:short story
A fine old lady
I've been silent for so long
that I can barely remember the sound of my
own voice. On the surface, I am well looked
after; I'm warm and dry and spotlessly clean.
But something is missing, you could call
it my heart. For what use is a piano if it is
never played?
I'm hoping that today will be different.
There are signs that a tuner is coming: the
spider plants that normally rest on top of
me have been removed and a piano stool
has appeared. There was talk of a tuner, I'm
sure there was. But I lose track. I think it is
the silence; and the solitude – it takes some
getting used to. Pianos are delicate creatures,
you see, and highly strung.
I've been at Sunnyvale Nursing Home for
seven years now. They put me in a corridor
next to a window, the only place they had
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for me. I have a view across fields and trees
to houses beyond. The view never changes
but day by day I can feel my strings slowly
sinking out of pitch.
It wasn't always this way. When I was
young I was at the centre of the family. I was
the one who brought them all together on
rainy afternoons and in the evenings after
dinner. Back in 1911 is where my story
begins. I belonged to the Nutbrowns then, a
wedding gift from a generous aunt.
Those were the golden days – nearly every
household had a piano. Uprights like me
were a popular and economical choice. In
England they churned out more than 35,000
pianos a year, and many were exported to
New Zealand. Did you know that a piano
even accompanied Captain Scott on his
expedition to the South Pole? It was taken to
first base-camp and played on the ice.
I stayed with the Nutbrowns for 60
years, through two world wars and three
generations. I got to know them well. An
instrument as complex and sophisticated as a
piano soon becomes a member of the family
and they knew all my little foibles. The way I
played lazily just before a storm and how my
middle octave is particularly temperamental.
They had me tuned regularly and placed
jars of water in my base beneath the keys to
counteract the effects of central heating.
I watched so many children growing up:
their fumbling fingers gradually becoming
practised and skilled. My sounding board
hummed to the nursery rhymes then the
minuets and the party pieces. Most of them
soon tired of me and the discipline of daily
practice, but there was one who was different.
