The Cupboard and the Scales She wasn’t rummaging in the cupboard for nostalgia—just for a jar of pickled cucumbers for her salad. On the top shelf, half-hidden behind a box of Christmas lights, she spotted the corner of a case that, by all rights, shouldn’t still exist in her flat. The fabric was faded, and the zipper stuck. She pulled it, and from the back emerged the long, narrow shape of a violin case—like a stretched shadow. She set the jar on a stool by the door, so she wouldn’t forget, and crouched down as if that might make deciding easier. The zipper finally yielded on the third try. Inside lay a violin: the varnish dull in places, strings slack, the bow fuzzy and worn like an old broom. But its shape was unmistakable, and something clicked in her chest—a light switch flipped. She remembered lugging the case around school in Year 10, self-conscious that she looked silly. Then there was college, a job, a wedding—and one day she simply stopped going to music lessons, having to keep up with a different sort of life. The violin went to her parents for safekeeping, then moved with her other things, and now it lay here among carrier bags and boxes, not wronged, simply forgotten. She lifted the violin gingerly, as though it might fall apart. The wood felt warm under her palm, though the cupboard was chilly. Her fingers naturally found the fingerboard, and she felt awkward: her hand didn’t remember how to hold it, as though she was borrowing something that wasn’t hers. The kettle whistled in the kitchen. She got up, shut the cupboard, but left the case out, propped it in the hallway, and went to turn off the hob. She could manage the salad without the cucumbers. She realised she was already making excuses. That evening, with the washing up done and only breadcrumbs left on the table, she brought the case to the living room. Her husband sat in front of the TV, channel-hopping, barely paying attention. He glanced up. “What have you found there?” “A violin,” she replied—surprised at her own calm. “Ah. Still in one piece?” he grinned, but not unkindly—just with the familiar family humour. “Don’t know. Might check.” She opened the case on the sofa, laying an old towel under it so as not to scratch the upholstery. She took out the violin, the bow, a little rosin box—cracked now, like ice on a puddle. She ran the bow across it; the hairs just catching the surface. Tuning was its own humiliation. The pegs were stubborn, the strings screeched, one snapped and whipped her finger. She cursed quietly so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. Her husband snorted. “Maybe you should take it to a shop?” he suggested. “Maybe,” she agreed, though what stung was not him, but her own inability—not even able to tune it. She found a tuner app on her phone and set it on the coffee table. The screen flashed letters and the needle jumped. She turned the pegs, listening as the sound dropped too low or soared too high. Her shoulder ached, her fingers were clumsy. When the strings finally stopped sounding like wind rattling wires, she raised the violin to her chin. The chinrest was cold, and she thought the skin of her neck had turned paper-thin. She tried to stand up straight, as she’d been taught, but her back wouldn’t obey. She laughed—a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. “Is this your big concert?” her husband asked, eyes on the TV. “For you,” she said. “Brace yourself.” The first note was so raw she flinched—not a sound, but a complaint. The bow wobbled, her arm didn’t hold a steady line. She stopped, breathed, tried again. A little better, but still embarrassing. But it was an adult embarrassment—different from a teenager’s, that self-conscious feeling the whole world is watching. Here, no one watched; just the walls, her husband, and her own hands that felt foreign. She played open strings, counting in her mind as she used to. Then tried a D major scale, fingers fumbling on the left hand. She couldn’t recall which finger went where—her fingers, thicker now, pads too soft, missing the familiar ache. “It’s alright,” her husband said suddenly. “I mean… not perfect. But give it time.” She nodded, not sure who the reassurance was for—him, her, or the violin. The next day she went to the shop by the tube station. Not romantic: glass door, counter, guitars and violins hung on the wall, smelling of varnish and dust. The technician, a young man with an earring, took the violin as if it were a normal everyday tool. “You’ll need new strings, definitely. Pegs need lubing, bridge needs tweaking. Bow could use a re-hair—that’s pricier, though.” She heard “pricier” and instantly bristled, thoughts of gas bills, medicines, a birthday gift for her granddaughter. She almost said, “Never mind,” but instead asked: “What if we just do the strings and bridge for now?” “Sure. She’ll play.” She left the violin and got a receipt. As she walked out, she felt like she’d sent off a piece of herself for repairs and hoped it’d come back working. At home, she opened her laptop and searched “violin lessons for adults.” The phrase made her smile. For adults. As if grown-ups were a special tribe needing extra explanation and patience. She found a handful of ads. Some promised “results in a month”, others “individual approach.” The words made her nervous, so she closed the tabs. Then opened them again, and wrote to a woman teacher from her neighbourhood. Kept it short: “Hello. I’m 52. Want to brush up my skills. Is that possible?” She regretted it instantly, wanting to delete it like a confession. But it was sent. Her son visited that evening, came into the kitchen, kissed her cheek, asked about work. She set the kettle on, fetched a tin of biscuits. He spotted the case in the corner. “Is that a violin?” Genuine surprise. “Yes. Found it. Thinking… of giving it a go.” “Mum, really?” His smile was not teasing, more puzzled. “It’s been… ages.” “Exactly,” she said. “That’s why.” He sat, turning a biscuit in his hands. “Why, though? You’re always tired.” She felt herself bracing—ready to explain, justify, prove her right to this. But explanations always sounded pitiful. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I just want to.” He looked at her closely, as if seeing not the mother-who-keeps-everything-together, but a woman who wanted something for herself. “Alright, then,” he said. “Just don’t overdo it. Poor neighbours.” She laughed. “They’ll live. I’ll play daytime.” After he’d gone, she realised she felt lighter—not because he’d given permission, but because she hadn’t explained herself. Two days later, she picked up her violin from the shop. The strings gleamed, the bridge was straight. The technician explained how to string and store it. “Don’t leave near the radiator,” he warned. “Keep it in the case.” She nodded, like a proper student. At home, she put the case on a chair, opened it and stared, as if afraid to break it again. She started with the simplest exercise: long bows on open strings. As a child, it had felt a dull punishment. Now it felt like salvation—no tune, no judgement, just sound and the effort to make it even. Her shoulder ached after ten minutes. Her neck stiffened after fifteen. She stopped, zipped up the case. Anger welled—at her body, her age, at how hard it all was now. She went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and stared out the window. Teenagers on the playground rode scooters, shrieking with laughter. She envied not their youth, but their shamelessness—falling, getting up, never thinking it was too late to learn balance. She went back to the living room, opened the case again—not out of necessity, but because she didn’t want to finish with anger. The teacher replied that evening: “Hello. Of course it’s possible. Come by and we’ll start with posture and simple exercises. Age isn’t a barrier, but patience is needed.” She read it twice. Patience felt honest—and comforting. She took her violin to the first lesson, case in hand, as if carrying something fragile and precious. On the tube, strangers glanced, some smiled. Let them, she thought. Let them see. Her instructor turned out to be a petite, fortysomething woman—short hair, sharp but kind eyes. Piano in the corner, scores on the shelf, a child-sized violin on a chair. “Let’s take a look,” she said, motioning her to pick up the instrument. She did, and instantly it was obvious—her shoulder hunched, chin clamped, left wrist stiff. “No worries,” the teacher said. “You haven’t played. Let’s just stand for now. Feel that the violin isn’t your enemy.” She laughed, a little embarrassed: standing at fifty-two to learn where to place a violin. But there was something freeing in it, too. No one expected her to be good—they only expected her to show up. After the lesson, her hands shook as after PE. The teacher gave instructions: ten minutes on open strings daily, then the scale—not more than that. “It’s better little and often,” she said. At home, her husband asked: “How did it go?” “Hard,” she replied. “But fine.” “Are you happy?” She thought about it. ‘Happy’ wasn’t right. She felt anxious, silly, embarrassed—and somehow, lighter. “Yes,” she answered. “I feel like I’m making something with my hands again—not just working and cooking.” After a week, she dared try a simple melody she remembered since childhood. She printed the sheet music at work, hid it in her files so colleagues wouldn’t inquire. At home, she set up a makeshift stand from books and boxes. The sound was shaky, the bow sometimes snagged on neighbouring strings, fingers missed notes. She stopped, restarted. At one point, her husband poked his head in. “You know… it’s nice,” he said cautiously, as if fearing to spook her. “Don’t pretend,” she replied. “I’m not. It’s… recognisable.” She smiled. Recognisable—almost a compliment. At the weekend, her granddaughter visited. She was six, and immediately noticed the case. “Gran, what’s that?” “A violin.” “Can you play?” She nearly said “once,” but her granddaughter didn’t understand “once.” To her, there was only “now.” “I’m learning,” she said. Her granddaughter perched on the sofa, hands folded, as at a school assembly. “Play!” She felt herself tense. Playing for a child was scarier than for grown-ups—a child hears honestly. “Alright,” she said, picking up the violin. She played the melody she’d been wrestling with all week. On the third line, the bow slipped, producing a squeal. Her granddaughter didn’t flinch, just tilted her head. “Why does it squeak?” “Because Gran’s bow is crooked,” she chuckled. Her granddaughter giggled too. “Do it again!” And she did. It didn’t sound much better, but she didn’t let shame stop her—she played to the end. That evening, when everyone was busy elsewhere, she was left alone in the room. Sheet music on the table, beside a pencil for tricky sections. The violin in its case, closed but not shut away in the cupboard—standing by the wall, a reminder it belonged in her day. She set a timer on her phone for ten minutes—not to force herself, but to keep from burning out. Opened the case, checked the rosin, the bow tension. Lifted the violin to her chin, exhaled. The sound was softer now, though still shaky. She carried on, adjusting her hand, listening as the note wavered and settled. When the timer sounded, she didn’t stop right away—she finished the bow stroke, gently put the violin away, closed the case, and set it by the wall, not the cupboard. She knew tomorrow would be much the same: a bit of shame, a bit of fatigue, a few pure moments worth opening the case for. And that was enough to keep going.