It is 5:21am, and a cacophony of bird calls have erupted just beyond my bedroom window.
I can hear six distinct voices: two are ferociously tweeting at an unreasonably high-pitch for this time of day; two others alternate between gurgling and cooing, almost as if in answer to one another’s questions; the fifth bird sounds quite basso profundo and cackles away like a television cartoon witch; whilst the last one, sounds as though it has a clear death wish as it wolf-whistles at the top of its lungs, non-stop!
Needless to say, I know better than to try to fall asleep again!
Half awake, I surrender to my fate as I stumble downstairs to my writing desk.
Why am I so grumpy? I love birds! This is what they do when the sun rises!
As I ponder this, I am suddenly reminded of Spring 2020, during Canada’s first Covid lockdown. I have never felt as conscious or profoundly appreciative of our feathered friends as I did then. My city’s streets were so still and quiet at that time that all I could hear when I stepped out onto my balcony was the sound of birds singing. Proudly. Irreverently, even. Indeed, in full chorus.
Have these birds always been here? In such a vast number and variety? Why have I almost never taken much notice of them before?
This all too vivid memory still has the power to bring me to tears.
One day, many years ago - when I was a student at the Royal College of Music - I was asked to play at a funeral.
Now, dear reader, as you may know, there is nothing unusual about this. Playing at funerals, or weddings and celebrations of all kinds are a natural occurrence in a musician’s life.
But what made this particular funeral stand out to me was the fact that I had to travel to the south of England, to what the British call “a public school”- which, for us North Americans, is a private school - and play the last unaccompanied violin cadenza from Ralph Vaughn Williams’s famous masterpiece, The Lark Ascending.
Thankfully, I had performed this work just a few weeks earlier with orchestra; and so, the cadenza was well-settled in my mind and fingers.
I remember, I took an early train from Victoria Station. When I arrived at my destination, a gentle and kindly-looking man was on the station platform, waiting to give me a lift to the funeral.
I learned much on that fateful journey. The deceased had been a beloved matron and music teacher at the school for several decades; and her death, a terrible blow to all who knew and loved her.
My driver was trying his best to be as friendly and congenial as possible for my benefit; but when we arrived at the school, he finally broke down sobbing behind the steering wheel, pointing at the church where the funeral was soon to be held.
As I walked towards the church, a priest came to greet me at the main entrance.
The church itself was part ancient ruins and recycled modern architecture.
If my memory is correct, the priest then immediately led me into a dark medieval side chapel, built entirely of stone, with slim glass-less openings in the walls for windows.
Dear reader, although it may have been summer, this chapel was freezing cold, dark and extremely damp.
There were several tall pillared candles that were lit along the sides, a large burgundy velvet curtain covering the back wall with a striking and prominent silver crucifix glistening in the candlelight.
The priest then moved the thick curtain aside to reveal a small orange plastic chair - the kind of chair that one finds in school classrooms - and said, “You’ll need to stay here. The Lark Ascending was her favourite piece of music, you see. I’d like you to play that last bit - you know…the one when the Lark rises and flies away - at the very end of the service, just before they carry her coffin out of the church….”
He then went on to explain how the deceased family had told him that they had seen a lark, every morning, from their mother’s bedroom window, during the last week of her earthly life; and that on the seventh day, at the very moment of her death, this lark had cried out and flown away in the most dramatic and unforgettable fashion imaginable.
“Now, they don’t know that you’ll be playing today. I thought that you’d give them a surprise! They can’t know that you are here. This is why you need to stay behind this curtain.”
Dear reader, without exaggeration, this request was to become one of the most difficult and stressful of my entire career. Not only did it need to be a performance of a lifetime, in homage to this great human being, but - on a more practical note - I was unable to tune or sufficiently warm my fingers up because people were about to fill the church! What’s more, I was not even able to use the washroom!
And the service was long… I’m certain that I remained sitting on that child’s chair for well over an hour. And it was so cold! Even at my young age, my finger joints were unable to bend and move they had become so frozen.
I kept blowing my hot breath on them to bring them back to life again; but it was no use. I had been hiding there for much too long. There was also hardly any room to stand; and with horror, I soon realised that when the time would come to start playing, that I would not be able to fully move by bow!
But in truth, what became even more challenging and made me feel most nervous and anxious about my upcoming performance was the crying and the wailing that I was hearing from the other side of that curtain.
Dear reader, these poor people were in absolute agony. It felt wrong, somehow… I felt that I was intruding. I was, in effect, invading their privacy.
But eventually, the moment came when I heard the code words spoken by the priest, and I started to play.
Not only was my whole body shaking as I attempted to control my nerves, but chaos immediately broke out inside the church.
I could hear cries of, “Oh my God! My God! That’s The Lark Ascending! Someone’s actually playing it! There! Behind that curtain! You mean to tell me they’ve been there this whole time?!”
And there I was, trying my utmost best to play as beautifully as I could while the sounds of grief, anger and absolute disbelief filled the air.
They were sobbing uncontrollably…
I, myself, started to cry as I was playing…
When I finished, I was shaking so violently that I was unable to put my violin back in its case. I simply didn’t know what to do.
Do I reveal myself? Should I come out from behind the curtain! What should I do?
Finally, as the sounds of pain and heartbreak started to leave the chapel, the priest quickly pulled back the curtain. His face was blotchy and his eyes were red and wet from crying and he said, “My dear, I am soooo so sorry! I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day for what I’ve put you through! I assure you, I had only the best of intentions! I never ever thought that this could happen!”
And I saw… Yes, dear reader - I saw that he was well and truly mortified. He looked like a man who was going to kneel at my feet, begging and pleading me for my forgiveness.
Outside the church, a taxi cab was waiting for me.
As the priest paid and gave directions to the taxi driver, a woman and a man came out of the main school building, running fast towards me.
The woman thanked me for my playing and handed me a packed lunch for my journey back to London; and the man, a small envelope filled with cash inside it.
“Here. This is for you.”, he said. “Several of us got together just now and rounded up a quick collection. We just hope that you won’t think too ill of us after today.”
Once back on the train - and before I was to enjoy my lunch of cheese and pickle sandwiches, an apple, and cookies and a butter tart - I looked inside the envelope and found 475 pounds sterling in rolled up and folded notes, and a small piece of ripped paper with a hastily scribbled message that read, simply: Thank you.
What a surreal experience! You showed grace under pressure. I can not help wonder what the woman herself would have thought if she as a ghost were looking down on that funeral.