Music Chords Remembered - a short story by Aileen Cleave

                                                                       

The subject of music came up recently in a conversation we were having with friends over an early supper.   I was struck by the differing connotations it had to different people, especially with regard to reminiscences.

So often I’ve wished I were musical.  So often I have broken into song, firmly believing I am pitch perfect  only to be silenced by the  anguish on the faces of those around me.   My mother had a beautiful voice, and she sang throughout the day, turning the most mundane of household chores into happy, joyful events.  I grew up with the glorious arias of Puccini, Verde and Bizet ringin g in my ears, along with the songs from the many popular musicals of the forties and fifties.  My inability to bring forth one true note was not my fault, apparently . It was down to my favouring my father’s side of the family, all philistines where music was concerned, according to my mother.

Family gatherings at Christmas or Easter would see the dust removed from the old upright piano in our sitting room, and Aunty Nell, mum’s youngest sister, ready herself to extract a recognisable tune from the yellowing keys.  Uncle Jim, Mums brother, would clear his throat, preparing the room for his beautiful baritone.  Aunty Nell was the original “you hum it, I’ll play it” pianist and had never learned to read music.  At this stage mum would still be in the kitchen, filling home made bread buns with ham and pease pudding.

The repertoire was rather mixed, I recall.  The Skye Boat Song and Irish rebel songs were prominent, and Mum’s rendition of Danny Boy seemed perfect to me.  As the evening wore on and the wine flowed and bread buns were consumed, requests were invited and inevitably Uncle Jim would turn all eyes misty with his “I’ll take you home again, Kathleen”.  If the occasion happened to be Hogmanay (this northern corner of England is very close to the Scottish border) allegiances would swerve, the television would be switched on for Andy Stewart and Moira Anderson and all things Gaelic would ensue.

Of course, time moved on and at some stage in the mid-fifties our piano was given away (to Auntie Nell, I believe) and a handsome radiogram took its place ,complete with storage for vinyl “78”s .  Then my father’s love of singers like the Ink Spots, The Platters, Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra would hold sway throughout our house.  For my siblings and me, The Top Twenty were what mattered, but these could only be heard regularly on Radio Luxemburg, a frustrating station that came and went whilst we desperately twiddled the dial to hear the end of Rock around the Clock.  Only when Radio Caroline dropped anchor in the English Channel did main stream radio stations change to include a newer and much younger generation.

Music has preserved these precious memories for me, so while I am what my mother fondly called “tone deaf’ it has still played an important role in my life, songs and chords invoking recollections and emotions as surely as a well-remembered scent.