The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  “I was fortunate to have a berth with several of the senior crewmen but that was barely enough to turn round in. But back and forth I went, earning my keep and making a few pounds. I could also turn my hand in the evening to entertaining the passengers and crew on my violin and they would get strong drink in them and jig fit to go through the bottom of the packet! Sometimes I would take that violin and play a sad song from the old country. I have seen strong men cry at the tunes.”

  “This was all before you lost your arm?” asked John, although thumping his forehead at his stupidity as soon as he had asked the question.

  Anthony smiled.

  “That was to happen a few years into my career as a shipping clerk. I was also able to play when we stopped in New York. We were given a basic billet so I would play in the lanes around the docks and make a little more money.”

  “So, how did…?” ventured John motioning towards the missing arm.

  “I was on deck as we swung one day into Liverpool dock. I was standing by the coil of a hawser when an anchor was dropped to prevent us from running into the dock walls.

  “I don’t know how but my arm was tangled in the rope and was torn clean off. I was only rescued from the peril of being dragged overboard by the loss of my arm. It’s a strange thing but I can still feel it as though it was there. I can feel pain in it although there is only a space now where it used to be. It seems to be with me even though I know it’s at the bottom of the harbour.

  “After that my value as a clerk diminished: they had no need of an office boy of twenty years with only one arm. It was my writing arm that had gone so I had to learn all over again with the other hand. That was not something they could wait for. Back in Liverpool most work was out of the question. Although my reading was fast and fluent and my mind could work out figures quickly enough, nobody wanted a clerk who couldn’t write – particularly one of six-and-a-half feet with one arm and the look of a wild man. And manual work was, of course, out of the question.”

  John agreed with a rueful smile that job opportunities must indeed have been limited.

  “But how do you find yourself here of all places?” he asked. “After all, my family is local, I was born near here and I don’t know anything else. But you have travelled the world. You’ve lived in London. This is a strange old world for the likes of you.”

  “Ah, that, my friend, is the power of love. About ten years ago, I had just turned thirty years. Not many women gave me a second look and if they did, it was probably out of pity. But Susan was different. She stumbled in the street as she was passing me in Liverpool one day, and I caught her with my one good arm. She laughed, and said, ‘Trust me to fall over near you. It was a good job you had the one good arm still working wasn’t it!’ and she laughed and laughed. She was in Liverpool for a few days visiting an aunt. We arranged to meet again. If ever there were two sides of one coin it was Susan and me.

  “She didn’t mind about my arm. She used to say ‘Well come and give us a hug with the good ‘un then’ and would burst out laughing at her own drollery. When she went back to her own town of Buxton, she said I could come up and visit and maybe if we got along I might stay over there. And that is exactly what happened. Once her family got to know me, and were sure of my good intentions, I moved in with them. She worked as a seamstress and so we had a little money to get by with. And, as you see now, I made a few shillings here and there as a scrivener reading and writing documents for people. We had very little but we were happy. She was my love. We had a daughter – Jesse.”

  Anthony’s eyes filmed over.

  “But there was typhus in the town a few years back. I survived it, and Jesse, but Susan didn’t. After that some of the fight went out of me. I took to living here. The girl lived with her grandmother as it was impossible for me to take care of her. She’s still up there, although I didn’t get to see her much. As for income, I still do a bit of scrivening but I do the firewood as well. I go up into the woods and find fallen trees. With my one good arm, I am nearly as good as a man with two. I have learned to chop branches up and I’ve got slings to carry the wood to their houses. It doesn’t pay a lot but I just about get by. If my teachers could see me now…” His voice tailed off.

  John told him to get some rest and that he would be back the following day. In a weak voice, Anthony said, “You have been good to me when most others have disappeared and even though you have your own troubles. There is something I would like you to have.”

  He pointed under the truckle bed.

  “Pull it out,” he said. John did as bid and extracted a violin case.

  “Open it,” said Anthony.

  John whistled softly as he stroked the fine patina of the Italianate sitting in its red velvet case.

  “It’s yours,” said Anthony.

  “No, no, I couldn’t,” protested John. “In any case I can’t play and neither can anyone else I know.”

  Anthony insisted.

  “No, but it has some value, I believe. I have never thought about selling it as it is the last memory of my mother. But there will be a dealer somewhere, probably in London, who may give you something for it. I would rather you have the benefit of it than it go on the fire when they clear this place.”

  “Don’t talk so,” said John. “But if you’re sure, I will take it off your hands. Tell you what, I’ll see what it can fetch and then maybe you can give me a little commission off it. How about that?”

  Weakly, Anthony agreed and John bid him goodnight, taking the violin with him and promising to look in the following day.

  *

  After a day of labouring, John did call in. But as soon as he entered the lean-to it was clear that there was no life in Anthony.

  John sat on his bed and closed his eyes.

  “Sleep well, old friend. I hope you are playing music somewhere for Jesse, Susan and Marie.”

  He made the appropriate arrangements and Anthony was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave with a small knot of local people attending who had known him as their scrivener or firewood man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A week or so later, John advised Ellen that he had to travel to London to do a ‘bit of business’.

  “What business you got there then?” she asked incredulously. London was a distant rarefied place and she could not understand what family needs could not be arranged in Buxton or even Manchester.

  John tapped the violin case.

  “Ain’t no good to us. Nobody can get a tune out of it. But old Anthony might just have done us a bit of a favour. If you see the workmanship in it, well, it’s not like one of them old fiddles they play down at the fair. Even its box is a work of art, look,” he said whilst smoothing the fine wood grain.

  Ellen made a noise which suggested that she was sceptical in the extreme.

  “Just an old fiddle. Two a penny. If it was so valuable, why didn’t ‘e cash it in when he could? He could have used a bit of cash, couldn’t he?”

  “Sentimental. Belonged to his mother and it was his last link with his past, I suppose.”

  John packed a few belongings and made arrangements for the carriage to London. He wore an old greatcoat that he had retrieved from Anthony’s lean-to. Because of their disparity in size, it enveloped John and almost reached to the floor as he walked to the coaching inn at Buxton with a small bag and the violin, which he hugged to himself.

  After a couple of days’ uncomfortable ride, the coach pulled in at The Bouverie public house in Whitechapel, where he booked himself a room for a few shillings and ate a good dinner of pork and potatoes.

  The following day, with no knowledge of where he was going and no organised plan of action, he wandered into central London. He attracted a few good-humoured requests for a tune but smiled and continued looking for some strategy to offer itself. He found a small music shop in Tibbet’s Corner in Fenchurch. He
asked the be-whiskered proprietor if he bought violins. Fortunately, he had accidentally hit upon an old-fashioned, honest dealer who examined the violin, turning it over in his hands and making approving noises.

  “If I am to be fair to you, this violin should be looked at by Mr Hill in the Haymarket. But if by chance he has no interest in it, then by all means come back to me and I am sure we can do business.”

  John thanked him for his trouble and made his way to the Haymarket, walking up and down until he found the shop – W.E. HILL, VIOLIN MAKERS, RESTORERS AND DEALERS.

  He went gingerly into the shop, feeling that a rustic like himself has no business in a place like this. He looked past the counter and saw the workshop with many half-finished violins and several craftsmen engaged in complicated operations. He smelt the resin and glue. He wandered around the boards and counters of the shop. At first, no one paid him any attention. A man in a long apron was in earnest conversation with a gentleman, speaking of technical details foreign to John. He shyly summoned one of the craftsmen over with a diffident wave.

  “Excuse my intrusion but I was wondering if you had anybody who could take a look at this?” He opened the case and the craftsman turned it appraisingly.

  “Hmm. Looks Italian but we will need Mr Hill to look at it.”

  He disappeared into the back offices and emerged with a prosperous-looking bespectacled man of late middle age, who eyed John up and down suspiciously as he stood in his rustic clothes and his ill-fitting greatcoat. However, on seeing the violin, his expression changed and his eyebrows were raised and stayed raised. He examined the instrument for what seemed like several long minutes, looking through the sound holes and noting the construction and colouring. Nobody spoke. Everybody watched Mr Hill who looked from the instrument to John then back again. Finally he said, “I think you may have something here, although it is in poor condition, looking as though it has been neglected for some time. I would really need to have a more detailed look and also consult my father for a second opinion. Would you be able to leave it with me and come back tomorrow?”

  John’s mouth turned down a little.

  “I will give you a formal receipt, but we will need to do a little research and I don’t want to take up your entire day.”

  Seeing John’s arched eyebrow he added, reassuringly, “My friend, we are the oldest and most respectable violin maker and dealer in London. This shop and workshop have been here since 1780 and you can entrust your violin to us with complete confidence.” Then, smilingly, “The shop will not disappear between now and tomorrow afternoon, sir.”

  John relaxed.

  “Just one thing before you go. What is the provenance of the instrument?” asked Mr Hill.

  John looked wildly about and stuttered. Mr Hill, sensing a communication issue, restated his question.

  “How did you come by it?”

  John told him the story of Anthony Renard and his legacy. Mr Hill smiled his approval, sensing that here was a genuine customer, if a little rough and ready. A handwritten receipt for violin, case and bow was floridly written, hands were shaken and John left the shop. He treated himself to porter and mutton pie, estimating that, in view of the interest in the violin, he would at least be making his expenses back.

  *

  The following day as the shop bell clanged, Mr Hill immediately appeared and welcomed John as if he were an habitué of the business. John was ushered into a private office at the back of the shop, the violin between them on a desk.

  “Sir, I don’t know if you know much about violins?”

  John confirmed that he did not.

  “Well, what you have here is something we rarely see. We have looked at it very carefully – you have to be wary of clever copies you know?” John agreed.

  “And we need to understand the provenance of a piece as that can add distinctly to the value, do you see?”

  John agreed again.

  “Well, as well as thoroughly examining the instrument, which incidentally, I found to be a beautiful example of its type, we found these underneath the velvet in a pocket in the case.

  “There are two letters,” Mr Hill said with a flourish. “The first is actually addressed to Thomas Linley Senior and is apparently from Wolfgang Mozart.” This was said with great emphasis and Mr Hill looked meaningfully at John, who realised he was expected to register interested surprise, which he did, although he was not quite sure why since the names were new to him.

  “And the second is from the mother of Marie Renard, who was, as you know, the mother of the last owner of the violin who bequeathed it to you. This confirms that it is an authentic violin and that,” this was said with proud emphasis, “that as well as Marie Renard, the great Signor Paganini himself would at least have heard it and more than likely played it!”

  All of this was mostly incomprehensible to John, although he was beginning to feel that his fortunes may have turned.

  “And furthermore, you see this bow?” Mr Hill flourished it. “This is a genuine Tourte and is also of some significance.”

  John, now gaining in confidence that he was likely to receive a reasonable dividend from his windfall, tentatively asked, “So you would be interested in purchasing it?”

  “Indeed!” said Mr Hill. “Of course it will need total refurbishment but I will offer you a fair price for it. Let it not be said that Hills are less than reputable and honest.”

  “Could you give me just some idea of a figure?” asked John, now thinking that he would bear good news back to Ellen and that their immediate indigence would be lifted.

  Mr Hill pursed his lips, looking at the violin.

  “Well, very much at the lower end, a decent French violin we could sell for twenty guineas. But this is a fine instrument, a one-off by John Johnson… and with the letters confirming its authenticity… plus the Tourte bow… and case of course…” He looked enquiringly at John.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, we would be happy to take them all off your hands. I am going to say…” There was a long pause as he looked at the violin, then at John and back again. “Say, seven hundred and fifty pounds?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Around twenty miles to the north of Buxton, in an impoverished quarter of Sheffield, the Gillott family lived a God-fearing but misfortunate life. Stanley Gillott, responsible for a wife and six hungry children, worked in the cutlery trade on a subsistence wage. In the aftermath of the Napoleonic wars, which had left the country exhausted, trade was depressed and labour came cheap. Working conditions were hot, tedious and dangerous. The gas from the smelting process provoked ‘cutler’s lung’ which debilitated strong men, even at an early age.

  The despotic owner of the factory where Stanley worked set the tone for tyrannical supervisors who made working life miserable for all of the seventy-two hours of required work each week. On his twelfth birthday, the eldest son of the Gillott family, young Joseph, was introduced to the hell-hole that was meant to be his workplace for the rest of his life until illness, accident or old age took him to his rest. A sneeringly unsympathetic foreman walked him through the factory, which was a miasma of metallic noise, glimpses of fiery furnaces, sweating faces and acrid fumes.

  His initial station was a small workshop where other lads of his age toiled hypnotically on the final grinding and shaping of butchers’ knives. This was his life for the next five years. His wage, although small, supplemented the meagre family budget. The manual work made Joseph into a strong young man. But as well as his physical development, Joseph developed two other faculties that would shape his life. He began to observe and understand the mechanics, processes and machinery that turned metal into useful objects.

  He had a natural curiosity allied to a mechanical and spatial aptitude which enabled him to suggest improvements in the process – which ideas were seized upon by his gangers as their own in order to secure s
ome benefit or preferment from the management. The other strong inspiration he began to develop was an overwhelming sense of compassion for the wage-fodder who were his fellow-workers, coupled with exasperation for the malefactors with hardened hearts who drove the workers relentlessly.

  Joseph knew there was another fairer, more benevolent and more effective way. A whipped dog would cower and shrink to command. But a cherished dog would gladly run all day to exhaustion for his master in return for merely a kind word.

  At the age of seventeen, Joseph Gillott realised that he could not be a wage slave all of his life. Although he had managed to learn his letters in the evenings and at weekends, he needed to take his chances elsewhere. He approached his parents to discuss the issue.

  “Although my wage will no longer be coming in, there will also be one less mouth to feed. And besides, now that James and John are earning, I have no doubts but that you can manage without me. There are opportunities in this world and once I have established myself I will make sure to send my contribution back to you in return for all you have given me.”

  Mrs Gillott, like all mothers whose children will one day move away, was distraught.

  “But where will you go? How will you live? Shall we see you again?”

  Joseph reassured her.

  “I have heard that industry is strong in Birmingham and I am sure that I can find my place. Of course, I shall write to you each week and once I am settled I will be able to visit. Or even – perhaps – you will visit me in my fine house where servants will show you in, cooks will serve you a fine dinner, and butlers will pour you the finest port.”

  *

  And so it was in the spring of 1821 that Joseph set off walking in the sunshine to Birmingham with the clothes he stood up in, a week’s wages and an ambitious heart.