The Piano

My Nana’s house always seemed crammed with life. Aunties and uncles babbled away, while my cousins, brothers and I tore around, playing hide and seek, tag, or some other game that we had invented. In the centre of it all, my grandfather held court, telling stories, and giving us piggybacks around the living room. My nana was always on hand with a biscuit and a plaster, for when you skinned your knee. Mother and father always had to pretend to like each other when we were there, to keep up appearances.

Out in the hallway, with the heavy door closed, you could find a modicum of quiet. It was like turning the T.V. down; the shrieks and yells of happiness faded to the edge of hearing, and the air seemed to cool down in the muted light. It is here that I first discovered the piano, hidden by shadows, underneath the stairs. It sat, surrounded by jackets and coats, sadly wedged into its makeshift nest.

I wasn’t allowed to touch it, which stoked my fascination. I felt sorry for the way it was pushed to the periphery of the house, excluded from the family. The timbers were extremely dark, and the lacquer glossy. The oily reflections and smooth curves, somehow managed to convey sadness and despair. I often used to lift the long, skinny lid when no one was around, exposing the strip of yellowed ivory that seemed to ache for touch. Whenever I was caught with the lid up, I was scolded, and told that the lid could nip my fingers.

When I was nine, my nana gave the piano to us. She always knew that I loved it. I remember the day it arrived, strapped to the back of a rusty truck. The piano was planted beside our massive oak dining table for the next few years, and seemed a much happier creature, in the heart of our home. It stood proud in the sunshine, beaming its toothy grin at me; I made sure the lid was open all the time. I never had any musical tuition, but even I knew there was something wrong with the piano’s insides. It sounded ill, but still made me smile with simple pleasure. One of my friends taught me Chinese Chopsticks on his new piano, and it sounded thin and vacant. I hurried home, eager to play it. I preferred the discordant notes that filled my dining room, and the history they were packed with. They helped to drown out the arguing that permeated the house.

Once my legs grew long enough, I discovered the sustain pedal, and my delight was recharged by the thick noise that reverberated around me. I never understood what the other pedal was for. Perhaps it was broken.

There were ceramic soldiers stationed on top of the piano, accompanied by glass ashtrays and discoloured postcards. I think that was the reason it took me so long to realise that the top could open. I discovered this purely by accident, leaning against the rim when I was clambering about on a chair. It moved a fraction, and I immediately cleared the ornaments off for a closer inspection. Opening it revealed a strange world of strings, pegs and hammers, coated with decades of dirt and dust. I pressed the keys with my feet, and laughed with joy, watching the little hammers strike the strings. At some stage, my father found me, staring blissfully into the mechanism. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry; he just told me to put the ornaments back, before my mother caught me.

A few days later, Dad told me someone was coming, to see if the piano could be fixed. I got very excited at that. The piano would finally be getting the treatment it deserved. When the man came, with his case of strange tools, I wasn’t allowed to watch, in case I pestered him. I had to wait impatiently in the living room. Eventually, he came through, and told my Dad that it wasn’t worth fixing. He said we could probably get a new one for the price it would cost to fix it. I hated him for saying those words. He crushed my hopes with an opinion.

Not long after that, my Mum and Dad split up. I moved away with my Mother. When my Dad sold the house, he dumped the piano at the council tip. What really annoyed me though, was that shortly after moving, he purchased an ancient, malfunctioning Harmonium. It fills the space that the Piano should sit in. Every time I visit, I start pumping the bellows, and churn out a wheezy rendition of Chinese Chopsticks, in memory of my beloved Piano.