Attacca ma allargando
My throat felt dry and cold, I must have been letting my mouth dangle open as we drew nearer. As the house loomed larger, I began to appreciate the scale of what must have been inside it. Through the windows, I saw only bright brass reflecting the sun. It appeared that Mr Whybrow had rescued a fairground attraction that had been too expensive to run, and discovered that he did not have the space to store it without some fundamental structural alterations. That was just one of the strands running through my mind, anyway; there were many others, but all had as their underpinning, “Complete and utter lunacy.”
The house had a protruding patio which let Mr Whybrow dock comfortably, and was wide enough to reassure those subject to vertigo, although I tried not to look down as I disembarked. I was grateful when he held the door open for me and I stepped inside; I was able to forget how high above the ground we were. That was helped by what I found when I crossed the threshold.
I had not been brought to to a house. I was standing in a calculated brass jungle. The whole house was a mass of pipes and valves, with an organ console in one corner as – well, its control centre, I suppose. But there was not a stick of furniture in sight. What I could not miss seeing, however, was a large warning sign beside him, with others on the console, warning that if this was indeed the musical instrument which it porported to be, then it went way beyond any found in a cathedral. Not that this any of this worried Mr Whybrow, who stood proudly extending a showman’s arm about him. Had his other interests also included being a circus ringmaster?
“You live – here?” I breathed, looking around. No, not so much as a three-legged stool. It was like being inside a musical boiler room.
Mr Whybrow laughed. “Good Lord, no. This was Uncle Arthur’s house.”
Of course. He had not been trying to throw my bearings with that fog – indeed, what would be the point of trying, when I already knew his house to be in SouthEnd? But my stomach had still not got used to the transition between floating and terra firma, and terra firma which was floating. Mr Whybrow was quick to spot my sudden nauseous complexion.
“Duck around the end of the organ,” he told me, briskly.
It seemed an odd sort of instruction, but there was no time to query him. I scurried over the parqueting and wrenched the door open. There, confronting me, was a toilet which for some reason either Mr Whybrow or Uncle Arthur had connected to the steam pipes, complete with pressure guage ticking happily at 340 pounds to the square inch. Behind it, buried in a forest of organ pipes, was a boiler angrily bubbling away, and a turbine spinning industriously. Still, I suppose it kept one’s botty warm; I had noticed the altimeter as I climbed out of the airship, we were at eight thousand feet. At least he thought of some home comforts.
I attended to my needs and gave my stomach free rein. Then, drawing in great gasps of thin air, I stood and leaned cautiously on the wall to steady myself, looking with swimming eyes for a chain to pull. But instead of the wall, my hand found a lever which went down, almost costing me my footing. Instantly, an angry hiss of steam filled the bowl while nearly stopping my heart. So that was how it worked.
Mr Whybrow called in, “While you’re in there, can you check the water level in the boiler? There’s a sight glass right in front of you, it should be between one- and two-thirds full.”
Was he pretending that he didn’t know what I’d just done? I squinted through the residual fog of steam and found a glass tube. “It’s two-thirds full, sir,” I weakly called back, and exited the chamber, glad of the fresher atmosphere outside.
“Don’t want to blow the place up,” Mr Whybrow commented. “You should have brought the peppermints, you daft ha’p’orth. It’s the decompression, that’s all; the air’s thinner up here. I should have warned you. Now, if you’ve recovered sufficiently?”
I’d seen the chapel organ, of course – well, until my top C brought the roof down on it, and I knew there had to be bigger ones. But this one – I’d better just let Mr Whybrow explain it all.
“As you can see, this is no ordinary organ. It doesn’t have the variety of the Albert Hall one, but in terms of compass - you know how doubling the length of a pipe drops a note by an octave?”
I didn’t, but was pleased to have learned something new.
“The biggest organ pipes are usually 16 feet long, that’s bottom C on a piano. Really big ones go down to 32 feet, and a handful of organs in the world have 64-foot stops. As you can see, Uncle Arthur went to a lot of trouble to transcend any organbuilder in history.”
He indicated three stops standing alone and I squinted at them.
"128 foot – Hyposuboctocontrabourdon, 256 foot – Visceral Dissolution, 512 foot – Tectonic Subduction."
I wasn’t sure what that last one meant but reckoned it had to be pretty dire if misused. The man was barking mad. I knew him well enough to know that anything he put a “DANGER” sign on had to be lethal, and here he was, proud of it!
While I was taking in the unusual stops, Mr Whybrow scuttled about pulling levers and finally turning a big wheel with a grunt and a heave. “They need their own safety valves, Miss Bluebird. It wouldn’t do to trigger these by accident. They’re every bit as big as they claim to be. The two biggest would have taken up too much room if he’d put in a complete rank, so Uncle Arthur just built the fundamental – that’s the lowest in each rank - and added mechanical fingers. As you can see from the 256-foot pipe over there.” He indicated a brass coil that stood in the corner, and led outside the house. “He reasoned that nobody in their right mind would want to play two of those notes at the same time, anyway.”
I reasoned that nobody in their right mind would want to play any of them under any circumstances. I’d learned through my own example what a high note could do to the chapel roof, but low ones?
“Come and have a look at the big one. It has its own secondary turbine, as you can see; the reservoir can’t provide enough air to drive it on its own.”
But that was only the start of it. He led me upstairs, where I had to squeeze past a pile of U-bends, and then up to the attic where the pipe continued and finally led outside.
He had not been exaggerating about the 512-foot pipe. I had to keep reminding myself constantly that the tangle that occupied the upper floors like a huge brass bowel was one single pipe. What it could do, God alone knew, but I had a feeling that I was going to find out.
He rested a hand on the pipe and placed his ear to it, as though listening for something. Moisture or an air lock, I presumed. Or mice. Or nesting elephants. Finally, Mr Whybrow gave the huge pipe an affectionate pat. “Now, you’re probably wondering what all this sounds like?”
“Dreading” would have been a more accurate way of putting it, but I nodded just the same.
Mr Whybrow led me back to the console where he seated himself on the bench and threw a master valve, admitting steam to the reservoir with a battleship-grade hiss.
Then he went wild. The whole house filled with an armada of birdcalls, underpinned by a strident joyful clashing. My mouth split in a rapture of enchantment as these in turn were joined by exhuberantly-leaping pedal octaves.
I was transported! This wasn’t music, it was a whole new dimension that my workhouse concerts had merely alluded to. Naturally, the workhouse organ could never have done half the things boasted by Uncle Arthur’s machine, but nevertheless I felt a cloying sadness that Messrs Greenham had installed all those stops and hundreds of pipes, just for an uninterested amateur churchman to thud out lacklustre four-part block chords.
My soul soared with the music; I was part of it. Although I’d never heard the piece before, I could sense when he was building up to the final climax, at which point Mr Whybrow allowed a glimmer of triumph to show in his face.
But he had one more surprise for me. He held onto the last chord, letting it resound for a second, before reaching up firstly for the 128-foot stop with the endless name, and then piling on one lower octave after another with the 256-foot, and finally the “Tectonic Subduction” at which point a great hammer beat on an unseen barrel once per metronomic second. At first I gave a reflexive cringe, but the note was in perfect pitch with all the others and melted into me, transcending any human happiness that I could have imagined. He left heaven’s gates open, pouring out a relentless sunbeam, savouring each vibration as though waiting to see if the organ would run out of steam before he ran out of patience. I for my part forgot that I was a human being of clumsy meaty stuff, but had become a part of something as magnificent as the universe itself.
Finally, he snatched back all his limbs with a single electrocuted snap, leaving a deaf silence hanging, I could not hold back my gaze of admiration at what he could do, although I refrained from hurling another hug at him. That would have been irreverent. And I was right to restrain myself; he looked sheepish to the point of embarrassment as he swung himself off the organ bench.
“It’s called "Toccata," by a French fellow called Widor. Actually, it’s not as tough as it sounds, if you see the repeating pattern and otherwise keep your head. Now do you see why Uncle Arthur didn’t dare build this anywhere near the ground?”
I thought back to my one and only experience with Mozart’s “Exultate Jubilate” and the subsequent awkwardness with the workhouse insurers, and sympathised with Uncle Arthur. This wasn’t a musical instrument. It was a doomsday weapon.
Carefully, reverently, Mr Whybrow shut off the safety valves to the big pipes, and then the main master. A quiet satisfaction went with his movements, I guessed that he was glad to have had the chance to show Uncle Arthur’s work off to somebody. But it had left him feeling awkward. He cleared his throat.
“Now then, I was going to show you a piano.”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t see one here.”
“No, Miss. When we get back. But first, you’ve a thing or two to learn about airships.”
Recapitulation
This was playing dirty. I’d only agreed to go up with him, not to learn how to drive the beastly things. But then, difficult as it was to admit as much, I had changed my mind about airships, and after what he’d just shown me, I don’t think I could have gainsaid Mr Whybrow anything.
The driver’s seat – sorry, pilot – coddled me as cosy as a birdie in a nest as he stood over me and told me about the controls. If someone’s swinging your prop for you, never turn the current on until they call “Contact” lest the engine start with someone’s hands in the way of the propeller. All right. Got that. As for the rest of the controls, how absurdly simple it all seemed, when explained. Up, down, left, right – and the throttle stayed where you put it. No trying to keep your foot steady against bumps in the road.
“Keep your movements firm but gentle,” he instructed me. “Always centralise the controls once you’re facing the way you want to go, and only turn at a slow speed, or you’ll slew all over the sky. And once we’re back down just above rooftop level, stay at that height. Don’t try to go too high either now or at any time in the future.”
“But surely it’s safer if you’re not constantly hopping over things?” I queried.
Mr Whybrow shook his head. “You need to know what you’re above at all times. Some landowners are worried about the effect airships have on local gravity; they have devices that repel vehicles.”
“That reminds me, sir. I meant to ask – if we’re flying that low, what about privacy?”
He prefaced his reply with a scornful snort. “Anyone who knows anything about airships will know that your attention will be too intent on what you’re doing to be spying on anyone. If you flew around the same house several times, perhaps, then maybe they’d have something to worry about. But otherwise, just try to stay above roads or railways when you’re on the mainland part of Caledon.”
He clambered in behind me and I felt the airship buck slightly as he settled back with a finality that suggested he was getting comfy in expectation of a normal, healthy flight. “Keep the engine at a low tickover – say, three hundred revs until we’re just above the rooftops and use the rudder to keep the compass needle between nine and ten o’clock until I say otherwise.”
It was a prudent move on the part of my flying instructor, to make my first lesson one in the art of going straight down. It let me get used to the feel of the instruments without risking anything by strong manoevre. The clouds swallowed us up, although the instruments remained faithfully where I wanted them –
“Why, if you had a map, you could fly this thing without even looking outside it!” I realised.
“It’s called ‘instrument flying’ and it’s a skill worth mastering,” replied my instructor from the back. I heard him chuckle as my shoulders flinched; I’d forgotten that he was back there.
We broke through the underside of the clouds and I peered over the side. The buildings looked vaguely familiar, but I was not at all sure where we were. Mr Whybrow leaned forwards. “The wind’s blown us over Victoria City. It’s just a natural drift, it’s to be expected. See the railway lines? Keep us going down, but bring the nose gently round to point south. When you’re a hundred feet or so above the highest point, bring the revs up to five hundred and make ready to turn west. Got all that? And stay over the road.”
He made me repeat it all back but he seemed satisfied that I was ready to make my first serious manoevres. It could have been worse; he was not blaming me for the drift, and better still, we had not drifted out over miles of open sea. I’d like to have seen him get his bearings with nothing to look at but water.
It was easy enough to comply with his directions, although I found myself constantly looking over the side. As I’ve already mentioned, the airship had an altimeter (which he insisted was an “alt-IMM-itter”) but I wasn’t sure how accurate it was.
I had nothing to worry about. He didn’t even bother leaning forwards as he called, “All right – bring her up to five hundred revs. You’ll find she handles better with a bit of air flowing over the fins.”
Cautiously, I advanced the throttle lever, keeping an eye on the rev counter. This one, at least, responded instantly to my instructions and a slight hiss of slipstream reached around the windscreen to ruffle my hair. I felt a new tautness in the control cables, ready to follow my least movement of hand or foot. The airship pulled like a willing horse, filling me with confidence. I was queen of the sky as I wallowed in the wonders of airship pilotage for the first time! There were more controls to think about, yes, but I didn’t have to worry about avoiding traffic or minor obstacles, and my vision was unrestricted. Any manoevres could be planned well in advance, all I had to do was admire the view. And that was one pleasure of which I doubted I would ever tire.
Keeping one eye on the road, I swung the nose around with not quite the fluid grace that Mr Whybrow had shown, but something close to it. I was a little late in centralising the control column, but nothing a tick of the rudder wouldn’t cure. At any rate, if Mr Whybrow had been unhappy with my manoevring, he’d have let me know.
“Keep a firm grip on the column when we cross districts,” he called. “Local air currents can make her jump about a bit.”
I bore that in mind. I was about to ask him when the first crossing would be, but the airship answered that first by bucking about and trying to seize control. But Shopgirl won through, and the phenomenon soon passed. The road through Moors was ruler-straight and only tiny flicks of rudder were needed to keep us in line. Seen from above, Moors lost any bleakness as it flaunted its rolling contours, and I saw the cemetery for what it was. A well-tended garden of rest.
“Hey, see Postie down there?” Mr Whybrow leaned over to point out a solitary figure trudging northwards across our path. “Wonder why he isn’t on his bike?”
“I’ve no idea, sir,” I replied, grateful that I had two handfuls of airship to keep me occupied.
He reminded me to go up another fifty feet to allow for the higher elevation of Downs, and this time I was able to look over that gorge with a definite gloat of triumph. It held no more foreboding; I was its mistress. And I was buoyed up by another fulfilment which I knew was coming. I knew that there was nowhere in Southend that he’d let me land the airship, he had only executed his manoevre at Miss Folger’s store as a result of long experience. That could only mean he’d be telling me to fly to his house! I was going to see it at last!
But I was to be disappointed yet again. Mr Whybrow told me to fly out to the western edge of SouthEnd and return shopwards in a big loop – oh, knickers! He had his own landing pad on the shop roof. It looked impossibly tiny from a distance, and he’d been landing on it for years whereas this would be my first time.
“When you make the final turn, keep your heading due east and keep the nose lined up with the centreline,” he told me as though it was as easy as falling off a log.
Then a great shadow fell over us like a cloak and an engine battered my eardrums. It was a public airship going about its scheduled route. Releasing a hand from the stick to point upwards, I called back, “Who has right of way?”
“He does,” replied Mr Whybrow.
“Which way will he be going?”
“Westwards to the tower, then south turning west at Miss Folger’s emporium.”
“But that’s the same way we’ll be going!”
Mr Whybrow remained unruffled. “It’s all right, we’ll be heading out to sea. He’ll descend and wait for a minute before taking off. You have that long to get clear of him.”
There was clearly more to this flying malarkey than I’d thought. I found myself keeping one eye on my own airship, another on the controls and dials, and another on the public airship as it settled at its dock like a huge bumble bee collecting pollen.
“Give it a little more throttle and you’ll be well ahead of him,” Mr Whybrow advised.
I was overenthusiastic to reduce the danger of collision, and my “little” turned out to be a sharp jerk. The airship gave a lurch forwards as the engine bellowed in my ear. But I was only heartened by our progress as we sailed smoothly past the airship tower. Mr Whybrow was shouting something, but it was lost in the engine’s racket – oh, yes. I had to turn south.
I leaned the stick over and gave a dab of rudder, as I’d been taught, but had forgotten to throttle back first. The gondola gave a nauseating wrench and slewed sideways, the propeller biting and champing for grip on the air. Oops. I quickly yanked the throttle back.
“Sorry, sir!”
No reply came. He was probably maintaining a diplomatic silence so as not to undermine my confidence, while privately calling me all the silly buggers under the sun. I gave a blip of throttle to straighten the nose out, and we settled on our new course southwards. As for the docked airship, it remained sitting patiently, waiting for the signal to depart. Yes, I was well ahead of it. Congratulations, me!
I had a good idea of how our own airship behaved while turning, and it seemed no difficult feat to bring us round to line up with Mr Whybrow’s rooftop landing pad. But I was being premature. This time I’d have to line us up very precisely, or I’d miss and have to go around again. I found myself giving frequent small blips of throttle to keep the nose straight, and it did not help that someone had put a gigantic ferris wheel right in my path. It was only slightly offcentre to my line of flight; it seemed that I’d have to scrape it as I passed. Although –
“Mr Whybrow? Should I try to go up and over the ferris wheel?”
No answer came.
“Mr Whybrow?”
He had been too quiet. I looked around to find not Mr Whybrow, but an empty passenger seat. Death’s sickening hand froze me, mortified me, and gave a vicious squeeze at my stomach. Oh, my God! He must have fallen out on that turn.
I had killed him.
It was as much as I could do to maintain control over the airship as that great cold cloak spread over my nerves, numbing them. A foolish fairy of an idea suggested just ending it all and crashing full-throttle into the ferris wheel, but that would be cowardly. I’d simply have to get used to facing the world as the shopgirl who’d killed her master.
The airship seemed to have its own ideas on the matter; it remained obstinately lined up with Mr Whybrow’s platform as the ferris wheel’s jungle of girders, nuts and bolts breezed past – of course, I’d not realised that the great protruding gasbag was several yards above me. It was passing over the wheel with plenty of room to spare.
The nose flickered a little as we passed Miss Folger’s shop, I gave a flick of throttle to encourage our line to stay straight –
And the engine gave a thick bronchial cough. I’d tweaked the mixture by mistake. Silly great lumbering oaf!
Hastily correcting, the engine gave a final hack of disapproval and settled back to its regular throb. The platform was nearing, and was almost dead centred with the gondola. I was just preparing to shut off the throttle, hoping that I hadn’t left it too late and our momentum would carry us into the chimney stack, when the engine gave a final vicious exhaust blast and died completely.
But I hadn’t done anything!
We began to descend immediately, and met the platform with a confident kiss. I could not believe my luck at having pulled off a flawless landing first time, even if it had been due to the engine’s having picked the perfect time to throw a tantrum.
My hand functioned by itself as it shut off the master switch. Yes, I was now an accomplished airship pilot. But I’d killed my instructor, my employer, my mentor, my –
“Did you check the fuel guage before you switched off?” came from behind me.
A heavy footfall landed in the gondola. I wrenched almost in half as I turned to find Mr Whybrow irritably straightening out his coat.
“We ran out of petrol. It’s my own silly fault, I should have topped up before we left.”
“But – how did you – “
He answered my thousand unvoiced questions with a wry smile. “That fast turn you made threw me. Fortunately, we’ve plenty of cable hereabouts; I’ve spent the past half mile hanging onto the underside of the gasbag.”
It was as much as I could do not to collapse in tears over the instrument panel. At the same time, I wanted to beat him to a pulp. How dare he be so blasé about it!
But that was his way. He did not like to talk about these things. He clambered over the side, the incident forgotten, and offered his hand to help me out. “That wasn’t a bad landing, Miss. How are you now?”
Still stunned, I wrenched myself back to reality in the way I knew best. By yelling at him. “Since you ask, I nearly died myself back there! I thought I’d killed you! You might have told me you’d fallen out – “
The ridiculousness of what I’d said struck me, and I subsided. He stood, patiently waiting for me to find my next utterance, in the hope that it was slightly more logical. “You might want to consider fitting a safety belt of some sort,” I concluded, lamely.
“That had occurred to me,” he admitted. “After I’d fallen out.”
An awkward silence hung in the air. I mumbled something about not knowing how to thank him for all he’d shown me that day.
“It’s only the tools of the trade, Miss,” he returned, neutrally. Then, more softly, “As far as I can see, you’re cured of airsickness. All you have to do is pilot the thing yourself; you simply made a bad passenger. Airships don’t toss about like a boat; like stage fright, it’s all in the mind.”
He tapped the side of his head, as though I did not know where that “mind” item was located. My own mind, now that it had got over its shock, was hatching a little plan of its own that was growing inside me like a virus. It would take time and industry, but it could be achieved.
For the present, Mr Whybrow had ideas of his own. “There remains the matter of the piano I promised to show you.” Inwardly, I bounced and squeaked with excitement. I was going to see his house at last!
But no. He led me down to the street and across to Miss Folger’s emporium. I bit off a disappointed sigh and as we crossed the park I asked him, trying to sound casual, “Sir; what are airship gasbags made of?”
“Silk, Miss, like a balloon. Not cheap, but it’s the only stuff that’s gas-tight and light enough.”
My heart almost stopped. Had he read my mind? No, just my expression. Whatever faculties I’d developed in life, playing poker was not one of them. I felt a little less certain about my master-plan, now that he almost certainly knew about it and more certainly, would let me get on with it.
Inside the store, he seated himself at what I’d thought was a grand piano with two keyboards. “This, Miss Bluebird, is a harpsichord. The strings are plucked, rather than struck with hammers, and one might regard it as the head of the plucked family. Those others over there – “ He waved an arm at the smaller instruments arranged along the wall. “Work in just the same manner, they’re just a different shape. Not everyone can get one of these things in their drawing room. The one with the strange curve is a spinet, the other’s a virginal.”
A what?
Clearly nothing as smutty as the name implied. Without another word, he bashed out a low note and held it, while his other hand bristled around the keyboard in a tempest of swirling arpeggii that rushed about the shop like an equinoctial gale (I later discovered that he’d been playing the first movement of Handel’s Suite in D minor). When he released the keys after the final cadence, the instrument emitted a curious flurry of mechanical ‘clonks’ from inside.
“As rich as Orpheus’ lyre,” he smiled affectionately at the instrument. “And Miss Folgers’ jacks never stick. But it was the piano you really wanted to hear.”
Rising from the harpsichord as casually as closing a book, he ambled across to Miss Folger’s splendid upright. “I tried this one a long time ago; not unlike one of the better Steinways,” he commented, apparently to himself. He sat poised at the keyboard for a moment, focussing his concentration, and apparently without his moving a muscle, the piano broke out into a song of yearning, of smiling at a beauty that was fading. Not as spectacular as the organ, but it pierced me just as acutely. Its central tempest, when it came, dazzled me not for his mastery of the instrument, but through the vividness of the imagery running through my mind. Thunderflashes, swirling dark clouds, curtains of rain sweeping through -
When the final chord plodded up the stairs from one end of the keyboard to the other, he waited until the last vibration had drifted out of the window before getting up as though nothing had happened. “And they say there are no female composers,” he chuckled. “Tell that to Mam’s’elle Chaminade. And yes, Miss Bluebird, Uncle Arthur taught me. As you may have gathered, he taught me a lot,” he added darkly as he led me back to the shop.
A little lump formed in my tummy as I followed. I got the impression that he did not get the opportunity to play to others very often, and here he was, looking as though he was trying to forget that he had just done so.
However, I was saddened chiefly for my own sake. Yes, I’d just learned how to fly an airship, something any workhouse girl would give their eye teeth for. But it was something anyone could learn, as I’d just discovered. I’d always loved music; what really wrenched at me was the knowledge that I could never reproduce the fabulous spectra with which he’d he’d mesmerised me.
In the shop, he waved me to follow him into the back office. “You can wipe that hungry puppy look from your face. If I can learn, so can you.”
I gaped stupidly back. “Me? Learn to play like that?”
Mr Whybrow grunted. “I had to start sometime. Can you actually read music?”
“I learned the basics in the schoolroom. But – the piano is something ladies learn!”
Mr Whybrow’s eyes fixed me unforgivingly. “You’re more a lady than many who claim that title. And they learn as a social accomplishment. You on the other hand, love music. Don’t bother denying it, you looked like a starving man staring into a butcher’s window. Singing’s out, as we know, but you’d give your eye teeth to play the piano.”
I nodded, dumbly. I suppose it was written all over me.
“I’ll have to find you something to practice on. In the meantime, you won’t get far without understanding how music works. Here; have some bedtime reading.”
He handed me two volumes from his desk drawer. “Harmony, its Theory and Practice,” and “Counterpoint – strict and free,” both by Ebenezer Prout.
[These are both real works which the typist remembers in use in the 1980’s, and which are still respected now. VB]
“My bookseller’s keeping an eye out for me, Mr Prout’s working on a two-volume treatise on the orchestra. I’d start with the harmony one first; anything you get stuck on, let me know.”
I suppose I was still not used to people investing time and patience. Guilt rose up inside me like a big grey cloud; I had one last try to wriggle out of any obligation on either of our parts. “But sir, where would I practice? There’s no room in my house for a piano, and I can hardly use the chapel organ – for a start, there’s nobody to pump it.”
Mr Whybrow slit his eyes and cackled mischievously. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got just the thing.”
With that, he was gone, leaving me with two well-thumbed books and a host of memories that the workhouse would never believe.
Coda
What was really difficult to accept was, that he expected me to be able to learn all this stuff.
I gulped at the faith he had in me. No. Some of his ideas might appear crazy at first, but he had never expected me to master anything truly impossible. His whole outlook on life was “What I can do, you can emulate.” I looked back to what I had already achieved since leaving the workhouse. Yes, Mister Prout, I can master you too. It needs but application and patience.
In the meantime, I had also learned how Mr Whybrow kept himself company in the evenings. Hadn’t I, Mr Prout?
But I would not be spending all my evenings wrestling with music theory and fingerwork. I also had ideas of my own. Boy, was I going to be busy! Look out, world. Here I come!
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