9. The Music Rooms

The music rooms are my little sanctuary. Six or seven small rooms, each with an upright piano and just enough space for the piano stool and a chair. It’s so quiet. We’re not supposed to be here unless we have music lessons or we are officially ‘practising’ but I can’t resist. I don’t have lessons and I don’t play the piano and I’m not sure that I’m all that interested in learning but I love sitting at the keyboard, tinkering and exploring the melodies I can make. One handed, I try to play the Beatles tunes I know and someone teaches me chopsticks and the first few bars of Für Elise.

I value these rare moments of aloneness. And they are rare. I spend every waking and sleeping moment here in the company of others. I never seem to be alone. Even showers are communal, the cubicles stuck one next to the other, and I don’t have baths anymore because I don’t want to leave the door open for Matron to come in and check I’m not using too much water. There is no time away from the group and it doesn’t occur to me to go for a walk on my own or retreat to the library with a book. But the music rooms do call to me and I think it’s because I can be alone here without looking like I want to be alone. More than anything I don’t want to stand out. I don’t want to seem different. I want to fit in even though it doesn’t feel like I belong here. The music room is a place where one is supposed to be alone.

I ask my parents for piano lessons. That way I can legitimately steal away to practice. Sadly I cannot read music. Try as I might, and I really do try, I just can’t do it. The teacher is exasperated by my ineptitude and is determined to succeed in teaching me. The more she insists, the more blocked I feel. I want to please her so I pretend to understand. I am good at pretending and it turns out that I have a pretty good ear for music, so I learn to play the Grade I tunes by ear and I make it look like I am reading the music. This is a pretty effective strategy until it comes to the sight reading part of the lesson but I am good at bravado and somehow I find a way to distract her from my deficiency.

At the end of the year, I sit the Grade I exam. I am very nervous until I walk into the music room and see an oldish man waiting for me. He looks kind, like a grandfather I’d like to have had. He is wearing a three-piece suit and has a grey beard and half-moon spectacles. He smiles kindly when I walk in and invites me to play my pieces. This I do confidently and fluently. He is still smiling and I think this must be a good sign. Then he leans over and places a sheet of music on the stand. This is the sight reading part. I sit there and stare at the music. “Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge,” I say quietly to myself, staring at the lines and notes, trying to make some sense of these symbols. “FACE” I remember, but I can’t translate the marks on the page into a language that I understand. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there, staring at the music when I hear him say

“You may begin Dear”.  I sit there, staring at the music, frozen.

“Are you alright Dear?” He asks. “You may begin” he repeats.

Tears are falling down my face, I can’t speak. I just sit there, mute.

“Oh, there there,” he says, softly, kindly “What’s the matter?”

I think he really cares.

“I can’t read music” I whisper. “I’ve tried, but I just can’t do it”

“Oh, I see,” he says, patiently, thoughtfully.

“If you play the tune once, I’ll play it,” I say quickly, because I know it can. It’s only a short piece.

“Well, there you are then,” he says in an upbeat voice. He motions for me to vacate the stool and he sits down and slowly plays the piece. Twice.

I take my place at the piano and repeat the tune. I make a few mistakes but I do a pretty good job. He smiles at me. He doesn’t say anything as goes back to his seat.

“Thank you, Sophie,” he says, indicating the end of the exam with a nod, gesturing to the door and ushering me out with another smile.

In the holidays I receive a letter with my grade, I have been awarded a merit. I decide to stop having music lessons. The sight reading is only going to get harder.

I continue find refuge in the music rooms.

********************************

I often crave alone time and I behave as if I have to have permission. I feel guilty when I take time out to be alone. It can still feel like I’m breaking a rule and that someone, somewhere is waiting for me to be where I should be, doing what I really should be doing.

I went straight from boarding school to living with others at University, to living my my partner, to having children. I have rarely been alone for very long. I remember a moment when I was in my second year at Manchester University, walking down the Oxford Road, listing to music on my walkman thinking "I am completely free. There is nowhere I am supposed to be, no one waiting for me, no one even knows where I am. I might never be this free again. I must make the most of this time". How true that was.

After University I always worked with lots of people, in teams. At Marks and Spencer, at school when I was a teacher, with my sister and now at Homa with a team of friends. I was right, I have not felt that sense of complete freedom since my days at University. I think that’s one of the reasons I like writing. That’s when I am completely alone, for hours and hours sometimes. I get so lost in what I'm doing that I forget about everyone else and where I am supposed to be. I even forget to feel guilty.

I do wish I could play the piano but however hard I might have tried, I am convinced I would never have been good enough to find it satisfying.