The Last Cadenza

 Henry Preston is principal violinist with Northern Sinfonia. First chair. A man who has spent his life in pursuit of perfection. Then a routine appointment changes everything. When the music he has devoted his life to begins to betray him, Henry's carefully ordered world starts to unravel. Into that unravelling walks Don — his least promising student — with a violin, an attitude, and no interest whatsoever in doing things Henry's way. This is a story about loss, about pride, and about what happens when you finally stop controlling the music and just let it go. 

Transcript

The Last Cadenza

A short story by Jeff Price

“Stop, stop! What are you doing? That’s terrible. You have been coming here every week for two years and that’s the best you can do? This is the cadenza of Vaughan Williams' Lark Ascending, not heavy metal. Now, like this.”

Henry picked up his violin and rested it gently on his left shoulder. “Observe, the fingers lightly on the fingerboard. sur la touche. Draw back the bow and play each note gently, imagine the bird rising slowly as dawn breaks. Pianissimo. Don’t attack it like you are shooting the damn bird out of the sky with a shotgun.” 

But Don was not imagining a bird rising; he was looking out the window at the street below and two girls he vaguely recognised from the sixth form who were standing at the bus stop.  “They're not stuck in a violin lesson” He thought. “ I bet they are going down town. The one in the red skirt looks fit.”

“Don!” 

“What?”

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry. Is it time now?”

Henry looked at his watch. “Nearly, off you go, I have an appointment with my audiologist this afternoon.”

Before Henry had even finished his sentence Don had pushed his violin and bow back into its case  and was halfway out the door. Henry heard the word “Bye.” as Don stomped down the stairs.

Henry hated giving lessons to posh middle class privileged kids whose parents wanted nothing more than the bragging rights at dinner parties of saying “Yes, our Donald is being tutored on the violin by Henry Preston. He’s principal violinist with Northern Sinfonia.” but it paid the rent and a couple of them really were quite good but not Don. He could be, if he cared enough but he didn’t.

Henry checked his watch. He had an hour to get down to the ENT centre at the hospital for his monthly appointment for ear wax removal.  He gently placed his beloved Hill & Sons violin in its case. “Until later Aunty.” he said as he closed the lid. The violin had been given to him many years ago by his Aunty Susan and it had belonged to her fiance whose final hours had been spent in a futile attempt to stop Japanese troops invading Singapore.

The bedside alarm rang as it always did at seven thirty even on a Sunday. As Henry swung his legs out of bed, the room seemed to spin around him as he crashed to the floor. Every time he opened his eyes it was as if he was on a ship during a fierce storm, the room seemed to be lurching up and down, backwards and forwards. It only stopped when he closed his eyes. Henry slowly got up off the floor and slumped back down on the bed. His mind was a whirl, he had a rehearsal in two hours, he couldn’t be late, he was first chair, the Konzertmeister. There were twelve other violinists who would kill for first chair and Henry was not about to let them have even a sniff of it. He tried again to get up but once again he slumped back down and this time he felt as if he was going to be sick. 

An hour later he was still trying but every time he failed. He had no choice. It was time to make a call. “Siri, call Thomas.” Thomas was the conductor and the driving force behind the orchestra’s success since it moved to the Glasshouse in Gateshead. Henry didn’t like him; he was ruthless and demanding of everyone, especially his principals but Henry did respect him, he reasoned that you don't get to be the Maestro of one of the biggest orchestras in England by being nice to people.

“Thomas, Henry Preston here, sorry but I can’t come in today.” Thomas explained his symptoms as best he could crammed between a thousand “sorries” and when he finished Thomas simply said. “Thank you for letting me know Henry. Tell my secretary when you are fit to return.” and then he hung up.

“Siri, Call Mother.”

“Oh Henry dear, that sounds dreadful.” She said after Henry had explained his situation. “I’ll get Daddy to drive me down over the weekend, probably. I would come earlier but we’re playing bridge  with the Beaumonts and I don’t want to let them down. Goodbye Dear.” and then she hung up.

Henry was alone, trapped in bed and desperate to go to the toilet. Keeping his eyes tight shut he slid out of bed and onto the bedroom floor. On all fours he slowly made his way into the bathroom. By the time he returned to bed he was exhausted. Within a few minutes he fell into a fitful sleep. 

It was late in the evening when he woke up. The room was dark, with just the glow of the street below illuminating the room.  At first he didn't dare open his eyes, slowly and only for a brief second he opened them and then shut them again. Then a few seconds more. The room wasn’t exactly still but instead of a raging ocean it felt more like a narrowboat on a quiet canal. He gripped the end of the bed and slowly stood up. The sense of relief was short lived as he realised that the rushing noise he could hear was not the traffic on the road outside but was in his head or more exactly in his left ear. It was as if someone was saying shush to him but the note was high pitched like he imagined a waterfall would sound. 

“It will soon pass.” he thought as he fell backwards onto the bed.

A few days later.

The intercom by the door buzzed. “At last,” he muttered to himself.

He pressed the entry button and while saying “Come in Mother” into the mic. He then retreated back towards the couch where he had been sleeping for the last few days.

The door slowly opened “Morning Henry,”. Henry was confused as the person he thought should be his mother looked very much like Don, his Saturday morning lesson.

“Oh, sorry. I meant to message you. I’ve not been well. I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel.

Don looked around the room, Henry's apartment was always spotless. A place for everything and everything in its place was a constant refrain over the last two years of lessons but now the coffee table was piled high in mugs and discarded take away cartons. In the galley kitchen in the corner the normally pristine counter top was a jumble of dirty dishes. 

“Did a bomb go off?” he said as a way of breaking the tension. “And you look shit by the way. What happened?

“I don’t really know. I had my ears done and the next day I had vertigo and this buzzing in my left ear. The audiologist has been to see me and she says it happens and just to rest and wait. Now, Barbara has taken my place for the performance next week of the Lark. It’s all over the NSO WhatsApp group, they are all saying how brilliant she is. No one seems to care about me. The only contact I had was the secretary phoning me to remind me I need a sick note.”

“Right, you’ve got to pull yourself together Bro. This place stinks and you don't smell so good either. Go get a shower or a bath or something. “

Henry was about to say something but thought better of it. His Mother would be here soon and then everything would be ok but in the meantime a shower sounded good. He got up from the couch and without saying a word went off into the bathroom.

Don walked over to the large window that overlooked the street and opened it. He took a deep breath, The air was a mix of the car fumes and the aromas of the curry house opposite. At the bus stop a parking attendant was having an argument with the driver of a Range Rover. He turned back and looked into the room. Charlie from his band lived in squalor like this and it was rank. “Good,” he thought. “I’ve got a Saturday morning off.” and then he looked around the room again. “I’ll just do a quick tidy up. I can’t leave the poor bugger like this.”

By the time Henry came out of the bathroom half an hour later the room looked a bit more normal. The coffee table had been cleared of debris, the dish washer had been filled and most of the counter top in the kitchen had been cleared. 

Henry stood in the bathroom doorway. “Don, did you do this?”

“No one else is here Bro.I’ll be off now.” 

Henry went over to the settee, sat down and cried. At first a whimper, then his shoulder began to shake as the tears became a flood and all the anxiety and fears of the last few days turned into a cry of pain and he howled in his grief.

Don just stood there not knowing what to do. Actually he really did know what to do, that was to run out of the door and not come back but somehow he couldn’t. He felt sorry for the broken wreck of a man that sat there sobbing like a child.

Between sobs Henry blurted out all his fears. “My place in the orchestra has gone to that bitch Barbara, I have a nest of angry hornets living in my left ear, nothing is clear anymore, I'm in a fog and I don't know what to do.”

“Try getting a grip, for a start.” Don added unhelpfully. “Look, all this will sort itself out, The noise will go away. Probably. Get your violin out and give it a try. I bet it’s all ok.”

Don picked up Henry’s case and handed it to him. “Go on, do that “Lark rising” thing you like.”

“Ascending not rising.”

“Not lost his smug.” Don thought

Henry played the opening cadenza, the notes hesitant at first began to knit together but Don could hear that it had changed. It was still precise but something was missing, the colour in the notes had gone, it was competent but that’s all.

“Practice Bro, you just need to practice more. It'll be good.”

“No it won’t, it's gone.”

“You need to loosen up, let the music be free, stop thinking like a first seat.”

“Chair”

“Whatever”

Don opened his case and lifted his violin out. He started to play the first few notes of Lark and then slowly began to take it somewhere different. He played with the notes, bent them, turned them back on themselves. 

“Join in Bro and just let go”

Henry looked at Aunty for a moment. In two years he had never once followed Don's lead. He picked up the bow. For a few bars he could let go but between the notes and the buzz he didn’t hear the song of the Lark but a Buzzard circling high above, its call a shrill echo of his loss. Don heard the change and followed it, first creating an undertow beneath his waves of sound and then it became a duel between master and pupil, young and old, the past and the present.

This is the last episode of season three.  I hope you have enjoyed it. If you have you can show your support by buying me a coffee. Just use the link on the Telling Tales front page. I’ll be back later in the year with Season 4 but remember all episodes season 1 2 and 3 still available free to listen to. Thank you for listening.