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Authors: Cally Green
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her to make a fool of herself . A nd worse, that he wanted her to fall flat on her face.
But if he thought she was going to crumple then he was very much mistaken. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, turning to Mr Leverington. Already she could feel her fingers flexing. How long was it since she had played?
‘And whilst you’re here, perhaps you could let me know what you think of the piano,' said Mr Leverington diffidently as they went inside. ‘It seems a bit showy to have a grand, but Serena always has to have the best.’
‘But of course,’ said Serena smugly. She was hanging on to Mark’s arm as if he was another example of “the best”, only this time, to Anna’s disgust, Mark was showing no sign of resenting it.
‘Although it seems a bit ostentatious when no-one in the house plays,’ apologised Mr Leverington.
‘I play,’ remarked Serena; a fact her father did not choose to comment on.
‘I know nothing about pianos.’ He stood aside so that Anna could precede him into the music room, a large, spacious room with ceiling-height windows that allowed in floods of light. ‘But I believe this one is remarkably fine.’
‘A Yamaha,’ breathed Anna as she went over to the instrument. ‘A Yamaha grand.’ She couldn’t contain herself any longer. Reaching out one hand, she lovingly touched the keys. The tone was exquisite.
‘But of course, in your career, you must play on good pianos all the time.’
Anna paused. It was true. She must. A concert pianist would play on only the finest instruments. But having the opportunity to play on such a good piano seemed like a treat to be savoured, not like something she did every day.
‘Well,’ asked Serena tauntingly. ‘Is that all we’re getting?’
Mark, his anger visibly cooling, looked as though he wished Anna had not exposed herself to Serena’s jibes.
But Anna rose above the taunt, saying confidently, ‘Oh, no. Far from it.’ Her fingers were itching to begin. Sweeping the skirt of the beautiful primrose silk beneath her she sat down on the piano stool. What to play? The choice was mouth-watering. Some Chopin? No. Debussy. The toccata. The toccata from Pour le piano . That should make them all sit up!
As she placed her hands in readiness over the keys she had a flash of memory. “ Ach ! The toccata! Fingers with the speed of pistons, ja ?’ boomed a heavily-accented German voice in her mind, before dropping to a whisper as it murmured, ‘and the touch! Like a butterfly!”
She smiled at the memory, and the first notes rang out into the summer air. The toccata was dazzling, the rising and falling melodies set above a rushing cascade of notes. The effect was magical. As she played, Anna found that snip pets of memory came back to her, of music lessons and h appy times, so that when the piece was at last finished she felt rejuvenated.
She looked round - and had to blink. She had almost expected to see a small, cluttered room, with old Mrs Voronowski sitting in the corner saying, “Again, child! Again!” Instead of which she saw the Leverington’s elegant music room, and a sea of newly-familiar faces, all mesmerised by her playing. And then the silence broke, and there was a spontaneous burst of applause. She blushed, unused to such flattering attention, and slid from the stool.
She caught sight of Serena’s malevolent expression, quickly hidden, but was too exhilarated from the music to care. Claire was right. It was she to whom Mark had proposed. Serena’s hostility couldn’t hurt her. It was nothing more than petty jealousy.
From out of the crowd, Mark came forward to claim her.
‘Where did you learn to play like that?’ he asked, impressed.
She smiled. ‘At Mrs Voronowski’s. She was my teacher. She lived in the attic flat.’
‘Convenient that you remember,’ he said, his voice laden with irony. It was as though he hadn’t realised that it was the music itself that had opened the door of her memory, and that had provided her
But if he thought she was going to crumple then he was very much mistaken. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, turning to Mr Leverington. Already she could feel her fingers flexing. How long was it since she had played?
‘And whilst you’re here, perhaps you could let me know what you think of the piano,' said Mr Leverington diffidently as they went inside. ‘It seems a bit showy to have a grand, but Serena always has to have the best.’
‘But of course,’ said Serena smugly. She was hanging on to Mark’s arm as if he was another example of “the best”, only this time, to Anna’s disgust, Mark was showing no sign of resenting it.
‘Although it seems a bit ostentatious when no-one in the house plays,’ apologised Mr Leverington.
‘I play,’ remarked Serena; a fact her father did not choose to comment on.
‘I know nothing about pianos.’ He stood aside so that Anna could precede him into the music room, a large, spacious room with ceiling-height windows that allowed in floods of light. ‘But I believe this one is remarkably fine.’
‘A Yamaha,’ breathed Anna as she went over to the instrument. ‘A Yamaha grand.’ She couldn’t contain herself any longer. Reaching out one hand, she lovingly touched the keys. The tone was exquisite.
‘But of course, in your career, you must play on good pianos all the time.’
Anna paused. It was true. She must. A concert pianist would play on only the finest instruments. But having the opportunity to play on such a good piano seemed like a treat to be savoured, not like something she did every day.
‘Well,’ asked Serena tauntingly. ‘Is that all we’re getting?’
Mark, his anger visibly cooling, looked as though he wished Anna had not exposed herself to Serena’s jibes.
But Anna rose above the taunt, saying confidently, ‘Oh, no. Far from it.’ Her fingers were itching to begin. Sweeping the skirt of the beautiful primrose silk beneath her she sat down on the piano stool. What to play? The choice was mouth-watering. Some Chopin? No. Debussy. The toccata. The toccata from Pour le piano . That should make them all sit up!
As she placed her hands in readiness over the keys she had a flash of memory. “ Ach ! The toccata! Fingers with the speed of pistons, ja ?’ boomed a heavily-accented German voice in her mind, before dropping to a whisper as it murmured, ‘and the touch! Like a butterfly!”
She smiled at the memory, and the first notes rang out into the summer air. The toccata was dazzling, the rising and falling melodies set above a rushing cascade of notes. The effect was magical. As she played, Anna found that snip pets of memory came back to her, of music lessons and h appy times, so that when the piece was at last finished she felt rejuvenated.
She looked round - and had to blink. She had almost expected to see a small, cluttered room, with old Mrs Voronowski sitting in the corner saying, “Again, child! Again!” Instead of which she saw the Leverington’s elegant music room, and a sea of newly-familiar faces, all mesmerised by her playing. And then the silence broke, and there was a spontaneous burst of applause. She blushed, unused to such flattering attention, and slid from the stool.
She caught sight of Serena’s malevolent expression, quickly hidden, but was too exhilarated from the music to care. Claire was right. It was she to whom Mark had proposed. Serena’s hostility couldn’t hurt her. It was nothing more than petty jealousy.
From out of the crowd, Mark came forward to claim her.
‘Where did you learn to play like that?’ he asked, impressed.
She smiled. ‘At Mrs Voronowski’s. She was my teacher. She lived in the attic flat.’
‘Convenient that you remember,’ he said, his voice laden with irony. It was as though he hadn’t realised that it was the music itself that had opened the door of her memory, and that had provided her
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