At The Heart It’s Tuesday morning and women’s voices, in three-part harmony, sing out Smokey Robinson, I don’t like you, but I love you – while outside in the yard toddlers send up an insistent decant scat. In the hall an amalgam of creamed butter, sugar and sifted flour wafts. Upstairs needles pirouette, like dancersin Morag Alexander’s class, pullingsilks through linen in back stitch, split stitch,stem stitch, French knots. On other days,at other hours, threads of French and Germanslip from practiced tongues, and lips are pursed and shaped to give a visual voice to thosefor whom the world has turned its volumedown. It’s here we come when our livessuffer an infarction, an arrhythmia, a block.It’s here we come to pick up the rhythmsagain, to pick out a beat on practice pad, to fall safely on a crash mat, to dance again,to reel. It’s here kinship finds support,it’s here that kindness and careare more than abstract, it’s here they are“doing words”. It’s here, in this centre, thisOld Victorian school, with its boys doors & girls doors,that a community finds its heart.