A Rhapsody Of Sorts

Prologue

January 18, 2011.

"If you come home with another guitar from that ruddy shop, I'm moving out," Matthew harrumphed on the end of the line. "I mean it this time, petal — I can't live in that flat like some hoarder. I stubbed my toe on the mandolin this morning!"

I'd never minded the rain, even when the wind blew it sideways and it felt like ice crystals clinking against my skin. My jacket was drenched and my hair was a frizzy mess as I walked through Oxford Circus with my phone pressed to my ear, buckets of water pouring down on my head, but the heavy rain didn't stop the smile on my face from growing wider.

"Come off it, Matty," I whined, jumping over a puddle on the corner of Oxford and Regent. A double-decker sped by, and I stopped to watch tourists dressed in plastic ponchos snap pictures of pigeons and rubbish bins and the Apple Store. "You have to be nice to me."

"My birthday was two days ago and you still told me off for leaving my boots in the entryway," he chided.

"Fox nearly killed himself tripping over them!" I turned down Little Argyll Street, walked past the Italian bistro, and came to a halt in front of Philip's Musical Menagerie. The sign above the doorway was painted canary yellow and inscribed with a fiddle and bow. Overhead, it flapped loudly against the brick building as the wind picked up.

"It's not my fault your boyfriend's clumsy."

I peered in through the display window to look at the cornucopia of string instruments: antique violas, well-worn mandolins, a guitar or two, shiny fiddles, and violins with catgut strings. But the most exciting beauty of all was a spruce wood cello — the centerpiece of the feast.

"Matthew, my love," I began, a grin on my face even as I felt the rain soak through my shoes, "how do you feel about the cello?"

"My feelings towards the cello are lukewarm at best," he sighed. "How badly do you want it?"

"Really bad," I said. "I'm twenty now. This cello is my rite of passage."

"Where will we keep it?" he asked, defeated. I pictured him standing under the archway outside of the science building where his psychology class would be held in a few short minutes. In my mind's eye, I watched him lean his head against the wall behind him, his eyes closed in concentration as he tapped his fingers against his thigh in impatience.

"I mean, your bed's pretty big. I was thinking we could keep it there if—"

"Oliver."

"Don't first-name me on my birthday!" I said, sputtering when a raindrop slid down my cheek and into my mouth.

"All right, Rosie." The bell over the door jingled when I walked into the shop, and a welcomed gust of heat enveloped me. "Get yourself a cello, if that'll make you happy."

The cello's fingerboard felt alive when I reached out and touched it, soothing away the numbing cold in my fingertips and filling me with a warmth that felt as good as sitting in front of the fireplace at my mum's house after Christmas dinner. "It will."

"I've got to get to class. I'll see you when I get home."

"Okay," I said, brushing my fingers along the tuning pegs. "Learn a lot. I love you."

"Love you, petal."

I tucked my phone in my pocket and continued my assessment of the cello.

Behind the till, the familiar shopkeeper looked up and sent me a wide grin before he looked back down at the periodical in front of him. I ran my fingers along the strings and ached for a bow and a stool so that I could sit down with the cello between my knees and play with my eyes closed.
I was torn from my trance by the sounds coming from the grand piano tucked away in the corner of the shop. It sounded like it hadn't been tuned in at least two decades, but I was drawn towards it anyway.