The Cupboard and Scales
So, she wasnt heading into the cupboard for nostalgia, honestlyit was just for a jar of pickled onions for her salad. Perched on the top shelf, wedged behind a box of tangled Christmas lights, was a hint of fabricjust the grey edge poking outthat definitely wasnt supposed to be in her flat anymore. The faded zip looked stubborn, almost rusted with age. She tugged, and the long, thin shape of a violin case slid out, looking as shadowy and out-of-place as a lost umbrella.
She popped the jar on the stool by the door so she wouldnt forget it, then crouched there, knees protestingalmost like squatting made the decision easier to dodge. The zip finally gave way after three tries. Inside, there it was. Her violin. The varnish had dulled, strings sagged, and the bow looked more like a neglected broom than an instrument. Yet the shape was unmistakable, and something in her chest just flicked on, like a lamp switch.
She remembered trailing this case embarrassingly through her neighbourhood when she was fifteen, thinking she looked ridiculous. After that, it was college, work, a wedding, and at some point she simply stopped going to violin lessonsadult stuff just took over. The violin ended up at her parents for safekeepingall the moves, the sorting, and now here it was, hiding in her London flat, among bags and boxes, not so much abandoned as simply forgotten.
She lifted it carefully, half expecting the wood to crumble. Despite the cold air inside the cupboard, it felt warm in her palm. Her fingers automatically found their places along the neck, and then she frozeit felt as unfamiliar as borrowing someones toothbrush. The hand didnt remember.
Water was bubbling in the kitchen. She got up, closed the cupboard, but didnt put the case back; instead, she leaned it against the hallway wall and went to turn off the hob. The salad could go without the onions anywayshe caught herself making excuses already.
That evening, with the dishes washed and only a plate of toast crumbs left on the table, she brought the case into the lounge. Her husband was channel-surfing, barely listening. He glanced up.
Whats that youve found then?
Its the violin, she replied, surprised at the even sound of her own voice.
Oh. Is it still ticking? he joked, but there was a gentle, familiar teasing underneath.
No idea. Ill find out.
She opened the case on the sofa, putting an old towel underneath so the upholstery would survive. Out came the violin, the bow, a tiny cracked rosin box. She ran the hairs of the bow across it, barely scraping the splintery surface.
Tuning was its own humiliation. The pegs refused to move, strings squeaked, one even snapped across her finger. She swore quietlydidnt want the neighbours to hear. Her husband smirked.
Maybe best take it to the shop? he suggested.
Hmm, maybe, she said, though her annoyance wasnt at him, but at herselfcouldnt even tune the thing anymore.
She pulled up a tuner app and laid her phone on the coffee table, the screen flickering with notes and arrows. She twisted the pegs, listening to the sound dip and soar. Her shoulder was already aching, fingers stiffshed lost the knack.
Finally, after the strings stopped wailing like telephone wires in the wind, she tucked the violin under her chin. The chinrest was ice-cold, making her neck hypersensitive. She tried standing properly, like shed been shown, but her back protested. She laughed at herself.
A concert then? her husband joked, eyes still locked on the TV.
For you, she answered. Brace yourself.
Her first sound made her jumpit was more complaint than a note. Bow jittery, hand all angles. She drew breath and tried again. Marginally better, but not good enough.
It was a grown-up sort of embarrassment. Not the teenage kind where you imagine the whole world watching. This world was just the living room: walls, husband, her own betrayed hands.
She played the open strings slowly, counting inside her head. Then she tried a D major scale, but her left fingers tangled: she couldnt recall where the second finger clamped down, or the third. Her fingers were plumper now, softer, and nothing stung like it once didjust a dulled sense of not-quite-right.
Its alright, said her husband suddenly. No ones Mozart in ten minutes.
She nodded, not sure who needed reassuringher, him, the violin.
The next morning she walked to a little repair shop round the corner from the tube. Not romantic at alljust glass doors, a high counter, guitars and violins hanging on the wall, the air thick with varnish and dust. The repair guy, barely thirty and sporting a single earring, took the violin with creamy confidence, as if it was just a hammer.
Strings definitely need changing, he said. Pegs could do with some oil. Bridges a bit off. Bow rehairings pricier, though.
The word pricier set her nerves janglingshe pictured bills, prescriptions, and her granddaughters birthday treat. She nearly said, Just leave it then, but caught herself.
Could I do just the strings and bridge for now?
Yeah, thatll play.
She left the violin, clutching the receipt, slipped it into her purse. Walking out onto the street, she felt like shed handed over a part of herself to be fixed.
Back home, she fired up her laptop and searched for adult violin lessons. The phrase made her snort. Adult. As if theres a breed of grown-up who need instructions slower and gentler.
The listings boasted Results in a month! or Tailored approach. She closed the tabs; all that promise was nerve-wracking. But later, she opened one ad again, messaged a local female teacher: Hello, Im 52. Want to regain some skills. Is it doable?
She wanted to delete it immediately. Felt childish, but the message flew off.
That evening, her son came by. He popped into the kitchen, kissed her cheek, asked about work. As she put the kettle on and dug out some biscuits, he spotted the case in the corner.
Is that a violin? he asked, genuinely wide-eyed.
Yeah. Dug it out. Might, um, have a little go.
Mum, are you serious? He grinned, not mockingly, just baffled. Its been yonks.
It has, she agreed. Thats why I fancy it.
He sat, rotating his biscuit between his fingers.
What for? Youve got enough on your plate, havent you?
She felt the old reflex: justify, explain, earn the right. But explanations always made her sound small.
Dunno, she said, honestly. Just do.
He looked at herreally looked. Not just as the mum who keeps everything together, but as somebody who wants something for herself.
Alright then, he said. Just dont drive yourself mad. And spare the neighbours.
She laughed.
Theyll cope. Ill keep it to daylight.
After he left, she realised she felt lighter. Not because hed given permission, but because she hadnt tried to win approval.
Two days later she collected her violin. The strings shimmered, the bridge sat neatly. The repair guy walked her through the care routine.
Just keep it away from the radiator, he said. Always in its case.
She nodded, feeling every bit the pupil. At home, she perched the case on a chair, peeled it open, just gazing at the violin, scared shed damage it.
Her first practice was the simplest: open strings, long bows. As a kid, that was punishmentnow it was soothing. No tune, no judgement. Just sound and aim.
Shoulder ache arrived after ten minutes, neck after fifteen. She stopped, zipped up the case, irritation fizzingat her body, at being older, at every small struggle.
She poured a glass of water and gazed out the kitchen window. Teenagers whizzed about on scooters down the estate, hooting with laughter. She envied not their youth so much as their shamelessness. They wobbled, crashed, tried againnone of them worrying about learning balance too late.
She went back into the lounge, reopened the case. Not out of obligation, but because she hated ending on frustration.
That evening, her phone pingedthe teacher replied: Of course its possible. Pop over and well start with posture and easy exercises. Patience matters more than age. She read it twice. That honestypatiencecalmed her.
On her way to the first lesson, she carried the case close, treating it like fragile treasure. On the tube, people glanced and some smiled; she let them look. Why not?
The teacher was a petite forty-something, cropped hair, sharp eyes. There was a piano in one corner, music books, and a tiny kids violin sat on a stool.
Lets have a look, she said, inviting her to hold the violin.
Her posture was off instantly: shoulder too high, chin pinched, left wrist stiff.
No worries, said the teacher. Youre relearning. Lets just stand a moment. Feel ityoure not at war with it.
She wanted to giggle at herself: fifty-two, learning to hold a violin. But it was also freeing. Nobody expected brilliance. They simply expected her to be present.
After the lesson, her arms shook with the effort, like after PE. The teacher gave her instructions: ten minutes of open strings daily, move to scales later, but keep it short. More often, less time, she said.
At home, her husband asked,
Howd it go?
Hard work, she admitted, but alright.
Happy?
She thought. Happy wasnt quite the word. It was nerves, pride, embarrassment, and something light.
Yeah, she said. Its nice doing something with my hands againnot just the usual grind.
A week later she braved a snippet of a tune from her childhood. Found the sheet music online, printed it at work, and hid it in her folder to avoid awkward questions. At home, propped it on a stand she fashioned from a cookbook and a cereal box.
The sound wobbled, bow scraped extra strings, fingers misfired. Shed stop, start again, repeat. Her husband poked his head round the door.
Thats lovely, he said, careful as if hed frighten off a bird.
Dont fib.
Im not; it’s just familiar.
She smiled. Familiarit was almost praise.
The weekend, her granddaughter came over. She was six; she spotted the violin case instantly.
Gran, whats that?
Its a violin.
Can you play?
She thought about saying I could once, but that made no sense to a child. Theres only now.
Im learning, she told her.
Granddaughter folded her hands on her lap, solemn as a tiny judge.
Play, please.
Everything inside her squeezed tight. Playing for a child was scarier than for grownups. Children hear the truth.
Alright. She picked up the violin.
She played the little tune shed been slogging through all week. By the third bar, her bow slippeda squawk of sound. Granddaughter didnt flinch. She just tilted her head.
Why does it squeak like that?
Because Grans bow wobbles, she said, laughing at herself.
Granddaughter giggled too.
Do it again, she insisted.
This time it wasnt much better, but she finished, not stopping for embarrassmentshe just played to the last note.
When everyone had left, she was alone in her lounge. The printed music lay open, pencil beside it for tricky bits. The violin was zipped away, standing against the wallnot shoved in the cupboard, but out in plain sight, part of her world now.
She set a ten-minute timer on her phonenot punishment, just to avoid burning out. Opened the case, checked the rosin, tightened the bow, lifted the violin.
The sound came out softer now. Then ragged. She didnt grumblejust fixed her grip and tried for a steady note.
When the timer went, she finished out her bow stroke slowly before putting the violin back and zipping the case up. She left it leaning by the wallno more hiding it away.
She knew tomorrow would bring the same: a pinch of embarrassment, some tiredness, and maybe a few clear seconds that made the effort worth it. And that was enough to keep going.
