Welcome to the world of
                       Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

My oh' my, what on earth had I let myself in for?  
       What had started out as a bit of bravado, had suddenly taken on a different quality.  Now, instead of a dream, I was facing a nightmare.  I sat down heavily, the letter still in my hand, somewhat crumpled in that first moment of panic.  I read it again, but this time more slowly.
                            
            
            CONGRATULATIONS  PAUL CRAMM

               You will play as you have never played before, in front of an invited audience.  

               It is your choice    your dream.
                Again, congratulations.

      Then it went on to routine details of organisation, and my heart sank.
It was only a joke after all; never expected it to go this far.  In any case, my chances of winning were zilch.  Well at least, that's what I thought.  Now I'll have to write and tell them that it was a mistake. Tell them he doesn't live here anymore.
    I screwed up the letter, threw it into the fire and went out; down to the pub.  I needed a drink.
    Of course that's where it all started, showing off as usual.  One of the younger members of my group, had
brought this cutting from the paper  I think fancied himself as a bit of a Tom Jones. Anyway, it was on about this concert, saying that they wanted non-musicians to apply for a special venture. They wanted to show that music is for everyone, and that with their support six people could learn to play, or sing, to concert performance standard in six months.  If this would be your ‘Dream Come True' it had said. Just fill in the form and tell us why it should be you.  
     ‘Easy peasy' I boasted. Well I'd had a couple  hadn't I?  and not for the first time I stuck
my chin out, and I got socked  didn't I?
    They filled in the form there and then, and I never gave it another thought.  Don't even know who posted it. What a stupid idiot I am; but I'm not doing it and that's that!
     The following morning while in the lounge I spotted the crumpled letter just under a chair.  I knew what it was before I picked it up, even though I was sure I had thrown it into the fire. What I hadn't seen as I turned away last night, was that I had thrown it too hard, and it had simply bounced out; not even singed.
     Carefully I smoothed out the page, and read it yet again.  Looking back, I can see that that was to be the turning point. For as I read, thoughts, indeed visions, of how it night might be came into my mind.  The Grand piano, the tails, those famous musicians almost surrounding me, with their conductor, baton at the ready, smiling at me and waiting for that little nod to tell him I was ready. A hushed silence as fifteen hundred people waited for that first note.  The anticipation was real, and so was the little tremble I could feel.
    ‘Wouldn't that be something?'  Not thoughts now but words, spoken quietly, but with a
feeling that was new to me; ‘wouldn't that just be bloody something?'  A mixture of calm and panic descended as I spoke those words; but I knew then that I had decided.
    For a moment there were no more words, no more thoughts.  Fate had intervened in a strange way, and was to change my life.  I jumped up as if startled and picked up the phone.
Half an hour later I had all the information I needed to make a start, and a music teacher.
     James Martell quickly pricked the bubble.  Any thoughts I might have had of a pleasant
musical experience were soon dispelled.  I was in for six months of hell, six months of hard labour, and six months on a learning curve so steep, that I was almost certain to fall off.  He knew, far more than me, the enormity of the task, and that time would be the enemy.
    ‘Sit down Mr Cramm' he said as he took me to his lounge.  I moved towards an armchair, but he forestalled me. ‘At the piano please'                 
     Our meeting had not really been cordial, rather it was formal and brief.  Perhaps he was
unhappy that the sponsor's had not found him a younger student for this project; someone
considerably further from the retirement divide. A protege to be discovered?  Whatever the reason, his welcome was less than warm.
    And so it started.  No introduction to the instrument; no cosy chat about music, or musical
theory.  Hands on the key board, thumb of right hand presses on C  (Mr Martell had pointed to the key, a white note near the middle), then the right index finger on D  (The next white note) middle finger on E, fourth on F, and then with considerable difficulty my thumb came under my hand to strike the next white note G, and then it was the index again onto A, middle on B, and finally my fourth finger on C.
    I had played my first scale, never mind that it was somewhat less convincing than Jules
Holland; I had made a start and I was on my way.  
     ‘Do it again' my teacher said; and again, and again. ‘And now’ he said ‘with the left hand’       Oh the left hand!, it never seemed to catch up  over and over again.  So it went for the first month, scales and more scales.  Scales until my fingers ached.  Scales in all sorts of keys, majors and minors, sharps and flats. It was like a new language. Right hand, left hand, both hands, sometimes up, sometimes down,  the left hand always struggling to keep up, and never seeming quite to make it.  
     But wait a minute. The last few days weren't all that bad, and I was beginning to notice a distinct sense of rhythm.  Those scales were starting to sound a little like music, and, most important,  Mr Martell had smiled a few times where before he would only grimace.
    We had reached some kind of a milestone, but would it be enough?  The answer was no.  It was about this time that the realization of what I was doing  what I was trying to do  hit home, and with it the recognition of my limited skills.  In spite of my tutor's slight shift in attitude, I was sure that he knew it too.  My newly discovered sense of achievement disappeared as quick as it came, and so did the  coordination in my fingers.  I felt that I gone back to the beginning.  The sense of despair and failure was very real, and at that time I was looking for a way out.
    Mr Martell on the other hand was not.  Of course he had nothing to lose; his fee was paid
regardless of the outcome, and so, with some astuteness he persuaded me to carry on.
    ‘After all' he reasoned, ‘even if you don't make the concert, you will still be able to play the piano better than you have ever been able to play before'
    It was a telling argument, for that had been the whole point of it all.  To make music, and
not just to listen. And so, with a slightly more achievable goal now in my mind I resumed the keyboard exercises, and fairly soon caught up.  Knowing and believing that I too had nothing to lose had brought me to a different understanding. The crises had not been overcome by any means, but for the time being at least, it had been circumnavigated.
    Now the time had come to choose a piece of music.  Not just any piece, but the music I was to play at the concert.  But how?  What did I know, and there is so much to choose from; so I asked my tutor to make the choice for me.
    ‘Chopin' he said, straight out.  No pause, no thinking;  just Chopin.
    ‘OK' I answered, pleased, even relieved at such a positive lead.  ‘which piece?'
    There he was not quite so emphatic.  ‘I will need to consider that a little, but it will be
Chopin'
    Chopin it was and by the next day the decision had been made, and I made a hesitant start on his Etude No 12, the so called ‘Revolutionary'.  The very name gave me hope, for if I were to pull this off it would indeed be a personal revolution.
    It was a piece I had heard, its main theme being familiar, but now I had to discover its soul. Placing the music in its written form in front of me did little to bolster my confidence.  My rudimentary knowledge of musical notation would require  if I was going to triumph in this endeavour  nothing less than a quantum leap.
     Another month went by, and yet another, with little progress to show for it.  The tutor gave it everything, having realized that my challenge had also become his.  No longer stiff and somewhat aloof, he was now patience personified, taking what small talent I had, and moulding it far beyond my own expectations. But still, always at the back of my mind, was the question; would that be enough?  We had passed the half way mark and my playing of the piece even after three months, was awkward and uninspiring.  Contrasting this with the  recording I had acquired, played by a Russian maestro, only served to illustrate my shortcomings.  There was a long way to go.
    James (we were now on first name terms)  was pushing me hard, and though he knew the
measure of the task  and, I'm sure, the likelihood of failure  he never once expressed uncertainty.  He was relentless, and was now correcting relatively small mistakes, so that expression and timing was as important as getting the right notes and chords.  By now I was sounding more like a pianist than ever before, though still woefully short of where I needed to be.  
     That ‘dream come true' concert still looked as far away as ever.  Was it going to be my ‘impossible dream'?
Another month of intense training and practice flew by.  The sound of ‘that' music ever present.  Nothing else was allowed to enter my world; friends and family became distant; and visits to the ‘local' few and far between.  And when I wasn't playing ‘that music' with my hands I was playing it in my mind.  It was now part of me.
     Whether or not I had discovered its soul, I could not say, but of one thing I was sure. It had certainly discovered mine.
     Only four weeks to go, and for the first time since this whole thing started, I was beginning to believe that there was a glimmer of hope.  I was playing Chopin's Etude No 12, in a way, and with a skill, that would have been unthinkable just a few months ago.  
 No way was I ever going to be a threat to other established players; I was not, and would never be, a concert pianist, for I could play nothing else; but when I sat down to play my piece of music, it was as though I had the spirit of ‘Sparkey' in me.
    Then disaster.  Without warning my fingers refused to cooperate, mistakes became frequent, and all my fluency deserted me.  That earlier feeling of impossibility returned, sending me crashing into deep despair once more.  It was less than a week from the big day, and suddenly all my confidence and self belief was gone.  No matter that up to last week things had been going well. Indeed, it had been remarkable;  unbelievable.  James had somehow identified all the little errors; all the flaws in both my interpretation and execution.  One by one they had been worked on and eliminated.  Each in turn had been resolved so that my technique was smooth and convincing.  Now I found myself listening to myself playing and wondering how can it be? Who can it be?  Feelings of self doubt returned. How was it possible for me to be doing this?  I could  not understand and, as though to justify my fear, told myself that it can't be me.
     James convinced me that it was nerves.  Simple stage fright, and he spent a couple of
valuable days on mental exercises and tricks to persuade me.  Somehow - Lord knows how -  he managed to coax me into believing that the ordeal ahead would turn into triumph.  Perhaps I know now why he was appointed to this task, for clearly his skills went far beyond those of simply teaching music.
    Two days to go, and I was still very nervous, still fearful and uncertain, but James has managed to repair, at least partially,  my broken spirit.
    One day to go, and this was to be my last lesson.  For some time now James and I had
stopped thinking in terms of lessons, and more in terms of a crusade.  It certainly seemed like that, just as the organisers of the whole concert saw it.  A crusade.
     ‘Music is for everyone',  was their slogan, but I was yet to find if there was a place for me
in their grand scheme.
    Six times I played the piece, glad to feel the presence of ‘Sparkey' again  a feeling that I
thought had deserted me   and the comfortable sensation that I was not on my own.  Then I stopped and looked at James.  He smiled, reached forward and closed the lid over the keyboard.  His ‘grand' piano had been at once my enemy and my friend, but either way it could do no more for me now.  I had reached the point of no return; I could go no further; win or loose I was ready.
     I went home on cloud nine not knowing if I was in heaven or on earth.  To say I was excited would only describe part of how I felt, for in truth, under the veneer of excitement I was scared to death.  I thought of somebody crossing the Niagara Falls on a tightrope for the first time.  How would I feel if that were me, knowing what the price of failure would be.  Or getting into a boxing ring for the world championships.  Would I emerge victorious, or would I be carried off bloody and broken?
    These were the dark thoughts that broke through my optimism, but James had covered this too.
    ‘Don't be put off by doubts' he had said repeatedly ‘you are ready, and you can do it'
    I had left my home quite early, so when I returned, I was not surprised to find a few letters
waiting behind the door, where they had fallen.
    There was the usual crop of junk mail, but one was printed on the back ‘Millennium
Awards', The sponsors of ‘Dream Come True' .  I put it down on the kitchen table while I made a cup of tea, though curious as to its content.  All the arrangements had been made, so I couldn't guess what it might be.  Perhaps a last minute good luck message.  
     ‘Yes, I expect it will be something like that' I told myself.
    Settled now, sitting in an armchair in the lounge, a cup of tea at my side, I opened the letter and started to read.  I froze.  I started again, hardly believing.  I felt the blood drain from by body, my head spinning, my stomach churning.  Where my earlier dark thoughts had been balanced, nay countered, with brighter  more positive ideas, now  there was only blackness.  
      It was all off; my dream dashed into a million pieces.     Ten minutes of total gloom followed before I dared to look at the letter again.
    ‘Dear Mr Cramm,' it had started, ‘we are sorry to tell you that due to unforeseen
circumstances were are obliged to withdraw our offer of a place in the Dream Come True concert'.
     It went on in this vein for a few lines, explaining that more finalists had been accepted for the concert, assuming that some would drop out.  Unfortunately none had, so they had no choice but to ‘ask some of you to step back'.  Then it concluded . . . we are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause you.
    I could hardly believe it ‘Inconvenience'  I shouted ‘why don't you come and cut my heart out'
     And I knew that those carefully chosen words ‘ask some of you to step back'  would haunt
me foe ever.
    ‘Why me' I asked myself ‘do they know something that I don't' all my self doubts returning, but with nothing now to stop them taking over.
    An hour went by before I moved again, the letter still in my hand, a cup of cold tea by my
side.  An hour in which numbness was gradually replaced with anger.
    Anger at such insensitivity.  They, more than anyone knew the cost in emotional terms that I had paid.  They knew the anguish and torment that I, like all the others, had endured.  They knew, more than anyone, that what I was faced with now was not merely inconvenience.  I had lost; no; it had been stolen, an opportunity that would have changed my life.  
     ‘And all for what?'  I almost spat out the words.  ‘Just so I could play one miserable piece of music'
    Why that last thought should have made me smile I do not know, but I got up and walked
to the dining room table, on which sat my electronic keyboard.  No Grand piano for me, not even an upright ‘honky tonk'; only my plug in electric substitute.  Fortunately it was full size and a decent make, and though it’s light years from a concert ‘grand', it had been my constant companion during the last six months.
    I sat down and played.  For the first time since all this had started I was completely free from other priorities, and for the very first time I was playing ‘my’ piece of music for me alone.  Not just for me alone I realized, for again I sensed the presence of that magical spirit.  I knew he was still with me, for I played the piece flawlessly.  
     ‘At least they cant take that back'  My first positive thought since I opened the letter.
    I stood up, wiping away the tears which I had been unable to stop, opened up the bureau and took out some paper.  Two things had to be done, and the sooner the better, before my anger and my resolve deserted me.  First I must write a letter.  The words flowed like never before, and I told Millennium Awards, in words as expressive as the music I had discovered,  exactly what I thought of them.  Feeling very much better for having got that off my chest, I put on my coat and went down the road to the pub to face my friends who I knew would be gathering to give me their good wishes for tomorrow's concert.
    This might be the hardest part of it, for there had been no way to confirm my claims as to
my progress, and at times some doubts had been expressed.  What had started as a joke, had become a reality, but now, full circle, it was going to be a joke again.  But this time the joke would be on me.
    Somehow I got through the evening; endured the jibes, ignored the outbursts of laughter, and, no doubt helped by the extra couple of pints, even managed to enjoy the evening, knowing that the episode was over, and that my life was back to where it had been six months ago.
     Nothing had changed.
   When finally I got into my bed, the beer, the release of tension, and the knowledge that I
would not be crossing the Niagara Falls after all, had all combined; and in spite of a million thoughts spinning in my mind, I quickly settled into a deep but fitful sleep.  Images of concert halls and ambidextrous hands playing on an endless keyboard, as baton wielding administrators in overall waved their music in my face; while dress suited electricians and joiners invaded the darkness.
    When I awoke I was feeling distinctly odd, but determined that I would  have my day, and I arrived at the town hall ready to take on the world. But my blustering and shouting disappeared when no-one tried to stop me. I had expected more of a fight so I was a little surprised they readily agreed to let me go on after all.
    ‘Ha' I thought, ‘I bet someone has dropped out after all'
                                             -
The concert has started and I am on next. My earlier calm has gone and I am shaking.  It's been a wonderful concert so far, and I have been lucky to get a second half spot.  All the others have performed well, and the audience, now in their countless thousands, and fully aware of the anguish that each soloist has gone through, have been magnificent.  The interval was a buzz of excitement from those who have done their bit, and nervous chatter for those yet to face their own ‘dream come true'
    The audience explodes again as yet one more dreamer completes her moment of glory, and has sung her last song.  She comes off the stage followed by the conductor, who gives her a little hug, then takes her straight back into the ‘limelight' for a second ovation.  
     They return and he comes to me.
    ‘Are you ready Paul' he asks quietly.
    ‘As much as I ever will be' I answer, my mouth as dry as the desert.
    He takes a quick look, checking that the piano is back in place.
    ‘Off you go' he say's pushing me gently forward, and as I emerge onto the stage, followed
by the maestro.  My first view from the stage takes my breath.  The audience  stretches out as far as the eye can see, far into the night sky until they gradually merge with the clouds.  As I appear on stage they erupt once more, their thunderous noise echoing into space, and I know, with a feeling that makes my body shake, that it's all for me.
    As I sit down on the piano stool, my tails are nearly touching the floor; I make myself comfortable then look at the conductor.  He is standing in front of the combined forces of that famous Brass Band, a national name and winners of countless awards; and the north's leading orchestra. Baton in hand; raised expectantly he pauses.  He is wearing a questioning smile as he waits for a little signal from me.
    Remarkably at this moment I felt completely at ease, and I know that with Sparkey by my side I am not alone.  I know too that all the people in this endless auditorium are willing me to succeed, and are sharing with me the magic of this moment.   
     I could not help remembering those first thoughts so long ago, when I had decided to go for it.
     ‘Won't that be something?'  I had asked myself then.
      ‘Isn’t this just ‘bloody' something?  I am telling myself now.
    I am ready, and give the conductor, James Martell, a little nod.  He smiles as my hands and the keyboard merge, and the music starts.
     Was it a minute or an hour? I don't know;  I am playing my music as if possessed, my fingers and those of a hundred other musicians in complete harmony, as phrase after phrase we play, on and on until time seems to have stopped.
    But now I can hear something else. It seems to have started a long way away; far beyond the horizon where vision blurs into nothingness.  I am concentrating on the music, but something is happening.  How this vast audience can see and hear I do not know, but somehow they have sensed that I am coming to the climax and from that far distance there is a sound.  A gentle murmur at first that became a rising drone, and as I play those final chords it is now a roar as it sweeps forward like a tidal wave.  
     In that final cacophony it is all over. I am consumed with ecstasy but I take a moment to compose myself before I stand and turn to face the countless faces, cheering still, and filling the sky with their thunderous noise.   I move forward to take my bow.
    Was ever a man so happy?  Was there ever a better dream?  A dream come true.


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