STRING
Inside a small glass bowl, sitting on a wooden shelf, in a quiet room, adjoining a large entrance hall, which welcomed visitors to the family house sat a big fat ball of string. It had been wound round, each section criss-crossed tightly, however, it was unused and neglected. Our ball of string was feeling decidedly unloved and forgotten. Together in the bowl with him were other oddments left there, just in case they could be of use one day. A couple of paperclips, an assortment of receipts, an old pen, a drawing pin, a lost key to who-knows-what and even half a used candle. Many a day had passed without anyone entering this quiet room and the ball of string longed for some activity. Of late noises could be heard from the other side of the closed door, children giggling and squealing and our ball of string anxiously waited for someone to open the door and appear. It was much later that day that his wish came true. Our friendly ball of string could see a lady dressed in outdoor clothes, wellington boots, and with a pair of gardening gloves at the ready. She looked around the room, opened cupboard doors and drawers and scratched her head in wonder.
“Now, where did I put that garden twine?” she muttered
She glanced over to the shelves and spotted the glass bowl and the ball of string. “Oh well, that string could probably do the job” she said to herself. Popping the ball of string into her garden apron she proceeded to the back door, outside into the world beyond that dark quiet room. Bright sunlight and a beautiful vision appeared as she ventured through a small gate into the vegetable garden. Out came a pair of secateurs and she delved into her pocket to retrieve the ball of string.
“Oh, it looks like I could be in for the chop” the string thought, as he glanced at the sharp blades which were coming closer. He was carefully unwound and a long section was attached to a garden cane and he was tied into a knot at one end. Round and round he was twisted between the canes until finally he felt a quick snip, not really painful at all!
“Well, it looks like I’m going to be of some use after all” the ball of string surmised, as he saw his newly cut tail section was now winding around some pretty pink flowers that smelled wonderful. Our ball of string was carefully placed back inside the lady’s garden apron pocket wondering where he would be going to next. On arriving back indoors the apron was hung onto a peg close to the garden door, the ball of string secreted for now. Children’s voices and a clattering of tin cans could be heard and what seemed like a home-made game of skittles had been set up to entertain them.
“Now, now, I think we’ll try and have a quieter game” said their grandmother. She recalled a game from her childhood which she thought the children would enjoy. She already had the tin cans and all that was needed now was a ball of string and some wax. “I think I can help with that” said their mother as she removed her wellingtons and garden gloves. She removed our ball of string from her apron pocket and tried to think about where she could find some wax.
“There could be something in the ‘really useful’ items bowl in the quiet room” said the children in unison. They both ran into the darkened room, spotted the half-used candle from the glass bowl on the shelf and wondered if it would be any use. They watched as Grandma cut another long section from our ball of string and proceeded to thread it through a hole in the bottom of each tin can tying a knot tightly to keep it in place. The children were looking very bemused and even more confused when she used the candle to rub along the string to coat it with a thin film of wax. She explained that you could use this as a very primitive telephone system. “One of you has to put the tin can to your ear, while the other one whispers into the other tin. Now off you go and have some fun!”. “Your mum and I have a few chores to finish off”
The children ran into the garden stretched out the string between the two tin cans, hid behind separate bushes and could be heard shouting out to each other through the make shift telephone. Our remaining ball of string was feeling very pleased with himself and proud of how useful he’d been. He watched as a large brown parcel was then placed on the kitchen table and had a feeling that his duties for the day weren’t over. He was turned over and over until another long tail was stretched round and round the parcel and “snip” another section was used to tie up the big brown box. They both agreed that this ball of string has certainly come in handy today.
The remaining ball of string was left alone on the table. “It is just as well that I was a big fat ball to begin with” he thought, feeling a much slimmer version of himself now. Our ball of string wondered what was to come next when he spotted a pair of little kittens silently creeping into the kitchen through the door which had been left open. “Oh, this looks like it could be fun” the string thought. And, without hesitation the pair of furry friends jumped up onto the table and spotted the ball of string. “Fancy a game of football?” they whispered to the string. To which our ball of string said “Oh yes please!”
The ball of string, now half of its original size, just right for a game of kitten football was pushed onto the floor. Very soon, however, our ball became completely unwound as the kittens tapped him around the legs of the table and chairs until it was almost just a long, twisted, trailing string and not a ball at all! Having made such a mess of the ball of string the kittens decided they had better make a quick exit from the field of play. “Oh gosh, what am I to do now?” thought the string At that moment, the children having finished their game in the garden came into the kitchen for a drink and suddenly stopped in their tracks. It looked as if a spider’s web had been created out of the ball of string which had wrapped itself around the table and chairs and they soon realised what had happened - those pesky kittens had been up to their tricks again! Carefully, between the two children, they began untangling the string and re-winding it back into a tight ball.
“I think we should put this string back into the glass bowl, on the shelf, in the quiet room so that we can remember where it is and he can be used again on another day.” As he was placed back carefully amongst the bits and pieces in the bowl, our string definitely knew that he wasn’t going to be forgotten now! Even though he knew he was going to get smaller and smaller, short sections of him would always be around the house being useful and he couldn’t wait to see what adventures would come next.
Midnight Friends
The clock of Saint Cuthbert’s Church struck twelve o’clock. It was midnight and the inhabitants of Hartley-on-Thames were all abed. All that is, except Augustina Lovelace, owner of ‘The Curious Bookshop.’ Augustina, better known by the locals as Ali, washed out her cup of cocoa and put it on the draining board to dry. It was an icy cold evening, so Augustina wrapped her voluminous black cloak about her shoulders before heading back along Dickens Avenue. Once inside the little shop, she removed her cloak and hung it, as she always did, behind the stock room door. She then reached up to remove a beautiful brown leather case from the top shelf, and, tucking it securely under her arm, quickly headed for the classical section of the bookshop and the welcome embrace of a plush Gothic chaise. Tonight, she was to meet up with some of her favourite friends and wanted to look her best. So, with great care, she smoothed down the front of her brown velvet dress and draped her long and lustrous auburn hair across her shoulders. She then opened the brown leather case and took out an intricately decorated, wing shaped zither. Then, placing the zither on her lap, she gently stroked the strings with her fingertips and sang the magical incantation that would summon her friends to her side.
‘Frates sorores excitant.
‘Venit hora.
‘ Voluptatem tuam expecto.’
The temperature inside the little shop, dropped markedly. Augustina smiled. “You are eager tonight my friends. Come, let us enjoy a night of fun and frolics.” At the sound of her voice, some of the chained books on the back shelves began to glow, and one by one, the characters within them appeared, stepping out from a red swirling mist. First to appear was Miss Haversham, with the shabby remains of her lace wedding gown, draped about her shoulders like a broken spider’s web. She bowed to Augustina, then floated over to the other chaise, where she sat motionless, a sad porcelain doll, neglected and long forgotten. Behind her came the Bronte Sisters, attired in sensible, grey cotton gowns. The dresses were indeed drab, but the sisters’ spirits were high. They entered arm in arm, laughing and chattering like thrushes.
Next came the upright and serious Sherlock Holmes and his erstwhile brother Mycroft. Behind them, Captain Ahab, smelling of whale blubber and blood. Behind him, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra arguing as usual, their voices loud, their bodies stiff and rigid. Augustina sighed. Where was he, she thought. Was he still holding a grudge against her?
Next in line came Alice, replete with her pet white rabbit. Following close behind was Henry V, complete in kingly battledress, and behind him strode James Bond, his dark eyes scanning the room for a suitable partner. He was rewarded by the sight of the fearless and attractive, Nancy Drew. Many other characters swept into view each one dressed to the nines. One of the last to arrive that evening was the adventure loving Don Quixote and the fun-loving Willie Wonka. He, however, was nowhere to be seen. The assembled crowd were a strange assortment, but Augustina knew that by the end of the evening, all their authorial traits will have been shed, allowing them to party in style.
The interior of the little bookshop faded from view. In its place a ballroom, complete with crystal chandeliers. To the rear of the ballroom, a long table covered with exquisite gourmet food. As the clock struck one, an elegant, fluted glass appeared magically in each guest’s hand, full to the brim with Bollinger Champagne. Moments later, dance music filled the air. Augustina resigned herself yet again, to an evening without him. She decided to put thoughts of his loving embrace behind her and spend the remaining hours before the dawn, comparing fashion notes with Madam Bovary, dancing with William Shakespeare and listening to tales of far away lands from Marco Polo. The clock struck four. In an hour the sun would rise in the east, and her entourage would return to the pages of their books ready to tell new stories to their erstwhile readers.
It had been fun, dancing the night away with her friends, but what Augustina really wanted, was to feel the warm embrace of the tall, and impossibly handsome Lord George Gordon Byron. So, resigning herself to yet another night without him, she decided to stroll over to speak with Oscar Wilde and to share a glass of champagne with him, But, as she approached the drinks table, a long, elegant hand grasped her waist and swung her round. “Why hello my sweet.” whispered a soft, deep, sonorous voice. “Where have you been hiding my gorgeousness?” Augustina turned to face him. “I think you know exactly where I have been,” she replied shaking her head. The real question is, where have you been?”
“Well, my sweetness. You know I am weak willed. I saw Lady Victoria Northbrook sitting alone in the apse by the fireplace. She looked so sad and forlorn, so I decided to be her knight in shining armour and rescue her from loneliness and boredom.” Augustina shot him a look of sheer venom. “Then I suggest you return to her,” she said, trying hard to conceal her anger.
“No, I think not,” he replied, tipping his head coyly to one side. “I’m afraid Lady Victoria proved to be, well shall we say, a bit of a disappointment; The woman has no sense of adventure.” “You mean she was not adventurous enough in bed.” “Quite so my little vixen, quite so. Whereas you, Augustina, are quite the adventuress.” Augustina lifted her hand intent on slapping his face, but George caught it with one hand and pulled her close to him. They kissed softly at first, then more ardently. “Why on earth do I stand for your shenanigans,” she whispered in his ear. “Aways stringing me along.”
“Because my gorgeousness, you simply cannot resist my animal attraction.” He winked at her and smiled. ” Well! you old reprobate, I see you haven’t lost any of your humility.” Augustina, wagged a finger at him, smiled and looked up at the clock. Dawn was almost upon them, and some of her guests were already heading back into the pages of their books. “So, my loveliness. May I request the pleasure of your company when next the magic of the stars foretell. I promise to be a good boy. Please say you will accept.” He bowed low.
“Well, my lord, if you promise to be on time, I will ensure that my boudoir is at our disposal. Now get back to your poetry before the Sun burns you to a crisp.”
With the tryst assured Lord George Byron turned, bowed low, blew Augustina a kiss and stepped back into literary history.
Mystery Sonata
They carried him off and no-one knew if he was alive or dead.
We sat staring at the empty stage, not knowing whether to stay or leave, in that hushed silence following the violinist’s collapse. He’d dropped like a stone – as they say – mid-glissando. Did they even have glissandi in Biber’s day? Who knows? Perhaps his fingers just slid down the string as he fell. But the Mystery Sonata remained just that: a mystery. He had played but a few notes of it for the second half of the concert. And now his violin lay silent on its back, broken. The lute player made an unexpected entrance, picked up the instrument with tender care, his face red. Not a soul thought to ask him how his colleague was as he hurried off. Or if they’d thought, maybe they didn’t want to risk the answer.
‘Oh no,’ a quiet voice said. ‘Stradivarius?’
An older man further back sighed. ‘No. Amati. He’d only bought it a month or so ago.’
‘You know him?’
‘No, it was in the papers. He’d been over to Cremona, came back with it and someone told him it was cursed.’
I looked across to my right. The woman in the front row still had her hands to her face, fingertips just touching the lower frame of her glasses. Her glance was fixed on the empty spot where less than an hour before, the soloist and his Amati had played such sounds that we thought it must have been touched by angels. But cursed? Surely that’s ridiculous.
The sound of chairs scraping came from the back. Looking around, I could see a few people leaving already. The rest of us sat there staring at the illuminated spot where the violinist and his instrument had lain motionless. The man to my left cleared his throat and broke the remaining silence. ‘Well, I suppose if you’ve got to go, this is a pretty good place to do it.’ The front row seemed to freeze as a single organism, while the man looked around sheepishly for an answer. Nobody obliged, and he sank further down into his seat, eyes lowered. The side door opened with a creak. The theatre manager emerged and motioned to the stragglers to sit down.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. For obvious reasons, we have a change of programme. Our pianist has kindly offered to play some Mozart for you, if you’d like to stay. And then we have some music for the lute , a bit later. Of course, if you prefer to leave, we will offer a full refund.’
A lone voice came from the audience. ‘How is the – ‘
But before the sentence could be finished, the manager had turned and made a hasty exit.
I wondered what they weren’t telling us. And why.
We sat through the next half-hour without event. But the applause seemed a bit half-hearted. It was as if everyone’s mind was still back there, worrying about mystery and the fate of the violinist.
The lute player returned to the stage for the last item, a weak smile his only expression. But before he could play a note, there was a loud snap, and the performer and his chair fell sideways on to the hard floor, as if some invisible hand had struck them. A sharp intake of breath echoed across the entire theatre. I turned to the man next to me. His eyes were wide, his hand covering his mouth. ‘Not twice,’ he muttered through shaking fingers. ‘Surely not twice.’
The manager appeared from the wings, and helped the lute player slowly to his feet. The instrument appeared intact, apart from the remnants of a broken string still waving in the air. They stood together in grim silence, facing the audience, and not one person dared to speak, let alone ask the question. Perhaps the idea of a curse was not so far-fetched after all.
Suddenly the lute player began to shake, as if the effort of stillness was too much for him to contain any longer, a smirk unbelievably appearing on his face. As the manager turned to look at him, both men broke out into barely suppressed laughter.
People were turning in their seats, wondering what on earth to make of this, not knowing whether to laugh or make hastily for the exit. I for one did neither. This was all too surreal.
The manager finally controlled himself enough to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me first say what a pleasure it’s been to see your reaction to our little experiment tonight. I imagine you have not noticed the date on your programmes?’
There was a general fumbling around, and rustling of paper. And then a sigh. A mixture of sounds echoed around the auditorium. The man next to me tilted his head back and muttered ‘aaaah ... of course …’ I shook my head. How could we have missed it? April 1st. Plain for all to see.
Out of the wings came the violinist, with a smile, the instrument in his left hand miraculously intact. In his right, the broken violin.
‘Not to worry,’ he said, holding it up. ‘It was only £2.50 in the charity shop.’