I Still Have So Much To Say

The streets smell of sulphur from the gas lights and the echoes of ship horns vibrate in the air. Music and arts sweep the city in a flurry of orchestras and leafy boulevards. Early in the morning servants can be seen stoking the fires and preparing the breakfasts. Pianos just like me, were born in this city of thriving culture.

Painting the letters on the frame of a Steinway piano

From the moment my lid first opened, I knew my purpose: to carry the emotion of those who sat before me. I moved from Hamburg, Germany to the centre of London in 1908. My player, Evelyn, was a quiet, determined young woman. I knew it was her when she came in the room - her delicate perfume was so distinctive - and the day before she was evacuated to North Wales, she cried and I felt the splash of her salty tears on my keys. Through the thunder of planes and whines of bombs, I remembered how we played and as the war ended, my sweet Evelyn returned to me.

We travelled to Wales, to a stone farmhouse in the hills near Llangollen. Life changed, but I adapted. Sometimes Evelyn’s children climbed over me, pressing a key in chaos or curiosity. I was part of Evelyn’s family, the beating heart of the household where laughter and loss were intertwined.

But even hearts can wear down.

Through the years Evelyn and I aged together. My once-rich voice thinned to a whisper. My body was scratched, my frame aching, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t sing like I used to. Evelyn died and the family felt empty; there was a bitter sweetness when I sang now. I was too loved to be sold and too storied to be scrapped. My teeth chipped and dust gathered in the folds of my fallboard as the seasons came and went beyond the window.

Then, one day, amongst the blare of television and computers, I smelt Evelyn’s perfume come in to the room and felt a leap of hope.

A young, curious voice and the familiar clunk of my lid being opened. Evelyn’s granddaughter peered at me in awe. She’d grown up with stories about me but had never truly heard me sing. Luckily, she believed I could again.

Tuning a Steinway grand piano

That belief carried me to Wrexham, where a little workshop nestled behind a row of terraced houses took me in. It wasn’t grand, but it smelled of wood glue, polish, and quiet determination. That’s where I met Martha — a woman who didn’t see a broken relic, but a voice waiting to be heard.

She took me apart gently, every screw laid out with care. My strings were replaced, my teeth given fillings and my body massaged and finished back to my beautiful Rosewood. Carefully, piece by piece, Martha eased the stiffness from my aching joints and polished my case until my golden letters gleamed once more: Steinway.

And then, after weeks of tender care, I sang again. Deeper now, wiser. Full of everything I’d seen with my dear Evelyn and everything I still hoped to see with her granddaughter.

Now Evelyn’s grandchildren laugh around me and music returns to my heart and home. I am not young, but I am strong. I remember everything.

And I still have so much to say.

Printed in Local Magazine Chester and Cheshire South

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