Miss Martin nodded. ‘Well, I shall not pre-judge your ability,’ she said. ‘Although I consider myself a strict teacher, I am not an unfair one. I find no fault where it is not warranted, and only impose chastisement where I think it will aid pupil. If you keep to time and follow the practise plan I shall set, then I shall have little need to employ means of correction.’
‘I hope not!’ said Lucy. Miss Martin’s language was awfully archaic, she thought, and she found her talk of chastisement and correction quite amusing. However, there was something in what she said that was hard to pin down, and Lucy felt quite sure that Miss Martin was not a person one wanted to cross needlessly. She smiled at her.
‘Very good,’ said Miss Martin. ‘Now, unless you have anything else to ask, I think we had better conclude our meeting now, and arrange a uniform fitting.’
She began to write on a page in her notebook.
‘I’m writing a list of music for you to buy from Mr McLellan, together with a phone number and directions to his little shop. I use him all the time, for we have a number of interests in common, you might say. Like me, his clientele is very exclusive, and I only refer my personal pupils to him. I’ll put my address here too, for you to save troubling Dr Tovey.’
She finished writing and tore the page out of her book, giving it to Lucy.
‘There you go, my dear,’ she said. ‘Does that look all right?’
On the paper was written, besides the list of music, a small practise plan and address, and the word Beginner, which caught Lucy’s eye. Miss Martin noticed her looking at it, and smiled.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I know you’re grade five. That refers to something else.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Lucy, who in any case was happy to be considered a beginner. ‘This all looks fine. When would you like me to come for my first lesson?’
Miss Martin leafed through her notebook, which seemed to double as a diary.
‘What about Friday afternoon at four?’ she said. ‘Could you make that regularly?’
‘Yes, that would be no problem,’ said Lucy.
‘Marvellous,’ said Miss Martin. ‘Then that’s settled. I shall expect you at four o’clock, prompt. Do you think you’ll be able to find the street with no problem?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Miss Martin smiled again, and collected her things together. She stood up in one graceful movement, and Lucy noticed once more how tall she was. Lucy rose also, and they shook hands.
‘I shall bid you goodbye, then,’ said Miss Martin. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Lucy, and I look forward to handling your instruction.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ said Lucy, trying her best to be polite.
In another moment Miss Martin had glided out of the shop, and Lucy was alone again. She sat down to finish her drink. It had been an odd meeting, certainly, but Miss Martin seemed a confident, articulate teacher who clearly knew what she wanted. Such discipline would be good for her, thought Lucy, and would surely divert her from her homesickness. Already she found herself looking forward to her first lesson, and she sat in the sunlit café, content for almost the first time since leaving home.
The next day, having risen, showered and dressed, Lucy walked thoughtfully to the address written on the paper Miss Martin had given her. It was a bright day, with the fresh breeze of spring vitiating the air. Around her the world bustled and went about its hectic business, full of the brash, half-bestial will to compete, to win, to get there first. Suited men and women hurried past her, sometimes brushing against her in their haste. For her part, Lucy went along almost in a dream. For some reason Miss Martin’s presence had made a great impact on her, and she found it hard to take her mind off the image of the tall, elegant music mistress.
She tried to turn her attention to other things, concentrating on the morning’s news, the signs in the shops she passed, the directions printed on the paper, but she could not wholly extinguish her nascent excitement at the thought of the lessons she had to come. She had decided quite firmly that Miss Martin would be good for her, and that a return to the world of music would be just what she needed to restore her enjoyment of life. Lucy knew that she was a bit naïve, that things tended to pass her by, and it had therefore become important to her to have something significant to do, something she could enjoy and participate in which would open her eyes to new experiences and sensations. She had a feeling that her studies would provide her with just that, and it made her happy just to think about it.
Eventually she came across Mr McLellan’s music shop. It was small, sandwiched between a funereal car park on the left and a pungent curry house to the right. There was an air of faded comfort about the place; the black sign over the leaded bay window was painted in an old-fashioned style: McLellan Music. In the window, old editions of manuscripts were propped-up, gazing like miserable employees out to the world and its haste.
As she entered, a little bell tinkled above her, and the air was immediately thick and warm, invested with a host of floating motes and gently spiralling dust. She gazed around, her pretty mouth involuntarily open. The walls were lined with shelves, some locked darkly behind glass, others creaking up to the ceiling. Upon them were arranged row upon row of books; some great and leather-bound with heavily embossed spines, some slender paperback editions with titles printed in all languages, some glossy and brash with names like Music from the Movies or 100 Great Tunes for Piano - the latter mostly banished to the lower reaches of the shelves. It was a treasure-trove, a music-lover’s delight, a veritable cornucopia of crotchets.
Lost in the place she completely failed to notice a tall, grave-looking man emerge from a room at the rear of the shop.
‘Can I help you, young lady?’ he said in a rich, autumnal voice.
‘Yes please,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m to start lessons with Miss Martin this week, and I wondered if I could buy this music from you.’
She handed the piece of paper to the shopkeeper.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘A beginner, eh? Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. You must be Lucy Cavendish.’
Lucy smiled and nodded.
‘Good,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘You came. It’s always a pleasure to receive one of Miss Martin’s pupils. But I expect that we shall see one another more than once again in the weeks that come.’
He glanced at her over the top of a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. His eyes were strangely penetrating, and she felt almost uncomfortable under their gaze. It was like he was appraising her, weighing up considerations in his mind, and she felt suddenly vulnerable, as if he could see through her clothes. But then the gaze shifted on to the rows of music on the walls, and it was as if a weight had lifted.
‘She has chosen Mozart,’ he said absently. ‘Her favourite, and one can see why. A genius, of course.’
He walked over to a pile of pale blue hardback volumes and began to select some. Lucy watched him as he went. He was a large man, and his movements were measured, inexorable. Methodically, he worked through the music, pulling out editions that appealed, and then putting them back. Without knowing why, Lucy suddenly found herself becoming a little fearful of him, although he presented every inch the figure of a perfect gentleman. It was a strange feeling, but the music seller seemed to exude an aura of slight but perceptible menace, and Lucy gained the impression that she was somehow trespassing on a very private and jealously guarded domain. She shifted from one foot to the other, noticing how the shop seemed all of a sudden rather dark and sombre.
Her eyes wandered around the room, and alighted on a glass-fronted cabinet near the rear. On top of it was a collection of extremely venerable looking tomes. Only the spine of the book nearest her was visible, and it read On the Education of the Female, in gold lettering. An intriguing title, and Lucy was reminded of Miss Martin’s comments
on particularly wanting a female pupil. In the cabinet there was a collection of implements that were hard to pick out in the light. Walking sticks, perhaps? Or billiard cues? But her attention was diverted as Mr McLellan returned with some books in his hands.
‘Here you are,’ he said mellifluously, and handed them to her. ‘I think these will suffice.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lucy. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Mr McLellan frowned, as if the remark had been impertinent in the extreme.
‘There is no need to pay,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘These are on loan until such time as you deserve them.’
Lucy swallowed involuntarily.
‘I see,’ she said weakly. Mr McLellan reminded her somewhat of a master at her boarding school with whom she had infrequently been in trouble. He was clearly a man with whom one should be careful.
‘As you progress with Miss Martin,’ he went on by way of explanation, ‘you will no doubt find ways to repay the kindnesses you have been shown. There is a price for everything, you see, and it is not always counted in money.’
What did he mean by that? She nodded uncertainly, now wishing to be gone and back in the sunlight. His eyes fixed her again, and once more she had the uncomfortable feeling of being examined. She clasped the music across her chest, and tried to regain her earlier cheerfulness.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it has been very nice to meet you, Mr McLellan, but I must be on my way now. Thank you for the music.’
‘Very well,’ said the shopkeeper in his saturnine manner, and shifted out of her way.
Lucy shuffled past him, catching a trace of old-fashioned cologne as she edged along in the confined space. She smiled as she went through the door, and he smiled back, but there was little warmth in it. A shiver played across her shoulders, and she quickly walked out into the sun.
From there she walked home the way she had come. In her hands she held a volume of Mozart Piano Sonatas, a book of scales and arpeggios, and a course in the theory of music. She resolved that, as soon as she could, she would go to the first available piano and begin the work of practise.
The week passed quickly after that. Lucy found herself itchy and fidgety in lectures, and she would shuffle on her seat until the bell went and she could retreat to the practise rooms to delve into the sound world of Mozart. Once there, she would dive into the music, running her stiff fingers again and again over the shimmering lines of quavers. Sonata K280, the name had burned itself into her mind. She would spend idle moments imagining her performance of the first four wonderful, monumental F-major chords, their strong presence like the chiming of a bell. Perhaps inevitably, she was frustrated by the difficulty in the music, and this was the major bar on her pleasure. It was not just the notes - although, after years out of practise these were hard enough - but also the feeling behind them. Somehow, it seemed impossible to conjure up the spirit that played elusively beneath the printed figures. In truth, she had forgotten how long it takes even to recover musical aptitude. Time and again Lucy would slam the book shut, almost in tears at her inability to bring the hidden élan vital of the music out into the open.
But, over the course of the week, an almost imperceptible change came over her playing. The missed notes remained, and the frustration did not disappear, but Lucy gradually felt some skill returning. Her decision to take up music again was evidently one that would require her to work hard and test herself, but it promised great rewards in turn. As she practised, the mean, transient world of study and cribbing, and its accompanying student environment of petty feuds and insignificant jealousies, drifted out of memory like a bad dream the night before. The music transported her on to a plane where her emotions, held in check by her loneliness during lectures and seminars, could be given free rein. She found in herself hidden wells of expressiveness and energy, as if the sounds of Mozart themselves were capable of drawing out a sensuous and passionate side to her which her usual mundane form of life suppressed and suffocated. In such moments she could truly doubt that existence was all about essay marks and grubby parties, and that a rich vista of experience lay ahead of her, ready for the taking. More and more she became certain that her lessons were the key to a new and exciting journey of experiences, although she could not explain precisely why she should think so, or where such thoughts came from.
As Friday neared, the thought of Miss Martin once more loomed large in her imagination, and she pondered the meeting she’d had with the music mistress in the Cinque Moulins. There were certainly oddities - the requirement on correct uniform, and her brusque, authoritarian manner. In some ways, Miss Martin was like Mr McLellan in the way she treated Lucy, almost as if she were a little girl again. Perhaps this should have put Lucy off her, but the truth was she found the stability radiated by Miss Martin, such as she remembered her, profoundly reassuring. There was a sense in which being somewhat inferior to someone as accomplished and effortlessly sophisticated was not something to be shunned, but instead was a state she could find solace in. Maybe that was what she needed - a clearly defined role to give purpose and security to her studies. It was an idea that Dr Tovey clearly seemed to approve of when they met in the corridor of the Arts faculty on the day before her first lesson.
‘How’s the practise going?’ he inquired breezily.
‘Very well, I think,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s so nice to able to play again. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ said the lecturer keenly. ‘Have you done much work on your technique?’
Lucy giggled. ‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Scales and arpeggios are so boring. I tried to do some, but the Mozart is just too beautiful to leave alone.’
Dr Tovey laughed. ‘Really? I doubt Miss Martin will see things that way.’
Lucy looked crestfallen. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it. She places great store by correct technique, and will expect you to work hard on it. You’ll be in trouble otherwise, my girl.’
His voice had taken on the disciplinarian tone it sometimes lapsed into. Dr Tovey could be quite intimidating, despite his friendliness. Lucy looked up worriedly, but he was smiling broadly.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I shall have to work on them all tonight. It’ll be very dull, though.’
Dr Tovey mused for a moment. ‘Perhaps you had better not worry too much,’ he said. ‘Miss Martin can’t expect you to have done everything in a week. Why not leave it until the week after? Then you can devote some proper time to them.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Lucy uncertainly. ‘But I don’t want to disappoint her.’
Dr Tovey shrugged. ‘You’ll find it very hard to do that, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Sometimes you might find the best way to satisfy her is... how shall I put it? Well, perhaps what I mean is that you should expect Miss Martin to take pleasure in correcting your mistakes. She won’t expect you to be a model pupil straight away.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Lucy, a little confused.
Dr Tovey smiled. ‘You’d better go now, young lady,’ he said. ‘And good luck tomorrow!’
‘Thanks,’ said Lucy, and moved off. As she went, though, Dr Tovey planted a smack on her bottom to hurry her along. Unbalanced, she turned round to see him grinning at her, before he too went off jauntily in the other direction. Her shock turned to amusement as her posterior tingled from the friendly slap. She should have been appalled at such unprofessional behaviour, she knew, but such flirtation secretly excited her; he was fairly attractive, after all, despite the large age gap. Smiling to herself, she walked along the corridor. Dr Tovey’s warning about her technique quite forgotten, she spent the rest of the day looking forward to showing Miss Martin how well she could play Mozart.
Dress Rehearsal
Straight after lectures on Friday, Lucy finally set off for Miss Martin’s home, at once nervous and impatient. Trepidation
had grown overnight, and she found it hard not to turn around, jump into bed and stay there until Monday. It was a marvel, perhaps, that she made it to the door of Miss Martin’s at all. She did however, and once there brushed herself down, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer on the great door before her.
Behind her, the spring sun lit the leafy suburban street. Sun washed liberally over the dappled tarmac of the road, framed by the great façades of the late Victorian houses which dominated the view on either side. A beech gently rustled in the mild breeze on her right-hand side, while her hair lifted slightly, caressed by the balmy air.
She absently studied the frontage of the imposing house before her, clutching her music folder to her chest. Three storeys rose into the gaping blue sky, crowned with an elaborate neo-gothic gable. The house presented the aspect of some stern, matronly dowager, past her best maybe, but still clinging to distinct ideas of station and decorum while the rest of the world melted into a fast-moving haze of business and confusion. Set serene amidst the wide avenues of the district, surrounded by the whispering branches and pollen-dusty floral borders, the house stood quiet, secure in its position, solid in its solitude. Her gaze travelled all over the frontage, exploring its mottled brickwork, the faded but still smart paintwork, the labyrinthine plumbing which clutched at the body of the house like leeches on the flesh of a mediaeval patient. It was a beautiful place, she mused, in a strange, slightly uncomfortable way. She looked forward suddenly to having the occasion to explore its inner depths, to penetrate into the various secret corners which, being a city girl, she naturally supposed all old buildings to possess.
Her thoughts were finally interrupted by the creak of the great door opening. To Lucy’s surprise, it was not opened by the svelte figure of Miss Martin, but by a petit blonde girl in the uniform of a maid. Uniforms obviously played an important part in the running of Miss Martin’s affairs, thought Lucy. The maid looked her up and down.
The Piano Teacher Page 2
