CHOPSTICKS - a short story

CHOPSTICKS, by Viv Doyle

Ewan badly wanted to play Jack's new Nintendo game, but it was Tuesday.
'I can't come to your house. I've got to go for my piano lesson.'
Jack's eyes brightened with spite. 'Piano lesson? That's boring! Only girls play the piano!'
Ewan was puzzled. He'd been having lessons since he was five.
'I've got to go,' he said. 'Maybe I could come to your house tomorrow.'
'Maybe.'
But there was doubt in Jack's voice. Ewan wasn't sure why. The idea that it might be because he played the piano seemed too ridiculous. Ewan buried it in a dark corner of his mind as he hurried up to his Mum's car.
'Last lesson before your exam,' Mum said as they drove to Mrs Morton's. 'You've been working really hard, love. I'm glad you're learning to play the piano so well.'
I could be learning to play Jack's game now, Ewan thought, but was instantly ashamed.
Mrs Morton lived in a big house with a black upright piano in the basement, where she gave lessons, and a concert grand in the room upstairs. Ewan was a bit afraid of her, although she was always kind to him. When she tried to show him something on the piano her fingers fumbled on the keys, but Mum said she used to be a wonderful pianist. He'd noticed her swollen, gnarled hands and saw how her wedding ring was embedded in her flesh so she would have to wear it forever, even after she was dead.
Mrs Morton always let Ewan lower the piano stool himself by turning the knob at the side until it was the right height for him to reach the pedals. Her piano was different from the one at home. Not just the way it looked, all black and shiny and clean, but how it felt. The keys responded eagerly to his touch as if they'd been just waiting for the chance to sing their pure, resounding notes.
At home, Ewan had to coax the keys out of their soft beds. A couple at the bottom remained obstinately asleep, however hard he bashed them. Their piano had arrived after his Gran died. It was brown and shabby, with brass plates on the front where Mum said there used to be candlesticks, and it had belonged to his Gran's mother. Ewan thought it must be because it was so old that it sounded all tinny.
'Let's have the Bach first,' Mrs Morton said, after he'd played his scales.
Ewan loved the minuet from the Anna Magdalena Bach book. It was slow enough for him to relish each ringing note, and some of the harmonies made his spine tingle.
'That was very good indeed, Ewan,' Mrs Morton said, warmly, when he'd played the Bach. 'Now the Hornpipe.'
When his Mum collected him at the end of the lesson, his teacher said she was delighted with his progress. 'If he doesn't do well it won't be for lack of practice,' she said, giving one of her lop-sided smiles. 'So long as nerves don't strike him . . .'
'Oh, he'll take it in his stride, won't you love?' Mum said, cheerily.
At school, next day, Jack was telling everyone about his new Nintendo game.
'Can I come round after school?' Ewan asked.
'Oh no!' Jack said, in a silly voice. He spoke loudly, so everyone could hear. 'Ewan can't come and play! He's got to do his piano practice!'
While the boys laughed Sylvia Cole said, 'Piano? Are you learning piano?'
'Yes,' Ewan murmured. He felt all shrunken up inside.
'That's for girls!' Jack sneered.
Ewan told Sylvia, in desperation, 'I'm taking Grade One tomorrow.'
'What's that?'
'It's an exam. I've got to play in front of someone and they'll give me marks.'
'I'll give you marks!' Jack said, grabbing his green felt-tip. He managed to make a few scrawls on Ewan's hand before he pulled it away. Everyone giggled.
'I can play Chopsticks!' Sylvia announced, with some pride.
Ewan thought that sounded a boring game. Not like the new Nintendo, with its many exciting levels and dazzling array of weird and wonderful characters.
His mother took him to a different piano teacher's house for the exam. They waited in her front room, with another lady. No one said anything; it was like being at the dentist's. Ewan could hear the faint tinkle of a piano coming from a room in the back, starting then stopping, with a man's deep voice in between.
At last a girl appeared in the doorway and her mother went into the hall, asking how it had gone. The strange piano teacher took Ewan by the hand. 'Come along, dear. Mr Wicks is ready for you now.'
The examiner had a bristly moustache and keen blue eyes. He gave Ewan a grin and pulled out the piano stool. 'Take a seat, young man.'
When Ewan was sitting on the padded brown leather Mr Wicks pulled a lever at the side and jerked him down to the right height. 'Now, rub those hands together and get the circulation going. Then, when you're good and ready, you can play me the scale of C major, with your right hand only.'
It took a couple of scales to get used to the piano. This one was stiffer to play than Mrs Morton's but, once Ewan realised he had to press harder, he soon got the hang of it. Halfway through the Bach, he began to enjoy it. The familiar notes echoed around the big room as if someone else were playing them. Ewan found himself listening to the tune, really listening. His head seemed detached from his fingers which were remembering the notes all by themselves, and the melody flowed from the instrument like a brilliant waterfall.
'Thank you, Ewan,' the examiner said, solemnly. 'Now let's see what you can make of the Mozart.'
Afterwards, Ewan felt exhilarated. Relief and pride flowed like twin streams through his heart as his mother hugged him.
'How was it?'
'I think I did all right. He was a nice man.'
They would have to wait a while for the results.
At school they seemed to have forgotten about Ewan's piano playing, although Jack wasn't his friend any more. On Friday they had music in the hall. Mrs Haines unlocked the piano and sat down, but then she was called away to the Head's office.
'I won't be long,' she told them. 'And I'm trusting you to behave. Get out your Music of Many Lands books. You may colour in the picture on page ten.'
But as soon as she'd gone, Sylvia got out of her seat and began to dance towards the open piano. She lifted a finger, let it pause dramatically in the air, then played a note. Most of the class laughed, and her friends gathered round her.
Sylvia's face puckered into a naughty grin. She sat down on the stool and raised her hands over the keys. 'And now, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to play . . . Chopsticks!'
She began stabbing at the keys with her two forefingers, in unison: 'Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, ting-ting-ting-ting-ring-ting, tong-tong-tong-tong-ring-ting, tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum . . .'
'She's coming back!'
The urgent message had them all scampering back to their places, including Sylvia. Mrs Haines entered warily, sensing something in the air, but seeing everyone's head bent over their books she said nothing.
After the lesson Sylvia's friends questioned her excitedly, while Ewan hung around at the back of the room, listening.
'What was that tune called?'
'Chopsticks.'
'Is it very hard?'
'Ooh, yes! It took ages to learn. My brother showed me.'
Ewan thought it sounded an easy tune, like the ones he'd learnt when he was five. Yet everyone seemed to think it was wonderful.
When he got home, Ewan asked his Mum if she knew how to play Chopsticks. She gave a scornful laugh. 'Yes! It's a tune people learn when they can't play properly.'
'Will you show me?'
'If you like. It's just a bit of fun, really. Your Gran taught me, before I had proper lessons.'
His Mum sat down on the worn stool and played a couple of chords. Ewan was amazed when she reproduced the same tune that Sylvia had played, only this time she continued to the end. It was a bright, happy tune with three sections to it.
'Can you teach it to me, Mum?'
'Yes, but you'll have to learn it by ear. I can't write it out as music.'
Ewan laboured to learn the tune, memorising it in small chunks. When he'd got it, he went on playing it at increasing speed until his mother clapped her hands over her ears.
'For heaven's sake, Ewan, I'm regretting this already! That's enough for one night. Try it once more before you go to bed.'
He was surprised to find that he could remember all of it next morning. It really was an easy tune. But if his Mum, Sylvia, and even his Gran, knew how to play Chopsticks then it must be something special.
One Friday, when they were in the hall for music again, Mrs Haines finished the lesson a bit early. She went over to the piano, preparing to lock it, then looked at her watch.
'We've got a few minutes left. Ewan, I believe you've taken Grade One piano. Why don't you play us one of your pieces? I'm sure the class would like to hear it.'
She nodded encouragingly and most of them chorused in assent, but Jack made some rude remark and those around him giggled.
Mrs Haines ignored him. 'Come on then, Ewan. Your mother said you play very well.'
Ewan felt embarrassed. After the way Jack had reacted he'd wanted to keep school and piano separate, but now he was being forced to perform in front of the whole class. Besides, he didn't know if he could remember his exam pieces without the music.
Then he remembered that other tune, the one he had learnt by heart, the one everyone seemed to know. Surely they'd rather hear that? Sylvia had only played the first bit, but he could show them how the rest went. He sat on the low stool and placed his hands in position over the keys. There was an expectant hush.
Ewan could hear the first few bars in his head. He put his left and right forefingers on the G and the F then began to play: 'Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, ting-ting-ting-ting . . .'
'Ewan!' Mrs Haines' voice thundered across the room. 'Stop that at once!'
Jack's heart lurched in his chest. Soon the whole class was laughing at him, Jack leading the mirth orchestra as it swelled and snickered and boomed. Even Sylvia was looking gleeful. Ewan stared, mystified, as his teacher strode towards the piano and pushed down the lid, almost squashing his fingers.
'Your mother said you could play Bach, and you come out with that stupid jingle. If that's your idea of a joke . . .'
'No, it isn't,' he insisted. 'I just wanted to play something everyone knew.'
'Class dismissed!' she snapped. 'You will stay here, Ewan, while the others have their break. You can copy this music out, and I want it note perfect.'
Ewan sat uncomfortably through the rest of the afternoon. He had to endure a ground bass of whispers and sniggers from Jack and his friends, with occasional trills of laughter from the girls.
When he got home there was a message on the answer phone from Mrs Morton: 'Congratulations, Ewan! You've not only passed your Grade One exam, you've been given a distinction. Ninety-two per cent! I hope you're pleased. I certainly am.'
'Darling, that's wonderful!' his Mum said, hugging him. Her voice caught in her throat. 'Your Gran would have been so proud of you!'
She held him at arm's length, scrutinising his face. 'Aren't you pleased?'
'I suppose so.'
But a tune was still running through Ewan's head. Mechanically, like a bird repeating its call with no understanding of the effect on the human ear: 'Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, ting-ting-ting-ting . . .'
© VivDoyle 2017