The Piano Exam

"Is Mary Maxwell-Hume there?"

"Speaking. How can I help you?" The voice at the other end of the line has an English accent, educated, certainly not working class.

"Do you give piano lessons?"

"That rather depends. Who are the lessons for?"

"Me."

"And you are? I'm sorry I didn't catch your name."

"I'm sorry. I should've introduced myself. My name's Brian Reid and I'm looking for a couple of piano lessons."

"Just two? It usually takes a little longer than that," the voice replies drily.

A good start, I think. This woman does sardonic, it seems. Don't encourage her, I think inwardly. "I was given your name by a friend. I was hoping you might be able to help me."

"Which friend?" the voice asks.

"Joe Mackay." I want to call him 'Little' Joe Mackay because that's what his brother – and my best man – has always called him, but I manage to stop myself.

"You mean that pathetic ironmonger with the shop in Morningside?"

I don't know how to reply to this. Joe does indeed have an ironmongery shop at the foot of Morningside Road in Edinburgh's Southside, but I don't normally like to acknowledge that he's 'pathetic' to perfect strangers. Actually, he is pretty pathetic, but I decide not to acknowledge this for the moment.

"You remember Joe?"

"I remember Joseph Mackay, yes. Good address, Merchiston Terrace, as I recall."

"That's the one."

"Far too heavy on the left hand. No sense of rhythm on the right."

This is alarming. Does she discuss all of her pupils with perfect strangers?

"Do you discuss all of your pupils with perfect strangers?" I ask.

"Only the execrable ones. But I succeeded with Joseph."

"You did?"

"I persuaded him to sell his piano. He had a Bechstein Grand which belonged in better hands. Advised him to try another instrument."

"Such as?"

"A sat-nav. Any noise it makes is beyond his control."

Wow. To think this woman was recommended to me by Joe Mackay himself. I need to update her, however.

"Joe only partially followed your advice," I inform her.

"Oh?" It comes out as a low growl.

"He sold his Bechstein, but he bought a guitar instead."

"Not a sat-nav?"

"He had one already, as it happened. In his VW Passat. Although I've never seen him use it, now that I think about it." I pause for a moment, then add, "Perhaps he can't get it in tune." It's meant to be a joke, trying to lighten the conversation.

"I don't suppose he was able to tune a sat-nav," the woman suggests to me. She goes on. "Please tell me it's not one of those awful electric guitar things he's bought. They're so crude and indelicate."

"Indeed it is, Ms. Maxwell-Hume."

"With a stupidly loud amplifier?" She's pleading for a good answer.

"Afraid so."

"In which case the whole world will hear how unmusical he actually is. Perhaps I should have encouraged him more in his piano playing. At least he didn't have one of those awful electric keyboard things." Oh dear, I think, but that can wait a while.