Meditation.

I don't really know why I even went in there. I mean, it's not my
local, and it's a scruffy-looking sort of dive. I just had time on my
hands after shopping, and I thought.. why not? So, I seated myself in
the corner where I wouldn't be expected to talk to anyone.

Nor can I recall how the conversation began, not exactly. I'm no
Trappist, you understand, but I generally avoid getting sucked into pub
conversations. They begin innocently enough, with a laugh and a pint,
but before you know it you're discussing the lamentable failings of
Chelsea's attack this season, or any one of a dozen other things that
you know absolutely nothing about. And, before you know it, you're
involved in an extremely loud and frank exchange of views with some
enormous halfwit and things are looking bleak. No, take my advice -
steer clear.

I suppose it must have started when I dropped that beermat by her foot
and mumbled some apology under my breath. She wasn't the most obvious
candidate for a conversation, to be honest: well into her sixties,
neatly but not expensively dressed, nursing a gin and tonic. Maybe it
was the CD I was examining.. yes, that's it, because she leaned across
and asked whether I really liked Nigel Kennedy.

Of course, I laughed, I've only just bought it. Haven't even heard it
yet. She smiled, held her tongue, though it was obvious that she held
the supposed master in contempt. This irritated me at first, as my
tastes in music - amateur as they may be - are no concern of some
unknown critic in a grotty pub.

She must have sensed my hostility, because her mood softened and she
changed the subject quite swiftly. Perhaps, I thought.. perhaps I've
misjudged her, because clearly she has strong opinions on music and
that naturally implies some first-hand knowledge: maybe she plays? I
asked the obvious question, and opened the floodgates of memory. Not
that I minded, for, to my astonishment, her story was truly
fascinating.

She'd been a gifted child, she explained with a wry smile, given to
composing little tunes of her own, singing to amuse her family, and her
grandfather had near-bankrupted them all to buy her a violin. There had
been tensions, of course, as this had been looked upon as blatant
favouritism. Nevertheless, she practised furiously and at unusual
length. As she grew, she became renowned locally, and would often be
asked to play at weddings and on feast days. Coins would be thrown in
appreciation, and these made a vital contribution to the family
coffers.

Every so often she paused, looked at me askance and enquired whether
she was boring me. On each occasion I waved her on impatiently, anxious
to hear the denouement of her story. Smiling faintly at the released
memories, she returned time and again to her childhood - not an English
childhood, mind: I could discern from the details and the odd use of
phrases in a gutteral language which I didn't recognise that this had
occurred somewhere in Central Europe.

As she spoke, calmly, and with little remaining trace of any accent, I
sat transfixed. Her eyes had lit up with some inner fire that I can
hardly describe, as if she was able to transport herself bodily back
over the decades, the miles, to some happier and more innocent time
that was hers alone. A place I'd never see, a time I'd never be able to
experience.

This recognition of the girl's burgeoning musical talent caused
tensions within the family, of course, and naturally it all ended in
tears. Her mother, of all people, jealous of the attention that her
growing daughter commanded, strode in from her kitchen as the child was
playing for her grandparents. Then - and here the tears welled to the
old woman's eyes and her voice cracked - her mother had snatched the
precious instrument away and, with a snarled curse, smashed it against
the stone fireplace with one mighty blow. Even after all that time, the
old woman's voice quavered as she described the splintered wood, the
slack strings scattered across the earth floor. There had ensued one
hell of a family argument, of course, but nothing would bring her
beloved violin back. She had, she confessed, not played from that day
to this.

Perhaps saddest of all; many years later, her mother - when desperately
and fatally ill - had begged for her daughter's forgiveness. The
jealous outburst, she whispered, had troubled her all her life. But,
even at that late hour, the words of absolution wouldn't come: the hurt
had been too deep, too unexpected for forgiveness.

I didn't know what to say as silence finally descended - what could I
possibly have said, apart from mumbled and inadequate commiserations?
And then - I'm not quite sure why I said it, not to this day - I asked
her if she would be back there again the following evening. She
shrugged and admitted that she could be, but why was I asking? I
grasped her bony hand and begged her to be there. Then, without even
finishing my drink, I rose and left without a further word.

I suppose that it's one advantage of being single again, having no-one
to answer to. So, when I went up into the dusty loft to haul out the
old case, it was my decision alone. I took some ribbing at the office
the next day, carrying the battered case around, but I'd expected
nothing less from that collection of peasants. What mattered to me was
whether the woman intended to keep her word.

The place was even more crowded, it being a Friday, but she was there
all right; in the identical spot. No-one else had fancied sharing her
table, and I went straight up without even bothering with a drink. She
jumped as I barged in, as if she'd not really been expecting to see me
again: without saying anything, I handed the case across.

She opened it carefully, reverently, and retrieved the violin - as she
did so, her eyes lit up again with that indescribable inner sparkle,
and that sight alone made everything worth while. It had been my Uncle
Ted's, I explained, and I'd removed it from his house before the
vulture house clearers had got their sticky mitts on it. He'd played in
some theatre orchestra, many years ago, but he frequently played at
home and as a child I'd been enchanted to listen to the mournful
melodies, relieved by irresistible jigs and reels.

It was a good instrument, the woman told me, instinctively fiddling
with the tuning keys and plucking at the strings. Not a Stradivarius,
but..

If it had been a Stradivarius, I laughed, I wouldn't be so willing to
give it away. It was only then that she realised that I wanted her to
have it - play it, make good use of it and maybe thrill a new audience
as Uncle Ted had held my sisters and me enthralled all those years
before.

Silence returned as the woman examined the instrument carefully, making
final adjustments to the tuning, and it was only then that I plucked up
the courage to make my one request.

"Just one thing," I said quietly. "Would you play something for me?
Something that would take me back to my childhood, too?"

"Here?" she asked incredulously, looking round at the bustling, noisy
bar.

"Yes."

"Of course," she said graciously. "What would you like me to
play?"

"I.. I'm not quite sure. I think it was by Massenet."

"Ah!" she smiled knowingly. "Meditation?"

"That's it!" I almost shouted. "Do you know it?"

"Every violinist knows it," she chuckled. "Even Nigel Kennedy."

She stood - though she was precious little taller standing than she was
sitting - and tucked the violin under her chin. At the first, perfect
note, a low grumble ran around the bar. Two lads laughing at the bandit
turned to complain in broad Essex tones, but to her credit the woman
took not one jot of notice. With the violin in her hands once more, she
was back in a world of her own. And, as the wonderful fluid melody
filled the room, an astonishing hush descended. Conversation ceased,
glasses were silently replaced on sticky tables. I sat entranced,
transported back to my own childhood, and it was only when the final
delicate, dulcet note faded into the ether that I realised that
everyone else in that crowded bar had, like me, been holding their
breath as if hypnotised.

She sat, and for a moment you might have heard the proverbial pin drop.
Then, an old soak at the bar shouted "Bravo!" and began to clap. The
whole place erupted into applause and beery requests for an encore, the
the performer only felt able to acknowledge the noise with a shy
smile.

While this was going on, I slipped away, for I'd fulfilled my purpose.
I'd never heard that piece played with such emotion, such verve -
except, possibly, when my Uncle Ted played it in his musty parlour.
Nothing could have topped that moment in the scruffy bar, and I thought
it better to have it as a fragmented, but wonderful memory.

I only went back into the pub once after that, several weeks later, but
the barman recognised me straight away. I'd been with the old woman,
hadn't I? The one who'd played the violin, the one people still talked
about? I admitted it, and asked if she was a regular. Somehow, I wasn't
surprised to discover that the barman had only noticed her that night
and the night before. She'd left soon after the performance, and he'd
not seen her since.

So, I can rest easy: Uncle Ted's violin finally found a good home. And
that story.. the one about her childhood. I sometimes wonder - was it
true? I always end up coming to the same conclusion - does it
matter?