Joy world to the
A heartwarming short story for you to enjoy
The sunset casts rosy shadows over the lawn, but a cool breeze rustles through the apple trees and reminds me it is not yet summer. The garden overlooks a small town, nestling into peaceful hills, but the distant moors are shrouded in mist as night falls. The house is built where green pastures become bracken-strewn crags. When we were house hunting, the view from this veranda was the deal maker.
Now, however, with retirement approaching and an empty nest, Paul and I have considered downsizing. But this large, draughty, dusty Victorian house has been our family home and holds treasured memories.
“We’ve been so happy here, Dulcie.” Paul thumbed halfheartedly through a pile of estate agent brochures. Moving had never crossed his mind, even though the steep stairs were becoming a problem.
“I know.”
“Then why move?”
“A bungalow would be more practical. I’m sure the stairs are getting steeper every day.”
He looked upset so I decided not to pursue the subject. I snuggle into my fleece. Easter is early this year. Still, tomorrow will be great fun. What better than an Easter egg hunt amongst the spring flowers? Snatches of music float up from the hall below – the Easter recital has begun. My octogenarian parents are taking part, my mother singing and my father playing the organ. Auntie Pam is in the choir and my son Ryan is singing solo. His wife Annie
– not so musically gifted – is selling programmes. I would have liked to support them, but tonight I’m helping out in another way that is just as important.
My family members are all musical, but although I love music, sadly music does not love me. It came to light that there was something different about my voice when I was seven years old. As I sit here with a mug of coffee on my favourite seat in my favourite spot, the memories return to me thick and fast.
I picture myself as I was then, small for my age, dark hair and grey eyes inclined towards a squint which the doctors said was simply a habit that I would grow out of. It was 1964.
“Children, we are a very small class so you must sing with gusto,” Miss Brown told us cheerfully.“mrs Jones will play the piano extra loud.”
Mrs Jones always played loud. My dad once said she thumped. I wasn’t supposed to hear but sometimes it happens. Seven-year-olds don’t need telling twice to make a noise and I made the most of this chance to shine.
My family loved music. Dad played the organ in church every Sunday morning. I was very proud of my musical family. We were learning a new song in readiness for Easter. It was bright and cheerful and I joined in enthusiastically. “Al-ay-loo-yah!” I warbled.
Miss Brown’s smile turned into a grimace as I loved to sing as a child, but it seemed others weren’t as enthusiastic! She walked up and down between the desks. Searching for talent, I decided.
She paused at my desk. She must have heard of my musical family and wanted to listen to my singing.
“Jesus is alive!” I yelled.
Some children were giggling.
“The king has risen!” I bellowed. Miss Brown returned to the front of the class. After the lesson she asked me to stay behind for a minute.
“You have a very... unusual voice, Dulcie,” she told me.
My chest puffed out with pride, even though I hated my silly name. It was short for Dulcimer, which Mum said was a musical instrument. I wished I was named Mary or Susan, ordinary names. She went on.
“The thing is, dear, it is also a very loud voice and it doesn’t always land on the right note, I am afraid. I wonder, could you sing a little quieter? Maybe you could pretend...” As soon as I got home from school I blurted out what had happened.
“Mum, why would I pretend to sing?” I asked indignantly. She didn’t reply.
“Did Miss Brown mean I’m a bad singer?” I whispered this because you didn’t say such things in our house. Mum passed me a cup of tea. “Dulcie, no one is a bad singer. With some people, the notes simply don’t sound like people think they should.”
That was sort of what Miss Brown had said.
“Like my notes?”
“Maybe, dear. But no matter how it sounds, when music springs from your heart the angels sing, too.”
My lip trembled and tears trickled down my nose.
“But I want to be a good singer!” She gave me a quick hug. My mother was not a hug person.
“You are just... different. I could get Auntie Pam to give you singing lessons, if you like. As well as teaching music at the grammar school she now gives voice coaching. She would help you, Dulcimer.” “No, thank you.”
I wanted to forget the whole thing. I promised myself that no one would ever laugh at my voice again.“and don’t call me Dulcimer!” Dad was more helpful. He said that everyone had different gifts and we hadn’t discovered what mine were. It made me feel better.
The breeze wafts the scent of hyacinths from the flower-beds. I breathe in the heady perfume. This veranda is special to Paul and to me. Here we have laughed and here we have cried. One memory was of the day Paul and I returned from our hospital appointment. We sat here, too upset to think clearly.
“We wanted a family so badly,” I said, tearfully.
I recalled the doctor’s words.
“Mrs West, you have undergone several miscarriages. I cannot recommend further pregnancies.
“Of course,” Dr Smart continued,“you could consider fostering, or even adoption...”
But Paul and I had wanted babies of our own. Sitting here in the peaceful twilight, I try to redirect my thoughts. Eventually they bring back happy years. When I was 13, the West family moved in next door. Paul West was the same age as me. He wore polo neck jumpers and had a Beatles haircut and he had never sung in a choir.
As for me, over the years I had perfected the art of miming to music, especially in church. My lips would move convincingly but silently. If I held my song book high to my face no one could tell that I wasn’t joining in. Sometimes I was brave and whispered so quietly that even the person sitting next to me could not have heard. Mostly I stopped worrying and got on with life, especially when my art teacher said I had talent and should consider art school.
I thought of Dad’s words. Maybe my special gift was art? The family was impressed.
“We’ve never had an artist before,” Mum said proudly.
Paul and I were made for each other. We were both quiet sorts who enjoyed country walks. We liked the Beatles and sport, and Carry On films. He went to the posh grammar school and I attended the secondary modern. When I saw him wearing his school uniform I laughed at him, but secretly I would have loved to go to a school where they taught French and played tennis.
We remained friends even after he went to university, whilst I attended art school and worked freelance for a publisher. We scraped together the deposit on this large family home on the edge of the moors and announced our wedding date, a small, sensible affair.
Ordinary folk didn’t spend a fortune on weddings in those days. We had always agreed that our ideal family was four children.
“Adoption? I don’t think that’s for us,” I told Paul after the doctor’s suggestion.
He agreed, but even so the day came when four-year-old, blue-eyed Ryan took up residence in what would have been the baby’s nursery. We had stripped off the teddy-bear wallpaper and replaced it with rocket ships and stars. Ryan immediately scribbled all over it then ripped it. Mum and Dad said we must be patient. They became perfect grandparents and astonishingly they discovered that Ryan could sing!
Later, Ryan was joined by a dainty little girl called Margaret who learned to play the violin. Mum was overjoyed and they talked music from the moment Margaret arrived.
A kitten-like wail disturbs my thoughts. I hurry into my sitting-room, thoughts of the past forgotten, sweet or sad. Eliza Jayne. I lift her from her crib and hold her close; this small scrap who at six weeks old already looks like her pretty mother but has Ryan’s blue eyes, those eyes that had melted my heart.
Adopted children often come with baggage, and tantrums were commonplace, but the first time Ryan called me “Mum” made up for every broken cup and smashed plate.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” he whispered, knowing the china mug he had thrown against the wall was my favourite.
“I do really like pasta,” he added hopefully.
“I’ll eat it all.” He was crying.
I had never seen him cry. Tears streamed down his little cheeks and broke my heart. I have little experience with newborn babies and I can’t think what Eliza needs. She has been changed and she’s been fed so I give her a cuddle.
I rock her gently in my arms, then softly, tentatively, instinctively, without even realising what I am doing, I start to sing.
“Golden slumbers kiss your eyes . . .” I am probably out of tune but a baby doesn’t know the difference between a right and a wrong note. Or maybe she does, because she looks rather puzzled. Standing by the open window, rocking her gently, I go through my entire repertoire of lullabies. Singing feels good. The notes rise and fall with the beating of my heart, notes I have locked away for so many years.
When Eliza is sleeping peacefully, one chubby little fist folded against her pink cheek, I lay her in her crib and tuck her pink covers around her. It is then I see a perfect white feather by the window. I pick it up. People say a white feather is an angel’s calling card. I remember that my mother once told me, when music flows from the heart, the angels sing, too.
Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, the day for celebrating the victory of light over darkness, good over evil, life over death. I shall go to church in the morning and I shall sing the well-loved songs and I shall not pretend. If I hit the wrong notes then I shall hit the wrong notes. Easter is a time for truth, not pretence. And angels will sing, too.
The notes rise and fall with the beating of my heart