officer actually came, but a week later.
Ive spoken to him, he informed me over the phone. Hes promised hell be quieter, but you need to understand, the fines are minimal. He doesnt really care.
And so it continued. Each night that relentless rhythm hammered my nerves: boom-boom-boom. I started drinking herbal tea for my nerves, turned up at work pallid, and despised the flat, Tom, and my own helplessness.
A childs talents should be nurtured
The idea came unexpectedly, on Saturday morning. I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, eyeing the dark circles under my sons eyes. Oliver was struggling to sleep, too.
Mum, could I learn to play the violin? he suddenly asked, scrolling through something on his phone.
Have you ever heard a violin in the hands of a beginner? Its not musicits a sound that makes you want to evacuate: high-pitched shrieks as if the world is tearing open.
Of course, darling, I replied, giving my first genuinely sly smile in weeks. Well buy you a really good violin.
That very day, we visited the music shop. The seller, a refined elderly gentleman, spent ages picking out a quarter-size instrument for us.
Does the boy have an ear for music? he asked.
Hes highly motivated, I answered.
Meanwhile, I studied the local councils Noise Regulations. On weekdays, noise was allowed from eight in the morning.
Tom usually went quiet by four. By eight, he was fast asleep.
Monday morning. Oliver and I stood in the living room.
Go on, darling, play your C major scale. Loudlywith feeling.
What followed defies description. The sound resembled the screech of a cat whose tail had been slammed in a door, mixed with the grind of a nail across glass. The unmuted violin resonated perfectly through the concrete floors, sending a wake-up call straight to Tom upstairs.
Ten minutes in, something crashed overheadlikely Tom himself. Five minutes later, banging echoed through the radiator pipes. We didnt stopthe law was on our side.
At 08:20, the doorbell rang. I opened it. Tom stood there in vest and boxer shorts, red-eyed and bearing the expression of someone shaken by disaster.
What are you playing at? he croaked. Eight in the morning! People are still sleeping!
Good morning, Tom! I replied cheerily. Were rehearsing. Olivers got talentthe tutor says we must practise every morning before school. An hour at minimum.
Are you serious? My heads splitting!
How odd, I said. Were not very loud. By the way, what did you think of Whole Lotta Love last night? I felt the bass was a touch soft.
He glanced at me, then at Oliver, who stood in the hall with his violin and bow like a tiny warrior.
Youre doing this deliberately?
Its art, Tom. Art demands sacrifice.
Peace through music
We continued for precisely a week. Every morning at eight. By the third day, Toms nightly concerts ceasedhe hoped that if he kept quiet, wed stop too. But learning, as everyone knows, shouldnt be interrupted.
On Friday evening, he came down himself. Sober, in jeans and a shirt.
Listen, neighbour, he said wearily. Lets make a deal. I cant stand it anymore. That screech is in my head all day.
Im all ears, I said, inviting him into the kitchen.
I placed paper and pen on the table.
The rules are simple. Complete silence after 10 pm.
What about guests? he tried to haggle.
What about Olivers inspiration at seven on a Sunday? I replied calmly.
Tom visibly shivered.
Fine. Silence after ten. Deal. And the violinwill you sell it?
No, I said. It stays. As a guarantee. Itll sit atop the wardrobe, ready for action.
We signed our improvised peace pact. Its been working for six months now. Oliver abandoned the violin ages agohes into chess these days.
The stairwell has grown quiet. Sometimes Tom and I exchange greetings by the lift. He looks at Oliver with caution, me with respect. I believe hes realised: a quiet, single-mother accountant with a well-raised son can be far more formidable than any rock aficionado.
In the end, its not volume but understandingand a touch of creativitythat brings harmony to neighbourly life.
