Read the book: «The Silence»

Chapter 1
Jenny, One Year Earlier

She couldn’t stand it any longer. Jenny staggered back, hand over mouth as bile rose. Someone had thrown up in the bathroom and not cleaned after themselves. Not for the first time. But today some joker had dropped a rubber duck in the middle of it. Really, she shouldn’t have to face this; no one should.

Jenny slammed the door on the mess and ran down to the small toilet on the ground floor, which was fitted at an awkward angle under the stairs. Thankfully, it was vacant, as none of the house’s other inhabitants were up yet after last night’s party.

A party that had included all but her. That hurt. When had she become Jenny-No-Mates? Jenny rested her aching head in her hands. She’d let this happen, hadn’t she? When her last relationship broke down, she’d let her ex carry off their friends into his new Jenny-free circle. Shannon, Tilly, Gina – when had they last messaged her – or for that matter, she contacted them? Maybe their loyalty had always been to him? It was stating the obvious to say that he was much easier-going. Any communication with her was so bloody frustrating – she could hardly blame them. But she’d have to try harder, find people who would understand her need to withdraw into herself at times and not take it personally, but be there for her when she felt like mixing. Did people like that exist in London? And how did you find them?

Jenny flushed the loo and washed her hands in the tiny basin, splashing the floor as everyone did. She air-dried her fingers, having noticed that the towel was a scrunched-up biohazard. She’d been working last night but her housemates probably wouldn’t have invited her anyway. The party had still been going strong when she returned from her late shift. She’d been majorly pissed off to find people grazing on each other on the stairs, cans sprouting like cylindrical mushrooms on every ledge, raucous mating calls in the lounge – all signs of the weird party wildlife of the urban jungle. She had to chuck two rutting lovers off her futon and secure the sliding door with the flimsy lock. Then she had to rip the sheets off the bed, put on clean ones, and set the room to rights, frantic that her safe space had been violated. Only then had she been able to go to bed.

To sleep? That was a joke. With the noise she hadn’t managed that till three, barricaded inside her room.

She steeled herself to face the carnage that would be the kitchen. Some letting company was running a campaign on the Underground about the annoyance of passive-aggressive notes from aggrieved flatmates, suggesting all you need do was find a new place to stop the nagging. As if it were that easy to move. In her case, she didn’t know how far she’d have to go to get through to her flatmates. She’d need at least a passive-aggressive billboard to get the attention of the people that shared the same space with her. Three Billboards Outside Ebbisham Drive. She could see them clearly: black words on red on the approach from the Underground. Clean Up! Do Not Leave Your Sick For Others To Find! Put Out Your Rubbish! They probably wouldn’t notice. The place was beyond saving. The landlord kept packing in more tenants, subdividing rooms with flimsy partitions. Her garden view window now had a plasterboard wall down the middle, leaving her just half to look out on the wheelie bins and broken paving slabs. No one complained as it was that or have the rent increased. Yet the more people moved in, the greater the pressure on Jenny, like the person crushed at the front against a barrier as the crowd surged behind her. Hard now to remember that it had started out so well as a flat share – just three of them, Harry, Luke and Jenny, friends from the orchestra; but the centre of gravity had shifted as Harry and Luke brought in more people to satisfy the landlord’s rampant greed. Now there were six, five men and her, and personal responsibility for the house had become so diluted it no longer had any meaning.

Jenny would no longer count herself a friend of Harry, or Luke for that matter.

I’m going to find a new place today. It’s that or throw myself in the Thames. And that’s not a joke.

So what was the damage? She opened the kitchen door. It was worse than she feared. She couldn’t eat breakfast in there.

‘Morning, sunshine,’ said Harry, coming out of the front room, his good mood an insult. Adjusting waistband elastic, he shuffled past in the music notation boxers that she’d given him that first Christmas in a Secret Santa.

She gave him now a single finger. He was usually the one to invite the guests to his famous impromptu parties and there were probably several left with him on the couch in various states of undress. He was proud of being adventurous in his love-making. Horn players had to live up to the jokes, he claimed.

‘Now, now, Jenny. No need to be jealous.’ He folded his six-foot plus frame into the too-small toilet and locked the door. At least she’d got in there first before he stank the place out.

This is making me into a horrid person, thought Jenny, turning her back on the kitchen. She couldn’t cope with that. I used to be happy, fun-loving, now I’m cast as the household Grinch. She plodded upstairs.

Hearing more retching from the main bathroom, the urge to escape reached boiling point. She grabbed a set of clean clothes, toiletries and her violin from her room. Life in the flat had devolved to the stage where she didn’t dare leave her instrument, fearing someone would throw up on it or use it as a cricket bat in one of their ‘hilarious’ drunken games. It was worth more than a year’s rent in London. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, the instrument case over the other, she hurried out of the house, and headed by bus for the sanctuary of the Brixton Recreation Centre.

Avoiding the pool and its battalion of early morning lengths swimmers, Jenny took a long time under the shower, soaping her body clean of the grim her house left on her. She fantasised about living somewhere completely under her control; one of those Japanese pod bedrooms would do for her, clean lines and minimal furniture. The best thing about the pod would be that she’d be alone when she chose. Completely Robinson Crusoe before Man Friday showed up alone. No need to communicate with a soul. No Harry. Just her and her music.

Her slippery fingers wandered to her throat, gentling over the scars left by surgery. A ghost of a touch still lingered; fingers squeezing, squeezing … White streaks lightninged across her lids. She dropped her hand, braced herself against the shower stall, and breathed through her nose. Not this. Concentrate on the here and now. Find something to focus on.

The ache in her neck was back. She didn’t want to think about the pain but it was better than the panic. She’d better get out of the shower and deal with it. Yes, that was good. Pain was like the conductor’s baton bringing scattered thoughts to attention.

Wrapping a soft white towel around her chest, tucked under her arms, she padded to the sinks. Filling a plastic bottle at the tap, she downed a couple of Tramadol in a gulp. It was a strong painkiller. Give it a few minutes and the relief would kick in with a little flip of pleasure; she’d feel near human again.

Tension easing, Harry struck up in her brain – her subconscious playing dress up. Other people her age liked Saturday-night parties. Why did she get in such a bloody twist about them? Mess was just mess. There were worse things in life as she well knew.

It was hard to explain to him, though, the sheer distress it caused her to find that her safe space was not safe, that Harry and her other flatmates thought it fine to let friends shag on her duvet, that they didn’t listen to her. She was screaming for help and they had their fingers in their ears.

I can’t take it any longer.

Then stop moaning and do something about it. Sometimes even subconscious Harry had good advice.

On time for her shift at the Royal Festival Hall café, Jenny set about cleaning tables with gusto. Con Forza. The seating spread far out into the acre of square-pillar-and-glass atrium and played host to a constantly shifting population of tourists and concertgoers. These faces were always different yet somehow the same, like the river in that saying about never stepping in the same one twice. School parties – the violins. Elderly couples from the home counties – the violas. Korean girls with kitten headbands or backpacks – the piccolos. American ladies with clarion tones – had to be the brass section. Each fell into their part on her imagined stave, weaving their different notes together. She was able to work quite alone for long stretches of time, absorbed in the logistics of carrying trays and discarded cups. She let music flow through her like her bloodstream. If she hadn’t had her violin to sustain her, she knew she wouldn’t have survived; it was the only thing that brought pure joy to her life. She craved it more than any lover or drug. For nothing less would she put up with crap pay and ridiculous hours. As she tidied, she let the exuberant strings part of Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn’ run through her mind. Yes, she knew that the piece had become a cliché, ruined by lifts and hold music, but it was still the best workout for a violinist’s fingers. Harry and his boxer shorts, the bathroom, the rubbish-strewn kitchen, all were blown away.

She was so absorbed in her mind-music that she didn’t see the lady who was getting up from a table behind her. Jenny collided, spilling the dregs from a teacup over them both. She stared at the lady’s stained white coat in silent horror.

‘Well, really! What’s wrong with you?’ trumpeted the customer. ‘You could at least have the decency to apologise!’

Frustration mounted inside Jenny. How to explain? God, she hated herself sometimes. She held out a cloth.

‘I’m not using that thing. This is a wool-cashmere mix!’ The woman blotted the stain with a clean tissue.

Her manager and good friend, Louis Palin, appeared at her elbow with his admirable ninja skill of sneaking up on her. Not bad for a heavyset guy the far side of forty. ‘Is something the matter, madam?’

‘Look what she did to my coat!’

‘I see – please accept our apologies. Here’s my card if you wish to contact me further about this.’

The woman grabbed her coat and the card. ‘It’s probably ruined.’

‘I sincerely hope not, madam.’

With a sniff, she exited.

‘Why the fuck is she leaving a priceless coat on the back of her chair in a canteen?’ marvelled Louis. ‘Stupid cow.’

Jenny rested her head on his shoulder and he patted her back.

‘Forget it, Jen. Women like that won’t be bothered to follow through with a claim – it takes too much time and she probably has six in her wardrobe. Sweetie, can you do a double shift today?’

Jenny nodded, eager to oblige her rescuer.

‘What do you think about doing a stint on the counter?’ asked Louis.

Jenny gave him an ‘are you sure?’ look. Not being able to speak due to the scarring on her larynx made customer-facing roles a tortuous challenge. Most musicians made ends meet as teachers but her disability meant that wasn’t an option for her. She was lucky they knew her here and looked after her.

‘We’ll give it a go, all right? See how you get on.’ Louis helped her clear the table. ‘It can’t be as bad as that woman and there’ll be others on hand if you can’t manage. It’s just that I’m really short-staffed for the pre-concert rush.’

All right for him to speak, thought Jenny, then realised the irony. See what I did there? She told subconscious Harry. I do still have a sense of humour. Just about.

‘How are you fixed for tomorrow?’

Jenny got out an iPad that she used for people who didn’t know sign language. It had revolutionised the speed of her messaging with its predictive spelling and she felt it was another instrument for her as her practised fingers flew. If she felt like it, she could even get it to talk for her, though she avoided using that function as she didn’t like any of the voices. None of them sounded like she did in her head. Rehearsal tomorrow at 11.

‘After that?’

Can do five hours. That would leave one hour’s break before the concert. Living on breadline wages meant she had to take all the shifts she could when the orchestra was in London just to make the rent.

Which reminded her. She cleared the screen, her signal for a new subject. Do you know anyone who has a spare room? I’m going crazy.

She had told Louis something of her struggles with her current living arrangement. ‘That bad, hey?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘Funnily enough, I do know someone who’s just moved out of a place. I thought of you when he mentioned it, but it’s on Blackheath.’

Her hopes flew skyward and wheeled like doves. She waved her hand asking for more information.

‘Blackheath’s on the hill above Greenwich. I realise most the people you know are mostly central and south-west London, so I thought it would probably be too lonely for you?’

Your friend moved out? Why? She didn’t want to step into another nightmare flatmates scenario as the other person fled.

‘He’s finally seen sense and moved in with his boyfriend – which would be me.’ Louis gave her a wink. Louis had been wooing ex-serviceman turned singer-songwriter Kris for months now, using Jenny as his agony aunt through the ups and downs.

Kris had given up his old place? It must be love. Jenny tapped her right palm on her left in the sign for happy. Even Louis could understand that.

‘Thanks, Jenny.’ But he didn’t look as ecstatic as Jenny expected, his tone a little downbeat. ‘It’s getting something good out of a bad situation, I suppose.’

She circled her fist over her heart, the sign for ‘sorry’.

‘You know Kris. He’s been struggling silently with his pain management but has finally had to acknowledge that he needs more help, and I volunteered. Anyway, before moving in with me, he lived with this eccentric old bird in her house just off the Hare and Billet Road. Did he ever tell you about it?’

She didn’t know Kris as well as Louis so couldn’t honestly remember him mentioning it. She wavered her hand in a ‘not sure’ gesture.

‘He didn’t talk about it much as, you know, grown up guy living with old lady …? Sounds a little weird. Anyway, it’s an amazing place.’ Louis took the tray from Jenny and threaded it on the rack for dirty dishes. ‘She takes in young disadvantaged people involved in the Arts at very low rents – peppercorn ones. Kris got to know her thanks to his GP and has managed to save up quite a bit from his army pension.’

Jenny raised her brows and drew a pound sign with a question mark.

‘Because she doesn’t need the money herself. Wouldn’t that be nice, eh?’ Louis started pushing the trolley of dirty trays towards the kitchen. ‘Kris says she was once a dancer so she understands how hard it’s to survive doing the kind of jobs we do.’

Jenny could only agree. She was lucky if she made twenty-five thousand a year even with two jobs, and that still went nowhere in London once student loan, rent and transport were paid.

‘The story goes that she crashed out with an injury just before she hit the big time.’ Jenny nipped ahead to hold open the swing door. ‘Thanks, Jen. But then her Prince Charming came along and she married money, moved into the husband’s family home, and stayed happily wed for years.’ They left the trolley with the washer-uppers. ‘Then her husband had the bad fortune to up and die on her from some long-term condition he developed. That left a great gap in her life. Kris says she amuses herself by taking in her waifs and strays – him the wounded soldier turned musician qualified in spades.’

Jenny was totally ready to be a waif or a stray if it meant escaping her shared house.

How do I contact her?

‘It’s by word of mouth only. Personal recommendations. She doesn’t advertise. I’ll get Kris to put in a good word for you. Come to think of it, I’m sure you’ll love Mrs Whittingham’s house. It’s stylish, like you.’ He was teasing. There was nothing the least stylish about her.

She nudged him playfully. Address?

‘Didn’t I say? Gallant House.’