I Hope He Comes

By Peter Stock

My new piano came at the beginning of the month. New to me but one careful owner of twenty years (now deceased I’m told). The video by Graham, the salesman, was compelling: his rolling Bolton accent, the twinkle in his eye and his innocuous stud earring. The way he said ‘beeeeautiful’ and ‘maHOGany POlish’ with such passion and enthusiasm, I was buying this piano before he finished his first sentence. A quick phone call and the deal was done.

And a week later, they took away my old black one and left me this in its place. It was a wet spring and delivery day was no different. The delivery men wore shorts despite the cold and drizzle. Their van blocked the lane. Mine was just one of thirty pick-ups and deliveries they would make before they got home two days later.

Her reddy-brown glow was such a change from the previous funereal black. The delivery guy and I inspected it meticulously to ensure no transit damage. But the case work was immaculate for a twenty-year-old piano. ‘Sign here … Give it four weeks and then get the tuner round,’ he said over his shoulder as he was leaving and I shut the front door behind him. I felt like a new mum being left with a baby just after the midwife had left. ‘There you go. Make something of that.’ But she was cold and unresponsive with heavy keys after her 300-mile journey in the back of a truck. The hammers in the tenor section thudded. But the soprano and the bass sections sang. A look inside showed that it had seen some life: not abuse, just playing over its score of years.

I watched Graham’s video again and again to remind myself of her potential in the hands of a competent player. One can see the first owner, a younger player (younger than me at least) playing for hours when it first arrived. Maybe it was a trophy buy to kick-start a retirement as a reward after a career well endured; one very careful but passionate owner. He or she would wear a permanent smile as they nursed it through its breaking-in phase and the piano began to sing, knowing she was worth every penny of this expensive purchase. At night, when the house was asleep, the piano would call out like a silent Siren. Then they would engage the practice pedal, the felts drop and play long into the night in their own private world. But, as month turned into years, the initial passion faded as life got in the way and she sat untouched for the last few years in her owner’s front room; the piano in suspended animation but regularly dusted and polished while age took its toll on the other half of the relationship.

Week one, week two, week three crept by. She was warmed up, dried out and starting to reveal her potential; the charm was starting to appear, though the tuning was going the opposite direction.

I want to give her (is it even a her?) a name like B. B. King and his guitar Lucille. It feels right that we should be on a first name basis given the number of hours we plan to spend together. Fettled, honed, polished, tuned, dusted. The right name will reveal itself in due course. Maybe I can ask the shop for the previous owner’s first name so that their love of music can live on in the piano? That would be nice. I left messages for Doug, the tuner. He is not good at replying. The hint of a new piano in one of my messages appears to have pricked his imagination as he has at last responded. Oh dear, he’s had shingles and was a bit behind in his visits.

Now we wait our turn.

I think I’ll call her Ann.