Our neighbour loved blasting rock music at 2am. So I bought my son a violin and we started practising scales at exactly 8am—just as the neighbour was finally falling asleep.

My neighbour adored listening to rock music precisely at 2 oclock in the morning. One day, I bought my son a violin, and we began rehearsing scales at exactly 8 a.m., as the neighbour finally drifted into sleep.

At half past one every night, the ceiling above my bedroom grew suspiciously lively. First, there was a distant rumble, like an approaching storm. Then the bass joined in, vibrations swelling until the crystal in the cabinet rattled restlessly to the rhythm.

My neighbour upstairs was called Nicholas. His devotion to art unravelled in relentless explorations of Led Zeppelin and early Iron Maiden albums, accompanied by questionable lager, regardless of the hour.

I was not a confrontational person. My days as a bookkeeper were spent quietly, and I raised my seven-year-old son Toby on my own. My greatest wish was simply a peaceful nights sleep. But something changes inside you when you wake up feeling Robert Plant is screaming Immigrant Song right in your ear; even the most serene pacifist quickly retreats.

The first time I confronted Nicholas, it was nearly two in the morning; bathrobe and slippers, hair wild. He opened the door, bewildered and bleary. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and pounding rock.

Nicholas, do have a conscience, I tried to say calmly. Its the middle of the night. I work tomorrow. Toby has school.
Whats the problem? he shrugged, leaning in the doorway. Its not so loud. Good speakers, bass nice and soft.
My chandelier is swaying, I replied.
All right, Ill turn it down, he muttered, shutting the door.

The peace lasted ten minutes. Then everything resumed.

Next day, I tried to play by the rules. I rang the police. The officers turned up an hour and a half later, by which time Nicholas was snoring and the musical marathon had ended. They shrugged, No noise now, nothing to record. Write the complaint, the local officer will talk to him.

The local officer did eventually visita week later.
Had a word, he called me. Promised to be quieter, but you know, the fines are trivial. He doesnt care.

The nightly bam-bam-bam carried on, battering my nerves. I started on herbal tea for calm, stumbled into work grey-faced, and hated Nicholas, the building, and my own helplessness.

My sons talent required nurturing
The idea came unexpectedly, one Saturday morning. I sat in the kitchen, coffee in hand, staring at the dark rings under Tobys eyeshe hadnt slept well either.
Mum, can I learn the violin? he asked, scrolling through videos.

Have you ever heard a beginner with a violin? Its not music. Its a shriek that feels like the very fabric of reality is tearing.

Of course, Toby, I said, flashing a sharp smile for the first time in weeks. Well buy the finest instrument.

We visited the music shop that afternoon. The salesman, an elegant elderly gentleman, patiently found us a quarter-size.
Does the boy have an ear for music? he asked.
Hes highly motivated, I assured him.

Meanwhile, I researched the local Noise Regulation Act. Weekdays allowed noise from 8 a.m.; weekends from a bit later.

Nicholas usually quieted down around 4 a.m. And in the mornings, he slept deeply.

Monday. Morning. Toby and I stood in the lounge.
Go ahead, loveplay a C major scale. Loud. With expression.

What followed is hard to describe: the sound was like a cat yowling under a slammed door, mixed with nails scratching glass. The violin, unsilenced, resonated through the concrete floors, sending greetings straight up to Nicholas.

Ten minutes in, something crashed overhead. Presumably, Nicholas himself. Five minutes later, the radiator pipes rattled. We kept goingthe law was on our side.

At 8:20, the doorbell rang. I opened it. Nicholas, red-eyed, wearing a vest and boxers, looking like a man whod survived a disaster.

What the hell are you doing? he rasped. Its eight in the morningpeople are sleeping!
Good morning, Nicholas! I answered cheerfully. Were rehearsing. Tobys talented; his music teacher says we must practise every morning before school. At least an hour.
Are you serious? My head feels like its splitting.
How odd, I mused. Were not loud at all. By the way, did you enjoy Immigrant Song last night? I thought the bass was a bit flat.

He glanced at me, then at Toby and his violinlike a little warrior.
On purpose, is it?
Its art, Nicholas. Art demands sacrifice.

Harmony through music
We practised for exactly a week, every morning at eight. By the third day, the late-night concerts overhead ceasedNicholas hoped if he kept quiet, wed give up too. Alas, learning cannot be interrupted.

Friday evening, Nicholas came down himself. Sober, in jeans and a shirt.
Look, neighbour, he sighed, lets agree something. I cant do it anymore. Even in daylight, I hear that squeal in my head.
Im all ears, I said, inviting him into the kitchen.

I placed a pad and pen on the table.
The rules are simple. Silence after ten oclock at night.
What about guests? he tried to bargain.
What about Tobys inspiration at seven a.m. on Sunday? I replied evenly.

Nicholas visibly winced.
Fine. After tensilence. Deal. Will you sell the violin?
No, I replied. The violin stays. Its insurance. Ready and waiting on the wardrobe.

We signed this impromptu peace pact. Its held for half a year already. Tobys violin is long abandonedhe now prefers chess.

The building became quiet. Sometimes Nicholas and I nod by the lift. He regards Toby warily, me respectfully. It seems hes realised: a gentle bookkeeper with a well-mannered child can be far more formidable than any rock-loving nonconformist.