The beauty of a back-firing kangaroo

 

When I was little I was sent off for piano lessons. My teacher was a very patient young woman. I was set a page to practise and various exercises to do. I wasn't too keen on doing the practising, but still I gave it a go. So I was pleased when my teacher later rewarded my efforts with a gold star. I didn't get many more after that first one. The colours gradually went down in value from silver to red.

On one occasion, just after I had just been awarded a brighter star, an older woman who ran the piano school entered the small room.

"Play what you've just learnt," she demanded.

I did so.

My trembling fingers missed all the keys. Rendering whatever simple piece I was supposed to play with all the beauty of a back-firing, kangaroo-hopping, braying mule.

"Stop!" she demanded, utterly appalled by what she had just heard. "What colour star did you just give her?"

Ashen-faced the young teacher showed her.

"You've given her that!"

She began to claw at my bright star, until it was torn from the page. "Give her this one instead."

Blushing red, my young music teacher complied, replacing my bright star with the mark of ignominy: a green one.

Then following fierce words of reprobation directed both towards myself and the young piano teacher the owner of the piano school stormed out.

Ashamed by my green star which marked shame and failure each time I turned the pages of my book, I found I now hated practising, and had to be dragged to piano lessons. My parents lecturing me all the while on how much this was costing them, upsetting me even further, until finally, much to my relief, I no longer had to go.

I left piano lessons knowing only that, 'FACE' names the notes in the spaces for the right hand, and that 'Eat, Good. Bread. Dear, Father' is a saying which helps to identify any notes which happen to sit on the line. That was the sum total of my learning. So although I did once have piano lessons, they lasted only a few weeks.

Some months later, the old piano teacher was murdered by one of her pupils.

Remembering how frightened I had been of her, I could well understand why. Obviously, somebody else must have been given a green star, but had felt much more strongly about it than I had.

I wondered who it could have been. There was a waiting room in which we bided our time before been ushered into our tiny rooms. We could hear pianos being played elsewhere while we waited in magnolia silence. I wondered afterwards, if I had ever sat, side by side, next to the boy who later became a piano teacher murderer instead of a piano virtuoso.

The detached house where I went for my piano lessons was opposite Middle Lane on Wickersley Road in Rotherham. I'm not certain if the house is still there, perhaps it is. It used to give me the shivers whenever I passed it.

I believed at the time that it was the elder woman who had been murdered, but thinking about it today, I wonder if it may have been the kindlier younger teacher instead.

After a quick trawl, I can find no mention of this event which occurred almost fifty years ago. Though I did come across someone else who wrote on their blog:

"Piano lessons with woman called Ada Sharp (A#) was a short-lived affair because "I got sick to death of having my hands smacked with a ruler." Apparently Mrs Sharp died an unfortunate death, being killed by a number five bus." (Roy Phillips.)

I seem to remember that this was my older woman's name, but I can not be certain. Perhaps my piano teacher wasn't murdered after all. Or perhaps all piano teachers of that era were fearsome creatures who thought their pupils could best be taught by rapping their knuckles with rulers. And perhaps all piano teachers with the name of 'Sharp' came to a rather pointed end. From my vague recollection a knife had been involved. Or perhaps that too was just part of my fanciful imagination.

I have since wondered what happened to the boy once he was released; and I wonder if I have ever sat on a bus, tube or train, side by side, next to a piano teacher murderer.

All of this is by way of saying that I can not play the piano, and what little I can play is entirely self-taught. And that I have just for the first time got to the very end of a piece that I have been working on. My rendition of course, is rather like that of a back-firing, kangaroo-hopping, braying mule, but still I got there! Now all I have to do is to figure out the middle eight!

Here is the original which probably merits the gold star. Enjoy.

 

 

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