Still Life with Strings

by Cosway, L. H.

  I’m really excited for tonight and have even splashed out on a new dress for the occasion.

  I know, fancy dress, fancy man. I still feel a little like I’m playing a role when I go to these types of things, but then again, I do enjoy assuming a persona. Or maybe I can be me and be fancy all at the same time. I will shun perfection in order to remain a caterpillar. In fact, I’ve always thought that butterflies are overrated. Caterpillars may be pests, but they do have a certain quirky charm, bumbling along with all those legs and eyes.

  Instead of becoming poised and sophisticated, I will continue to bumble.

  Speaking of which, Mirin has been slowly coming around to the fact that this caterpillar is going to remain a permanent fixture in her son’s life. I have a feeling Shane might have had a good long talk with her about it, because she came up to me in the concert hall a little after the whole Mona drama and apologised for how she’d treated me. I accepted her apology with quiet grace, while a small surge of triumph settled itself in my chest.

  At the moment we’re staying at a swanky hotel, but Shane left just after lunch to go to a rehearsal. In reflection of my unsophisticated ways, I changed into my dress and then decided to treat myself and order a slice of chocolate cake from room service. In fact, I ordered two slices so I could keep one for Shane for when we get back later.

  Ever since our weekend break in Kerry, I’ve been reminiscing about cake. I got up early the morning after our first night, leaving Shane snoozing in bed, and got Clark to drive me to the bakery in the nearby town. They didn’t have anything that was as grand as what I’d been envisioning, so I went wild and purchased three large cream sponge cakes. When we arrived back at the house, I stacked them one of top of the other to create a super cake, planting a three and a zero on top and lighting them with the flick of a match.

  Now that’s how you say happy birthday, Jade Lennon style.

  Shane woke up and came sleepily into the kitchen to be greeted by me, Clark, Ben, and Lara yelling “surprise!” at him, blowing on party whistles and wearing ridiculous cone party hats on our heads. I’m surprised we didn’t give him a heart attack. After all, these sorts of surprises are generally an evening affair. I got it into my head that doing it in the morning would bring an extra level of excitement.

  I mean, cake in the morning? It’s so wrong it’s right.

  Shane’s eyes lit up when he saw the cake on the table, looking a little more like a monster cake than a super cake, if I’m being honest. I didn’t know what his reaction was going to be, but then he laughed harder than I’d ever heard him laugh, clutching his stomach, happy tears rolling down his face.

  That day we had cake for breakfast and lunch. Take that, Marie Antoinette. By the time dinner came around, none of us wanted to look at another slice for at least a month. Anyway, long story short, nowadays every time I want to treat him, I buy him a cake.

  So, back to my current cake debacle. I’m so ravenous to shove it down my gullet that I end up dripping a load of chocolate sauce onto my lap. And yeah, I’m so busy enjoying myself that I don’t even notice the error of my ways until I’m at least four bites in. Panicked, I shove the cake aside and pull the dress up over my head. It takes forever but I manage to salvage it by dabbing the sauce off with a damp towel in the bathroom. A tip for getting out stains: dab, don’t rub.

  By the time I get outside the hotel I’m seriously late, and it doesn’t help that it takes forever to hail a cab. I mutter swear words to myself all the way to the Opera House, shoving a twenty in the driver’s face and not even bothering to wait for change. The concert tonight is Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and as I’m being seated by an usher I note that they’re already playing the Summer Concerto. There are some grumblings as I pass people by, but at last I reach my seat. It’s in the second row, and as I look up I see Shane standing in the middle of the stage, diving right into Summer Presto.

  I remember him practicing this in our hotel room this morning while I was taking a bath. It sounded wonderful then, but now with the accompaniment of the entire orchestra it’s like it’s a living, breathing thing, invading every one of my senses.

  A shower of colourful petals bursts out of the strings section like confetti at a wedding.

  Roots explode from the stage floor, crawling swiftly up the walls, making me feel like Jack staring aloft at a gigantic beanstalk. Daisies sprout around my feet, and a bunch of lilies falls into my lap, filling my nose with their pretty scent. Pink chrysanthemums twirl down from the ceiling as though dancing through the air.

  Bringing my attention back to the stage, I meet Shane’s gaze, his bow sawing into the strings in quick, vigorous movements. I mouth the word sorry at him, apologising for my unexpected lateness. He only smiles with warm eyes in return, a smile so hot it makes me feel a burning underneath my skin. Whoa, he really is sexy when he’s up there performing. There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow, but that only adds to his appeal.

  I relax back into my seat, unable to close my eyes and let the music wash over me because I simply can’t stop staring at him. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit with a white shirt, the first two buttons undone, no tie. The vision of his exposed neck causes all sorts of vivid images to corrupt my thoughts.

  He walks across the stage, playing his part effortlessly, like it’s second nature. The piece of wood resting beneath his chin is his glittering soul in tangible form, an expression of all he has felt and all he has experienced. He may be playing music composed almost three hundred years ago, but this is his interpretation, and it is an expression of this very moment. It makes me imagine things most would deem impossible, and that’s why it reassures me. I glance down at the hand resting on my lap and smile. One of those diamonds that fell from the sky outside the tattoo parlour that time made friends with some eighteen-karat gold and found its way onto my ring finger.

  Standing at the very edge of the stage as the piece come to its dramatic finish, Shane is watching me still.

  I hope he never stops.

  ***

  A single raindrop falls on my head, but I don’t wipe it away. Statues can’t wipe away the rain, after all. A light shower came down, covering my body in a delicate coat of water. No matter. The sun is peeking its face out over the clouds. If I stand here long enough, I’m sure it will dry me off.

  Clink.

  Somebody drops a few coins in my hat and walks away. A pity they were in such a hurry to move on, or I might have bestowed them with a precious blue feather.

  I decide it’s time for a change of position as I slowly raise my arms into the air. I hold them out on either side of my body, like I’m mimicking the branches of a tree. It’s a difficult position to hold for very long, but the best for getting dry.

  Earlier today I got a surprise to find Patrick sitting in my living room. Alec had let him in. We hadn’t heard from him since I sent him off to rehab, and to be honest, I had no clue whether or not he stayed the duration or quit. I decided to avoid calling to check up on him, because the responsibility was on him to get better. In the back of my mind I never thought he would actually stick it.

  As I joined him on the couch, I marvelled at his well-put-together appearance. I mean, it actually looked like he’d been showering regularly. His complexion was brighter than I’d ever seen it, and his eyes weren’t as dull as they’d been before. We talked for a long time, him telling me about his journey to sobriety and how he stayed away until he knew he was on the straight and narrow. He’d been on the housing list for a while but finally got allocated a small one-bedroom apartment in Harold’s Cross. I did my best not to well up when he took my hands in his and told me it was all my doing. If I hadn’t told it to him straight that night, he probably never would have realised he needed to make a change.

  Alec was unusually silent throughout the exchange, too shocked at his father’s dramatic turnaround to speak. Avery, who’s been a regular visitor to our house in recent months, stood by his side, holding his hand. Seeing m
y brother happy is the greatest gift in the world.

  It seems it’s true that leopards can change their spots. Not too long ago I’d considered Patrick a complete and total lost cause. Now look at him.

  Rays of sunlight shine down, breaking through the clouds, the warmth caressing me in my damp costume, drying the sodden feathers of my wings. Somewhere on the street, music trickles its way into my consciousness. A lullaby in strings. It’s the song Shane heard in his head as we made love, so sweet and soft yet full of unspoken declarations.

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice a bird land on my outstretched arm. I’ve been so still that it must have thought I really was a tree and not a human at all. Too curious, I turn my head to the side and gasp in surprise. Sitting happily on my arm is a blue sparrow, a bird that must be rare because I’ve never actually seen one in the flesh.

  Oh, wow. I don’t think I ever want to move again.

  The bird flaps its wings and takes flight, sailing off into the great big sky. I imagine it’s an incarnation of my Sparrow, flying happy and free under the golden sun. Reaching around to my wings, I pull a feather out and make a wish that one day she’ll get born into a happy life with a happy ending while I seek my own in this one. Somewhere, someday, Sparrow will die an old lady surrounded by the ones she loves. I release the feather and it floats away. I keep watching it until it’s nothing but a speck of blue far, far, in the distance. Now I’m still again, never moving, not an inch. Come and see the Blue Lady — you’ll get a feather for your trouble.

  Shane’s violin plays on and I savour the melody. I wonder if I have taught him something about life like he wanted me to. All I know is that I’ll never let him try to silence his music again. Looking off into the sky where the blue sparrow has now disappeared, I wrap this one moment in a box and stick it with a label.

  It reads, “The Most Beautiful Way to Live.”

  Thank you for reading. Please consider supporting an indie author and leaving a review. ☺

  About the author

  L.H. Cosway has a BA in English Literature and Greek and Roman Civilisation and an MA in Postcolonial Literature. She lives in Dublin city. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food, musical comedy, and of course, books. You can contact her at lhcosway@gmail.com.

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