Chapter 21

 

After the Leo Korda masterclass I went to the cafeteria with two of my fellow students – a Japanese girl and a roly-poly guy with a heavy Brummie accent.

My right arm was sore. I was not allowing it to be any more severe than that.

My left hand I cradled in my lap, keeping the fingers dead still.

I would deal with them both later.

For now it was so good to be talking about playing. Exchanging real experiences. Instead of getting them secondhand from Danya and Ed.

We swapped stories from previous workshops. The Japanese girl had been playing and Leo Korda snatched the score away from the desk. When she complained she hadn’t memorised the piece, he told her to carry on and fill in by improvising, so he could see what she’d understood about the music. The Brummie guy had been at an ensemble workshop and Korda had made everyone put down their instruments and read their parts out loud in nonsense syllables so that they found the natural way to stay in rhythm.

We parted, a good hour later, promising emails and phone calls.

Outside, Kensington Gore was solid with traffic. Kensington Gardens was a dark space behind the Albert Memorial. The Albert Hall was decked in golden lights for evening. In the loading bay stood a pantechnicon, marked with the insignia of the Philharmonic Orchestra. Somewhere inside the Hall the musicians would be putting their tails on for the performance.

I could go to Knightsbridge Tube or South Ken. I chose neither. I wanted to linger as long as possible in this handsome square of red brick and golden stone. Here I was a practising musician again.

I walked into the sidestreets instead, past mansion blocks where cast-iron lanterns over black front doors continued the Albert Hall livery. In my first year I shared a grotty flat in Kennington with Evelyn, a violinist, and we used to swear that when our glittering careers took flight we would live in one of these grand apartments.

Evelyn retrained as an accountant five years ago and now seemed to have given that up to write Christmas letters about her twins.

My arms were aching, but in a manageable way. Maybe walking all the way home would do me good, get the blood flowing. And I could digest the masterclass. Leo Korda had made a number of valuable comments about technique and flow.

But most important was what had happened at the first run-through. I knew, even before Leo Korda confirmed it, that the essence of Chopin was truly there. I don’t know what I did differently, but it worked.

Not that I thought Chopin was giving spooky direction from beyond the grave. But maybe those evenings with Gene had awakened something.

It was more than a fortnight since Jerry and I went to Anthony Morrish. With distance, those evenings had acquired proportion; a curious weekend that would dwindle into the past. I’d put my tape away with the Dictaphone, filed it like old photos once the novelty of examining them wears off.

But Jerry had still not had another panic attack. The house permanently smelled like Starbucks. Of course you couldn’t take his unlucky, murdered predecessor at face value, but it had indubitably left its mark.

Maybe it was the same for me.

I hadn’t thought that Gene could cure the pain in my hands. But perhaps he had helped with a different problem.

I reached Fulham Road. Each junction was a scrum of cars. I dodged across a fading box grid, hopscotching around vehicles that had ignored the yellow cross-hatches. A white van loomed up, horn blaring. I had to run to get out of the way.

Self-preservation brought me back to my senses. I might be thinking too much about the interpretation breakthrough. Perhaps it had just happened. Whatever was going on, once I could get back to practising there would be so many new ideas I could explore.

In the meantime, I would be a model patient and would rest.

On Battersea Bridge I remembered my white gloves and pulled them out of my bag.

Such an undemanding movement, but my arm jagged with pain.

In the river below, a boat chugged towards the bridge, passed underneath and went into the distance.

It took that long before I could consider moving again. Then I could only do it if I cradled one hand in the other, a sling to protect it while I walked.

I’d overdone the playing, that was all. I hadn’t touched a piano for nearly six weeks and then attacked a concert Bosendorfer. The Bosendorfer wasn’t an easy instrument, it had a stiff concert action. To go straight in and play a full piece was like an out-of-shape athlete going for a sprint without even a warm-up. Of course I should expect it to hurt. Perhaps it was a tad foolish but after more rest I should be fine. Dr Golding always said there was nothing wrong with me.

It was all worth it when I thought about Leo Korda’s words after I finished for the first time. My audience’s faces. My breakthrough; my new channel to true interpretation.

There was the time before Leo Korda; five dark weeks of running each day like a tap. Now there was hope. Soon I would be better – and my playing would rise to a new level.

This was the start of my real recovery. I’d wear those white gloves respectfully and gratefully. Tomorrow I should be able to get them on. I might even give the yoga another try.

An hour and a half after I left Kensington, I brought my key up to my front door and slid it into the lock.

The pain shot me. It held me staring at the tiles of the porch for several minutes.

Carefully, with my other hand, I tried again. The key and the crooked hole wouldn’t go together.

The door was snatched open. Jerry stood there, the tip of the black umbrella warning me off like a weapon.

He rolled his eyes and holstered the umbrella in its churn behind the door. ‘Jesus, Carol. I thought the lock was being picked.’

I picked the key up from the mat, absurdly having to kneel for it so I could keep my arms stiff like a statue. Even that move became extra complicated because my bag slid off my shoulder and it was easier to let it fall.

I became aware that Jerry hadn’t gone back to his study but was watching me. His hesitation before he returned to help me was as expressive as folded arms.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what have you been doing?’