Mourning Music

On Sunday, 7^th December, 1997, I stood in the Hofburg Imperial Chapel – standing room was free – and shivered as I cried. The soaring voices of the Vienna Boys’ Choir enveloped me.

I was tired. I had woken early to pack my bags, store them in the lobby of our cheap hostel, then navigate the bewildering bus system to get here.

Travelling to England in May, I had left my boyfriend behind in Australia, but he would join me later. I worked in a country pub near Birmingham to save for our Europe adventure. My gruff Brummie boss called me “dook”. I visited Shakespeare’s home. I drank ales with other backpackers under soft blue skies.

But evenings off were spent making mix-tapes for my boyfriend and filling aerograms with tightly-penned longing.

Diana died in August and I was there, placing my candle in the front window with 48 million others.

When we heard in September that Mother Theresa had died too, it didn’t matter where you were, everybody mourned.

Trudging the unfamiliar Vienna streets this morning, I got lost twice in the dim early light, trying to find bus 1A to the Hofburgkapelle. Then I walked the last half of the route anyway after prematurely alighting, worried about missing my stop. I had to hear this choir.

The year had grown darker and colder. Work was relentless, lovesickness gripped. Little princes had no mother. The whole world seemed sad.

But my boyfriend was coming! I planned the whole trip, booked a cosy Yorkshire cottage and dreamed of curling up fireside with him. I dyed my hair purple in celebration. Everything would be worth it when he came. We would travel Europe together, kiss on bridges, visit galleries, and be stirred by beautiful music.

Now in this chandeliered chapel, all penetrating violin and ethereal voices, I was stirred. But also cold. The bitter sleeting weather had made my coat soggy and my glove fingers crackle with ice. My boots bled puddles on the aisle floor and my tears mixed salt into the wound.

I was alone. My boyfriend had refused to come to the church. He was busy buying a single ticket for the first train back to Paris.

We had fought for most of our holiday. He didn’t want to be there. With me, more specifically.

We broke up in that cosy cottage in Yorkshire. We made up again under the glowing Glendalogh mountains in Ireland, skimming rocks over the surface of the lake and talking ourselves into togetherness. In Amsterdam we’d fought over his attraction to the women in windows. Apparently we were just friends again, so who was I to judge? When my cash was stolen in Berlin, we blamed each other. His filthy mood in Zurich was him screaming to escape.

Now he’d just heard that his sister was not well and he had an excuse to leave. Immediately. He said I should stay in Vienna, watch the ballet, go home when I was ready.

I would be on the very next train. This journey was over.

The choir sang our funeral song.