Maresh

—04.01.2000—

I went to “Builder’s Hour” last night, a regular event at the pub featuring pints at 5:30 pm on Fridays instead of 9:00 pm on Tuesdays, for all of the guys knocking off of work for the week. The usual crew had installed themselves by the time I got there, Drew (Andrew Henn), Darren, Jeremy, Terry, and David Allen behind the bar.

Tonight, however, there was a pretty, new face among the four or five regulars, a friend of Drew’s called Maresh. On Agnes you can really go all winter without seeing a new person in the pub or anywhere else, so having her there was a pleasant surprise. We all chatted a bit. It turns out she’s been coming to Scilly on holiday since she was six, lives in near Yorkshire (no accent), and plays violin professionally. She said she started playing not long after her first trip here.

Her presence shifted the mood for the entire evening. Instead of talking about wet plaster and guys named Stomper calling everyone “hairy ass,” we talked about old violins, music, and wooly jumpers. Maresh, adorably, was wearing one that her mother had knitted for her father thirty years before. Darren told us about getting kicked out of school (coincidentally, around the same time Maresh’s dad’s jumper was being knitted).

After a few pints in as many hours, Darren, Maresh, Drew, and I went back up to Drew’s place. About every other Builder’s Hour ends up there with us listening to music and emptying bottles of wine until late. Halfway through the first bottle we started working on Maresh to get her violin out. “No, I couldn’t,” she demurred.

“Oh, go on...” we said.

“Hmmm...”

“We’d really love to hear you play. Come on, just a few notes.”

She acquiesced, pulling herself off of the couch and onto the floor, sliding a quite elegant violin case behind her. She knelt in front of it, undid the zippers and buckles, dug through velvet panels and silk wraps until there emerged into the dim light a two-hundred year old violin, stained dark with time.

“What shall I play?” she asked.

“Anything.” we said.

She placed its curved body under her chin and drew the bow across the strings. The notes fell around us in rich, sonorous ribbons, resonant and soft. She filled the room twice over, and again, with spinning Irish melodies and folk tunes. We were smitten. All of us. As she played, my internal dialog pleaded, “Please, take everything. Take it all, just so I can hear you play, just so I can listen. Please don’t stop.” We encouraged her at every pause. “That was amazing! Do one more...” And so it went, she kneeling on the floor and leaning into her instrument, and the three of us on the couch, listening, absolutely enthralled.

She played like starry night shines. The effect on me was the same. I sat in awe, transfixed, as she swayed in the glow of the candles and firelight. Her gift was pure bliss. I felt so grateful.  

Not long after midnight Darren walked back home to his wife and kids. Drew fell asleep upright on the couch with his head cocked to one side, as is his custom. I talked with Maresh for another half hour or so before heading off myself, back over to the island of Gugh, for one more night of housesitting.

Did I want to kiss her before I left? I didn’t not want to. At the same time I don’t want to just throw myself at every girl that shows up here. Not that there are many. Any? Besides that I’m slow. Maybe not slow, maybe out of touch with the goings on of my heart, not going where it asks but elsewhere.

——

Patricia woke me up this morning at quarter past nine with a phone call. She was on St. Mary’s and would be catching the 10:15 am boat across. Would I mind picking her up at the quay with the buggy? No problem. I got up, pulled a splinter of unknown origins out of my hand, did some quick, bleary-eyed cat feeding, floor sweeping, and flower picking to get the house in order, an then went down to get the buggy out of the shed. When it didn’t start after the fifteenth try I went to meet Patricia on foot.

Now I’m back at Pengold, tired after helping to launch the gig from its winter home this afternoon (a signal of the start of the season) and from falling into the pub afterwards for a couple of half-pints of cider. Man, you’d think all I did here was drink all the time. Well, not all the time but it does go well with socializing. And the pub is now open the weekends, another harbinger of spring.