The Piano Teacher

by Mari Philips 

lukewarm tea

You could smell the place from the top of the lane as the odour of cats and boiled cabbage seeped into nostrils without permission. A terraced house set back from the path with two worn steps.  The front door was always open and drew curious eyes into a long dingy hallway. The faltering notes of ill practiced pupils hung in the air with the motes of dust.

“Do come in” he said, “would you like some tea?”

The smile on his stubbled face revealed clenched black teeth and gaps. His grey trousers, flecked with unspecified stains, were held up by grubby braces which poked out from under his straining pullover.

The music room was from another era. Threadbare reddish covers covered heavy chairs and table and the piano pushed against peeling flock wallpaper; its stool dented and scuffed from years of dangling shoes.

We only visited once and chose a different piano teacher.