In Chapter 48, the eve of the climactic Conservatorium competition, Lucy practices getting her cello to the stage without callipers on her polio-weakened legs, when disaster strikes…
I was feeling more optimistic than I had been for months about doing away with my right calliper.
As far as walking on stage was concerned, I set myself a course similar to what I would encounter at the Conservatorium. Every afternoon, with my ’cello in hand, I practised walking down the hall, out the front door, down the steps, along the path to the front gate and back again.
Through my little excursion, I discovered that the entire neighbourhood had been following my progress for some time. The hours I had spent practising in the parlour had been overheard by many a passer-by who now did not hesitate to chat with me if we chanced to coincide. And so I learned from the rabbitoh that he liked to park his cart outside our house of an afternoon to catch a bit of Bach, as did the milkman who also paused from his rounds. Children were intrigued by my ‘big violin’ and mothers were glad to see me ‘doing so well’. ‘We enjoy hearing you play, dear, and all the best for Saturday,’ became the parting words of many a lady and gentleman, young and old.
I developed a technique for descending the front steps, using my ’cello almost as I would a crutch. Endpin extended, I planted the ’cello on the step below, eased my braced leg down and followed with my good leg. The day before the competition, I was about to engage in one such operation when Hilda Geraghty walked by.
‘Hey there, Lucy!’ she called. ‘It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?’
‘Aye it is!’ I looked up and called back with a smile. I could no longer hide my excitement over the coming event.
‘Good luck!’ she called again and waved. ‘I’ll be thinking of you!’
I returned her wave by lifting the ’cello a little higher before lowering it to the next step. The spike hit the step with greater force than I anticipated. I lost my hold and then my balance.
‘Lucy!’ Hilda screamed.
Down onto the ’cello I fell. There sounded an almighty snap and crack before I rolled over the side of the step and crashed onto the petunias.
‘What in Heaven’s name was that?’ I heard Mrs Murphy’s voice. ‘It sounded like a shot gun!’
‘Lucy’s hurt, Mrs Murphy!’ exclaimed Hilda.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, dear! Run and fetch her father!’
I sat up in the middle of the petunias and peered at Mrs Murphy.
‘I’ve broken my ’cello, Mrs Murphy!’
‘Forget your violin, child. Are you hurt?’ Mrs Murphy brushed some of the dirt off my face, took out her handkerchief and dabbed my cheek.
‘A nasty scratch that is,’ she remarked as she passed me my glasses. ‘How on earth did that happen?’
I knew full well. I had been lashed by a snapping string.
‘I’ll go and get a bit of steak in a minute to stop that bruise getting too bad. How are your hands, dear?’
My hands and wrists were fine. Years of experience with falls had led me instinctively to tuck them in close. With Mrs Murphy’s help I pulled myself to standing position and stared in horror at the ’cello which lay on the lowest step.
Daid came running down the hill with Hilda not far behind him.
‘Buíochas le Dia nach bhfuil tú gortaithe, a Luighseach!’ he hugged me tight.
‘I smashed it, Da!’
‘Aye, lass,’ Daid pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at the debris spread across the bottom step. ‘And I’m thinking we’ll be in time to catch Miss Bray before she closes her shop for the night and we’ll see what she can do. I’ll be getting the motorcycle now.’
Can they fix Lucy’s cello before tomorrow’s concert?
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