I was raised in the village of Farnley, Yorkshire, in the north of England. It was a long time ago, but every time I hear, "Take a deep breath and begin," my mind flies back to those days, because these words of advice were offered to me by my music teacher every Tuesday evening at six o'clock. My mother always sent me to my piano lessons five minutes before the appointed time, with clean hands and face, and half-a-crown clutched in one hand, my battered leather music case in the other.
Mr. Scott lived right across Lawns Lane, only a minute from our house, in a small, mews cottage built in the early 19th century for the stablemaster. It sat across a cobblestone yard from Farnley Lodge, a much bigger home owned by Dr. Smith, the local physician. Horse stables adjoined the mews cottage, and were still in use, but not for horses. They now housed Dr. Smith's Wolseley which sat in lonely splendor amidst old tack hanging from the stone walls, various sizes of rusty pitchforks no longer needed, and assorted gardening implements which were kept clean.
When I knocked on the cottage door, Mrs. Scott, wearing a pinafore, an apron which covered both the bodice and skirt of her dress, usually let me in. She led me across the stone floor of the small entry way to the parlor on the right, where I sat in a straight-backed chair in front of the ancient grandfather clock. I can still hear the deep sounds of its ticking--tick tock tick tock. The furnishings of the house were pure, early Victorian, with a large, black-leaded, coal-burning fireplace and oven, holding up a high mantelpiece with sepia-colored photos of women in long dresses and men in tailcoats.
Mr.Scott entered the room at two minutes to six, and usually stood in front of the fireplace as he adjusted his tie. He was always neatly dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat, white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and well-shined black shoes. When his collar and tie were adjusted to his satisfaction, he took out his pocket watch which hung from the fob of his waistcoat on a gold chain, clicked open its lid, looked upon its face, and checked its hands with the hands on the clock. When the grandfather struck six, a Windsor chime, he acknowledged my presence for the first time with a nod of his head, said good evening, accepted my proffered coin, and then led the way to the sitting room which was only used for company--and piano lessons.
The highly-polished spinet piano with the perfect tone, sat against the wall to the right of the door. Its top was covered with a lace runner with a long fringe, with more sepia photos adorning it. Mr.Scott motioned me to sit on the stool and twirl around until I was the right height for the keyboard (I loved to do that), then he drew up a chair to my right. He waited for me to take out my music--I always had two books--one contained the piece I had practiced during the week, and the other was scales and finger exercises. The latter always came first. "Take a deep breath and begin," he intoned, "Tonight, the D-major scale, two octaves."
Thus began the fastest of half-hours. I respected Mr. Scott, took to heart his instructions, and glowed whenever he said I was doing well. I was always prepared for my lessons, because I wanted to please him. I was too young to realize that practicing hard was really for my own benefit.
As well as teaching piano, Mr. Scott was the organist at Farnley Church of England--St. Michael's. It was a small but beautiful edifice, built of stone from the nearby quarry, with high, arching beams over the nave, and spectacular stained-glass windows. Outside was a stone cenotaph to the fallen World War I soldiers of Farnley, which declared, "Lest We Forget" at its foot. I was never quite sure what I was supposed to remember, and mused upon this message on my way into the church. I always sat in the upstairs gallery and as close as possible to the organ with its soaring pipes. There, I looked over the tiered keyboards and watched Mr. Scott's hands, as his fingers confidently pressed the keys or pulled out the stops, and his feet flew over the pedals.
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