C=Chapter two

THE PIANO TEACHER
Chapter two

Thirteen years ago, when responding to an advertisement for piano
lessons, she had timidly approached his garden gate and closed it
carefully behind her. She had proceeded up a narrow cement path to a
freshly painted dark green front door of a picture-box end terraced
house. This slightly built young woman of considerably nervous
disposition lifted the goblin knocker and tapped it twice on its plate.
Sensing a movement in the far corner of her right eye she had turned to
find him standing there.

"What can I do for you?" Mr. Stenton enquired, leaning on his rake. He
had been sewing carrot seed in neat thin rows.

"Well it's about your advertisement,"

Denise managed politely, taking her hand off the knocker and stepping
towards him. But as she stepped forward, he was already disappearing
round the side of the house.

"Come on," he called to her, so she trotted after him and found herself
in his impeccably manicured back garden. Every space was accounted for.
Each area was defined with a stone or gravel border. It was springtime
and his lilac trees were heavily laden with lush, creamy blooms. Mr.
Stenton darted into his little garden shed and emerged with a fishing
stool, which he shook out and dusted off for her.

"Now sit here and tell me about yourself," he commanded. Denise was
compliant and as a gentle breeze whispered through the willow tree, she
succumbed to his inquisition:

How long had she been playing? Why did she want to continue? Which was
her favourite piece? What kind of piano did she have? How much practice
was she currently doing? Had she been to many concerts? Had she played
the Haydn sonatas?

What studies did she use?

This questioning was conducted while he raked through his lawn, pulling
small chunks of moss free and tossing them into the wheelbarrow. While
she spoke, he halted activities and rested his chin on a garden gloved
hand. There was light drizzle, and at times, when he was a little
further down the garden, she found him to be slightly blurred at the
edges. As she perched on her makeshift interview seat he was pacing
about raking and yelling out his questions. At the end of this
interview, she arose to shake his hand and as she did so found that she
was peering into the most melancholy eyes she had ever seen.

"Edward took my hand in his when I cried after the Debussy. "The Sunken
Cathedral" seemed to me to be such a beautiful and poignant piece of
music that I found it consuming me. I daren't look at him, as he
painted for me upon his piano canvas. I looked away, anywhere, for his
performance was so sensual. I found myself shameless in his cathedral
beneath the waves. Swimming lustily down to the nave and circling the
galleries. Floating immodestly against images of Saints magnificently
inscribed in stained glass windows the hues of a rainbow.
As the piece drew to a close, I found myself quite overcome by emotion
and I burst into sobs. Edward turned to me and took my hand in his and
held it until I was calmer. We just sat there like that, letting the
music settle around us."