The Song of Hartgrove Hall by Natasha Solomons Page A

then that Clara looked hurt. ‘We’re not ready for an audience yet. Let us muddle through for a bit together first.’
    After she left we went into the music room. The lesson did not start well. I brought out the first book, propped it on the stand and called out the names of the notes as I tinkered through the first rather tedious tune. Robin grabbed the book and chucked it onto the floor.
    â€˜Boring,’ he announced. ‘It’s a little tune. It’s silly. I want a proper tune. A big one.’
    â€˜You have to learn the little ones first. The little ones make up the big ones,’ I said and entered into a simple scale.
    Robin lay down on the floor in disgust.
    â€˜But listen,’ I said, aware I was losing him already, ‘I can use those notes to build something else.’
    I launched into two scales at once, crashing in different directions with thundering noise and a lot of show, and then used it to put together the opening of Saint-Saëns’s
Carnival of the Animals.
The piece requires two pianos to be played at once but I did my best alone, although I confess the sheer effort made me breathless and sweaty.
    â€˜You see?’ I said, wiping my forehead. ‘A boring scale can make a lion.’
    â€˜I only want the lion. The scale can go in the rubbish bin.’
    â€˜All right. I’ll show you how to roar like a lion.’
    He settled beside me and I watched with wonder as his small fingers bounded across the keys. We made the piano roar with considerable satisfaction for a quarter of an hour; then Robin stopped and put his fingers in his ears.
    â€˜Another.’
    â€˜Another animal?’
    â€˜OK.’
    We spent the morning hopping through Saint-Saëns’s entiremenagerie. We conjured kangaroos and elephants, blue aquariums brimming with fish, wild horses and cuckoos. It was a warm September day, and beneath the music-room window scarlet Michaelmas daisies bossed pale geraniums into submission. I pictured the animals streaming out of the window and landing on the beds where they thumped, bounced and raced amongst the flowers, flattening every one. I was amazed at the speed with which Robin seized upon each new melody. He only had to hear me play a phrase a few times and he could copy with very few mistakes. He possessed at first, however, no desire to improve or perfect his performance. He was greedy for more tunes, more tricks, more animals, and whenever I dared suggest that we try to make the waters of our aquarium a little smoother, he glared at me and folded his arms across his chest.
    With some trepidation I reached again for the music book.
    â€˜The tunes for the animals and lots of new things are all in here,’ I said tapping a page. ‘It’s like a story book.’
    Robin scowled. ‘There aren’t any pictures.’
    â€˜Yes there are. Listen.’
    I played a short Mozart piece and when I finished Robin was staring at the open book. He jabbed at the notes on the page with a thumbnail nibbled down to the quick.
    â€˜Those dots are a photograph of the tune,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes. That’s exactly it. Do you want to see the pictures the way I can?’
    He pursed his lips into a grim little line and gave a single nod.

    I was astonished at how quickly the boy learned. Within a month he understood the musical notation system – even though he remained quite unable to read or write his letters.He was a small starving man; no matter how much I fed him – Mozart, a touch of Handel, a sprinkle of Mendelssohn – he wanted more. I suppose I ought to have been more restrained, I was the adult after all, but I was greedy too. I wanted to know what more he could do – the child appeared almost limitless in his abilities.
    And yet he was a child. One of the farm cats strolled into the music room and he was instantly down from his seat, crouched on all fours, dangling bits of string and roaring