The building is extraordinary. It sits like a straggly tooth at the top of Belford Road, before the street takes a sharp turn down, plummeting towards the Dean Village. The house – or almost-house – is a curiosity. It sits alone, opposite the row of grand New Town houses, low to the ground, windows glinting.
It invites a degree of trepidation, this building. A swoop of the stomach, down almost as steeply as the road, into one’s shoes. A dry swallow. A ceremonial hush as parking meters are fed, the car locked. You don’t approach the door unless you’re ready. You don’t approach the door unless you’re smartly dressed, and clutching in a plastic folder the right sheaf of papers.
It has a bell, and whatever lurks behind the door seems to swallow the sound, reduce it down to nothing at all. There is always a long pause – long enough that you might hope, just for a second, that there was nobody in, that there had been some mistake, and you were not due to be there, that you were in fact, free to turn around, and –
But no. Eventually, the door creaks open slowly. An old woman eases it toward her, and releases into the street a thin ribbon of piano music. Almost always, she smiles, and presses her finger to her lips. In this place, more than anything else – more than nerves, or questions, or the need to go to the bathroom – the most important thing is to remain quiet, until it is your turn. And however long it seems to take, your turn always, eventually comes.
When your name is called from the top of those narrow grey stairs, you walk up them quietly, coat brushing against the wood panelling, through another door which is being held open for you. There isn’t quite enough air in the staircase, but it opens into a wide room. It is large enough to hold two pianos. Wide enough to hold an audience. Wide enough to hold an examiner, who is sitting behind a desk, and who wants to hear you play.
This is it. You cannot trip back down those stairs and out into the reassurances of day, where nobody will ask you to sit down and regurgitate a year’s worth of practice. Instead, the smiling woman conducts you to the piano stool, and the examiner, to whom you have your back, asks your name, then asks you to begin.
Five times I slipped up those grey steps for my piano exams, until I could persuade my mum that whilst my sister was an extraordinary talent, I lacked both the skill and dedication to continue. And I didn’t miss practicing for exams – preferred being able to play for pleasure, when I wished.
What I did miss, however, was our celebrations. Once the exam had been taken, and the stony-faced examiner had dismissed me, I would hurry back down the cold grey stairs, and press the green button which opened the front door. Whatever the weather, the smell of fresh air was a gift, a delicious contrast to the stuffy beeswax smell of the examination room. And then, it was time. We’d bundle back into the car, telephone my Dad to let him know we were on the way, and off we’d set.
We wouldn’t find out the results of our piano exams for three weeks, but it didn’t matter. The second the car started, I would forget entirely that they’d ever come.
We were never a family who meals out much. But exam days were different. Exam days were magic. Every time my sister and I sat a music exam, we would arrive outside the little red-painted diner, and pile inside.
The diner had been tucked into a corner of Edinburgh for as long as either of my parents could remember. All of my life, and most of my mother’s, too. It sold only one thing, behind its worn-down frontage, all faded gilt lettering and red paint: burgers.
The diner was very small. It could sit, at most, a little over twenty people. It was often full, bustling with men out of the office, other families, couples on dates. The banquettes were worn red leather, and the paintwork was red too. It felt like being inside a little beating heart, one of the city’s many safe, beautiful, special places.
It was the best sort of celebration. We could have a burger and chips and, if we wished it afterwards (and we always did), an ice cream sundae, laden with nuts or chocolate or cherries or hot fudge sauce. The ice creams were as big as our heads. And everyone was there, the whole family. Sometimes, if it was convenient, our Godmother came, too.
We were allowed such a treat, not because we were going to pass the exams. Not because our parents were certain we were such brilliant musicians that we could simply fly through these exams. Absolutely not. We were taken out to celebrate, on the night of our exams, because it was a celebration of our attempt, of our effort. We had ice cream sundaes because we had tried really hard, because my parents wanted to recognise the effort we had put in to our practice, to our commitment to sitting down at the piano every day, even when we complained, or slacked off.
I have learned many things from my lovely Mum and Dad. Lots of brilliant, important things about how to navigate the world, how to change a light bulb, what to do if your heart breaks, or you spill something red on a white carpet. But most of all, I’ve learned about effort. About how we should be kind to ourselves when we try our best, whatever happens.
Sometimes, you’ll do your best and you’ll still fail. Won’t get the job you want, or score the goal you’re hoping for. My parents taught me: have the burger anyway. Have it because you did your best, and that’s all anyone can ask of you.