The girl with the musical memory

A true story

I sat next to my mum in the Church Hall as people slowly began to file past me and take their seats on that sunny Sunday afternoon. Shoe-scuffles echoed around the high ceiling, and there was only a faint murmur of greetings as Piano Teachers greeted their students. My mum looked down, and could see me silently staring down at the Show Program. I found my name, just after a boy called ‘Francis Wilton’.

            “You’ll be fine,” I heard her whisper reassuringly with a smile on her face. I could feel the warmth from her leg as she shuffled closer to hug me. The piano book ‘Cool Jazz: Volume 3’ felt like a block of ice in my hands. The pew beneath me was hard and uncomfortable, and I had to keep moving to stop going numb. Though the general atmosphere in the room is relaxed, I’d never felt so tense in my life.

            I’d always had a good musical memory. For as long as I could remember, I’d learn a piece on the piano and impress my parents by reciting it note for note with the book firmly shut. I’d even pretend I was absently-mindedly watching the television while I played, letting my fingers guide themselves over the notes by feeling their way around the piano. It wasn't so much a memory, more that I remembered the shapes my hands were meant to be in at that precise moment. If you’d had stopped me mid-piece, and asked which note I was playing, I wouldn't be able to tell you. And that, I soon was to learn, would be my downfall.

            My piano teacher was called Miss Yates. She started teaching me from a young age, an age when I was too young to understand why a woman with greying hair, wrinkles, and veins protruding from her bony hands was called Miss, instead of Mrs, Yates.

            She soon learnt of my musical memory, and started testing it. I assumed it was normal to be able to play without the music, but she assured me that it most certainly wasn't  and I was in fact very gifted. At the end of each lesson she’d get me to play a piece I’d learnt from memory, and a smile erupted on her face when I finished, every time, without fault.

            And so when I was around 10, so began the concerts and shows I was to perform in without the music. I’d done it perfectly fine in my weekly lessons, so there was no reason why I shouldn't be perfectly fine in front of an audience.

             It was always in an evening in a very stuffy room at the Town Hall. The sort of room where there were carpets on the walls, each padded seat had a small microphone in front of it, and there were lots of gold plated crests around the walls. It was always a Tuesday or Wednesday after School, these concerts, as I remember telling everyone in the playground how I was to become very famous that evening.

            Imagine the smile on mine and Miss Yates’ face when half way through the concert, my name was called to perform in front of the entire Piano Teacher’s Association ( including the Governing Chairwoman, who Miss Yates referred to as HRH), and I rose from my seat, walked down the steps towards the black grand piano sat in the centre of the room, with absolutely nothing in my hands.

            “Oh bless her, she’s forgotten her music!” I’d hear someone whisper.
            “What’s she doing?!”
            “Shouldn't her Teacher run up and take her book to her?”
            “The poor thing, she must be too nervous to think!”

            The whole room sat in silence as I adjusted the piano stool to the right height, tested my wrists were in the upright position at middle C, and began to play.

            For two minutes I would imagine I was back in my lounge playing to my mum. Truth was, if I didn't think about playing but thought about something else, the notes would come naturally to me. I’d wonder what else the room was used for, or would try and guess what the person who was playing after me would look like. I felt my body swaying to and fro with every crescendo and diminuendo, staring down at my fingers as if I was watching a video of someone else playing, and was merely humming along with them.

            Before I knew it, I’d finished the piece, and there was a brief silence before the whole room erupted in applause. I’d done it.

            From then on, I was to be paraded around concert after concert, showing off my music skills. I didn't get why I was so special; I found it strange that other children had to have their music. Miss Yates got praise from the other teachers, congratulated at bringing such new young talent to the Southend music scene.

            In fact, even at that age, I could tell there was a local rivalry between teachers as to who could provide the most talented piano prodigy. I was a good contender, having played at all the major concerts in the area including one to the composer of some of my favourite piano pieces, Pam Wedgewood – she even gave me a signed copy of her book for playing ‘After Dark’ so beautifully.

            But no one could compare to one boy who made everyone lost for words. A short, plump boy who seemed inept at making normal conversation stole the show as he soon started attending concerts. Benjamin Grosvener was his name. At first, I hated him. He was better than me. After each concert, it was him that people were talking about, him that people were most excited to see.

            But then I started to see just how talented he was. It was if he understood music in a way that other people couldn't. From looking at him, as he sat on his chair next to a woman I assumed was his mum, he looked like a very shy boy, the type you’d imagine being bullied at school by the 'cool' kids, or not having many friends because the other children in his class just didn't 'get' him.


             I soon understood that no matter how much I practiced  I would never be able to connect with each piece the way he does. Composers started coming to Southend, writing pieces especially for Benjamin, trying to challenge him or prove that he’s not as good as he thought he was. But every time, he’d play with the same passion and faultlessness as a pianist performing at the Royal Albert Hall. He was, what my mum described as ‘something else’.

            I sat in the quiet church hall waiting to be called. I was 14 now, and had been playing in concerts for many years now. But with my growth spurt two years previously I’d also gained a whole new set of emotions I’d never experiences before; nerves.

            When I was younger, I had no care in the world when I was playing the piano. I could shut everyone else off and play as if I was on my own. I would have played to the Queen if anyone had asked me. But now… well, there were people watching. A lot of people. A lot of important people. W-what if I messed up? What would they think of me? What would my mum think of me?

            I counted down the number of performers until it was my turn. It wasn't many. My heart was pounding in my chest. I blew on my hands to cool them as they started to emit a clammy, cold sweat, imagining my wet fingers slipping off the piano keys as I went to play. I quickly examined the piece I was about to play, trying my hardest to remember the two notes I was to start on. ‘E and A flat’ I said in my head. ‘E and A flat, E and A flat, E and-‘

            “And now, let’s welcome Jennifer Ellegard.”

I looked up at the empty piano stool. My mum patted the back of my shoulder in a ‘you can do it’ sort of way, and I stood up, reluctantly leaving my piano book on the pew. We’d sat near the back of the room, so the walk to the front seemed long and drawn out.

            The stool felt cold as I sat down; the piano keys unfamiliar and strange. Each piano has a different feel about it. Some play forté at the slightest touch, while others require a much more rigorous technique to get the required loudness. But this piano just didn’t feel right, and I had no chance to practice.  I could feel the heat of everyone’s eyes upon me, and noticed someone eagerly checking their watch, waiting for me to start.

            I lifted my heavy hands and placed my fingers on the keys. ‘E and A flat’, I reminded myself. With one last shiver from my body, I silently counted to four, and my fingers began to move of their own accord. They were playing a piece my ears recognised, but my brain was struggling to remember. I tried not to think too much about the piece. If I thought about it, I knew I would lose it. The nerves would return, and the piece will be lost.

It felt like hours had passed as the eyes and ears of the audience hung onto every note I played. I felt like they were waiting for me to slip up. As I was playing, I was quickly trying to remember what the last chord of the piece was. Normally it was there, I just played it, but for some reason I couldn't think of it. I was nearing it, getting closer bar by bar, but the notes just wouldn't come to me. Teetering on the brink of completion, my mind froze. I tried to play the chord I thought it was, but winced as a flat sound erupted from the piano. I tried another, and another, panicking as I couldn't remember anything else. But then my fingers suddenly stopped playing.

           I was quickly brought back to reality. I hadn’t finished the piece.  And worse, I’d played the piece wrong. I wasn’t sure which was worse. The murmurs in the crowd spread quickly, tutting and hissing, the young boys and girls laughing and jeering. I wanted to disappear, for the piano stool to open up and swallow me whole and take me far away from this Church Hall.

          I took my tear-filled eyes off the piano and stared unwillingly into the crowd. A mass of disappointed faces were staring back at me. I daren’t look over at my mum, or worse, Miss Yates. What on earth were they thinking of me now?

I quietly cleared my throat, and my voice quivered.

             “C-can I s-start over please?” I asked the crowd, not exactly sure who I was meant to be asking. I felt the tears starting to silently roll down my cheeks. I may have messed up, but I didn't want to leave as the girl who couldn't play. I wanted to leave as the girl who tried again.

             I didn't wait for a reply, I simply turned back to the piano. The room instantly fell silent; no one was sure what to expect. Could I even remember how it started?


             I lifted my hands up again, raising my wrists high so my fingertips lightly brushed the two start notes, E and A flat. I let myself listen to the song in my head for a few moments, before my hands once again began to play.

            Second time round was far worse. I missed lots of the notes, my hands playing far too quickly, my feet slipping off the pedals, lengthening the wrong notes and cutting short others. But part of me had given up caring. I just want the piece to end. I let my mind think about how good it would feel once I’d finished playing, how relieved I’d feel to be sat back next to my mum, and what flavour ice cream my mum would get me from the seafront kiosk to try and make me feel better, like she always did. Before I knew it, my hands had finally played the last chord.


It was over.

              A polite applause filled the church hall, and though I should have felt happy, I couldn’t help but feeling it was fake. They were just glad I’d finished playing. Without looking up, I scurried back to the pew where my mum was sat, and nuzzled straight under her arm.

             “I’m s-sorry mum,” I sobbed, as ‘Alice Gray’ was called forward to play. I didn't look her in the face, I felt far too embarrassed, and ashamed. She simply hugged me tighter, the warmth from her hug comforting me , and we listened in silence as Alice played her piece note-perfect.

            Miss Yates scurried through the crowd to reach me as soon as the concert was over. She mumbled a few words of comfort, I heard something like ‘proud’, and ‘it happens’, but I wasn't really paying attention. I just wanted to go home.

            I looked at my mum, and though we were offered many times to stay for tea and biscuits, my mum politely declined and walked me to the car. As soon as I was out the door, I had no control over the tears falling from my eyes. Disappointing my mum was the worst feeling in the world. As we approached the car, I looked back at the Church Hall. I imagined the children inside being congratulated and praised, and made a silent vow to myself never to play piano in public again.

                                                            *           *           *


            In 2004, Benjamin Grosvener won the piano section of the BBC Young Musician of the Year, and has since played at the Royal Albert Hall among many iconic venues, and has also performed alongside the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, New York Youth Symphony, and the English Chamber Orchestra.

I refused to play the piano in front of anyone until I was 18. From then until now, at the age of 24,  I can only play to someone if they are facing the other way, talking to someone else, or pretending they are on their phone. And I am very much happy with that.