Gran's Old Piano

I came to love those lessons, every Wednesday after school, WatchIng her fIngers move delIcately over the keys

- Vivien Hampshire

For as long as I could remember, and probably for a long time before that too, the old piano had stood proudly against the dining room wall in Gran and Grandad Barnes’s house. Most of the time, it was just a piece of furniture, a sort of stand-in sideboard, with a lacy cloth runner and rows of family photographs in assorted frames spread out across the top, and with a stool tucked underneath that came in handy as an extra chair when guests turned up for dinner.

Every Monday, regular as clockwork, Gran would take her duster to its smooth, dark wood, and whip up a glorious shine you could see your face in. The piano had been her mother’s, and her grandmother’s before that, so we knew it must be old. Gran never had learned to play it, but it had survived two World Wars, and at least three house moves, and I knew she could never part with it. It clearly held many treasured memories for her, just as it would, over the coming years, for me.

But, just occasionally, when Grandad came home from the pub with his happy face on, or a visitor was prevailed upon to give us a tune, that old piano would remind us that it was more than just a piece of furniture. It was an instrument, a doorway into a world of music, and on those very special occasions it would show us exactly what it was capable of. Grandad was no concert pianist, that was for sure, and the piano was definitely in need of tuning but, when he was in the mood for it, he could belt out an almost recognisable melody, whether it was Roll Out The Barrel or Show Me The Way To Go Home on a pub night, or Away In A Manger at Christmas, with the snow falling outside and Gran busily wrapping presents under the tree.