The Quiet Corner Door

Jolene carries her violin case into the church hall as if it is a bag of eggs. She has done it every afternoon this month, and she does it carefully every time. Inside the case, there is a violin worth more than everything else she owns.

At home, she cannot play it. Her flat has two rooms, three brothers and one thin wall. Every time she lifts the bow, someone bangs on the wall from the other side. The neighbour wants quiet, and her brothers want football on the television. Jolene wants only twenty minutes alone.

So she comes to the hall, where the sewing circle meets. Nobody asked her to join. She came in one afternoon with a torn coat. A tall woman with a tape measure round her neck fixed it in two minutes. Since then, Jolene has stayed to help with the buttons. In return, nobody minds if she sits at the back and practises quietly.

Quietly is the problem. The hall has a high roof and a stone floor. Every note she plays comes back to her like a ghost. The women are patient, but she sees them look at each other when she plays a wrong note. She feels it on her skin like a draught.

On this particular afternoon, the circle is making costumes for the winter play. Fabric covers every table, and needles flash in the light. Jolene sits by the big tin of buttons and sorts them by colour. Blue here, green there, white in the lid.

Near the bottom of the tin, her fingers find something heavy. She pulls it out.

It is a key. It is made of brass and is as long as her hand. The handle is worn and shaped like a clover. The metal is cool and smooth, as if many fingers have held it.

"Look at this," she says.

"That's a good one," says the woman with the tape measure. "I've never seen it before."

"Do you know what it opens?" Jolene asks.

The woman shakes her head. She asks the others, one by one. A woman with pins in her mouth shrugs. Another says it looks like a key for a cupboard. A third says that, with a clover like that, it must open something important.

Vito, who is sweeping the floor near the stage, stops and leans on his broom. He is sixteen, like Jolene, and he helps in the hall for a school scheme. He knows every corner of the building.

"A key without a door," he says. "I like that."

"Everything has a door," Jolene says. "It just takes a while to find it."

"Let's find it, then," Vito says.

They spend the next hour trying every lock in the hall. The key is too big for the kitchen cupboard. It is too big for the small door of the stage store. It does not fit the front doors or the toilets. It does not even fit the fuse box, which has a little lock of its own. Vito holds it up to the light at the end, and he shakes his head.

"Maybe it belongs to a door that isn't here any more," he says.

Jolene sits down on the edge of the stage. She is tired, and the afternoon is almost over. She turns the key over in her hands.

"I wish I had a door," she says suddenly. She does not know why she says it out loud. "I mean, a room with a door that closes properly. Somewhere I can practise, and no one bangs on the wall."

Vito sits next to her. "That is a big wish," he says.

"I know," Jolene says. "It's a stupid one, too. Nobody gives people rooms." She puts the key in her pocket and stands up. "Sorry. Forget I said it."

But at the other side of the hall, the tall woman has stopped sewing. She is looking at Jolene with her head on one side. Then she looks at the others, and something passes between them like a small, quiet message.

For the next five days, Jolene is sure she has made a mistake. The women are busy. They talk in low voices. When she walks in, they sit up straight and hide their hands under the table. One afternoon, she finds a pile of old quilts on the stage. Vito moves it quickly to the back. Another afternoon, she hears a drill.

"Are they angry with me?" she asks him on Friday.

"I don't think so," Vito says. "I think they are busy." But he looks away, and she does not believe him.

On Monday, she arrives with her violin, and the hall is strangely tidy. The tables are folded up. The women stand in a line in front of the stage. Vito stands at the end, with his hands behind his back.

"Jolene," says the tall woman. "We have a present for you. It isn't what you asked for, but we hope it will do."

She nods to Vito, and he pulls a rope.

In the left corner of the hall, a tall frame stands between the stage and the wall. It is made of wood and covered all over with quilt squares. Some are blue and some are green. Some have stars and some have stripes, and a few have buttons. The squares are thick and soft, because there is wadding inside them. Where a door handle should be, there is a loop of ribbon. A small pocket is sewn next to it, with the shape of a key.

Jolene stares at it. She cannot speak.

"It's a door," Vito says. "Sort of. It goes round three sides, and the fourth is the wall. It is the quietest corner in the hall."

"We took the quilts from the cupboard," says the woman with the pins. "Nobody had used them in years."

"And the key?" Jolene asks. Her voice is small.

"The key goes in the pocket," says the tall woman. "You can't lock it, I'm afraid. But if the key is in the pocket, it means somebody is practising. Nobody comes in. That is the rule."

Jolene walks slowly to the door. She puts her hand on the soft cloth and feels how thick it is. She lifts the ribbon and goes inside. A stool and a music stand are waiting there. The sound of the hall fades behind her, as if a hand has covered her ears.

She puts the violin under her chin and lifts the bow. For the first time in months, the note does not come back to her like a ghost.

Outside, Vito holds the key. He slips it into the pocket and gives the ribbon a small tug, to make sure everything holds. The tiny brass handle swings and taps against the wood.

Click.