Although Mama tends to get annoyed
about things she thinks are premature because she hasn't thought of them first,
she is at the same very mindful of her duty to us children. My brother has no
interest in any of the occupations that absorb me, so he is kept happy with new
bikes and money for the cinema. Nobody has found a way to interest him in
anything but mechanical things, mainly cars, and that is a bitter blow to
Mama's plans for an academic career for him.
Even if I had not been musical, I am
sure that I would have been coerced into some kind of music lessons, as Mama
was convinced that girls had to have useful accomplishments if they wanted to
get on in life.
And that is now to lead to a
resumption of piano lessons, after quite a long period in which I have been
allowed to run wild, musically speaking. My memories of Miss Crane have long
since receded, though I still play her polkas. We now live over an hour’s
bus-ride from Mr Cranwell, there is no chance that I will ever again have
lessons with him.
In the local paper Mama has spotted a
small ad offering qualified music lessons, and wasted no time in getting in
touch with its author. It turns out to be a Mr Smith, who lives just a few
roads away. He goes to people's houses to give the lessons, which Mama
unfortunately thinks is a good idea, as I shall spend less time away from my
homework. She will also have more control over what I am playing, can check on
what Mr Smith wants me to do practise, and, worst of all, I can’t use my piano
lesson as an excuse to visit the ice-cream parlour. Mr Smith is duly booked for
the next available Wednesday early evening and I am told to get prepared for
this event, which I don't, of course, because I don't want lessons with a Mr
Smith. I want lessons with Mr Cranwell or none at all.
As usual my protests fall on deaf
ears.
Mr Smith is tall, painfully thin,
bent over and anxious to please. In a long interview with Mama, during which
she asks him far too many personal questions, he informs her that his wife has
a heart complaint. That is why he does his piano teaching elsewhere. He also raves
unashamedly about his wonderful daughter Elisabeth, who plays the piano brilliantly,
especially Beethoven (‘For Eliza’ was composed with her in mind, he likes to
think). She is a whizz at school, and is, to put it mildly, perfect.
I feel sick. Is this gushing man
going to be allowed to slobber over my piano and compare me unfavourably with
this awful girl?
He is. I am invited to play
something, and despite my deliberately making a hash of it, he informs me that
I have played nicely.
Cloth-eared liar. I can tell from his
frayed cuffs that he needs the money.
Thus begins a rather amusing cat and
mouse period in my life, in which I am, for a change, the cat.
“What are you practising there?” Mama
asks now and again, on hearing me repeat really easy stuff from my early days.
“Mr Smith thinks I should go over
some of the old stuff,” I explain, and she wonders if she should talk to him
about it.
“Don't do that, mum,” I tell her.
“He's improving my technique.”
She's pleased about that.
I have hidden all the more difficult
music and am leaving Mr Smith under the illusion that I am a relative beginner.
That way I needn't practise much, and he can spend half the lessons comparing
me (unfavourably) to his revolting daughter and leave me in peace for the rest
of the time. And what is more, being able to get away with the very minimum of
practise for him, I can concentrate on the sort of music I now want to play,
which currently includes a piano version of the Dam-Busters March, all my piano
arrangements of Wagner operas and George Shearing.
Mama will not accept that I am no
longer a child. I am a young lady, or so I believe. I have developed an
interest in supporting the school football team, know all the names of the boys
in the sixth form and turn red with embarrassment whenever a boy talks to me.
I have also singled out someone for
special devotion, though that has taken me longer than my class-mates. His name
is Alec, and we all think he is gorgeous. He has blond hair and he is very tall
and casual. He walks round with what I would have described as a sneer on his
face if it hadn't been Alec, and he treats girls with calculated indifference.
Needless to say, the gorgeous Alec
doesn't know I exist.
Then, one day there is a party at
Alec's house, and I am able to organize myself an invitation because someone
else’s younger sister is in my class. I get friendly with Pat, who is actually
quite nice, but doesn’t do music or any of the other things I am interested in.
I am in seventh heaven at the thought of getting really close to my object of
adulation, and I even persuade Mama to buy me a new skirt with a stiff
petticoat just like all the older girls are wearing. Pat meets me on the corner
of her road and we go up to their house, where the record player is blaring out
sambas and all the others are practising the steps.
I know all the older girls go to
dancing lessons, but they are all at least 16. I wonder if I might not be out
of my depth if this is to be a ballroom dancing event.
There is no sign of any of the boys yet so there would still time to turn tail and run, but my thumping
heart tells me that I dare not miss this opportunity of giving Alec a chance to
fall in love with me.
So I stay.
Alec arrives late. He and the other
boys have come straight from swimming and still have wet hair, but he stands
out as being the most attractive of them all, with his white shirt
half-unbuttoned and his tanned legs only half hidden by the Bermudas he is
wearing. I don't think Bermudas are really suitably dressed for dancing, but
I'm quite relieved, because I wouldn't know what to say if anyone invited me to
swing a leg.
The evening is not an unmitigated
success, as far as my plans for Alec are concerned. I am forced to admit that
he is rather arrogant and thinks he’s the bee’s knees His manners are not all
they should be, in comparison to Oliver’s, a boy I hadn’t even noticed before,
because he is shorter than me and even shyer.
Calf-love is fickle. I suffer a
number of crushes one after another within a very short time, but none of the
objects of my desire ever views me as a suitable candidate for his attention.
One by one, all my girl-friends seem to be finding a boy-friend with whom they
parade up and down the playground at breaks or share banana splits and ice
coffee at Forte’s café down the High Street.
I don't really know why I am never
singled out for special attention except by boys I would not be seen dead with,
but after a few dismal months I make up my mind not to care. I practise smiling
disdainfully in my mirror and whistle happy tunes every time I think of my
wallflower existence, which may be a bit sad, but leaves me with lots of energy
to get on with my own life, such as it is.
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