Free Prelude by William Coles Page B

irony that would catch me clear in the solar plexus.
    My favourite times of all were not when I was gazing at her face, nor when we talked. No, my happiest moments were when I was trying out a prelude for the first time, the two of us side-by-side on the music stool, my right hand and her left hand working together in imperfect harmony.
    As we played, there might be an occasional touch— shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow, knee-to-knee. These moments could be guaranteed to send a shiver of excitement washing through me.
    But what I came to like best was the magical alchemy by which the two of us created a piece of music together. Two hands and two hearts, both bringing Bach back to life. It was much more intimate than the neat virtue of playing a piece solo.
    The lessons were the formal times when I was scheduled to meet with India, but I had taken to lurking around the Music Schools at all hours. I usually hoped to see her there at least twice a week. Sometimes she’d pop into my practice room, or I might catch her on the pavement as she was heading home.
    I lived for those moments. For unlike my actual lessons, they were in the lap of the gods. It was their very spontaneity that made them all the more thrilling. One moment practising a prelude, focused on my music, and the next she’s walking through the door. She would be pleased to see me, but I think also that she delighted in the fact she had introduced me to The Well-Tempered Clavier . It was the private thrill of the matchmaker who brings two lovers together.
    Seeing India, even for a few seconds, could make my day, although to say that these sightings were in the lap of the gods is not strictly accurate. Like a big-game hunter, I could maximise my chances of seeing India by being in certain places at certain times. The Music Schools, for instance, were a favourite hunting ground, as was the School Hall at 11 a.m.
    But I soon learned that there was one place where, almost every morning, I could find India. As soon as I knew of it, I never once missed a chance of seeing her there.
    Eton has two main chapels, one for the lower boys, which is Gothic and depressing, and the other a bigger chapel for the senior boys, which is magnificent. The upper chapel is over 500 years old, and when you walk in and stare up at the huge vaulted ceiling, it feels like you’ve entered a cathedral. It is the sister chapel to Henry VI’s other pet academic project, King’s College, Cambridge, and it is vast, though not half as vast as Henry had wanted it. When the King had originally planned his chapel (where, naturally, the boys would send up regular prayers for his mortal soul), he had wished it to be at least eighty-yards longer. But, as so often occurs with these building projects, the money ran out.
    Despite this, what remains is still a spectacular school chapel, with a grand organ, old oak pews, and carved stalls for the masters. My favourite part came courtesy of the Nazis. A time-bomb landed in the schoolyard on December 4, 1940 and a day later, on the eve of Founder’s Day, most of the chapel windows were destroyed. They were replaced by the most remarkable John Piper stained glass, four of the miracles on the northern side and four of the parables on the south. I have spent many hours staring up at them.
    In the mornings, the junior boys had to go to the lower chapel, but the seniors had the option of going to either the upper chapel or the School Hall where some form of entertainment would be laid on—a talk, perhaps, or some music. I would do everything in my power to stay away from the chapel. I loathed it. For an entire decade, I’d been forced into various school chapels and, to this day, church services remain to me nothing but an exercise in tedium.
    But on Sundays there was no getting out of chapel and I would dutifully join the rest of the rabble and take my seat.
    IT WAS THE third Sunday of term, and the upper chapel was filled to the gunnels with tailcoats. I