The Piano Exam

by Gordon Lawrie

Guildhall exams, and the London Colleges offer exams, too. There’s even Rockschool, which does exams for playing rock music.”

  “Really?” I perk up, “Rock sounds fun.”

  “It’s also very hard, and horrible to listen to. But anyway, I have another suggestion. I think we should consider the British School of Music’s exams. I like them best anyway, but I also believe you could pass Grade Three in the BSM’s syllabus.”

  “Is it easier?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that the BSM looks for different qualities in its candidates. They’re less concerned with technique, more with musicality. The scales and arpeggios don’t count so much.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “On the other hand the British School of Music asks its candidates to be more musical.” She leans across to a side table and picks up a small purple-covered booklet I haven’t noticed before. “Page four of the BSM syllabus here says that ‘candidates will be assessed on their ability to impress the examiner with their sense of musicality. Candidates should choose at least one piece that the examiner is unlikely to have heard before, and to perform it in such a way that the examiner is likely to want to hear it again.’”

  “Wow,” I say. “How on earth do I do that? And how do I find a piece that the examiner is unlikely to have heard before? Write it myself?”

  “That would be one possibility, but are you up to that?”

  “No.” Then a thought occurs to me. “What about that piece where the pianist sits and plays nothing at all? They won’t have heard that, I suppose.” It’s another attempt to lighten the mood. I actually think it’s quite funny, but once again it fails completely.

  “4.33 by John Cage,” she says, utterly seriously. “Complete silence, but harder for beginners than it seems. Most play it either too fast or too slow.”

  She continues to study me, then that Mona Lisa smile returns. “Might I suggest you might use something from my library of lesser-known piano pieces?”

  To say I’m surprised at this is an understatement. “You have such a thing?”

  “Certainly.” She reaches behind her again, and this time produces a black A4 ring-binder which proves to be full of printed piano music. “They’re arranged here by difficulty, Grade One through to Grade Eight. I have a few here at Grade Three level.” She reaches into the folder and hands me a piece of paper. “How about this one?”

  It’s just a jumble of notes, of course. The piece is entitled “Study In A Flat” and its composer appears to be “M. M. Hume”.

  “You wrote this?” I ask her.

  “Yes. I should play it for you, shouldn’t I, to let you hear how it should sound?”

  I’m not given a chance to reply. Insisting I don’t need to get up, she sits beside me on the stool, relieves me of the music and transfers it to the music rest on the piano itself. It’s quite a long piano stool, so there’s plenty of room for both of us, but her need to get as near to the middle of the keyboard pushes her body into the closest contact with mine. And of course there’s that perfume.

  Mary Maxwell-Hume seems quite immune to any discomfort I might be feeling as she plays the piece, a slow waltz which has a simple tune and a quiet left hand accompaniment. When she finishes, I have to admit I rather like it. But it seems a little hard and it’s written in A flat, which is a very difficult key indeed for Grade Three, and I tell her I’m not sure that I can manage it.

  “Oh but you must,” she insists. “The one thing you must do is let my music be heard.” Then she says firmly again, studying the music rather than me, “You will do this, Brian. You will.”

  “I can try.”

  She instructs me to try immediately, at a couple of points even physically placing my hands in particular positions on the keys. Of course it’s a disaster, but once I’ve played it a couple of times with her on the stool beside me, she returns to her sofa and asks me to play it once through as a ‘concert’ performance, taking care not to stop. I don’t stop, but the sound that emerges from her lovely piano is something similar to the sound the refuse men emptying my rubbish into their lorry.

  “I’d like you to take it home and practise it, and come back next week. Practise the other two pieces as well - you’ll need all three for the exam.” Then suddenly she changes tack. “Are you fortunate enough to have any family, Brian?”

  It’s the first personal thing we’ve discussed. I briefly explain that I’m recently divorced and that I have two grown-up children, but I tell it succinctly, given that this is costing two pounds per minute. Even BT’s Helpline is cheaper.

  “What about you?” I ask her.

  “No. Just me. I’m fine with that.” It’s a minimalist reply, and it seems to mark the end of the lesson. Mary Maxwell-Hume announces that I’m due her ninety pounds for forty-five minutes’ worth of piano lesson - around sixty pounds more than I was expecting to pay - and she’s looking forward to seeing me at the same time next week. No doubt.

  As we make for the front door - there’s a moment’s delay as I wrestle to get my shoes back on - I’m aware that she can’t charge me any more for time spent in small talk. I take the opportunity to spear in another personal question.

  “Do you teach piano full-time, Mary, or do you have a day-job as well?”

  “Yes and no,” she replies. “I’m a nun. I regard that as my ‘day-job’, if you wish to see it that way. Some might not.” My jaw must be dropping too obviously, because she carries on, “Not all nuns dress the same way, Brian. I belong to the order of the Sisters of Mary of the Sacred Cross.”

  I’ve never heard of them, but that doesn’t mean much. “So your order believes you should dress in the same way as everyone else?”

  “Not quite, Brian. Clothing should not act as an adornment of the body, and we believe we should only wear what is necessary to provide due modesty.”

  “I see.” Actually, I’m not sure that I do.

  I do put some effort into my piano practice.

  The following Thursday at six, I present myself at Mary’s front door, which opens to reveal the same Mona Lisa smile, the same hair, the same lack of shoes, the same Chanel No. 5; only the dress has altered. This time it’s a light cotton print which - against the strong sunlight streaming through the conservatory window, perhaps reveals a little more of her lithe form than is appropriate for a music teacher or a nun, far less both, but I’m too polite to do any more than look away. The scales need more attention, she declares, the Hook is ‘clunky’ and the Kirchner has improved, she says, to ‘awful’. She listens to her own piece patiently, but declares it to be ‘rather ordinary’. I suggest that ‘rather ordinary’ represents a huge improvement, but she’ll have none of it. She demands ‘exceptional’. So I’m sent away with a long list of things to work on, and a wallet another ninety pounds lighter.

  Exactly one week later, almost everything is identical again, and if the elegant ankle-length black silk dress she’s wearing isn’t see-through in any way this time, it somehow allows for even greater contact as she joins me at the piano stool to demonstrate one or two aspects of each piece to me. She chooses this moment to spring a surprise.

  “Now, Brian, I have some news for you. I’ve entered you for the Grade Three exam.”

  I’m genuinely shocked. “But am I ready? Surely not?”

  “No, but you will be by the time of the exam,” she reassures me.

  “When will that be?”

  “A fortnight tonight, six o’clock.”

  “A fortnight?”

  “The exam will be held in the church hall down at the end of the road,” she adds, with the Mona Lisa smile. You pass it as you come down the road each time.”

  “I need to do masses of work, surely,” I say in panic.

  “You do. We do, Brian. We need to spend a good while tonight, for a start.”

  I point out that this is costi
ng me a lot of money.

  “But that’s why we need to present you for the exam so soon, Brian. Remember if you fail, I give you all your money back. By the way, the exam itself costs seventy-five pounds to enter. Cash.”

  This is getting worse. “I give it to you now? I don’t have that sort of money on me, Mary.”

  She looks at me as if I were a five year old. “Of course not. You pay the examiner. If you want the results on the day, by the way, there’s a surcharge of twenty-five pounds.”

  “A hundred in total, in other words.”

  “Indeed. Or else the results can take several months.”

  I don’t have to pay the entry fee that night, but by the time we’ve finished, my lesson has set me back one hundred and twenty pounds.

  My last lesson, then, is to be a mere three weeks after Mary Maxwell-Hume and I first met. Outside her door, I pause for a moment to wonder what awaits me, although I should know by now. It opens to reveal: barefoot, tall, slim figure, delicate earrings, hair as before. Mona Lisa smile. The dress, however, is calf-length, deep red, and made of an expensive cotton crepe that gives and stretches with every part of her body. As I follow her through to the living room, I am acutely aware that anything worn under the dress would now be showing through it. Except that nothing is.

  She turns round and catches me looking at her.

  “Is everything all right, Brian? You’ve forgotten to remove your shoes.” she asks. The Mona