forward to hearing from you. Bye.”
THREE
M ax walks up and down looking for the piano teacher’s house. The light is beginning to fade and he has to strain his eyes to see the numbers on the doors.
Eventually he arrives at the end of the cul-de-sac and notices a building he hadn’t seen, a house that is far smaller than all the others and in a serious state of disrepair.
He checks the card again, just to be sure. Number 42 it says, matching the number that’s been badly painted on the gatepost.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself as he looks around at the overgrown front garden.
It isn’t looking good, but there’s no other choice. Not now. If he’s going to get away with his pretence and win the heart of the lady from the bookshop, he’ll have to bite the bullet and enjoy the taste.
The only way is forwards, not that the gate is up for such a move. To make sure he doesn’t knock it completely off its rusty hinges, Max walks around it through the hole in the wall and his feet crunch on what he hopes is gravel as he walks up to the front door.
Wires stick out from the doorframe where the bell should be.
To announce his arrival, he makes a fist to knock then stops to look for a place where the bang will cause the least damage. He chooses the bottom half of the door and raps loudly. The polythene-covered window above rustles, a small gap appears and a voice calls out, a Welsh lilt to the words, “Come in my boy; it’s open.”
Max carefully opens the door and enters, wondering if he’ll ever get to leave the house alive.
FOUR
I t’s the moment of truth.
His meeting with Mr Evans might not have been exactly what he’d expected, but he passed the interview and now has his very own piano teacher. With luck he’ll be able to learn enough to stay ahead in the game.
All he needs is to get the job as the girl’s teacher and he can start to weave some of his magic.
The sun is shining and Max takes this to be a good omen.
He has on a black rockabilly shirt with a red Elvis print as a trim, a pair of cuffed jeans and his favourite blue suede shoes. Over his shoulder he carries a leather satchel containing the music books he bought that morning and the fake business cards he put together on a machine at the station.
Brooke Street is definitely one of the poshest around town, the huge Victorian buildings all neatly whitewashed and decorated with overflowing flower baskets.
When he gets to the right house, he pauses for breath and bends to pick off a tiny piece of yellow cotton that has caught on his left shoe.
What he really wants is a smoke. A shot of nicotine to take the edge off his nerves, but there’s no way he’s going up there stinking of cigarettes. His scalp itches at the thought of a sly drag, but he leaves it alone to make sure he doesn’t mess his hair.
Max takes the steps up to the door, checks the names on the intercom and presses the one labelled Flat B.
The voice coming through the intercom is definitely a woman’s, but that’s just about all he can discern from the sound.
“It’s Maximillian. I’m here about the piano lessons,” he shouts into the box.
There’s more of the woman’s voice and the buzzer goes.
Max pushes the door open. It has a good weight to it, the kind of door that someone took pride in making, he thinks.
Not even the plush feel to the street has prepared him for the sense of grandeur of the entrance hall. A wrought iron banister winds itself up the staircase, with leaves and birds carefully woven into the frame.
Above him, a chandelier, the likes of which he’s only ever seen in hotels and museums, hangs from the communal ceiling. Even with only the little light that comes through the stained glass window above the front door, it sparkles merrily and sends flecks of colour on to the polished, red tiles of the walls.
He wipes his feet on the mat that’s just inside the entrance and thinks he should take off his shoes. Problem is, he’d taken a
THREE
M ax walks up and down looking for the piano teacher’s house. The light is beginning to fade and he has to strain his eyes to see the numbers on the doors.
Eventually he arrives at the end of the cul-de-sac and notices a building he hadn’t seen, a house that is far smaller than all the others and in a serious state of disrepair.
He checks the card again, just to be sure. Number 42 it says, matching the number that’s been badly painted on the gatepost.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself as he looks around at the overgrown front garden.
It isn’t looking good, but there’s no other choice. Not now. If he’s going to get away with his pretence and win the heart of the lady from the bookshop, he’ll have to bite the bullet and enjoy the taste.
The only way is forwards, not that the gate is up for such a move. To make sure he doesn’t knock it completely off its rusty hinges, Max walks around it through the hole in the wall and his feet crunch on what he hopes is gravel as he walks up to the front door.
Wires stick out from the doorframe where the bell should be.
To announce his arrival, he makes a fist to knock then stops to look for a place where the bang will cause the least damage. He chooses the bottom half of the door and raps loudly. The polythene-covered window above rustles, a small gap appears and a voice calls out, a Welsh lilt to the words, “Come in my boy; it’s open.”
Max carefully opens the door and enters, wondering if he’ll ever get to leave the house alive.
FOUR
I t’s the moment of truth.
His meeting with Mr Evans might not have been exactly what he’d expected, but he passed the interview and now has his very own piano teacher. With luck he’ll be able to learn enough to stay ahead in the game.
All he needs is to get the job as the girl’s teacher and he can start to weave some of his magic.
The sun is shining and Max takes this to be a good omen.
He has on a black rockabilly shirt with a red Elvis print as a trim, a pair of cuffed jeans and his favourite blue suede shoes. Over his shoulder he carries a leather satchel containing the music books he bought that morning and the fake business cards he put together on a machine at the station.
Brooke Street is definitely one of the poshest around town, the huge Victorian buildings all neatly whitewashed and decorated with overflowing flower baskets.
When he gets to the right house, he pauses for breath and bends to pick off a tiny piece of yellow cotton that has caught on his left shoe.
What he really wants is a smoke. A shot of nicotine to take the edge off his nerves, but there’s no way he’s going up there stinking of cigarettes. His scalp itches at the thought of a sly drag, but he leaves it alone to make sure he doesn’t mess his hair.
Max takes the steps up to the door, checks the names on the intercom and presses the one labelled Flat B.
The voice coming through the intercom is definitely a woman’s, but that’s just about all he can discern from the sound.
“It’s Maximillian. I’m here about the piano lessons,” he shouts into the box.
There’s more of the woman’s voice and the buzzer goes.
Max pushes the door open. It has a good weight to it, the kind of door that someone took pride in making, he thinks.
Not even the plush feel to the street has prepared him for the sense of grandeur of the entrance hall. A wrought iron banister winds itself up the staircase, with leaves and birds carefully woven into the frame.
Above him, a chandelier, the likes of which he’s only ever seen in hotels and museums, hangs from the communal ceiling. Even with only the little light that comes through the stained glass window above the front door, it sparkles merrily and sends flecks of colour on to the polished, red tiles of the walls.
He wipes his feet on the mat that’s just inside the entrance and thinks he should take off his shoes. Problem is, he’d taken a
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