Troy’s mother always liked him to play the piano after dinner. She liked to show him off. Troy’s father always liked him to play the piano after dinner. He liked the Great American Songbook, however indifferent the interpretation.
Troy was partial to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and had only recently seen them dance their way through The Gay Divorcee, which had taught him some new Cole Porter songs. His repertoire already included “Love for Sale,” “You Do Something to Me,” and half a dozen others, and after rambling through them he settled on a new one, “Night and Day.”
Much to Troy’s surprise, Burgess pulled up a chair next to the piano stool. Stuck his minute coffee can and his outrageous, bloated brandy balloon, in which he had what looked to be at least a triple shot, on the top of the piano.
“Do you play, Guy?”
“I tinkle. I don’t really think I’m much of a pianist. But you are.”
“I don’t practice enough. Now, before my dad slides over and requests ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’ or something just as raucous, do you have any requests?”
“Not really. I suppose I like the odd music hall song … never quite got to grips with all this American stuff … the odd hymn too, you know, sort of thing we used to sing in school assembly … And of course one can never get enough Haydn or Mozart.”
“Quite,” said Troy. “But if I belt out Eine kleine Nachtmusik, the nacht will soon be over.”
And a demon whispered in his ear.
“Glorious things of thee are spoken …”
And Burgess joined in with the second line:
“Zion, city of our God!”
He had a poor voice, Troy’s was not much better, but as long as the same demon whispered they sang it through to the end.
Fading is the worldling’s pleasure,
All his boasted pomp and show;
Solid joys and lasting treasure,
None but Zion’s children know.
And then they both burst out laughing.
His mother appeared at his side.
“Quoi, t’es devenu complètement fou? L’hymne national allemand?” Have you gone completely mad? The German national anthem?
“Maman, it’s also an English hymn. Music by Haydn, words by some long-forgotten English poet. Rod and I used to sing it at that very expensive school you sent us to. Apparently they sang it at Eton too, eh Guy?”
“S’il te plait, Freddie, joue quelque chose anglais.” Please, Freddie, play something English!
Then she was gone.
“Music hall, you said?” Troy asked.
“Fine by me … if you think it will placate your mother.”
Troy struck up “My old man said follow the van …”
Burgess joined in and they played a version for four hands and two voices:
My old man said: “Follow the van,
And don’t dilly-dally on the way.”
Off went the van wiv me ‘ome packed in it.
I walked be’ind wiv me old cock linnet.
But I dillied and dallied,
Dallied and dillied;
Lost me way and don’t know where to roam.
And you can’t trust a “Special”
Like the old-time copper
When you can’t find your way home …
Across the room his mother glowered at him, and his father raised his glass and grinned.