It was decided, at the tender age of seven, that I was ready to be initiated into the musical life.So, one rainy Thursday afternoon, the accordion previously bourne by my two older brothers was ceremoniously passed down to me and off I went to Mr. Duffy’s music shop to begin my tuition.
Mr. Duffy’s music shop is long gone and there is now nothing of its kind left in the world.
Half of the establishment was made up of a tiny dark spartan front room, which was accessed from the street and which was evenly bisected by a tall wooden counter. This ‘shop area’ seemed devoid of any trace of musical paraphernalia but most customer requests could be readily filled by Mr. Duffy producing items from hidden cupboards and unseen drawers.
A small door led from the shop to a private residence in behind and it was here that the music teacher entertained his students. The room was a small shabby/comfortable living space dominated by the spindly music stand, which stood facing the shop partition wall.
Every week, I would stand facing this wall, my accordion harnessed around me, my sheet music in front of me, and I would play.
I was, in all fairness, a very poor master of my instrument. Thankfully, the sheet music had helpful codes scribbled on it to help me see which button to press and whether to squeeze or extend the air box to achieve the required note.
The accordion also boasted a most useful button at the left thumb for use when the box had no more ‘squeeze’ left in it. Upon pushing this button, the accordion could be pulled apart in an asthmatic gasp without any note issuing, to give some additional tolerance for any push-in notes which might follow.
While I am sure the accordion teacher attended to his more worthy pupils with the greatest of care, he always used my hour as an opportunity to catch up on his housework.
He wore a pair of eyeglasses of which one lens was enormously magnified. Occasionally he would leave off his tidying to peer over my shoulder, checking that I had not substituted his music with some post modernist, avant-guard score. Having satisfied itself that I was indeed attempting to play ‘The Toreadors March’, this Cyclops would withdraw back into its domestic routine, occasionally barking out an instruction or admonishing my chronic lack of practice.
By far the most constant refrain heard during my hourly sessions was that of ‘Keep Playing’.
I was much more interested in my master’s cleaning activities than in the latest tune and, as my interest peaked, so the music would whine and fade away. At this point I would hear the refrain ‘Keep Playing, Keep Playing’ and I would hit the ‘asthma button’, pull the accordion apart and plough boldly onward.
One day, my teacher was attempting to light his fire. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he had sealed the front of the hearth with a sheet of newspaper and was on his knees at the grate blowing upwards. This was of considerable interest to me so the tune duly petered out.
I was exhorted to "Keep Playing, Keep Playing" as Mr. Duffy retreated to a hidden back room in search of tinder.
As I unceremoniously murdered ‘Believe me if all Those Endearing Young Charms’, a new event seared itself on my questing peripheral vision. The newspaper over the fire has caught alight and was solidly ablaze, throwing bright orange licks toward the low black ceiling above.
"Excuse me?" I called out, "Excuse me?"
"Keep Playing," was the distant reply, "whatever you do just Keep Playing".
Thus, regardless of the fact the my teacher returned in good time to save the day, my abiding image from my years of accordion tutelage is one where I am cast as Nero, boldly accordioning away while home burned.
One Thursday, I was collecting my accordion case from the hall when a kind parental hand was laid over mine and I was told that there would be no lesson today. My accordion teacher had died peacefully in his sleep.
It might be judged a sad epitaph that I never again, after that day, picked up an accordion but really it is not. I am gifted with a good sense of rhythm and an uncanny memory for a tune, which I undoubtedly owe to my music teacher.
There is a quotation which says that; "A gentleman is a man who can play the accordion but doesn't".
There is some comfort in knowing that, in this one respect at least, I remain a gentleman.
