Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

FIDDLING THROUGH LIFE
At one time there were as many as four fiddles under my bed, all out of commission
and in various stages of disrepair. Every now and then some muck-sprayed car would pull
up outside our gate. We'd look and usually a woman (not known to us kids) from Kiltealy
or Ballindaggin or Caim would then come to the door, holding a battered fiddle case and
ask if the boss was in. More often than not, he would be and the conversation, as
overheard, would take the familiar train that it had belonged to an old relation who'd
passed away, that it hadn't been played since God knows when, that it was of no use to
them, in the attic, gathering dust and surely if anyone could get it working again, he
could. Then as quickly as they'd come, they were on their way; the gate would shriek with
rust and the car would be heard zooming off down the road, while we, eager to inspect the
latest bequest, raced into the kitchen.
‘Well, we'd better have a look at it anyway,’ he'd say, flipping down the well-worn
clasps; the lock, often jaded and warped, might need to be forced, with a good strong
blade from the drawer. That done, we'd all crowd round one end of the kitchen table,
craning in expectation. We were young and I suppose half-expected a gem of a fiddle;
dad would have a different air. He'd open the case and examine the patient carefully, held
her up to the light to find a name, but there'd usually be none. Though the sound post
might still be in place, which was good, the damage elsewhere would be grave enough.
He'd gently spin her round, examined her, a two-piece, for hairline cracks. She'd be badly
hurt. He'd duly lay her back down into the bright green baize, refasten the clasps, though
not the spent lock.
And that was the shape the event mostly took. Though the prognosis for the most part
was never good, no final pronouncement was made. At some stage perhaps he'd take a
second look, until which time the fiddles would be stored beneath my bed. There they
went untouched for months on end till eventually on some winter's night or Saturday
afternoon I'd haul them out. Four black battle-scarred hardboard cases, hinges and clasps,
all browned with age, leather handles, either dark-brown or black, that were hand-stitched
and as tough as a thumbnail. These I hauled out, blowing off their coat of dust for effect,
and opened to see which was which. In doing this, I was always truly amazed that no
matter how battered and bruised the case appeared from the outside, the interior was
contrastingly good: the cloth, sometimes green, sometimes blue, had not faded at all; their
pockets and bow-rests remained intact. The pockets, dubbed the secret compartments,
bore the strong scent of resin, found there in orange blocks, a perfumy musty smell. There
you might also find an assortment of pegs, strings, bridges and even tuning forks. And
then there was the mortally wounded fiddle herself, her round body, slender neck and
scrolled head. She’d lay there in her cocoon of green baize, perhaps in the hope that one
day she could be resurrected from death-in-life.
Not that the hope was in vain either. I look at the fiddle I have now and recall how, a
long time ago, we overhauled her, father and son.
‘This is a job for the men,’ he'd said, with a conspiratorial wink. We began by erecting
the sound post - not as easy as you might think. We were hours, shining a torch through
the 's' holes, painstakingly manoeuvring the thing in place. It tumbled when moved the
merest fraction; we'd have to start again. Later we attached the chin rest and sanded down
the bridge (also a very delicate task). I then applied some chalk to the sound pegs for grip
and at last the strings were wound in.
At that Mum knocked on the ceiling reproachfully and shouted, ‘Don't you know that
chap has got school in the morning, Tony; getting him up will be like raising the dead.’
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