The Piano Teacher

by Sophie Elliot

  ‘So then,’ she said in an assured voice, ‘with that settled, we had better retire to the drawing room again. It’s time for your first lesson, and I do hope you’ve done your practise.’

  Lucy smiled, nodded, and followed her mistress into a whole new world.

  Lesson One

  Lucy followed Miss Martin back long the hallway to the large drawing room at the front of the house. As they passed the stairs, Lucy could hear the muted noises of Jenny as she shuffled around on the landing, and suppressed a malicious smirk. The thought of the pretty servant edging around for the remainder of the day with her panties around her ankles was a most amusing one. They entered the room, and once more the faint aroma of crushed flowers could be sensed, hanging like pollen in the air. Miss Martin seated herself at the desk and donned her pair of reading glasses. The black-framed spectacles, resting gently on the bridge of her aristocratic nose, augmented her habitual air of refined, academic superiority. She gracefully crossed her stockinged legs, and then shifted her position gently to face the piano.

  ‘You may sit down now, Lucy,’ she said. ‘Place your music on the stand.’

  Lucy went over to the piano and sat on the plush, velvet-cushioned piano stool. It was large and solid like the rest of the furniture in the room, and there was easily enough room for two to sit comfortably next to one another while playing duets at the keyboard. Although in pristine condition, the cushion had the feel of having been used by many pupils over the years. She straightened her skirt out across her lap and made herself comfortable on the firm, unyielding upholstery. She felt even more like a schoolgirl then, partly because of the uniform she was wearing, of course, but also because of the timeless, comforting ambience the room created.

  She carefully placed her three books of music on the stand, and turned back to face her mistress. It was then, as she met Miss Martin’s professional gaze that the first qualm of fear stirred in her stomach. All of a sudden her nervousness returned to her, having been forgotten in the excitement of what had happened in the fitting room. Now was the moment she had been preparing for all week, and the nagging thought that she had really not given her scales much attention popped into her head. Before that morning she had not known quite what music lessons with Miss Martin would involve, but now she had been given an intimation, and more than an intimation, of the kind of regime she presided over. The uneasy sensation that everything was moving a little too quickly overcame her, and she began to wonder whether she had made the right decision in accepting lessons with such a disciplinarian. Her arousal at the sight of Jenny being spanked was now firmly in the back of her mind, to be replaced by a growing anxiety.

  ‘Please open your book of Mozart, Lucy,’ said Miss Martin in a suave, disinterested tone. ‘Seeing as this is your first week I shall not expect you to play your material from memory, but in future I will begin to expect you to use the book for reference only. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy, a slight quaver entering her voice. How much work did Miss Martin expect her to do? The unsettling thought that she might be out of her depth surfaced again.

  Miss Martin frowned. ‘Yes, who, Lucy?’ she said.

  Of course - what did Jenny refer to her as? She suddenly remembered the maid’s use of honorifics in her every reply. ‘Mistress’ sounded too archaic. Would ‘miss’ do? What about ‘teacher’? Just how did one refer to one’s piano teacher in a situation like this? Lucy reached for her schooldays for inspiration - at least it would go with the uniform.

  ‘Yes, miss?’ she said, as if addressing her old French mistress at school.

  Miss Martin raised an eyebrow, as if not quite sure the correct protocol had been applied, but then evidently relented. ‘That will do, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Please see that you do not forget it in future, Lucy.’

  Alloyed with the effortless charm of Miss Martin’s voice was a hint of ice; a steely heart that would not be gainsaid. A tingle went up Lucy’s spine as she heard her name, and she nodded in acquiescence.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ she said again.

  Miss Martin nodded.

  ‘Now,’ she said absently, ‘would you please attend to the Mozart. I’d like you to play what you have done this week. Do take your time.’

  Lucy took a deep breath. This was it. Her hands trembling a little, she opened the book at the correct page. The miasma of notes swam before her eyes, suddenly incomprehensible. She screwed her eyes shut, told herself to calm down, and opened them once again. She realised the palms of her hands were sticky with nervous anticipation. She brushed them quickly against her skirt, shuffled her bottom a little to get more settled, and raised her wrists over the keys. They seemed to stare back at her insolently, like a row of moody ivory children, daring her to control them and produce music. A feeling like nausea ran around her insides, but there was no going back. With as much gusto as she could muster, she began.

  The opening chords should have been performed with some flair, but they came out gingerly and with a very hesitant glissando. Her heart fluttered as she heard the sound she made; the keys on Miss Martin’s piano seemed responsive to the merest suggestion of a touch, and it was too easy for someone like Lucy to trip over herself. Indeed, the next line of semi-quavers ran into themselves somewhat as her fingers twisted around the shapes they presented, and she could feel herself losing control. But then bar twelve arrived, and the pace slowed as the notes moved into triplet-figures. Lucy breathed out, and reasserted her authority over the music. The notes started to flow as she got used to the light touch of the instrument, and she rather began to enjoy herself. She sailed through the chromatic passage towards the point at which she had stopped during the week. All of a sudden she played as lyrically as her untrained fingers would allow, and began to forget her fear. With something of a flourish she ran up and down the high arching figure halfway down the page, and sank gratefully on to the cadence that ended the section.

  A little shakily, but flushed with her performance, she lifted her fingers off the keys and turned around.

  Miss Martin smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ she said. ‘That really was very good for a first attempt. You must have worked very hard to have made such progress.’

  Lucy blushed with pleasure, and lowered her eyes. Miss Martin’s voice when she was pleased was, she thought, the loveliest thing in the world. It had a rich quality to it which made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, while also possessing a distinctive lilting ring which was no doubt evidence of her deep immersion into the beauties of music.

  Miss Martin then got up from her seat and stood over her. Her scent filled Lucy’s nostrils, sending a rush of heady sensation surging through her head. She blinked to regain attention.

  ‘Now,’ Miss Martin said, ‘let’s see what we can do to build on your good work.’

  She then embarked on a bar-by-bar recapitulation of the music. Lucy was asked to play a few notes here and there, and then again, and again, until exactly the right balance was found. Over and over she was made to play the same sections until the sound Miss Martin wanted came regularly and clearly. Her fingers began to ache. Even the parts she had been proud of were subjected to the most rigorous examination, and mistakes she had no idea she’d made were brought to light and eradicated. She was forced to keep her back straight, to hold her wrists high, to keep her eyes on the music, to curve her fingers and not hold them flat, to use the editor’s fingering patterns, and whatever else was correct and difficult about the music. Trills, mordents and grace-notes were mercilessly rehearsed until they came out perfect. And all the while Miss Martin’s fragrant presence was pressed against Lucy to distract her. At moments she would bend over her pupil’s shoulder in order to demonstrate something, and her bosom would lightly graze Lucy’s shoulder. At others she would take her charge’s hands in her own to exemplify some position, or place them about her
body to correct some defect of posture. In all those moments, suffused with Miss Martin’s mellifluous voice and elusive, intoxicating scent, Lucy would feel a shiver of pleasure move through her, and her whole body would experience an ambient tremor of delight.

  Eventually, however, Miss Martin seemed satisfied with her work, and resumed her seat behind Lucy.

  ‘Now, do you see the things you should be working on, Lucy?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Lucy, both relieved to be on her own again, but also with the strange feeling of having been abandoned.

  ‘Good,’ said Miss Martin. ‘I shall expect you to have done so by next week. I shall also expect you to have practised up until the first repeat mark. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Lucy, demurely. That was a lot of music to cover, but one could hardly disagree with her, not on the first lesson.

  ‘I think, in that case, that we had better have a look at your technique. I shall assume that you do not need the music for the scales I set you. Would you please play me C sharp minor harmonic, three octaves, two hands?’

  A flurry of panic passed through Lucy’s frame. Why had she not looked at the technique during the week? There was no hope that Miss Martin would have forgotten about it. She frowned, and decided to make the best of it. After all, the Mozart had gone well. Luck was probably with her. Pausing to collect her thoughts only briefly, she started.

  But it was no good; she just didn’t know the notes well enough. Halfway through the first octave she stumbled and had to start again... and again.

  On the third attempt she could feel Miss Martin’s impatience rising behind her. Finally, as Lucy botched another run at it, she intervened.

  ‘Lucy,’ she said, in a voice that was calm yet filled with a latent impatience. ‘I do hope you have done your practise properly.’

  Lucy turned round.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ she said, panicking. What could she do?

  ‘Then perhaps we should try another one. Please perform F minor melodic.’

  The icy tone of the command amplified the fear bubbling up within Lucy, and her fingers began to tremble again. A thin sheen of dampness covered her palms. She placed her fingers on the cool ivory, and tried again.

  This time she hardly got five notes into it; she had forgotten the key signature and did not know the correct notes to play, let alone how to play them. She turned in a fluster to make her excuses to Miss Martin, and found that she had risen with a wooden ruler in her hand and was looking down on her with a very disapproving stare.

  ‘I am extremely disappointed, Lucy,’ she said in a tight, commanding tone. ‘You have not done much work, have you?’

  Numbly, Lucy shook her head slightly. Her ears were burning bright red. She could not bring herself to look at her mistress.

  ‘Hold out your hand, young lady,’ said Miss Martin in a dismissive tone.

  Lucy proffered her right hand, only to have it smacked suddenly with a vicious flick from Miss Martin’s experienced wrist.

  ‘Ow!’ she started, shocked and perturbed. She snatched her hand back, rubbing her palm furiously. She looked up at Miss Martin, her expression confused and angry.

  ‘I will not tolerate such dishonesty again, Lucy,’ the woman said imperiously. ‘Is that clear?’

  Lucy’s head swam. This was not what she had expected at all. Her hand hurt. Was this supposed to make her play better? She floundered for a response, at once flustered and indignant. How dare she - who did she think she was?

  Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Miss Martin swooped down and grabbed her by the ear.

  ‘Is that clear?’ she said again, pulling Lucy’s head towards her own.

  ‘Ow!’ cried Lucy again as her ear was propelled upwards. ‘Y-yes miss - that is very clear!’

  Miss Martin released her with a twist. ‘Very well. Now play D major.’ She returned to her chair, crossed her hands in her lap, and waited.

  Lucy, tears in her eyes from the stinging sensation in her ear, shakily turned back to the music. She looked down at her right palm; there was an angry red mark from the ruler. Fear filled her. What if she got it wrong again? Now she was sure the whole thing had been a mistake and she suddenly wanted to leave. The sensual presence of Miss Martin at her side moments before had been forgotten. How could she be so cruel? She had seemed actively to enjoy pinching her ear so that it smarted. Now, bruised and upset, Lucy could hardly concentrate on the music at all. She raised her trembling hands over the keys, and tried to play. Again she managed to get a few notes into the scale before forgetting her fingering and falling over herself. She heard the quiet rustle of silk behind her as Miss Martin got up again. Letting slip the slightest squeal of panic, she tried again, this time her hands getting out of sequence with themselves. One more time she ran at it, only to start on the wrong note and end up playing a different scale. Her shoulders sank then and she bowed her head. Behind her there was a frosty silence. Not daring to turn around, Lucy sat staring at the floor, waiting timorously for the verdict from her teacher.

  Finally, Miss Martin spoke. Her voice was cool, almost friendly, but possessed of an undeniably purposive undertone.

  ‘Lucy,’ she said, ‘I will ask you a question now, and I do hope I shall receive an honest answer.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Lucy mumbled guiltily.

  ‘Have you practised your technique this week like I asked you to?’

  There was no pretending now.

  ‘No, miss,’ she said, almost in a whisper. She was so ashamed of herself she could feel the roots of her hair itch with embarrassment.

  ‘I see,’ said Miss Martin, and sighed. ‘In that case I will have to punish you. I regret the need for this, as you played your Mozart so well, but I cannot ask you to do things for me and simply forget about it when you don’t. Please stand up.’

  Her heart thumping, Lucy gingerly rose to her feet.

  ‘Now lean forward and take hold of the piano top.’

  Uncertainly, Lucy did as she was told, which had the effect of leaving her bent slightly over the keyboard and her legs wedged in against the front of the piano stool. Without having time to think, the ruler swished through the air again and struck her hard on her bottom.

  ‘Ow!’ exclaimed Lucy for the third and loudest time, jumping upright at the impact. Her hands flew to her backside which, even protected under the pleated school skirt, stung from the blow. What was Miss Martin playing at? This was absurd. She turned round, cross and embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve had enough!’ she blurted. ‘I don’t want to be punished! I’m trying, don’t you see?’

  There followed a dreadful silence in which Miss Martin seemed to grow several inches as she faced her defiant charge, and Lucy’s sudden air of bravado vanished as soon as the words left her lips. She swallowed nervously, and tried as best she could to meet her teacher’s gaze. Her lower lip began to tremble a little, but she stood her ground.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Miss Martin, examining her right glove absently, her voice dripping with irony. ‘You don’t wish to be smacked after all. Well, of course you don’t. Whoever would want to be punished?’

  She looked back at Lucy with a glance that, oddly, seemed laced with some sympathy.

  ‘Poor Lucy,’ she purred, sotto voce. ‘It’s not very nice to have your bottom smacked, is it?’

  Lucy was by now thoroughly confused. She shook her head slightly, wondering what was going on. Miss Martin moved closer and stroked her cheek affectionately.

  ‘Dear Lucy,’ she whispered. ‘You see, I do understand. I realise I might seem cruel and archaic to you right now. But I only have your proper interests at heart, do you see?’

  Miss Martin’s words seemed imbued with a hypnotic gloss. All at once the rich, sensual timbre that had enchanted Lucy earlier returned, a
nd she found herself nodding in agreement almost before she knew it. Miss Martin drew closer and began running a finger lazily through her hair.

  ‘Oh, Lucy,’ she whispered. ‘It must be very odd for you right now - all these strange demands and threats of punishment. What a foreign world you have stumbled into!’

  Her luminous scent once again helped to calm Lucy down. Whatever power Miss Martin had to alter Lucy’s mood so quickly was evidently working once more. In her confusion Lucy stood still, accepting the caresses of her teacher meekly, tense but unwilling entirely to draw away.

  ‘But,’ Miss Martin went on with a voice of velvet in her ear, ‘don’t you see that you have to do the work if you are to get better? Don’t you see that?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ mumbled Lucy.

  ‘And isn’t it naughty of you not to practise when you are told to? Isn’t that bad?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so...’ said Lucy, leaning almost involuntarily towards Miss Martin, drawn by her beauty as if in a trance.

  ‘Right then!’ cried Miss Martin, suddenly grabbing her and dragging her down over her lap as she fell onto the stool herself. Disorientated and off-balance, Lucy found herself upended almost immediately, her head dangling over the end of the stool and her bottom up in the air. Miss Martin had her right wrist pinioned behind her back in a moment, and before she knew what had happened she found herself totally helpless over Miss Martin’s knee. The music teacher had a deftness and a strength which were totally unexpected, and she held her pinioned as firm as a vice.

  ‘So you admit you are a naughty girl after all,’ she said. ‘In that case I think your insolence needs firm remedial action, don’t you?’

  ‘No!’ cried Lucy, wriggling furiously under the grip of her mistress. ‘Let me go!’

  Miss Martin laughed. ‘What a pretty thing you are, so flustered and upset,’ she said, calmly lifting Lucy’s skirt with one hand while the other easily held her in place. ‘You remind me of one of my previous pupils. What was her name? Oh, I forget...’