Novel 7

 

Chapter 7

Bob-a-job.

In the early days of television – back in the day, as they say – but in actual fact the early fifties, there was only one channel on television, the BBC. And because there was only one channel, all kinds of programmes would be shown, so if you liked television, which Finbar did, you could learn a lot.

For instance there was a series of programmes called 'The Brain's Trust', where the intellectuals of the day, would discuss everything from philosophy, to sociology, religion, the theatre – you name it.

Some of the people featured were the novelist William Golding, the philosopher Bertrand Russell, the novelist Rebecca West and Jacob Bronowski, the Polish mathematician and philosopher, to name but a few.

There were full orchestral concerts, and as Finbar would never be without his harmonica, he would join in as he got to know some of the pieces. He loved the music of Bach but couldn't do the counterpoint as he would need two instruments for that – maybe on a piano he could do that.

He knew Bach's 'Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring' and could play the main theme then he would follow it with the counterpoint.

He became quite proficient; he didn't have to use the button on his harmonica as it didn't seem to require sharps and flats.

There was a piano in the house, which his mother played, but she wouldn't accompany the concerts, like Finbar.

As he was a bit bigger he could sit on the pillion of his dad's motor bike, and could be taken to where his pals from school lived.

One place was what they called a yard. It was a group of small terraced houses, quite common in Birmingham, in a concrete area where there would be a clothes line and a communal group of lavatories.

Neighbours would leave their front doors open which meant if they were playing music, everyone could hear it. The first day he was there, he heard the song 'High Noon' sung by Tex Ritter and then Frankie Laine blaring out from one of the houses.

A bit of a change for Finbar, as he was used to hearing Irish music, jigs and reels and Josef Locke the Irish tenor.

“What station is that?” came a voice from one of the doors.

“My records.” came the answer.

“I was trying to tune in – sounds great.”

And the music carried on.

Finbar didn't really like to be hemmed in, when playing, and some of the games the kids seemed to be playing were not for him.

Back home he would go into his little sheriff's office, sit with his feet on the desk, his cowboy hat on the back of the door, or on the back of his head, and go through the wanted posters to see which bandits, or banditos, would be in town.

The fact that none of them existed didn't deter him one little bit. The music from 'High Noon' would be in his head, and once in a while, he would shut up shop, strap his revolver to his belt and leave the office - after leaving strict instructions of what to do if he was shot-down.

At the top of the lane was a music shop, and displayed in the window was the sheet music to 'High Noon' – Do Not forsake me oh my darling – bump buppa bump buppa bump.

One of the times when he went back in the house his mother, Carmel, told him to sit down on the sofa; he did.

Then she opened the gramophone and put a record on. Finbar's face lit up when he heard - bump buppa bump buppa bump: High Noon.

That really set him off. His mother had bought the 78rpm slate record from Barratt's shop on the main road. He knew they had it in stock as he saw it on his way to school every morning.

The house, where they lived and loved - the cottage - was two up and two down. The living room, which the front door opened to, was about sixteen feet by about ten feet; maybe a bit more – maybe a it less – but who knows?

There was a big black fire place which you could boil a kettle on when the coal fire was lit, and there was a piano, a television and a gramophone.

Finbar didn't know how to work the gramophone so had to wait for either his mammy or daddy to do it.

The kitchen was so tiny it was unbelievable how Mrs Carmel Callahan could get so much stuff in to it, and Patrick had to extend a bit around by the window to get the hoover twin tub in.

No refrigerator, in those days and no telephone; that was only for the rich, and nobody would have one as they would say they didn't want the bills running up.

At the back of the living room was a wall. A plain wall and behind that wall, was a mystery. It was actually the back garden of the first big house on the main road. Maybe not the teacher's, who lived in one of them, but a garden none the less, and that garden too, faced the railway embankment.

But Finbar didn't know this, and wouldn't till he climbed into it one day.

Upstairs two bedrooms, a little box room for Finbar and the bigger room for his parents. No bathroom or lavatory, and that's what they'd call it. The word toilet wasn't used till a lot later. The middle class thought that lavatory was a bit vulgar when, in fact, as it turned out socially, toilet was the crude one.

Children only heard the word toilet when they went to the dentist. As they were called in for their appointment the dental nurse would say “Finbar: do you want to go to the toilet?”

He hated the dentist and for such a gentle fair headed little fella, with no hate in him, he also hated school.

What was the use of school when he could be at home fantasising his life on the range? In fact he hated school all the time till the day he left.

His parents entered him for the eleven plus – 11+ - which was the entrance exam for a place in a grammar school. This was a better education than the secondary modern choice, but he knew he wouldn't pass. This was not because he might not be clever enough, it was that he didn't work at school.

In the mathematics paper, for instance, he noticed a certain pattern of how they set the page out for multiplication – a number on one line, then an ex (x) next to that a double figure, e.g. eleven to ninety nine.

He remembered seeing the page like that, in a lesson, but couldn't figure what came next. He could see the two sets of figures, and knew the answer, but not how to put it down on paper.

So he failed the eleven plus. Later when he went to the secondary modern boys' school, he sat the twelve plus and the thirteen plus and noticed when he returned back to school that some boys passed and would leave at the end of the term.

He sat every examination to other schools too, which were available at that time: Arts School, Commercial School, Technical School and, of course, re sits for the grammar school.

He treated them like a day off from regular school, and he thought he would just paint all day at the Art examination, but he didn't care when he found out there was also maths and English for the Art School too.

But he never stayed at school till the end for a very good reason.

All those exams would be in the future as he had only sat the first grammar school examination after he reached the age of eleven.

At that age, not only could he play Bach on the harmonica, but Vivaldi and Mozart. He didn't know the names of the pieces, but could play them quite well.

This was because of the concerts he had been watching on television.

He also listened to The Billy Cotton Band Show on the radio and Life with the Lyons.

One day he was listening to the radio and a knock came on the door.

He answered it to a boy scout in uniform who said “bob a job.”

Finbar didn't understand.

“you give me a bob, and I do a job for you”

“My mam and dad are out”

“Oh, okay” said the boy scout “shall I come back later.”

In the days a bob, was a shilling, and the scout movement would have 'bob a job week' and would do little jobs for people who would pay them one shilling. The theory was they would do little jobs like shopping or the dishes.

Some people would take advantage and have them doing heavy jobs.

His parents returned later, the boy scout went to the co-op, across the main road, for a few pounds of potatoes and Finbar joined the boy scouts.

Chapter Eight

The Scouts.

Laurence Olivier.

 

                              Laurence Olivier.  

I read a biography of Laurence Olivier at one time, and the writer opined that he was the greatest actor in the world for one reason, and one reason alone; because he wanted to be.

Now there is something to that.

Not too long ago I wrote a post about Mark Rylance whom it was considered was the current (then) best actor in the world; same reason! He wanted to be - or people wanted him to be - or whatever floated their boat or, to be more precise, filled their theatres.

There was something else I read about Olivier and it opened (not opined this time) by saying 'he was no intellectual' – I mean how could he be, he left school at 15? Okay he went to drama school but so did I; and left school at 15.

Even though Olivier may have been considered to be the best actor in the world, at one time, according to the great man himself, he had to do about 30 or 40 takes in a film, with William Wyler, and when he got frustrated, he said to Wyler “Willie; I did it this way, I've done it that way. I've done it faster and slower - what do you want me to do?”

And Wyler said “I want you to do it better!”

Best actor in the world?

The thing is – and it might have been whilst getting the above direction – he stamped his character on Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights – Samuel Goldwyn called it Withering Heights, according to Olivier.

In fact the anecdotes above are from Olivier himself.

The thing about Heathcliff is that he was from the back streets of Liverpool – a bit of rough – and he fell for the lady of the house, the posh girl and Olivier played him with a posh English accent. Today he would be played by someone from Liverpool.

There are people – actors – here who still worship him; of course there are others who don't like him at all, but he had the two or three things it calls for to be a star – he was ambitious, talented and not very clever.

I think the latter is very important because, according to the great playwright Brien Friel, to be a star to have to have huge huge ambition, a talent that is sensational and unique (there's only one Sir Laurence) and no brain.

And when you think about it, it has a lot of truth.

I know – and I am bound to know – a lot of actors. A lot of them are friends but none of my friends are huge stars – I have a very famous cousin, whom I have never met and when I think about him he may be as thick as two short planks too, for all I know; I don't know, which is why I won't name him, but Friel's view is that brains get in the way. 

Maybe they do and maybe they don't!

If you wanted to be a movie star, you are good looking and you think you have what it takes, what kind of a reaction would you get if you took the idea to the bank?

What kind of business plan would you present to them and if they fell for it, what advice would these very clever people give you?

Imagine, for one wonderful moment, going on to the TV show Dragon's Den.

The people on Dragon's Den (they changed the title in America to Shark's Tank.) – the so called Dragons – are the most ambitious kind of people there are, but would you really want to have a drink with them?

They'd be talking about the business plan, the yield, the profit, the bottom line – I have been in the company of such people and I have seen the attitude and the way their face changes if you give them a good idea.

I was on a train once and standing next to me was a businessman with the suit, the brief case, the Financial Times, the whole nine yards, and he complained about the train.

It was British Rail then and he said they had no idea (BR that was – look at it now) how to run it. 

And I said “why don't they put advertisements at the back of the seats” and a bulb went off in his head; I could see it.

“Advertise!” he said.

His name?

I have no idea who he was! But that bulb!!

As I was saying I know loads of actors and I have known briefly well known ones on the way up: pains in the arse, stars up there: pains in the arse and stars who were stars here and when I met them in Hollywood they were nice people again; they were lost, they didn't know where to go, where to network (arse hole creep) but when I pointed them in the right direction they became pains in the arse again.

Not being able to look you in the eye in case an important casting director or director came into the room, so they could talk to them and you know it's a sight to see.

What happens is, they sidle up to their prey with a big smile on their face and start a little chat; after about three minutes or so another person will come up and take the head honcho away - I'm sure they are hired to do this – leaving the networker marooned in the middle of the floor.

But you will see others, other networkers, dappled throughout the room, waiting to pounce like hyenas on the savanna – in fact looking like hyenas with their teeth, ready to smile, and their eyes widening and scrunching so as to show them off at their best, waiting for their victim to be alone.

I think the reason I don't know the big big stars intimately is that they don't seem to have many friends; on the way up they twitch and walk around, can't sit down for long, they worry that they'll miss a phone call or a casting and they are no company at all and in any case, as in Hollywood, they drop you and forget you as soon as you've shown them the way.

They pretend to forget you as they know that you know what kind of a prat they really are.

I met quite a few stars in Hollywood and some of them were nice – George Clooney is charming and quite well informed – so it doesn't happen to everybody.

Novel 6

 

Chapter Six.

The Liberties.

The Liberties, in Dublin, is one of the City's oldest, historic, working class areas.

Why is it called The Liberties, and not The Liberty?

It is because it joined two districts which were each called The Liberty: one was The Liberty of Saint Sepulchre, under the Archbishop of Dublin and the other was The Liberty of Thomas Court and Donore, belonging to Saint Thomas the Martyr.

The Liberties, as it is called, lies between those two jurisdictions.

It is in the centre of Dublin, between the River Liffey to the north, Saint Patrick's Cathedral to the east, Warrenmount to the south and Saint James Campus Hospital to the west.

A certain Patrick John Timothy Joseph Callahan, was young Finbar's father. He was born in the Liberties at the Coombe Maternity Hospital, and all those forenames was a common practice for Roman Catholics to bestow upon their off spring -- rather like members of the Royal Families and upper class rulers of Europe, but his names were not inherited from heroes and ancestors of the past but mostly saints.

Therefore Patrick, as a first name, or as they used to call it, the Christian name, John as a middle name, Timothy a baptism name and Joseph the confirmation name. 

Although by the time you get to Joseph, it would be quite obvious that this was a Roman Catholic.

He was the youngest child of a family of seven boys, and his eldest brother was twenty six years older so Patrick must have been an after thought, to his parents, and was such a big bundle that his darling mother died in the process.

His father, Joe, was also a seventh son, so Patrick was the healer, the curer or the layabout, who thought he had the gift to be able to lay his hand on an ailment, and make it disappear. The maladies he made disappear were probably, on their way out, in any case, but he would get the credit.

He didn't do very well at school and was following in his father's footsteps - as a bookie's runner.

Joe would also sell advertising space for the newspapers by calling on lots of businesses, in Dublin, which Patrick was trying in Clerys, a very fashionable department store, when Carmel Wilde walked into his life.

She lived in Dalkey, which is a salubrious suburb, or town, about ten miles south of Dublin.

Carmel Wilde would be described as Anglo-Irish  who were mostly protestant, and described by the working class, and the very loyal and committed republican, Brendan Behan, as Ireland's 'leisure class', and ingeniously described an Anglo-Irishman as a Protestant with a horse.

Carmel could, indeed, ride a horse as she had joined a local hunt when she was attending Kylemore Abbey School for girls, in Galway, and rode for pleasure in and around Dalkey.

In Clerys, Patrick had been following the man who was responsible for local advertising, who had wandered into the lingerie section of the Ladies clothing department in the great store, as soon as he saw Patrick enter the building.

The fact is he had been there a few times that week, and each time when the galoot saw him coming, would dodge into some door.

Patrick knew that selling advertising in those days was a long time between drinks, so his persistence was understandable.

Joe was in McDaids pub in Grafton Street waiting for Patrick to come and buy the drinks. He was sitting there with a thirst that would make a monk eat snow, looking at the door in the crowded pub with the barman looking at Joe Callahan, wondering if he was going to come up and settle his bar bill that day. He was reluctant to ask for more credit as a refusal would offend him.

Clerys advert had been published in the newspaper and the galoot who was avoiding him had taken the money from the petty cash, to pay Patrick, but had spent it at Bewley's Coffee shop, also in Grafton Street, when some young ladies, whom he knew from school - if you could call them ladies, as they looked like a bunch banshees in search of a death.

He wanted to cut a dash and splash the cash so Bewley's was the place. A very select place, Bewleys, and the young ladies were escorted from the building, by the manager, when it became clear they were adding a drop of mountain dew to their drinks.

That wasn't the only reason they were kicked out, but the fact that they were passing the drinks around and starting a hooley didn't impress anybody.

Joe looked at that door and thought to himself, and who else would he think to 'Where is that shite?'

Carmel was in Clerys to buy her favourite lingerie, which was from the French fashion house, Legaby and as Patrick looked around for the person he wanted he stepped back, as Carmel came out of the fitting room, and almost stepped on her “Sorry” he said.

He looked at her; she was younger, almost his size and he couldn't take his eyes off her, and stepping back, as he did, he had knocked the underwear, she was carrying, on to the floor. They both stooped to lift it up and Patrick was quicker; she stood up and he joined her then he gave her what she had dropped.

“Sorry” he said, again “I hope it's okay?”

She was as besotted with him as he was with her, but she almost snatched it from him, pulling the items to her chest.

It wasn't much, but each knew they were not finished.

Joe looked at the Gothic style windows of McDaids, knowing full well, that the place used to be The Dublin City Morgue, long before it was a pub - even being converted in to a chapel, at one time, and wondering if he would die of thirst and thinking if he did he would be in the right place.

Chapter 7

Bob-a-job.

Novel 5.

Chapter Five

Loneliness.

At the bottom of their fairly long garden, was a wall. This was the rear, or the side, if you want to be pedantic, of some kind of office building and showroom, and if they came out of Finbar's garden gate and turned right, passed the other three houses, in the group of cottages, they would reach the lane which led to the street.

They called that 'the lane' and Finbar always thought that he was the little boy who lived down the lane, as in the nursery rhyme 'Ba Ba Black Sheep. ' . . . three bags full: one for the master, one for the dame and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.'

All his life he would identify with that little boy; the little boy who lived down the lane.

At the top of the little lane, the main road, led south to the left, and right to almost the centre of Birmingham - a mile and a half away.

The cottages were, obviously, workmen cottages: in the nineteenth century, this area was farm land. Either that or something to do with the railway, although the company who owned the showroom, also owned the four cottages.

Every week, Finbar would be entrusted to deliver the eight shillings, and eleven pence (8/11d) rent at the front office.

The opening of the lane was wide enough for a motor car and at the end of the lane, passed Finbar's house on the way back, behind a fence, was a railway line and an embankment up to it.

Finbar didn't know where the train led to but it went into Moore Street Station, in the city centre, to accommodate trains from London Marylebone.

When the family moved there, first, they had to get used to the noise of the trains passing, and in the summer times the embankment would, invariably, catch fire, as the steam trains passed, so the fire brigade had to arrive down the lane and douse the fire.

When Finbar was off school, weekends and bank holidays, he would play in the garden by himself. Once in a while he would venture up the lane to the street: to the right, the big Victorian houses, where the school teacher lived, and to the left the way to school.

He lived a little more than a mile from his school, which was for the Infants and Juniors, who were due to leave at the age of eleven and go to the senior school till they left school altogether at fifteen.

Then off to the scrap heap of a factory, a building site or the army. Anybody born before around 1938 would have to serve two years, at least, in either the army, navy or air force.

It was too far for any of his friends at school to come to see him so nobody would come to play.

The nearest child who lived fairly close by, which was half way up his lane, and that was the rear of a posh shoe shop which fronted on the main road was a girl who went to a private school, somewhere, and she didn't play with him very often.

He would stand at the end of the garden, pathetically looking back over the gate, and his parents would see him standing there, not knowing what to do.

Once in a while they would take him for a long walk to Cannon Hill Park, which had beautiful gardens, and other times they went to another park which was mostly asphalt and a hard tarmac surface.

There was a display there, for a while, maybe a post war tour from the government, of a jet aircraft, with some tanks, and his parents took him to that. He loved sitting in the cockpit of the jet fighter and he also sat in the tank, which impressed him enormously.

But most of the time it was in the garden by himself.

They rented a television set, which was common practice in those days, from a shop at the end of Balsall Heath Road, which was opposite the main road where they lived. It broke down sometimes and the owner of the shop would come and fix it for them.

They didn't have a television in time for the coronation of The Queen, but they saw that at the cinema, in fact that was where they would see the news and also sporting event highlights which was usually football and boxing.

Back down the lane, if he turned left outside of the garden gate, it would lead to the lavatories. On the left of those was a wash room where previous residents would communally do their laundry.

None of the current crop bothered with it, if it indeed worked, but in any case the other three cottages were occupied by very old people.

There was another door, which faced the lane and that was to a small storage space. On that door was a little sign 'Sheriff's Office; Finbar Callahan – oh yes, that was his last name.

Finbar had nailed that notice on the door; it was the outside of his wooden pencil case which he had used and written the copy in crayon. That was when he played cowboys; by himself.

Sometimes, after paying the rent, he would stay outside and sit on a very low window ledge and watch the world go by.

In those days, that part of his world attracted a lot of West Indians, mainly Jamaicans, and he loved to see the men walking in their double breasted suits - especially the powdered blue ones – and they usually had fairly tight bottoms to the trousers which would balloon out slightly as they walked; and could they walk.

Across the street was a pub, which his dad frequented at weekends and that was on the corner of Balsall Heath Road.

To the left, the other side of the showroom, was another bigger pub which was next to an opening to the rear of the shops beyond.

All shops and businesses, a doctor's surgery a little shop and then a Protestant church.

He knew that doctor's surgery as his mother knew the 'live in' caretaker who was a sixty year old woman from Limerick, Ireland.

All shops and businesses; not a child in sight.

Almost opposite the little window ledge, where he was sitting, was Vincent Street, and on Saturdays and Sundays, he would take Vincent Street to Saint George's Church for the convent on Saturdays and Mass on Sundays.

In the first shop doorway, he had seen something that he would remember for the rest of his life: an advertising card which read 'Room to let: No Blacks, no Irish and no Dogs.

Chapter Six.

The Liberties.

Novel 4

 

Chapter 4

Piano Lessons II.

Sometimes the bigger fella, or the slightly older fella – the other boy - wasn't at piano lessons on the days of Finbar's lesson. Those were the days when there were no thumps, no slight strangulation - in fact peace and tranquillity, even though Finbar had probably never heard the word tranquillity, let alone spell it. The bullying had kind of tapered off, in any case, maybe because Finbar was getting bigger.

It was a fine day, a day in the summer, when Finbar turned up for his lesson. The trouble with the piano playing was not that his hands were too small, but some of the bass chords, and even the melody line, were made of too many notes. It might have been easy, for Mister Ferris to play, for that was the piano teacher's name, but not for Finbar.

In fact the very first lesson had sent Finbar home with a little exercise piece that was very easy on the ear and it gave his parents great pleasure to hear. It made them think that the half- a-crown they paid per lesson, was money well spent. His mother was quite an accomplished pianist and played stride piano, rather like Fats Waller.

The piece Finbar played, on that first day, was just a simple exercise piece which comprised of a one finger note 'C' followed by a two fingered chord: you can hear it, it goes bum ta ta, bum ta ta, and the 'C' note would be the bum.

But as time went on the music for The Blue Danube, which is what he had graduated to, in the mind of Mister Ferris, looked like a load of spiders which had been found in a nest and thrown at a white wall.

On this day, Finbar had been sitting in the garden, playing his harmonica, delighting the neighbours, for it was soft and sweet with a nice melody; Galway Bay, it was called, known to people, from the first line of the lyric as 'If you ever go across the sea to Ireland, then maybe at the closing of the day.'

Sometimes he could hear his parents humming along, or even whistling it, long after he had finished.

“What does that button do?” his father said that day.

“It lifts the tone' said Finbar.

“Like the black notes?”

Finbar thought for a moment: The Blue Danube with its load of sharps, four actually, which made it E Major, but Finbar didn't know that. He just knew he had to find the black notes each time the note wanted was F, C, G and E.

“I suppose it is” he said, answering his father.

He still played Genevieve, on the harmonica, and he loved the second bit of the tune but 'Galway' which he was playing that day, needed a lot of sucking, and he wondered if he used the button he could stick to blowing; bringing it up half a tone might make it a sharp, he thought. Or he could play the whole thng with the button in, and let it out when he wanted to go down half a tone. That meant they would be flats?

He was about to try this, when his mother told him it was time for his piano lesson. She gave him the half-a-crown for the lesson and off he went.

It was a day when there was no car outside so when he knocked the door, Mister Ferris answered it.

“Hello, Finbar.” he said “come on in”

Finbar paid him and went into the front room: Mister Ferris went back to the other room – to give the money to his sister, Finbar thought.

He took the music from his little case and propped it up into its place on the piano rest as the teacher came back.

“Now where were we?” he said, sitting down.

They found the place and Finbar began to play slowly. In fact so slowly there was no sign of the tune.

Mister Ferris moved his little stick from note to note around the treble line and Finbar would play the treble notes and the bass chord, but not necessarily at the same time!

Then he was time to go to the right hand page and before he played the first chord, Mister Ferris was there first, but his stick kind of wobbled. Then it moved down the page to where the bass line, then lower, then it came back up and started to go around in circles.

Finbar looked at Mister Ferris, and he was leaning forward, then his head went very near the piano keyboard and Finbar stood up.

Mister Ferris was having a fit.

Finbar didn't know the name of Mister Ferris' sister so he went to the door and made some kind of noise “er . .er” and the sister came in, went up to Mister Ferris and cradled his head in her hands. “There now, Leonard, she said “there – there - that's it.”

She looked at Finbar, who was standing there, glued to the floor, not being able to move.

“Time to pop off home” she said.

Finbar went straight to the door and ran home.

He didn't know what to tell his parents, he just said that something happened to him, he was falling forward.

“Don't worry, Finbar, said his mother “he has fits.”

“What?”

“It's a seizure – it'll pass?” she said.

“I don't know what you mean?” said Finbar who had been frightened by the whole episode.

He went into the garden and stood there looking at the chair where he had been sitting and settled into it. He was there for a few minutes, looking to the bottom of the garden. Not much there, just a spade where his dad had been digging. They used to keep hens and there had been a complaint from the old lady who lived next door, who said it would bring rats. The spade was where the hens used to be as his dad had removed the hen house and was trying to flatten the earth. He said he would buy some grass seeds for that bit.

The fright at the piano lesson had put him in mind of another time he was frightened: it was when his dad killed a hen, or a chicken, and it had run around the garden with no head.

It took him a long time to get over it. He wasn't a timid child at all but he likened the two incidents together.

He picked up the harmonica and started play – this time The Dam Busters March. It was from the other film released and it became as famous as Genevieve. Quite easy, he thought, but he couldn't play the middle bit – the middle eight.

As he played he saw Mister Ferris walking to the garden gate. He was wearing a fedora hat and was carrying Finbar's little music case.

Finbar stopped playing “You play that very well” he said.

Finbar wondered if he was upset about him playing the harmonica instead of the piano.

He went in to the house to see Finbar's parents then came out, saying goodbye as he left.

There were quite a few occasions in the future when Mister Ferris had fits, and eventually he retired from piano lessons. It wasn't the last time he would have music lessons but he could read music from then on.

Chapter Five

Loneliness.