SorrelHippo (SH) recently commented on her Piano Mistress and being hit over the hand with a ruler if her hands were in the wrong position. This takes me back to the 1950’s when my younger brother and I began piano lessons under the tuition of Miss S, an elderly spinster lady who lived down the road in a Victorian house still operating on gas light. She was a small lady, in her late sixties or early seventies, though to us she looked about 98. Pasty faced, a bit hunched up, and a similar appearance to “Grandma”, the Giles cartoon from the Daily Express of the 60’s and 70’s, wearing those tiny round glasses. I think we called her Piggy Eyes. Nearly every garment Miss S wore was made of wool. Used wool, worn wool, smelly wool. All in muted colours of grey or brown hues. Maroon would have been very loud. Fortissimo. Woolly stockings and woolly mittens. (Gloves with the finger-part cut off.) I’m even sure she wore these mittens in the height of summer.
If I was lyrical about her I would describe her as a foggy bagwoman of the 1890’s. There certainly was a musty smell about her. Never married. She hated any kind of flamboyancy. She was ruled by the metronome, tick tock, tick tock. She kept a 4 to the bar beat, by hitting us on the shoulder with a metal knitting needle and if my brother or I were to make a mistake and play a wrong note, she would strike our knuckles with the offending knitting needle. We probably should have stabbed her in eye. We hated her. Dog breath would be polite.
My brother and I would alternate each week. One week I would have the lesson first and then followed by my brother. I cannot remember which way round I preferred. But I do remember staring into the coal fire whenever I was waiting for my brother, watching the flickering flames and the coal disintegrate and fall into dusty grey embers, a fate I now wish had happened to her. God only knows how many red devilish imps I could see in that fire!
The room was lit by gaslight in the winter. A tulip shaped glass contained the gas element. She would pull a chain and light the gas and “poof” the flame emerged. Around the walls were framed certificates of her qualifications. Ancient scrolls to me, all in Victoriana script. She hated Liberace and would run an arm up and down the piano to simulate what the great entertainer did, except of course he used his fingers. I’m sure she abhorred the fact that Liberace was popular. We didn’t even know who Liberace was at the time since we had no TV at home, just the radio.
We learnt scales and fingering and learnt about crotchets, minims, and quavers from William Smallwood’s Piano Tutor book. It may as well have been written by William the 1st. It should have been re-named “The Art of Pain Management”. I hated lessons and it was worse for me. My brother had a natural gift for music and hardly needed to practice. In later years he learnt the organ and went to Music College, gaining employment as an accompanist for the Royal Ballet school.
I was like that guy in the Muppets, Rowlf, the scruffy brown dog, glued to the sheet music in front of him. It wasn’t till I was past 50, that I began to train my ears to recognise pitch and intervals, and slowly build up a vocabulary of chordal harmony. I can read hymn music and chord notation, but any classical music, just forget it. Still, I now play the American Song Book and have developed my own jazzy style. I do play a grand piano at another London hospital and entertain visitors and outpatients, many of whom have psychiatric issues. Indeed, some of them believe I am one of them. In fact, tomorrow I am monitoring the playing of a former psychiatric patient who has expressed an interest in playing once a month.
Oh yes. I think the lessons cost my parents one florin, which was two shillings. today’s 10p. At some point it went up to half-a-crown for a 30-minute lesson. (12 and a half pence.) Was it worth it? Yes, because it taught me discipline. It didn’t however teach me the appreciation of music. That came later after the lessons stopped!
Fond hospital memories
Food with memories
