The Piece

The music echoed around the empty cathedral, resonating from the deeply rich wood of the exquisite cello. Note upon note, tumbling, twisting and turning in the air, fluidly intermingling with her tears as she played the piece. It was beautiful. In fact more than beautiful, it was intriguing.

She’d never heard these notes before yet they flowed from her fingers as if they had been written by her, or for her, she could not tell which. There was a character to the work that betrayed its emotions. Imprisoned yet free, expressive yet guarded, as if in the outburst of emotion too much might be given away, too much soul exposed and left vulnerable for all to see, yet grasping to be understood.

There was such a chill in the air that one morning. The hoar frost had visited for the first time for the winter. Brushing aside the greying net curtain to the small bathroom window, she soaked in the dawn.

She had not had much time of late to even look at the trees that had turned and then shed their leaves. Her favourite time of year seemed to have passed in a whirlwind. She hurriedly brushed her teeth and splashed her face with water, noting the tired look that seemed to have taken residence under her eyes in recent weeks.

Her project was due in that morning, and breakfast, or at least a cup of coffee was beckoning. The inside of the fridge was a sad sight; she’d wait to get a hot coffee from Olly’s on the corner of Catherine Street.

As she stooped to pick up her satchel and sling on her scuffed leather boots, she caught sight of yesterday’s newspaper still dumped on the floor. She’d been reading and re-reading it late into the night to glean every last detail. To concentrate on the twenty-four hours ahead she’d have to put that aside.

The frost tipped leaves of her neighbour’s holly bush caught her eye as she took the short walk from her flat. She often marvelled at how delicately the leaves held the tiniest ice crystals like the frill of a lace petticoat. Creation was yet again reminding her of its symphony.

She arrived at the college just after nine. Caffeine in hand, thankful that she’d managed to swing by Olly’s on the way. As always he was kind and attentive to her, she hoped it had nothing to do with her olive skin, high cheekbones and thick mane of dark auburn hair. She’d tamed it in a rough bun at the nape of her neck, and she knew she looked exhausted, so his kindness was touching. What was it with most men, she thought, that they were satisfied with skin deep and didn’t want to discover the treasures beneath her eyes? At least Olly seemed to be breaking the stereotype somewhat.

She was glad to arrive late. She had to get to her studio unseen. She hoped to avoid the awkward questions that were sure to be on everyone’s lips that morning. Her mother, her famous yet reclusive mother, had managed to die in a most dramatic way yesterday.

She was an author, her mother that is. This being the ‘loving’ mother who’d gone and left her at the age of five, to go and live with some hobo writer named Gavin who’d in the subsequent years fleeced her of all of her hard earned royalties.

Ellen, she was sure, had had no idea how much her leaving had impacted Isabelle. In the physical they’d had to move to a very small terraced house on the outskirts of the city. It was however Isabelle’s emotions that had been dealt the worst of blows. Now her external environment only seemed to mirror her inner turmoil at her sudden abandonment as a child.

Her studio was in a shocking mess. She couldn’t remember it ever being tidy really. It’s how she liked it. She often found her most revealing pieces were created amidst this chaos of manuscript papers, discarded paraphernalia and inspiration bits and bobs. She was a hoarder, she admitted it, couldn’t break free of it, was resigned to it. She was envious of those who were creative AND tidy, how they did it she had no idea. In fact she questioned whether their creativity was truly pure in their hideously well-ordered lives. She had this inkling that they were hindered by their addiction to this rigid order. She placated herself with these thoughts on entering the mansard room on the third floor of the college studios on Corbett Road.

Calling her father was going to be difficult. In recent years he’d withdrawn into his work and Isabelle had found him harder to find amidst his shallow emails and short clipped texts. He must know her mother’s address. He sounded hollow when he picked up the phone, which caught her off guard. He wasn’t however reluctant to tell her, which was a relief, she didn’t want to have a long conversation and rub salt in his, now evident, gaping wounds. So there it was, she had lived at The Cathedral Green. Only a stone's throw from Llandaff Cathedral, a mere two miles away. Just two miles had separated her from her mother for all this time?

Her heart had been well trained to give way to her head, and she was glad in hindsight that she’d gone with her automatic cerebral response. Now that she stood outside the house, her heart though was pounding its complaint. The front garden to the house had a very neatly clipped private hedge, she couldn’t remember her mother being the type to be all neat and tidy, she must have a gardener she surmised.

The front doorway was classically ornate with stained glazing typical of the turn of the twentieth century. Stone surrounds and a worn stone step marked the threshold. It took her a while to realise that the door was ajar, she heard hushed voices. She called in a voice that didn’t seem to be her own. A suited gentleman came to the door, answering her in a warm tone. He introduced himself as her mother’s solicitor. She introduced herself as her mother’s daughter.

They’d been sorting through papers on the walnut dining table that dominated the front room. The walls were painted a thick burgundy red, and the sun shining through the stained glass casement windows made the walls rich like the best claret. It was a beautiful room. Upstairs also had a richness in décor that belayed the creative side of her mother. She mounted the stairway soaking in the fragrance of the place. It wasn’t musty, as she had expected. There was life still in this place and she couldn’t quite put her finger on why she felt so.

Then she saw it, the cello. The wood was dark yet vibrant, it had a gorgeous depth beyond the surface patina; it was very well worn and very well loved. A lump came into her throat. Why should it have this impact on her, an inanimate object producing such a swell of emotion? She touched it tentatively, floating her fingers across the scroll. It was beautiful. She could not resist her urge to play this valuable beauty.

She picked up the bow, tightened the hair, and started to feel her way around this particular instrument. Why would her mother have had it? Whose was it? It was then that she saw the small black notebook that the solicitor had placed next to her. A private journal, it was stuffed with loose leaf manuscript papers, sheet music. She froze. She’d recognise her mother’s hand writing anywhere. Her fingers started to tremble; her heart was pounding, thoughts in a scramble. She needed air and quickly.

She stood suddenly, managing to knock the notebook & papers to the floor, it was then that she noticed a number of letters in the bundle. It was her mother’s will. Her mother’s wishes, black and white on paper clearly indicating that she, Isabelle were to inherit her estate, including her beloved $20,000 cello. The kind solicitor was suddenly at her side, helping her collect the papers from the floor, he motioned for her to sit. She learnt that her mother had become increasingly blind across the last decade and had turned to music. Her heart was in her throat.

One of her mother’s last wishes was that Isabelle listen to a piece that Ellen had written for her. She had wanted that the piece be played within Llandaff Cathedral. The solicitor had already arranged for Isabelle to have access to the cathedral, he helped her carry the cello there. He then left her alone in the vast space.

Tentatively she began to play. She sensed her mother’s emotions flowing from the beautiful instrument: loss, grief and solitude, sadness, love, and tenderness. Regret … deep, deep regret, and then a muted freedom, as if in her blindness she’d been able again to fly. That somehow the music had given her liberty to momentarily escape her losses.

Isabelle was now aware, note upon note, that she was absolutely and inextricably connected to her mother … she had in fact always been. She was seen, this child, this daughter was seen. She was valued, she was treasured, perhaps lost and out of reach, but loved, she was so loved. She had always … always been loved.