A Grapefruit And A Bowl Of Figs

It was a mild morning at the end of October and Elaine Butterfield was sitting in the garden drinking strong tea with her daughter who had come to visit. 

"I had a dream about Grandad last night," announced Silvie. 

"Oh yes?" said Elaine, who was fiddling with a chip of wood that was sprouting from the table, "and what happened?"

"He told me he had something to show me. He lead me around this semi-circular road with identical houses on one side and trees on the other. I'd been sitting by the sea earlier on and I carried a towel. We stopped right at the middle point of the semi-circle and he showed me a tree. He said it was planted by his great grandparents,"

"I wonder what it means," said Elaine.

"It means there's something in me, a gift or a desire, that has been carried through the bloodline," said Silvie. 

"Through the family tree," said Elaine, in a matter-of-fact tone. 

Silvie looked up at her mother, her skin gave birth to goosebumps.

Through the family tree.

Elaine looked back at her and smiled modestly, forcibly. Silvie could see that she was not dwelling in the same realm. 

"I'll be off now, mum," she said, getting up.

"You've only just got here!" said Elaine, "don't you want something to eat? I've got a nice loaf that's still warm."

"I don't like bread," said Silvie. 

Silvie's statement alone was enough for the concern that had been simmering in Elaine to come swimming up to the surface and out into the world. Her pupils studied her daughters face.

"I'm worried about you, Silvie. You always want to leave moments after you get here. You're withdrawing further and further away and it's not as though you've got anyone waiting for you at home." 

The words floated towards Silvie like dandelion seeds, each one attempting to plant themselves inside her head, and each one failing for her head was almost completely infertile. 

"I'm fine, mum," she said, throwing a smile.

Elaine did not smile back. 

"It's no fun being on your own. I used to find having to do the shopping hard, everywhere I'd look there would be couples choosing what to have for dinner, what to have for breakfast, what to have for lunch. I wouldn't even bother with meals, what was the point? I'd just have scones and cherry bakewells."

"Grandad used to eat like that, didn't he?" said Silvie. 

"Oh yes," said Elaine, her thin pink lips pressing into a smile, "he would eat jam doughnuts, chocolate eclairs, scones, sausage rolls. He'd always let us help ourselves after school. He also used to eat a grapefruit and a bowl of figs every morning, said it was what made him play the piano so well." 

"A grapefruit and a bowl of figs," Silvie whispered, looking up to a great white passing cloud. 

"Or was it a blood orange?" said Elaine, "either a blood orange or a grapefruit, I can't remember which. Anywho, he would have that for breakfast then go off into the shed to play his piano. That's what he always wanted to do."

"And his own father was musical too, wasn't he?" said Silvie, her words quick and her eyes wide.

"I think so, but I don't know what he played." said Elaine. She herself had never cared for music other than a few songs that had strong ties to some of her emotional memories. She liked "Everybody Hurts" by "Rem" for example because it reminded her of driving home after being fired from her first office job, weeping and singing along to the few words she knew. It was all so very romantic. 

"That's it!" said Silvie, "This is all so significant I feel faint. I've been feeling a pull to play the violin again. The signs are everywhere."

"Why don't you join a music group? There's one at the parish hall. It isn't expensive, I think it's a couple of pounds each time and you can have a cup of tea. Your cousin Giles goes."

"It's been packed away in its case for years," said Silvie, who was once again looking up at the cloud. "Jay used to tell me I looked like an old witch when I played it, he would come into the room and watch me until I was finished then he'd tell me how embarrassing I looked. I decided it best to pack it up to avoid the discomfort, as though it were the fault of the instrument," said Silvie as she looked into her mother's eyes. "How could I have such little self-respect?"

"Well," said Elaine, "self-respect and independence aren't worth the loneliness and hardship of having to do everything yourself, in my experience."

In the gap of silence that followed the end of Elaine's words, an acorn fell from the tree above and hit her hard on the back of the head.

Elaine gasped and rubbed the area. She looked up at Silvie to find her staring into thin air, muttering something under her breath.

"Who are you talking to?" said Elaine, slowly. 

"No one, I just remembered I have unfinished work at home. The acorn reminded me. Are you alright?" 

"Yes, yes I'm fine. It's the time of year where things fall from the trees. I should move the table to the middle of the garden, I'll do that this afternoon," she waved a hand in the air as though she were waving away the curious moment that had just been, not wanting to reveal her concern.

After Silvie had left, Elaine began to speculate over her daughter's mysterious behaviour. She had come to tell her of the dream she'd had and seemed to be switched off to any conversation that wasn't linked to it, and the muttering, what on sacred earth was that about? Maybe she should suggest going to talk to someone, after all, psychosis does run in the family, look at poor cousin Clara, her whole life locked away in a care home. 

Elaine brushed the crumbs off her lap. She had had a loaf of dry bread for lunch as suggested by a new diet - great for weight loss - she'd read about on MSN news.

Didn't they say so long as one is maintaining basic hygiene and going into work then they're coping? Elaine thought back to Silvie's brushed hair, frizzy - but brushed, and the new earrings she wore. But didn't she look paler than usual? 

Yes, she was as white as a ghost. 

Elaine pulled herself up. If Silvie wasn't going to open up to her then she would go and see for herself. She marched through the house, waving a hand at her lover Dave who was scratching his head and staring at the fridge.

"I'm so full of flour," she grumbled as she continued her march across the gravel drive. She stopped at her car door, leaning on one arm and beat the middle of her chest twice as to put some life back into it.

"That's better," she said and climbed into the fiat. 

The sun was beginning to set ahead of her as she drove along through the winding country lanes. Orange leaves littered the sides of the road. The evenings were always the most lonesome for a spinster, Elaine recalled. Thank heavens she no longer was one. Three horrific months were long enough. There must be someone Silvie isn't telling her about. Could it be a female? That thought had never crossed her mind. Did she think of her mother as too old fashioned to be comfortable with homosexuals? 

She changed the radio station and Suspicious Minds began to play from silence. It was the song that had been playing on the radio when her father died. Her slim finger gave a sharp twist of the volume button and she sang along. 

She pulled in to a farmers club car park opposite Silvie's house so that she would not be noticed and sat in the car until the song finished, bobbing her head from side to side and singing along. She switched off the radio.

"Oh, Dad," she breathed into the silence. 

She then gave a courageous closed-mouth cough to ground herself. Here she was, about to find out what her daughter was so occupied with. She only hoped she had a man with her, or even a woman, a friend at least, then she would leave at the first sight of it and pack up her worries. 

She pulled off her heeled sandals and threw them onto the back seat, climbing out of the car. The flour in her had settled and the adrenalin for what she was doing had lightened her. She crossed the road and ducked down as she passed the front of the house, stepping lightly over the gravel around the side and to the garden, like an elegant ape. The dining room ahead of her was lit. 

Elaine carefully lifted her head from where she crouched beneath the window to peer into the dining room. It was empty. The table was laid, tealight candles were lit, in the centre what looked like a ball of playdough with three birthday candles sticking out from it. 

Over to the right, more candles were lit on the mantlepiece in between framed photos. One at the end caught her quivering eye - her dear father, Alan Butterfield. It was the photograph Silvie had asked to borrow a few weeks ago, he was sitting in a deckchair, eyes squinted in the sun with his lips spread into that half-smile. He loved sitting in the sunshine, it was one of lifes treasures, he used to say. Sitting in the sun, playing the piano, and eating cake. 

And spying on people. 

Elaine felt her intestines hunch together. Suddenly a shadow came through the door. Elaine flinched. The shadow was followed by Silvie. It was, of course, Silvie's shadow. Candlelight had an authentic and powerful beauty that Elaine was not used to. She watched Silvie lean forward over the table and put down two small plates to face each other and leave the room again. 

A blood orange, a grapefruit, and a handful of figs. 

The shadow entered the room again, this time it appeared larger and bolder. Silvie carried a long case under her arm and stood at the head of the table. She opened it up. Her movements were quick and graceful, steady. Elaine searched desperately for a hint of weakness in her daughters frame - a quiver, a hesitation, or a twitch. Where was her company?

As Silvie held the violin in her hands, she smiled at it affectionately before looking up to the mantlepiece with the photographs. Her lips began to move as if she were talking. Where was her company?

"I have to say I feel a bit nervous," said Silvie, as heat from her hands warmed the violin. "It's been such a long time since I played, I associated it with a lot of the shame I internalised," she paused mournfully. 

"I could not think of a better company to play to," she said. 

She positioned the violin beneath her chin and played. The sound was intimidating and awkward as it broke the quiet of the room. She pulled the violin away and shook her head. 

"I completely forgot," she said. Her slim fingers reached down to the blood orange and raised it in the air, "blood orange?" 

Silence.

"Or," she placed the blood orange back on the plate and raised the grapefruit into the air, "grapefruit?"

A smooth gust of wind came from the fireplace, the flames from every candle leant towards her and an ever so gentle and quiet whisper came from the violin. 

She smiled, bringing the slice of grapefruit to her lips. It was sharp and bitter, but the flavour beneath was sweet and tropical.

Silvie wiped her hands on her dress and picked up the violin again. The whole room held its breath in anticipation.  

The notes that came were modest and quiet, like a child on their first day at school, quietly creeping into the room with caution and curiosity, taking in their surroundings. The wind began moving again, softly and as one with the timidity of the tune. The candle flames flickered shyly. 

Silvie played with more courage and felt the room compose its dance to match. It was following her lead. She felt the shame she'd internalised from the disgust on Jay's face rise up through her chest and down to her fingers that played. It wanted to be heard. The room moved with the shame, as one but also with acceptance, listening, allowing. 

Elaine, who had been watching with heavy discomfort and uncertainty, felt something move behind her. It shocked her so fiercely that she fell backwards onto the gravel, rolling like an old headmistress who found the ground so unfamiliar. 

She lay in a ball on her back like a beetle unable to get itself up again. 

It was at this point that Silvie's song she played on her violin was reaching its peak. The room was filled with shame being embraced by the whole universe. Candlelight flickered with fierce contentment, the curtains swayed from side to side like two maids sweeping the floor with grace and the shadow of Alan Butterfield danced around the room, and within his shadow danced the shadow of his own father - James Butterfield, their musical souls at peace.