Luxury Goods by Alison Carter
Some people might think a piano was an unnecessary item. But to us, music was vital . . .
WHEN I was seven I didn’t realise we were poor. Small children don’t make that kind of judgement as long as somebody loves them and they get food in their bellies on a reasonably regular basis.
Everyone in our street was short of money, just like my family, and the children I played with at school always needed bigger shoes or a coat, so it didn’t seem odd that every day was a struggle in our house.
I did get food regularly, too, though during those years of the slump I suppose there must have been times when I went hungry.
We lived close to Bournemouth on the south coast, and my dad was a joiner, although that summer he was out of work. My brother told me this later; at the time it was just fun to have Dad at home more often.
The thing I remember well from that time is the voice of my aunt Bridy. Loud and shrill, it was so unlike my mother’s that I wondered if they were really sisters.
Mother spoke softly and could sing beautifully. My mum and dad were both musical – it was what had brought them together, they told us.
“I don’t know why you keep taking those children to the beach, Stan,” Aunt Bridy said to my father one morning. “It’s a waste of time when they could be learning their lessons!”
She visited a lot during those days of unemployment. My brother said she was reminding us we were poor. She was Mum’s older sister, and she’d never approved of Stan, our dad. He was “a dreamer”.
I thought that was a lovely thing to be, so I didn’t understand why she said it with such a scowl.
That morning Dad was packing some sort of meagre lunch into a bit of newspaper.
“They’re not stupid, Bridy. They can see me working hard down there on the sands, so it’s not a bad example, and they help me.”
Aunt Bridy grunted, and my mother chipped in.
“While Stan’s waiting to get some work, why shouldn’t they collect winkles and get the sun on their faces?”
“Sun on their backs, more like!” Bridy’s mouth twisted. “Bent over like some sort of slave in a cotton field. It’s a shame Stan needs to go to the beach at all. And that he hasn’t better employment.”
Aunt Bridy’s husband, Alfred, worked for the council. He’d done well for himself and they had moved to a house that wasn’t joined to another one – it had a path all the way around!
My dad wasn’t like Alfred. He didn’t talk about politics and turn his nose up at a mug of beer. Dad was fun and cuddled us every day.
Mum handed Dad an apple for us to share – a treat in those days when we had so little. She reached up and gave him a proper kiss, right on the lips.
This seemed to infuriate Aunt Bridy, and it got worse, because Dad began to sing “On The Sunny Side Of The Street” as he ushered us outside.
Bridy huffed and puffed. She didn’t think a person should sing in the street. As we walked away we heard her slam the door and knew she’d be giving Mum another talking to.
I listened to my father singing in his sweet, soaring tenor voice, and imagined the moment when Aunt Bridy would finally leave Mum alone.
Mum would probably open the lid of our ancient piano, still with her apron on, and play. She used to say she was no pianist, but I thought she was a genius.
“This piano needs tuning,” she’d call out to Dad as he had a wash out the back.
“Sing louder and drown it out, then!” Dad would call back, and they’d laugh.
Piano tuning cost a fortune, so Mum learned to played in a key that missed out the bad notes.
It was a long walk to the beach, so we sang all the way.
There is one photograph of my father from that time. It was taken during a Christmas sing-song, and he looks very thin. We’re a short and stocky family, as a rule, so that photograph tells me
just what a hard time that was for him. If my brother and I sometimes went hungry, he did so far more often.
Winkles reveal themselves on the sand as the tide goes out, and that day the tides were timed perfectly so we had plenty of time to collect them.
We competed to gather the most. It was fun, but my brother and I knew that we had to work, too.
Almost all our income came from those shellfish that summer.
We cooked them at home in the evenings, in the tin bath, and sold them the next day in the streets around our part of Bournemouth, wrapped in twists of newspaper.
“Morning, Trevor,” Dad called gruffly to another man collecting on the sand, 50 yards away. “Nice day for it. Margery well?”
They didn’t refer to what they were doing; each man knew the other was unemployed and scratching an existence, but it wasn’t a topic for chat. I saw that Trevor’s right boot was split open at the toe.
When we got back, Mum said that the Welfare man had called. Dad became silent. We were finally in line for welfare because we couldn’t manage any longer. The Welfare Officer called on families like us and assessed what we had and what we needed.
“There’s no shame,” my mum said.
I saw him nod, and turn away. I tried to hug him, but he shrugged me off, which was a shock. Now I understand that he was really unhappy.
The next day Aunt Bridy came back.
“Like a bad penny,” Mum muttered when she opened the door to her.
“Wish she’d brought a penny to give us,” Dad whispered back, and my brother laughed.
“I cannot imagine what is amusing,” Bridy said, propping her parasol against the wall.
“You know, Elspeth, that following this assessment you will be expected to sell anything unnecessary before they can give you any welfare. Those owning luxury goods cannot expect hand-outs.”
I wondered how she knew the Welfare Officer had come.
“Yes, Bridy,” Mum said. She was a gentle person who hated conflict.
“Non-essentials must go, before you get help,” Bridy emphasised firmly.
I looked around the room. Surely we needed the table, and four of the chairs, unless I sat on Dad’s knee, but then eating soup would be difficult. The stove was fixed to the floor; the gas light was fixed to the wall. I wondered if curtains were luxuries.
Bridy picked up her parasol and my brother and I sighed with relief. She was not going to ask for tea.
There wasn’t any tea anyway.
There was bread and milk for supper. I was hungry as I tried to get to sleep. It’s harder to sleep when you’ve not had quite enough to eat.
I was woken in the middle of the night by rumbling, banging noises coming from below. I came softly down the stairs and found the piano standing in the hall!
“Dot!” My father’s face was pale in the moonlight coming through the fanlight. “Get to bed now.”
“Where’s the piano going?” I asked anxiously. “Am I dreaming?”
Dad laughed quietly, and then I saw Uncle Bert come in through the half-open front door.
“Little Dot,” he said. “D’you know how to keep that pretty mouth closed?”
I nodded, and he grinned. Uncle Bert wasn’t really an uncle; he was my father’s best friend who lived down the street. His wife, Betty, quite often fed us children that summer.
“Gawd, I miss my own kids. Can I borrow yours, Elspeth? I’ll give them a bit of fish if I can have ’em for an hour, just for the company.”
She wanted to help but without showing pity.
“Dot,” Dad said, “we’re going to keep the piano at Uncle Bert’s for a while.”
“Does Uncle Bert want to learn to play?” I asked.
Mum came in from the kitchen at that moment. She had a shawl on over her nightdress.
“No, Dot. Uncle Bert is not learning to play,” she said, “though I’d teach him if he asked me. The piano is a luxury item, according to the Welfare, so we have to, well, not have it here.”
I stared at my mum, and then at the piano as Dad and Bert heaved one end of it on to a sort of trolley.
I understood. My parents could not bear to sell their piano.
Music was the thing that kept them going through good times and bad. So the piano was travelling to Bert and Mary’s, and we’d keep only essential items.
Bathed in moonlight, the two men trundled our piano four doors down. Opposite, ancient Mrs Gratwick pushed her nets aside, looked out and smiled.
Further down Mr Marsh came out, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s all the noise?” he called, but when he saw the piano he just nodded, and went back indoors.
Nobody we knew was going to snitch on us for saving the piano.
As for me, I thought how ridiculous it was to call the piano a “luxury”. It was essential. That piano was also our contribution to the community, my parents’ way of returning neighbours’ favours.
They made people happy with it while times were bad. That very Saturday one of their little concerts had already been planned, and now it was moved to Bert’s house.
“It’s not a real concert,” Mum said as usual, “just a sing-song.”
But it was a concert. After the assembled company had belted out some music hall numbers, Mum played for Dad to sing, and it was as though time stood still.
The music filled the house, and it filled my whole world. My mother was beautiful, my father handsome, and the songs were so lovely I could hardly breathe.
At church that Sunday, Bridy asked where we’d all been on Saturday evening.
“I called,” she said, “to see if I could be useful.”
Even I knew that Bridy had never been any use to us.
“Oh, just out,” Dad said. The piano, on the other hand, was useful as useful can be. It made life all right. It came back from Bert’s three months later, the day Dad got work on a building site, and I still own it today.
That piano has never been perfectly in tune, because it was left too long between tunings, but I keep it because every household that loves music, and knows that music can make life better, needs a piano. n