Page 33 of The Typo

Thank you for your query about joining our orchestra. We hold regular audition dates. The next one will be announced shortly, and I will add you to the mailing list to receive that information. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer potential participants the chance to join a trial session without attending an audition first as it would disrupt our rehearsal schedule. Please find attached a couple of sample exercises of the kind you will be expected to perform during your audition. You will also need to prepare a piece of your choice no longer than three minutes in duration. This is to be performed without accompaniment.

Regards,

John Markham

Administrator, Edinburgh Amateur Orchestral Society

Opening the email which landed bright and early on Sunday morning had been easy. Unfortunately, it was proving much more challenging to open my violin case.

‘Come on, Amy,’ I muttered to myself, as I reached out and then snatched my hand away barely having touched the zip. It was ridiculous feeling so nervous about this. I had got my violin out thousands of times in my life without even thinking about it. Why was I making such a big deal about it now? Admittedly, I hadn’t opened the thing since that disastrous Usher Hall performance. But it wasn’t like dozens of nasty creatures were going to come swarming out like a scene in an Indiana Jones movie. And the violin wasn’t going to tell me off for abandoning it for so long. My self-doubt was the only thing standing in my way.

I ran my fingers over the canvas cover, tracing the little tears in the fabric which Eliza had made with her claws. They were just another set of scrapes and bumps among the patina of dozens of marks which proved how well used this case had been over the years, casually tossed into overhead lockers on planes, knocked around on public transport in various European cities, but perhaps never so badly treated as when it was unceremoniously shoved in a corner and completely ignored for the last two years.

I thought of Cameron’s interest in my audition, of all the things I’d lied to him about and had to make right now. But more importantly, I thought about the musician I had been, and how disappointed she would be in who I had become. When I was a teenager, it had all seemed so easy, although that didn’t mean I hadn’t put the work in too. No opportunity had been handed to me on a plate. My successes had come from my own determination, from hours of practising, from pushing myself every single day and enjoying each step of the process. Now it was time to remember that joy I used to experience, and channel that focus once again, to open myself up to possibility. Time to stop postponing what I knew I had to do to move forward, and start living my life again, rather than letting it pass me by.

I unzipped the cover, the slider catching slightly on the teeth. I pulled harder, my subconscious remembering the knack for getting the zipper to work more smoothly. Then I unfastened the latches of the case itself, their metal tarnished from lack of use.

‘Here goes.’ I braced myself, as if I was about to experience a punch to the stomach, and then opened it up.

I carefully removed the faded yellow duster which I always kept over the instrument, folding it neatly before I unfastened the Velcro strap which held the neck of the violin in place. Tentatively I ran my index finger over the slack strings, the discordant notes rebuking me for their long abandonment. My overwhelming emotion was sadness. Sadness that I had shut off this part of myself for so long; sadness that I had allowed fear to get the better of me. I had no expectation that by getting my violin out again everything would suddenly improve, but at least I was making a step in the right direction, and being brave for a change.

‘Sorry, old girl. Let’s get you sorted out.’

I fastened the shoulder rest to the instrument and then placed it under my chin. At first it felt cold against my skin, awkward yet familiar at the same time, but within moments I could feel the wood warming up beneath me as I subtly adjusted the position of the violin until it was resting just right, nestled between my collarbone and my jaw. I tightened the tension on the bow and tentatively drew it across the A string. It slipped, juddering tunelessly in a manner which threatened to flood my mind with memories of the last time I’d played. Memories which I refused to entertain anymore. A little bit of rosin would sort out the slipperiness of the bow, I told myself, but first I needed to tune the instrument so she could sing again. I reached into the top pocket of the case, the violin still snuggly held in place between my chin and shoulder, found my tuning fork, and rapped it against my knee.

‘Owwwmmm.’ I turned my wince of pain into a hum of the note, singing it softly as I tightened the peg, and then tuned the string to exactly the right pitch with the fine tuners. My knee used to be permanently bruised from when I used to repeat this process several times a day. Mum used to say I’d end up having to get a knee replacement from the abuse, but I’d laugh off her concern, enjoying the sense of invincibility that came with being a teenager. I repeated the process with the other three strings, although this time I conceded that Mum had a point and instead tapped the other tuning forks against the tabletop.

I slowly ran through a couple of scales first to try to get my fingers accustomed to what I needed them to do. They felt sluggish, like they couldn’t keep up with what my mind was asking of them, but it was hardly surprising given the amount of time which had passed since they’d last performed this exercise. But I persisted, changing the tempo with each different key until my muscles started to remember what they had to do. It would be a while before I could relax into the meditative state which I had always slipped into whenever I practised scales before, but I couldn’t expect everything to be perfect on my first day back in front of the music stand.

Now I’d warmed up a bit, it was time to tackle the next challenge: playing some actual music. I put the violin down briefly to glance at the exercises from the orchestra which I’d downloaded onto my iPad. They were complicated, requiring intricate fingerwork and a fluency of performance which I knew I wasn’t ready for yet. Deciding to save them for another day, I tentatively played ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ instead, remembering how Liv had first taught it to me all those years ago. Today felt no less momentous an experience. To my critical ear, the tune didn’t sound much better than the version by my three-year-old self, but I was determined to be kind to myself for a change. There would always be room for improvement, and I mustn’t expect everything to be perfect from the start. I would go steadily, and gradually rebuild my skills as I rebuilt my confidence.

For the next hour, I messed around, half playing folk tunes from memory, and butchering pieces from my vast collection of classical sheet music. But instead of berating myself for every incorrect note, or cringing at each dodgy rhythm, I mentally shrugged, told myself it was okay, and that next time I would play it better. I wouldn’t say I was relaxed enough to be fully enjoying myself yet, but then again, I wasn’t in the state of stressed panic which I’d feared I would be in.

I was halfway through a folk tune called ‘Molly’s Graduation’ (it was in a minor key, and sounded vaguely mournful which had always made Meg pass snooty comments about the low classification of degree which the aforementioned Molly must have graduated with) when there was a knock on the door.

ChapterEighteen

Itenderly placed my violin back in its case and made sure it was in no danger of falling off the table before I went to see who was there.

My neighbour was hovering in the foyer. He looked as if he was bracing himself to have a word with me about the unusual noise coming from my flat.

‘Mr McTavish, I’m sorry, have I disturbed you?’ I said, getting my apology in first.

Back when I was playing regularly, I did a lot of my practice in rehearsal rooms at the university which my old tutor had kindly let me use long after I’d graduated. But I had also played at home, making sure I kept to civilised hours and didn’t go overboard with the fortissimo, aware that the soundproofing between the flats in my building was not as good as it should be. Mr McTavish had never said anything at the time, but then again, I had been a lot more proficient in those days.

‘Oh, um, no,’ he said. ‘I thought you had left a radio on, but I see you’ve been practising your violin. It has been a little while, I think.’

I examined his expression closely, but I couldn’t read anything more into his words than a simple statement of fact. To be honest, I was quite flattered that he’d thought my rusty playing sounded anything like music on the radio.

‘Yes, a little while,’ I agreed. ‘I’m trying to get back into it.’ The more people I told, the more accountable I would become.

He nodded. ‘Is this where I deploy the expression “it will be like riding a bike”? I am not sure that they are technically comparable, but you understand the sentiment.’

‘Thanks, I hope so. It feels strange, but familiar. A bit like returning home after being away at uni I suppose. Everything is the same but somehow it feels completely different.’

‘I can understand that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, the real reason I knocked was that I have had a rather large delivery of takeaway, and I was wondering if you would like to help me eat it?’

If I wasn’t mistaken, he was nervous. Maybe he feared I’d turn down the invitation, like he had politely rejected my offer of pizza the other week. I wondered suddenly if his occasional stand-offish behaviour was as a result of shyness. I could empathise with that. In which case, him making this offer was a big deal.

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