Random Harmonies

Piano hammers
from Piano, Wikipedia

In the evenings after I was in bed my mother would sometimes play the piano. My bedroom was directly overhead so I was a captive audience.

But it isn't the memory of a careful and hesitant Chopin nocturne that lingers. I used to lie there and wait for the chords, the arpeggios and the random harmonies.

I waited for her to start improvising. That's where the magic was.

It was her way of unwinding. Very different from the timidity with which she approached the set pieces, her unstructured playing was relaxed and infused with pleasure. The notes seemed to float upwards through the ceiling and and waft around the bed. I have a dreamlike memory of lying on my side in my nightdress under the covers, probably aged eight or nine, cheek on the pillow and knees drawn up to my chest. Enthralled. Willing her to go on. Praying that she wouldn't stop.

She never gave herself permission to do this for too long. Sooner or later she would strike three or four loud, random, dissonant chords - her way of breaking the spell - and these were followed by the inevitable echoing slam of the piano lid.

The television would be switched on and I could hear it, muffled and indistinct, as I fell asleep.

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On the train recently a young man in my carriage took out his guitar and started to strum, singing softly under his breath. Just chords and fragments of tunes, with an occasional pause to tune a string.

The music felt like a caress.