SEPTEMBER 28TH, 1938
Two days before the signing of the Munich agreement, my father was sent a bill from Larg & Sons (London) Ltd. for 90 guineas – roughly the price of a car at the time. The bill would be covered by my mother’s father as it was for his wedding present to them. They could choose between a car and: ‘One Upright Mahogany Overstrung Piano Model 1a No. 123014 by Blüthner’. From Leipzig in Nazi Germany. They chose the piano.
Before I start school at just under five, I sit at it, legs dangling and ‘tinkle’. From five onwards, I have lessons. It is a fine instrument, rich in tone, particularly in the bass, unboasting but rounded, calling for a fairly light touch. I am taught classical music, but even that is deemed too frivolous for Sundays by my father, who only permits ‘sacred music’ to be played on that day of the week. The Methodist Hymn Book stands on top of it, alongside a box of Black Magic chocolates.
In the early 1990s, when my mother was to move to a nursing home, my brother swathed it in blankets and it was sent across the North Sea to Odense. The man in the removal van swore and cussed as he unloaded it and refused to take it further than the front lawn, so as not to ruin his back. It took a while to get his boss to relent and send two professionals to cart it into the house. While it was on the path by the front lawn, I sat down at it and started to play. To my surprise my fingers would only play hymn tunes.
The piano stands a few metres away from where I write. It is my oldest companion. I am still wary of if, suspecting it of being a Blüthner pianola in disguise. At will, it can insert punched rolls into my brain and play me, while I sit, watching time being erased.
