The Piano Discovery: Keynotes, #1

One

Prelude

The worst thing about living on your own is that you start to talk to yourself.

Rosalie Anne Frobisher finished wiping the narrow ledge on the half-glass door and replaced the small plant pot.

Of course, it’s even worse when you start talking to your plant, and an artificial plant at that!

It was Saturday morning, and Rosalie had a routine to follow. She looked forward to this all week because her work life consisted of mind-numbing, number-crunching, data collecting computer statistical surveys, amassed in a dimly lit office on the fifth floor of a downtown building whose windows were small and narrow, letting in light only when the sun managed to peek through, between other similar buildings once in a while.

A number of men and women shared the office but all of them seemed to suffer from the same lack of stimulation created by reams of number parading endlessly across their screens.

On Saturdays, Rosalie first did her housework and then let her mind soar toward other possibilities.

Yes, she could seek out different, more interesting work, but the thought of exposing herself to interviews where she would be competing with women half her age was demoralizing.

For one thing, she would need smarter clothes and a new hairstyle. In ‘The Office of Doom,’ no one noticed what you wore and comfort was everyone’s first choice for attire.

She sighed.

How had she come to this?

She looked around the tiny apartment that was marginally acceptable only because she had few possessions. Yes, she could probably move to a bigger, brighter place but she would risk losing the small plot of outside space that belonged only to her ground level apartment and was approached by a paved lane and a gate that ensured her privacy.

Once, she had shared a decent house with Russell ………………..

She slammed shut the cutlery drawer to excise her thoughts and banish that dangerous downward path.

Saturday schedule:

Bus from town to the suburbs.

Walk around looking for hidden parks and green spaces where she could imagine the happy lives of those who lived there and hope that some of that goodness would float over to her and somehow stick.

She caught the ten o’clock bus. It was much more pleasant than her weekday journeys with workers jostling for space and the constant risk of coffee spilling from a rider’s Tim Horton’s container. On Saturdays, she was assured of a mid-coach window seat, from where she could survey the bus route and select a likely location for her leisurely stroll.

It required some time on the bus before a new and promising area appeared. She had tried most of the nearer subdivisions with varying results.

Today’s target was some distance from the town centre.

She wondered how many of the residents ever needed to take a bus to work.

Very unlikely! she murmured.

Excuse me, Miss?

Oh, just thinking out loud! Sorry!

She smiled at the man who had glanced up from his newspaper.

It was nice that he called her ‘Miss.’

She got up and pulled the cord to signal to the driver to stop at the next bus stop.

Stepping down carefully, Rosalie set off in the direction of the nearest street leading away from the busy main road.

Almost immediately, the traffic noise faded and she could hear birds chirping in the trees and smell fresher air.

This subdivision was going to be a good choice.

Thomas Kent knew Victoria had reached the end of her tether.

His wife was young, ambitious, house-proud and impatient with his older, slower ways.

This impatience was more evident since he took early retirement from his family business.

At first, Victoria rejoiced that Thomas could finally concentrate on clearing the old stuff out of their second garage. She made plans to install fitted Ikea shelving units and get her husband’s beloved old station wagon off the driveway and out of sight of the neighbours.

Thomas was well aware of his wife’s requirements. He just seemed to lack the incentive to part with what Victoria called ‘rubbish’ and what to him represented precious memories of a sweet time in his early life.

"Clear it all out now, or I will call the Junk Removal men to dispose of everything for you!

You have one day, Tom. Sell it or give it away, or whatever.

One day, that’s all! This garage must be cleared out, by this evening.

I have the Junk guys on speed dial."

It was a dire threat.

Thomas Kent had already used the charm of his good looks and winning smile. These attributes first attracted Victoria, along with his financial assets, but they failed him this time.

He drove his big, old car further along the street and parked it.

Then he moved out the old teak furniture, the boxes of china, the flower vases and standard lamps, and all the souvenirs of his first marriage.

It was time to let go.

Victoria would appreciate his co-operation and his home life would be easier.

He took a chair and sat by the battered bureau to write a sign.

Free To A Good Home: Today Only!

At least he could spend these final hours with his first wife’s treasures, and his memories.

There was little, to no, traffic on Beaumont Boulevard even on a weekday, and no chance that any of his rich neighbours would want these pieces from a different time and style era.

He settled down for hours of reminiscing.

Two

Rosalie saw none of the walkways or street signs indicating the way to a park, but she relished the beautiful, quiet streets lined with expensive homes, some of which boasted three garages and wide expanses of lawn.

She pulled the brim of her hat forward to shade her face as the summer sun rose higher in the clear sky, and continued on at her leisurely pace imagining what life might be like inside these luxurious residences, where no children played outside, or men washed their cars, or women chatted on front porches.

In many ways, this subdivision was devoid of life.

All the easier for me to picture myself living here she mused. Possibly there are no parks nearby because the backyards are so large.

She turned into a short road that ended in a grove of trees where she estimated she could find a shady spot to sit and eat her sandwich. Her pace quickened toward the trees until she was astounded to see, on her right, a well-dressed man sitting on a chair in a triple driveway, filled with what looked like a house clearance.

Rosalie’s pale blue eyes widened and her left eyebrow twitched. This was a very large and stately home. One of the finest she had ever seen. This sight was too unusual for her to walk by without a comment. They were the only two living creatures in this select area.

Before she could summon a suitable question, the man stood up and invited her to look around.

Absolutely no pressure! he explained in a genteel voice.

If you see something you like, I will save it until you can collect it.

He obviously had no idea of her circumstances, but Rosalie’s curiosity was aroused.

Thank you. It’s very kind of you. I suspect there’s a story behind your generous offer?

She pointed to the sign.

Thomas welcomed the company. He invited the stranger to look around at her leisure.

It’s doubtful I will sell any of this stuff. You are the only living being who has passed by this morning. I suspect my neighbours are spying behind their window drapes and speculating on why I have suddenly gone mad!

His voice was pleasant and his manner charming. Rosalie decided the opportunity to browse among a stranger’s belongings was too good to miss. The chance of hearing his story was worth the detour.

She made a cursory inspection of the items on the driveway, looking for something portable to take. There was nothing worth the bother of carrying it with her.

Then she looked ahead a few yards, glanced into the shade of the garage and saw the shape of a large item still resting there against the wall.

Her heart began to speed up.

Here was an object she desired to own. A dream unfulfilled; an impossible dream.

The man was still talking, but she no longer heard his words. She was drawn, inexorably, into the semi-darkness of the garage to where the old upright piano stood against the wall.

Thomas Kent watched in amazement as the woman approached the piano and ran her hands lightly over the fretwork with the two candle sconces, then caressed the lid that protected the keys.

She appeared to be lost in another world far removed from the present one.

Without asking his permission, she lifted the lid and placed her two hands side by side at the centre of the keyboard.

Then she stopped.

He dared not speak and risk shattering the moment. The atmosphere was electric. He did not know what was happening, or what would happen next.

Rosalie Anne Frobisher grew up in a single-family home in Toronto with a brother and sister, and two parents. Her father called her Rosie, and her mother always used her ‘Sunday’ name in honour of her grandmother, in whose memory Rosalie Anne was named.

It was a happy, busy home that some called a musicians’ paradise. Rosalie’s mother played several instruments and her father was a composer who conducted two local orchestras.

After trying the flute and the violin, Rosalie moved toward the piano where her mother created such amazing sounds, varying from soft lullabies to grand orchestral pieces that stopped the neighbours in their tracks to listen in amazement.

Rosalie was by no means the musical virtuoso of the family. That accolade belonged to her older brother Mark, who mastered the trumpet and was soon playing professionally in a well-known orchestra. Her younger sister preferred dolls to endless hours of practise and Rosalie was happy tootling around with any piano pieces her mother cared to share with her. The act of making any kind of music on the piano soothed her spirits and lasted well into her teenage years…………….. until she met Russell Morgan.

With her hands poised above the keys of this old piano that looked just like the one her mother used to play, Rosalie felt a jolt of electricity flash right through her.

This was what she was missing. The sense of accomplishment in making music was what her soul needed. Music was healing, and healing was what she desired most in all the world.

And yet, she could not let her fingers roam and take the chance of making a horrible noise that might ruin this feeling of contentment. As long as she did not push down on the keys, she could retain the perfection of a dream state.

Do you play?

The male voice broke into Rosalie’s fantasy.

She quickly removed her hands. This piano was not hers. She did not own such an instrument. She could not even think of owning such a thing. Who knew what condition it was in?

Do you play the piano?

Rosalie blinked several times and tried to return to the present and this man’s question.

Oh, once I did play, but not now. I was reminded just now of a very similar piano in my childhood home. My mother played like an angel.

She heard an intake of breath before the man spoke again.

My dear, this piano can be yours, if you want it. It needs to be rescued or it will be consigned to a garbage dump by the end of the day.

Oh, no! Surely not! Why on earth? Does no one want it? Is it unplayable?

As to that last question, I am unable to answer you, but come and sit down and I will fetch us a cold drink and you can hear my story.

Rosalie’s mind was partly in the past and partly adjusting to a new vision of the future that just might be within her reach. She trembled with anticipation.

She nodded her head in silent agreement and as soon as the man disappeared through the garage door into his house, she jumped up and resumed her position at the piano but now she gently depressed the keys to see if they were functional. A simple chord in the key of C using both hands, covered two octaves. The sound was a little tinny and the keys were stiff but the piano was far from hopeless.

She chided herself as she resumed her seat.

What are you thinking? How could you bring this huge and heavy instrument