Going Solo

I didn’t need the alarm telling me it was five am. Sleep had not found me at all, apart from a few minutes when I had a nightmare. A dream about swimming in an outdoor pool and then suddenly the water all draining away. Me still swimming as if in treacle and waking up with a pool of sweat on my chest.

The image in the mirror opposite my bed didn’t look like me at all. Some white-faced, red-eyed ghost had slipped out of my nightmare and was staring back at me.

Placing my head in my hands, I sobbed. Why was I putting myself through this -again?

Fumbling in the drawer by my bed, I found a box of painkillers, desperate to stop the throbbing headache. I swigged two oval-shaped pills down with water from a bottle I kept by my bed—stale water. But my sandpaper mouth didn’t take much notice. More water poured down my dry throat. I must stay hydrated.

I picked up my mobile phone and began a text message to say I’d decided to cancel. Then put the phone back down again as all the water I’d drunk gurgled up from my stomach. It went back down again, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

I can’t cancel. I was aware of all those people who’d help organize the event. People had put a great deal of effort into hiring the building, the chairs, and the floral displays. The volunteers -working for nothing. The money mum had given me for the entry fee and my overheads–of which there were so many.

My stomach churned once more. I heaved and ran to the bathroom just as an explosion of vomit hit the toilet pan.

I was red-faced and sweating—my head still thumping.

I remembered mum saying that dry toast and a cup of tea can help calm a nervous stomach. I headed downstairs and put two slices in the toaster and made myself half a cup of coffee. Then took another painkiller, thinking I’d probably sent the other two tablets down the toilet along with all that water.

The itinerary was on the worktop. I went through it for the third time while waiting for the toast to pop up.

No make-up, it said. The make-up artist will sort us all out before our performance. How can I travel on the underground -my red eyes exposed to thousands of people? I needed make-up. More tears fell as I dragged my aching, weary body up the stairs to my bedroom.

I glanced at my beautiful gown, hanging on the wardrobe door. I’d never worn a dress like that -ever. The satin skirt felt soft to my trembling fingertips.

I made a vow that I would get through this day somehow–I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.

The toast and coffee appeared to have helped settle my nervous stomach. I needed to get a move on and pack my gear, but my hands were shaking so much I had to keep folding my clothes. I got annoyed with myself. Why can’t I fold things neatly? Mum does. The more I tried, the worse it got. My clothes ended up in a tangled pile in my suitcase. I tipped the pile out onto the bed and tried once more.

I wanted to leave my gown until the last minute, so I didn’t crease it. Then I remembered the girls in ‘dress’ would steam out any imperfections. They always did a grand job of making me look my best. I had forgotten. I was thinking I was brain dead.

Butterflies gathered in my stomach. What if my memory failed me? What if my mind went blank? I imagined myself standing on the stage motionless and the audience booing. My hands shook again.

After packing, I left the suitcase lid open for the final bits and pieces that I needed.

Off for a quick shower and get dressed. A glance at the clock told me the taxi would soon be here.

I scanned my bedroom and checked my suitcase—nothing left on the dressing table. Everything I needed was packed. Pills, water bottle in my small bag. Handbag.

I managed to carry everything at once down the stairs and waited by the front door until I heard the honk from the taxi.

On-time -thank goodness.

“We usually charge extra for luggage like yours, miss.”

I didn’t answer. I had no answer. I was already drained of any energy I thought I might be able to muster.

The taxi driver must have taken pity on this ashen-faced, swollen eyed monster.

“Just this once, but remember next time please, to let us know you’ll have a lot of heavy luggage.”

I managed a nod and sat in the rear seat. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to be transported off to some desert island where I could live happily ever after. I knew this would not happen.

I took Mum’s card out of my pocket and read it.

‘Good luck on your special day. Sorry, I can’t make it, but work won’t let me have any time off as we’re short-staffed here at the prison, as usual. I will be thinking of you. Love Mum xx’ There was a little heart shape and a smiley face.

I kissed the card and put it back in my pocket. In a way, I was glad mum was not going to be there. What if it all went wrong? What if I couldn’t perform? What if I forgot something? Those thoughts sent my mind rummaging through all my luggage to make sure I’d remembered to pack everything. My stomach went back up into my mouth. I clasped my hand over my lips and took some deep breaths.

We arrived at the railway station.

“Shall I help you with your luggage onto the train, Miss?”

“Yes, I would be so very grateful if you could do that.”

I had completely forgotten how I would get four pieces of luggage onto the underground train. I was so used to mum helping me. Now I was on my own for the first time.

The train arrived at the underground station. The taxi driver and two passengers helped me with my luggage.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

I stood up all the way—only a few stops. I needed to guard my luggage. I was not going to let it out of my sight for one moment.

The train stopped. I lurched forward, feeling week again. All the arrows on the platform seemed to point to where I was going. As if they were telling me–this way–you can’t get out of it now, young lady.

I waved at a platform attendant who immediately understood that I needed a trolley and some assistance. Help was at hand, thank goodness.

A second taxi ride. This driver did not complain about the amount of luggage I had.

Then we arrive at the venue.

More people at the entrance to help. Things were, at last, getting easy. I made my way to the make-up room. The make-up artist had better be good. I would need as much help as I could to sort out this ashen face and red eyes-maybe plastic surgery wouldn't go amiss.

The girl was very welcoming. She sat me down and began with my hair. Brushing it and smoothing it down my back helped calm my nerves.

“Have you been doing this a long time?” she asked.

“Yes, a few years, but it doesn't get easier.”

Then she began with my make-up. She took some false eyelashes from their box and was about to place one on my upper right eyelid when suddenly the butterflies in my stomach took over, and I needed the bathroom post haste.

I ran and found the sink, but the vomit did not appear. I looked in the mirror at my still pale face, and the one eyelash had glued my lids together. I staggered back to the make-up room.

“We can soon sort this out. No worries.”

She sorted the eyelashes out. And the lipstick and rouge. I looked like a human being once more. I was feeling a little better too.

Some plain biscuits and a cup of coffee went down well.

The dress lady came in with my gown and helped me with it.

Everything was going well. Butterflies were kept to a minimum. Hands no longer shaking.

It was 5 pm-it had been twelve hours. I made my way down the long corridor.

I waited in the wings for my turn. The usher annoyingly held his arm out in front of me. Then he told me he would lift three fingers. He would then say and indicate three, two, one, and I was to walk out onto the stage in front of what seemed to me to be millions of people. Millions of eyes focussed on only me.

My legs turned to jelly just as the usher lifted his arm.

Three fingers went out.

He counted them.

“Three, two, one," and almost pushed me to get me going.

My legs worked-just. I walked out and stood on the mark on the stage. I could hear the orchestra fidgeting behind me. I hoped the orchestra was ready. I could hear my heart thumping as if it was about to leave my chest, and I felt sweat appear on my forehead.

I looked across and nodded at the conductor. He nodded back and lifted his arm. Vomit rose from my stomach as I placed my violin under my chin and made myself comfortable with my beloved instrument.

I shook my head to get my long hair off my face, and then stood upright, took a deep breath, told myself to relax. I placed my fingers on my instrument, my bow came down across the strings, and I was immediately transported to paradise.

I soared above the skies and into The Hall of The Mountain King. Then I was tossed among the waves in Fingal's Cave. Finally, I joined The Carnival of The Animals and glided along with The Swan.

I was exhausted and exhilarated simultaneously.

I concluded my three pieces and slowly lowered my violng and bow to my side. There was an eerie silence within the auditorium. The words of my tutor flashed through my mind.

“If there is complete silence at the end of your performance, before the audience begins to applaud, it will be because they love you.”

I waited. The silence seemed to last for hours. A blush began to rise as my mind told me of all the things the audience did not like about me and my violin. Then a roar and the audience rose to its feet as one. The applause was deafening. I bowed to my left, my right, to the orchestra and conductor, then back to the middle again. I was elated. It was the best performance of my entire life.