Janus 1
Never mind Tolstoy’s famous line about happy families being all alike. In my experience happiness is as varied as tragedy. For nearly 12 years Elly and I were singularly happy. At the centre of our world was our daughter Jessica, born from a union of a technically sterile mother and a father who never considered being one. A miracle baby, whose love of life helped us parents overcome some formidable challenges, dispelled gloom from our household and nurtured our union.
Of course, like all new parents we fretted over our precious daughter. Was she comfortable? Too hot? Too cold? Hungry? Why was she waking up so frequently? Was Elly’s milk supply adequate? Was she getting enough sleep?
Actually, the one who was sleep-deprived was Elly. While still in hospital recovering after the birth, Elly dreamt that, on going to pick her up for a feed, she saw that the baby had stopped breathing. She woke up screaming in a sweat and it took the nurses some time to pacify the distraught mother. In those first days when Jessica was brought home both Elly and I lay in bed at night, mostly awake and took turns to go check on her.
No sign of discomfort in little Jess. For the most part she slept long and ate well. She knew who she was and what she wanted. Right from the start she was a child in a hurry. At barely twelve months young, when infants are still exploring their little world crawling on all fours, Jess hoisted herself up on the leg of the piano that had been sitting there idle (a family heirloom that neither of us made use of) she reached over the keyboard, left open for cleaning that day, and slammed her podgy little fingers on the black and white keys to hammer out her first notes of music. The effect of this feat on the child was immediate. Her face glowed, radiant with discovery and abandoned herself to chuckling so cheerfully that she lost her balance and fell back on her bottom. Elly checked my attempt to go and help her up
‘Wait,’ she said, restraining me by the arm, ‘let’s see what she does.’ We watched our daughter go through a perfunctory whimper, then she picked herself up once again, kept her balance by clinging to the piano leg with one hand and with the other she hammered on the keys with renewed vigour, each note accompanied by chuckles of delight. This was the prelude to what was to become a glorious obsession.
At three years old, and without any encouragement from us, Jess scaled up to the heights of the padded stool, filled with score sheets she would not be able to read for years and began to play. At first they were dissonant notes, apparently thrown together haphazardly, prompted it seemed by childish exuberance and the urge to discover. Elly and I sat there watching her bang away at the keys randomly, with the kind of concentration a child her age might give to a challenging block puzzle. What was there about those notes to take her deep into herself and away from us? Then one Sunday morning, when we were sleeping in, I was roused by Elly’s excited voice. She elbowed me on the ribs.
‘Janus, wake up.’.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Shh, listen…’
Something vaguely tuneful was issuing from the piano.
‘Don’t you recognize it?’
I listened to the staccato notes. The tune was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
‘It’s that famous duet in the British Airways advert. She must have picked it up by ear and just played it on the piano.’
Elly’s face expressed all the wonder and the elation of a proud parent, but I detected also a twinge of anxiety on her face, an anxiety I shared, though I could not quite decipher the reason for it. Could this amazing child be truly be truly our daughter?
And where had her prodigious talent come from? Neither Elly or I were particularly musical.
We deliberately held off starting her on formal lessons for a while. We told ourselves we did not want her to miss out on a normal, carefree pre-school phase. But I believe we had another more selfish reason, of which we were a little ashamed and never spoke about it. But it was certainly there, tacitly communicated between us through looks of perplexity that bounced between us. Put simply, Jessica was so precocious, so single-minded that we were afraid of losing her love to music. Parents can be such insecure souls!
Do you remember, Elly, those afternoons spent together at home with Jess at the piano? We watched, and listened- while pretending to do other things- waiting for that moment when she would finally step down from that stool of her obsession. At that point both of us were ravenous for her hugs, so we edged towards the living room and sat down at either end of the sofa, leaving a forearm’s length between us for Jess to fill it and be our child again. Gleefully she scuttled over and curled up between us. Remember how she would take your left hand and my right one in hers, and put them to her cheek still flushed pink from the energy spent over her long playing session and made herself a conduit of our love? Yes, we were a uniquely, gloriously happy family.
And then… I don’t really want to write this. I wish you were here with me to share the joy of the memories and the pain of the loss.
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Comments
Pascal
“Waiting for that moment when she would finally step down from that stool of her obsession.”
I like this. It touches, perhaps inadvertently, on one of my pet convictions, that when it comes to love and reassurance, parents are just as needy as their children. These three people need and want each other. That’s a beautiful bond but can turn out to be a fragile one, if destiny decides to play a cruel hand.
Lady S.
“…And the pain of the loss.”
I’m dreading that.
Cynic 2
I’ve always said that cynicism is one of the best forms of defence that you can arm yourself with. I still think that, but sometimes a child has the power to grab you and make you forget how rotten the world can be. I must admit, there is a place for sentimentality, in small doses.
Lady S.
.It’s not sentimentality, Cynic, it’s being able to feel love, wonder and joy. Too many adults - wasted away by harsh realities of living - sadly no longer experience them. It takes a child to remind us that they exist. Thank God for children.
Airies (and proud of it)
This tale is getting a bit too syrupy for me.
Lady S.
Oh, do shut up, Airies!
Lizzie 86
Don’t take any notice of Airies, Lady S, he’s a typical male, all posture and no substance. He’s probably a closetted gay.
Sushy Lover
Yeah, like one of them bushy fakes with whiskers down to his navel and a very gay bent.
Airies (and proud of it)
Not me. The most I’ll ever want to do with a male is to have a beer.
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Audio by John Brennan
Vocals by Suno
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