Things became a little more entangled when my brother Tommy came by. My mum was now working part-time with a small-time publisher and, while it was just me, she would pull her night owl act and work while I slept. With baby number 2… well, you know how babies work and tend to disrespect every single routine a person might have… Adding to that, the tantrum I, Ellie bean, was throwing over this new-found creature that had come to ruin my perfect and self-centred little world, was enough to make her miss some deadlines and a new battle plan was in order.
On my end, I was working hard on crying louder than he did, so that he would go back to whence he’d come from. Mami, on the other hand, offered help once more which my mum, whose pride stood taller than her namesake tower, said no, that she could cope.
Spoiler alert, she could not cope.
Mami went back unto the breach once more, and suggested that I might enjoy spending the week at Somerset Hall. After all, I was starting to explore the world and what better place to do so, than in Lizzie’s little slice of childhood heaven? Of course, the caveat was that, as soon as Tommy started to get acquainted with the sorrows and pace of the world, I would waltz right back in, as if I had never left.
Three houses, under four years old. Must be some sort of record.
It was then, at what would also become my own little slice of Heaven, that I met one of my oldest friends, the piano, and it was love at first chord.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Mami was not adept at it, but she knew about enough to guide my first steps. She would sit me on her lap and press the keys, a gesture which I happily tried to mimic. It was an instant obsession, striking so hard that I just never even looked at crayons or other toys any more when I spent the weeks.
Soon, the cacophonies of this little toddler Beethoven became too much to bear and Mami went behind my mum’s back and got someone to refrain me from throwing her into early deafness: a tutor.
I cannot remember who he was and what led him to undertake such a task, as to teach a three-year-old to play, but his method stood the test of time. So thank you, kind sir, for teaching me the language of music, the fourth one I’ve learned in this life.
Every day, at three o’clock, I was led to the music room and, for half an hour, give or take, depending on my attention span, he began introducing me to the world of sounds.
Of course, a child has no notion of rhythm and doesn’t understand the subtleties a majestic instrument such as the piano has to offer, thinking instead that every single finger is a tiny, chubby hammer with which to smash the ivory keys. How else would it create sound, right?
This little week-off/weekend-on pilgrimage was not going as bad as it would seem, at first. Tommy was becoming more tolerable, I even dared say a little less ugly of a baby, and we were actually starting to get along. Who knew, maybe he could end up learning a thing or two from me.
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We always spent Christmas with our dad, and 1987 was no exception. We went to Portugal, we stuffed our faces with sweets, we had a blast. But it was, actually, the first and last time the five of us ever were together: Mum, dad, Tommy and I and… baby Clara, whom our mum announced to us, children, who were thinking that she had been, just maybe, going a little too overboard with the Mu-Shu pork.