Cillian Barnes 1

Backstage

Backstage

The atmosphere backstage is stilted and tense. We pass each other as we shuffle about the
spacious changing room, fetching yet another glass of water or pacing up and down alongside
the lockers. We nod politely at one another without exchanging a word, or keep our eyes to
the ground in a blank gaze. There may not even be a communal language between us. The
two Russians, Valentin Ivanov and Nicholas Sidorov, sit in a corner speaking a little too
loudly in their native tongue, forcing jokes and laughter. Sidorov came very close last year
and is second favourite to win. Second favourite to me. I can see a thin bead of sweat drip
down his forehead even though the room is chilled and cool. I press my left hand under my
own right armpit. Im beginning to grow clammy myself.

The Chinese contingent do not speak to each other. There are four or five of them. I
recognise some of the faces. The two girls, Qianlin Zhou and Mei Cheng, studied together in
Vienna. I met Mei at a masterclass when we were both fifteen or so. I had thought then that
she was pretty. She is not so pretty now. She looks tired. She doesnt seem to recognise me.

All of a sudden I feel very alone, surrounded by people I have no connection with. I
step outside into the corridor and enter one of the practice rooms. I sit down, pull up the key
cover and finger a G chord. Very quickly the pianos warmth washes over me and I feel
better. I do what I always do when I sit down first at a piano and play a very slow C major
scale with one finger up the white keys. It brings me quickly back to my first Casio keyboard
that I used to keep at the bottom of my bed under my duvet, protected from my two older
brothers who shared the room. This piano is cheap too, nothing special. I love that feeling;
the inaccurate weight of the keys, the poor sustain on each single long note, the clunk of each
key as it flops back to place when I raise my finger.

I let myself breath slowly, inhaling the calming oxygen like a narcotic. I bring my
palms up to the piano and they are surprisingly dry. They always are. They are my tools, my
weapons, my jewels. On a piano they are at home and nerves become meaningless. They skip
now over the keys, light and rigorous as I practice the awkward middle section. The internal
metronome throbbing away somewhere in my forehead takes over and I relax into the music.
It is a beautiful piece; the second movement of Ravels Concerto in G major. Adagio Assai. It

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is sensitive and subtle. Almost too sensitive to bear. Too sensitive to practice one hundred
times a day for unending days.

I know the contest has started. I wear no watch but there is a cheap digital clock on
the wall. I sit and wait, playing again and again the same phrase until it becomes a
meditation. More than an hour passes. And then I hear my name being called. Mr. Towell,
Darren Towell! A womans voice shouts out frantically. She speaks with a heavy Dutch
accent. Mr. Towell where are you? Youre on next!

Coming, I call back to her. I step up from the safety of the piano and leave the room.
I meet the woman in the corridor.

Finally, she cries in exasperation. You were supposed to be ready ten minutes ago.
Well have to just rush you on stage now!

Fine with me, I shrug.

She leads me down the corridor, through the stage door and straight into the glare of
bright lights on the stage. I dont hesitate and march straight over to the piano stool to a polite
round of applause. I glide my fingers over the tips of the keys without pressing them. It is a
breathtaking instrument. The grain of the stained wood is so pure it swirls away before my
eyes like a stream. The pedals are perfectly weighted beneath my feet, a testament to the
genius of mans mechanics. I play my major scale up slowly from middle C. The crowd
shuffle and cough. A thousand pairs of eyes. Dont mess it up, they tell me. Dont mess it up.
I breathe slowly, settle myself, and start to play.

I first met Billy on Halloween night. For a week solid the excitement had spread around the
estate like a disease in advance of the big night. The bonfire pyre had grown steadily, using
everything to hand; tyres, bins, wood, shopping trolleys... A broom handle protruded at the
top of the ten foot pile with an England football jersey draped around it, ready to sizzle in the
flames.

The flats were a mess, with odd pieces of timber or plastic scattered out all over the
ground. The football pitch a concrete space with traffic cones for goalposts had two burnt

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out cars on it from the night before. The coppers wouldnt come in on Halloween night to
move them. They wouldnt enter the flats without a riot van.

For days the bangers and fireworks had been exploding from nightfall to the early
hours of the morning. The boys had a neat trick of throwing the bangers in the stairwell so
they echoed and resonated louder than normal, sounding like a gunshot.

I stood nervously at the bottom of our stairwell as the night crept in. Gangs of lads
crowded around the pyre, jerry cans in hand. The first match was thrown on as soon as the
darkness set in. The flames roared up the petrol-soaked pile to wild shouts all around. My
mother leant out over our balcony, a can of Carlsberg in her hand. Watch out for them flames
Darren, she called out to me, then turned and went back into the flat.

I retreated away from the fire as my brothers tipped over two rubbish bins with a
bunch of other boys. They roared and laughed and started to dance on the rubbish with wild
whoops. I placed my hands over my ears and walked down the block towards the battered
community centre. It had shut up early that evening. The placard on the top was old and the
writing faded; ODevaney Gardens Youth Service for 10-21 year olds.

A grey haired man stood at the wall leaning against the bolted metal shutters covering
the windows. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at the bonfire. He was tall and skinny,
in a cheap rain jacket. He looked at me as I sidled up to the centre, my hands still covering
my ears. Alright?

I looked at him suspiciously. Howaya mister.

He looked back at the bonfire. Two lads on horses were racing around the flames.
They rode bareback and the horses were shaggy and skinny. The tall man looked down at me
again. Dont like the noise?

I shook my head. Who are you? I said to him, taking my hands away from my ears.

My names Billy, he grinned. Who are you?

Darren. I live here. What are you doin here?

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Billy dropped his cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. I work in the youth
service, he nodded at the door to the community centre.

Right, I nodded also. I dont like the fire.

Me neither. What do you like doing Darren?

I shrugged. Dunno.

Ah go on, there must be something you like doing?

I like football.

Me too, he smiled. Where do you play?

I play for Bohs, I said, kicking the curb. Me Ma brings me to trainin.

Deadly, he said, nodding his approval.

A loud bang came from the fire. I jumped, startled by the explosion.

Its alright, Billy laughed. Just some eejit throwing a banger on the fire. He looked
at me for a moment. What age are you?

Eight.

Well, you look ten, he smiled and pointed to the centre with his thumb. Do you
want to come inside? Its quieter there.

I hesitated. My Ma says Im not supposed to go anywhere wit strangers.

Shes dead right, Billy said, pulling out his keys and unlocking the heavy duty
shutters. Ill leave the shutters up though so you can see right through the big window. Why
dont you go and tell your ma your coming in for a bit?

Alright, I said and ran back to our flat. I stopped just below our balcony.

Ma! I shouted up. No answer. Ma!! I shouted again, louder.

Wha? Her voice came from within the flat.

Can I go into the youth centre with this chap Billy? He said its quiet in there.

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That the grey haired fella? she called out.

Yeah.

Ah yeah I know him. Go on then.

I ran back to the centre. Billy had already opened it up. I peered in the window but
couldnt see anything as the light was still off.

You coming in? Billy called out.

I went in the main door and into the hallway just as Billy flicked on the light in the
room. Come on in, he said.

I poked my head in around the door. The room was small and cluttered; a pool table in
one corner, table-tennis in the other, and, against the back wall, a black piano. Id never seen
a proper piano before. We had a worn keyboard in the school hall that the principal used to
play at Christmas. But this was something else entirely. I moved towards it instantly.

Do you like that? Billy asked as he turned on the heat.

Yeah. I sat down at the stool and punched the keys. A dull whump emitted from the
badly-tuned instrument.

Whoah, careful, Billy cautioned me and pulled up a stool alongside. You have to be
very careful with a piano. Theyre like a person; you have to treat them nicely and then youll
get on fine with each other.

He fingered a chord with his two hands and pressed down on the keys. It was a warm,
fuzzy sound. Id never heard anything as beautiful in my life. Wow, I gasped in shock.

Billy laughed. Do you like that? Thats a D diminished 7th; a jazz chord. Do you
know what jazz is?

I shook my head.

Its a type of music that comes from America. It comes from the blues, from Africa
really.

I thought you said it comes from America?

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Well yeah, Billy smiled. But it kind of comes from Africa too. Look, do you see
those posters on the wall?

I looked over. There were several posters of an old black man playing at a piano or
posing with a band.

Thats my favourite musician. His name is Abdullah Ibrahim.

I shook my head. Thats not a real name.

Billy laughed again. It is in some countries. That man, hes from South Africa. But
some of the people didnt like him there so he had to go over to America. Jazz is just like
him; its kind of American but its kind of African too.

I nodded, but I didnt understand what he was talking about.

Billy started playing the piano again. It was a fast, happy tune. He sang quietly over it.
Martha my dear, though I spend my days in conversation, Please, remember, Martha my
love, Dont forget me, Martha my dear.

I smiled. I thought it was fabulous. Show me how to do that, I interrupted Billy.

Billy broke off playing. Youre eager, arent you?

I nodded my head.

Well you cant just start playing a tune straight away. Youve got to learn the notes
first.

Show me them then, I demanded.

Billy laughed. Alright, hold onto your horses. You have to start off with the white
notes first. He played middle C with his index finger. Then he slowly climbed an octave up
the white keys.

Give me a go, I said impatiently and pushed his hand away. I started on the middle C
like he had and climbed to the C above. I was mesmerised by the sound I could create. Show
me that tune so.

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Billy smiled. Might be a bit hard for your first time playing a piano. Tell you what
though, how about coming in here and doing some lessons, if youre interested.

I nodded my head. Can I come in tomorrow?

Course, Billy laughed. You can come in any time you like really. Any time.

Ive come to the awkward middle section of Ravels masterpiece. Tempo, temo, tempo,
tempo! I can hear my teacher from university bark in my ear.

I play smoothly, my fingers have slipped into auto-pilot. The entire piece is hard-
wired into them, pre-programmed beyond the level any machine could comprehend. I am
aware of the excitement in the audience as I move effortlessly through the piece. But my head
is drifting. Im thinking, thinking backwards. This is just like my first performance. The
crowded hall, the expectation, the pressure. The knowledge that something is going to go
wrong.

The first concert took place in my boarding school. It was the senior years graduation
ceremony and theyd wheeled me out to awe and entertain even though I was only a junior. I
was on display as their scholarship pupil, a testament to their charity and goodwill.

Before the concert I hovered on my own backstage. Alone, feeling awkward in my

waistcoat and jacket. My fourteen year old frame didnt fit in the dinner suit they had lent me.
I was still small and skinny. A group of older boys sat together in a circle across the room.
They had their instruments on their laps. A saxophone quartet. I had heard them practice
though and none of them could really play. They would hit wrong notes and sometimes have
to stop altogether and start again. They ignored me now as they always did, didnt ask me to
sit with them or join in their jokes. I didnt care. I spread my fingers out on my knees and
practiced my piece; a Satie piano study. Easy.

The announcer for the night, the vice-principal Mr. Dowling, came into the room.
You ready Darren? he said, approaching me.

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Yep.

Come on so, theyre waiting.

He led me in the back door of the hall and positioned me behind the stage curtains,
out of sight. The principal was just finishing a speech. He stepped off stage to a round of
polite applause, and then Mr. Dowling went up to the podium. Now, we have a very special
treat for you. Scholarship student and fledgling concert pianist, Darren Towell.

I walked on stage to another polite round of applause. I sat down at the stool and
looked out. They all stared at me expectantly. They were very prim and proper looking,
dressed in Tuxedos and dinner dresses. I coughed and slowly played my C major scale up the
piano. Someone suppressed a giggle on the front row. I glanced angrily in their direction.
Whats funny? I barked.

Surprised murmurs came from the crowd.

Darren! Mr. Dowlings voice barked from behind the curtain. Just start the piece!

I frowned and stared to play. It was easy, my fingers took over and walked through the
piece. I relaxed and I began to play it with feeling. Id show these dickheads what I could do.
Ease off on the keys, dont hammer it, always play smooth, relaxed and in control. I skipped
lightly through the final passage, every note perfect, and ended in a diminishing rall. I applied
a touch of pressure on the pedal for the last chord and let the notes ring out over the hall.

For a moment there was stone cold silence. And then the crowd burst into rapturous
applause. I shuffled quickly off stage but Mr. Dowling stopped me and led me back. Take a
bow, he whispered into my ear.

I did what he said and someone in the audience stood up as the clapping continued.
They all followed suit and a cheer erupted from the back. I scowled and skulked off stage
again.

Well done son, Mr. Dowling smiled as he led me out. Unbelievable. Were proud of
you. I knew you could do it.

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I ignored him and went in and changed out of those stupid clothes and back into my
uniform. I headed straight back to my dorm and went up to the room I shared with another
boy, Andrew. He wasnt in the room. I undressed and got into bed. I was tired, drained from
the nerves and the anger I had felt when that person had laughed.

I fell asleep quickly. I didnt even stir when Andrew came into the room. It must have
been after midnight when a soft shake woke me up. The dorm head, Mr. Flynn, was leaning
over me in the dark. Darren, he said softly, youd better come down to the office. Your
mothers on the phone. I think its important.

I pulled my tracksuits bottoms on and followed Mr Flynn down to the office. He

pointed to the phone lying on the table, then left me alone, closed the door after himself and
stood outside.

I picked up the phone. Ma?

Alright Darren. You alright love?

Yeah. Whyd you call me so late?

I have some bad news. I thought you should know it.

Wha?

Its about Billy.

My blood froze. Wha?

They battered him son. Theyre swine son, Im sorry.

Wha happened? I murmured.

That bunch of fuckin junkies who do we takin over the whole fuckin estate. They had
broken into the community centre to shoot up and they fell asleep on the floor, in the room
with that piano you do be always playing in the summer. He came in the next morning and
they told him to fuck off.

I said nothing. She paused for a moment then continued.

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He told them to clear out and shoot up somewhere else. Then he kicked one of them
lying on the floor. They fuckin went for him. Theyre savages, you know that. Beat the head
off him. Hes in hospital now.

How do you know all this?

Words gone round. You know how it is. Theyre fuckin proud of themselves the
filthy cunts.

I felt panic creep over me. Wha if he doesnt come back Ma?

She hesitated at the other end of the line. I dont think hell be comin back son.

Ma, I... I couldnt speak.

I know Darren. Im sorry love.

I put the phone down and hung up on her. I sat down and started to cry. Mr. Byrne
came quietly back into the office. You okay Darren? he asked softly.

I didnt answer. He put his hand on my shoulder. Itll be alright.

What do you fuckin know!? I shouted at him and barged out the door.

Im coming to the end of the piece now. Through my peripheral vision I can sense the sea of
expectant faces, hovering on the edges of their seats. I am their entertainer. Little more than a
circus clown. They dont care about me. They dont care about the music. Its just an event,
and Im the main attraction. Once again Ive won them over. The troubled boy with the
golden touch.

I think back to where this began, in a world a million miles from here. In a battered
community centre, on an old, out-of-tune piano. Just me and Billy, playing simple tunes,
listening to tapes he brought in. Practice, practice, practice. Drinking tea. Practice. Working
out new songs. It was important then. This was... a pretence.

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All of a sudden I stop. Mid-phrase. Gasps of surprise echo around the auditorium. I
dont care. I dont care about them. Ive given the best years of my life to this... pressure.
Pressure every day. This expectation.

This pressure makes me hate this music, this instrument. I quickly withdraw my hands
from the piano as if it is cursed. Im not here to perform for these people like a dog, just
waiting to see me fuck up.

Still silence. I dont move. Mr. Towell, a voice prompts from the stage door.

I ignore it. And then I stand up and walk away from the piano, off the stage and down
the corridor. The next contestant ready to go on after me shuffles awkwardly out of my way. I
ignore him and the backstage minders and walk straight to the practice room I had been in
before. I enter, close the door firmly behind me and sit down at the cheap piano. I sit still for
a moment. Then I bring my hands up to the keys. And I start to play once again. The only
tune that ever mattered really. I sing quietly to myself as my fingers pound out the chords;
Martha my dear, though I spend my days in conversation, Please, remember, Martha my
love, Dont forget me, Martha my dear.

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