Free The Square by Rosie Millard Page B

I must play the piano.”
    Of course.
    “Well, that might not be so ghastly. What would you like to do?”
    “Well, I am much better at building Lego, but if Mother says it, then the piano,” – he tapped Middle C with a small digit – “it must be.”
    “Why don’t you do both?”
    “What, build Lego to music? My dear Roberta, I don’t think so.”
    “Yes, but, let’s think, I know, why not show a film? With Lego characters. You know, on a stop-frame animation. And then play a piano as accompaniment to it. You could have a screen up in the hall, or wherever the Talent Show will be.”
    He gaped at her. She could see the idea take fire by the light in his face.
    “Could I? Why, yes, I could,” he said, as if she wasn’t there. He was quite used to holding conversations with himself.
    “It won’t be in a hall, but we could have a screen out in the park. Right above the piano. Roberta, thank you. I will go and start crafting the screenplay right away!”
    She started packing up her bag, smiling to herself. He might not be an infant Mozart, but he had initiative, she’ll give him that.
    “Righty-o. I’ll have a think about what you might play to go alongside. I assume you will have some form of keyboard with you?”
    “Oh, certainly. I think Mamma is letting this old thing out for the night.”
    A Blüthner? Outside? These people.
    She stops musing about George. She calls Tracey. Before the call, she runs through the conversation in her mind, although she instinctively knows what she has to do. She must concoct a conversation so clever, so adroit, so full of acknowledgement of what the child has, what the child could have, that the parent will fear missing it. Furthermore, alongside this positive strand, she must also present a parallel sense of fear, a dark foreboding about what the child might be missing out on, the entire boundless and bountiful world of the piano repertoire, eternal and endlessly sustaining, a glorious future that Tracey, and more importantly Belle, can in no way even contemplate being part of once the appropriately named fall of the piano, in other words the lid, has been slammed down on it.
    At the same time, she must subtly remind Tracey, the committed parent, of things that perhaps Roberta herself does not hold all that special, but she’s pretty sure Tracey does because every single parent on the Square does. Firstly, there is the glory, the parental pride in the prizes that might be forthcoming, prizes for her offspring, the Grades taken, the applause, perhaps even a medal, of the words of marvel hanging in the air from peers that Belle can indeed justify thanks to the complete mastery of E Flat Minor (harmonic and melodic) and some Chopin preludes.
    Now, thanks to George, she also has a Talent Show to add to the cornucopia.
    She must remind her of Belle’s Life Chances. Of her Personal Statements, pieces of writing to achieve a university place, in which commitment to an instrument – it doesn’t really matter which, (but piano is the top, surely, along with the violin) – is proof of superior brain power and discipline.
    Roberta clearly has not emphasised this enough in her lessons so far with Belle. So, a three point plan is needed. These are the things she must highlight. The value to the child. The acclaim to the parent. The fragility of the future. These are the things that Roberta has to drum into Tracey’s perfectly coiffed head, in order to keep the precious booking, which is worth £60 a week to Roberta.
    She rolls her shoulders. Maybe she should cut her rate. No. She can hardly get by with what she is currently earning, no matter how many leeks she plants.
    Up until now, she has – foolishly, she now realises – thought that music was enough for the appetite of families in the Square, but it is not.
    She picks the phone reciever up.

Chapter Eight George
    Having ensured complete privacy by positioning the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle of his bedroom door,