The idea of the ‘wrong address’ generated lots of ideas and this prompt worked very well with the group, continuing a member’s story which remained unresolved and tantalising.
The wrong address.
‘Banish the envelope to the bin!’ cried George thumping on the floor with his cane. ‘Human concerns are irrelevant to our Art.’ He sighed as if disappointment weighed heavily on his soul.
But Eleanor could not agree with this irritable teacher who lately had left her feeling bruised inside and out with his obsession with music that resisted all equilibrium, all harmony, all intimacy. Let him luxuriate alone in his disappointment then, because she, Eleanor Taylor could not pretend, and she would not pretend, to like what he loved to death.
‘No,’ she said firmly to her slender fingers which she lifted away from the piano that seemed just as uncomfortable with the discordant notes as she felt. ‘No, Human connection requires nurture.’ She whispered the word again, tumbled into its romantic potential. ‘Nurture.’ As soon as the word was released Eleanor became aware of the letter’s softness, its malleability, the delicate autumnal scent. There were no flowers in the room because George deemed them frivolous, yet the perfume of pale, pink, lovely roses was with them now and there was nothing either of them could do except yield.
Yet still, the teacher resisted.
‘Concentrate’ said, George.’ Be professional, Eleanor!’ But his voice lacked the authority of a few moments before, now more of a plea than an imperative.
Eleanor looked over her shoulder at her mentor and smiled. ‘I need to know she said simply and she stood up and adjusted her red hair as if she was a heroine going to encounter her fate. In fact, she felt certain that the letter held a secret, something dying to be told before it was too late, even though she had no idea why or even how she knew this.
And so she drifted away like a whisper towards the French window, away from her old life, away from the impotent and shrunken figure of George Rivers of the Royal College.
Strangely, the French Windows were slightly ajar, although no one in that room had attempted to open them. And the winter garden was glad of the opportunity to be seen by Eleanor who placed one hand on each door to open the Windows even wider, to salute whatever, whoever might be out there, beyond the old sundial, waiting.
She tore open the letter, kissed the single initial and inhaled.
After a short time, gathering her valour, she crossed the threshold over into the garden that was suddenly buried under fresh snow.
The scent of roses reached her, and petals scattered as a trail for her to follow, beyond the sundial and into the deep shade on the other side.
‘Hello’ said a voice belonging to a stooped figure poring over a desk that in its turn belonged to a summer house that Eleanor recognised with her heart though she’d never seen it before in the garden.
The merry eyes that rested on Eleanor’s face were emerald green and faithful. And the busy hands ( or paws? ) scrabbled in the petals on the table, writing something into life, into music.
‘How can this be?’ said Eleanor and joined the creature at the table willing to suspend all her beliefs except the primacy of her imagination. ‘Give me your left hand’ purred the creature, ‘ and let your right hand hear the notes. We can begin at the beginning, or at the end of the beginning. ‘
‘What you will,’ said Eleanor, aware of the pool of ancient heat in the creature’s palm and that nothing had ever seemed as beautiful as the notes her right hand’s fingers were accompanying without her conscious knowledge.
‘Can you hear the music?’ said the creature and the brave, new Eleanor nodded, entranced.
Stars shining bright above you
night breezes seem to whisper ‘ I love you ‘
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me. ‘
