Open Writing

Whenever I made the twice-daily announcements via the intercom system, I heard my voice echo through the school. As a school secretary, this was just a small part of my routine; between answering phones, dealing with queries at reception, typing newsletters and maintaining the data-base of students. To make sure everyone was listening by the time I reached the important bits, such as which teams were meeting which teachers on which playing field at break, my announcements always began, “Good morning, everyone, your attention please…”

One busy morning, I’d been answering the phone almost non-stop. I glanced at the clock: time for an announcement. I pulled my notes closer, switched on the microphone and happily said, “Good morning, Weltevreden Park Primary School, may I help you?” and paused, as if answering the phone, waiting for a reply. It took a moment of stunned silence from the entire school, and from me, to realise what I’d done, apologise, and get on with business. That certainly got everyone’s attention.

A speech therapist worked, after school hours each Monday, from one of the classrooms. She wanted me to announce over the intercom that she’d arrived, and in which room she’d be working that week. Her name was Mrs Lipschitz. I invariably stuttered and stammered and ended up, embarrassingly, emphasising the last syllable of her name. Each time, I was convinced that every pupil in the school imagined my furious blushes. Those announcements also got everyone’s attention… There had to be a better way.

Earlier this year, while in England, Leon and I visited a marvellous museum, Finchcocks. It is a musical museum on the outskirts of the village of Goudhurst in Kent, a beautiful old stately home filled with over a hundred ancient keyboard instruments of every description. On Sunday afternoons in spring, summer and autumn, and on many other occasions, Finchcocks not only opens its lovely gardens to the public and allows visitors to meander through the keyboard-filled rooms in the house, they present a demonstration-concert, performed on fourteen of the old instruments.*

We were lucky to be educated and entertained by Steven Devine, an erudite and entertaining master of each keyboard he played. He easily held the attention of his audience for two wonderful hour-long sessions. A fascinating part of his recital was when Steven played the clavichord:

“This,” he said, gently patting a small, box-like, table-top instrument, “is an entirely different species from the harpsichord or the piano. The strings are transverse across the keyboard and are struck by small brass hammers. This particular instrument was built in 1807, a domestic instrument, and is very quiet. When you hear it, you may ask, ‘What is the point?’ Clavichords have been produced continually since the fourteenth century, and are still being made today. They are possibly the only instruments made to be played only for the satisfaction of the musician himself.

“Rossouw said that the clavichord ‘gives the soul credibility,’ while CPE Bach maintained that until one had mastered the clavichord, one could not play music properly.

“I’m going to play you a very loud chord,” Steven continued, and proceeded to put a lot of effort into doing so. All we heard was a faint tinkle. Grinning, Steven then said, “Now I’m going to play a really soft chord,” and gently put his hands down in the same position on the keys – with exactly the same effect. We all chuckled.

“I’m going to play a piece written for this instrument by Johan Christian Friederich Bach, one of JS Bach’s nephews. It is called, ‘Allegretto’. You will notice that, while at first you can hardly hear anything, the music will grab your attention, and will, eventually, fill the room.”

As the first notes whispered into the sunlit room, the silence grew deeper. People breathed more quietly, or held their breath. A few footsteps on the wooden floor above us hammered on our ear-drums, then ceased. No-one moved. There was no rustling of clothes or creaking of chairs. Everyone leaned toward the instrument and the musician, as music filled the silence. When the music ended, the silence continued for long moments, everyone loathe to disturb the peace of the moment.

When we eventually applauded, softly, the noise was overwhelming. The sounds of breathing, whispering and rustling were intrusive.

“The Clavichord Association,” said Steven as he moved to the next instrument, “tried to ban applause from their performances. They encourage a vigorous waving of programmes instead…”

This heavenly hush, the quiet of the music and the reverent attention of the audience, reminded me of my grandmother. Elsie Agnes Catherine Bolton, née Beebee, was a teacher most of her life. When she taught classes of forty young children, she found that the louder she shouted, the more unruly they became. When she spoke softer, then still softer, until she was almost whispering to them, they grew silent, straining to hear her secrets. She had discovered her own brand of discipline.

She raised five children of her own, enjoyed the company of her seventeen grandchildren, and worshipped the newborn forms of at least two great-grandchildren. Gran never raised her voice to any of us. She always spoke quietly, always imparting love, mixed with down-to-earth common-sense.

Perhaps Gran’s approach is one of the ‘secrets’ of raising children. After all, children learn by example far more often than by what we say to them.

We can all use the lesson of the clavichord in life: though raising one’s voice, or using shock tactics may draw people’s attention initially, keeping it is far easier when being quiet and logical.

Until next time… ‘here comes Treble!’

* see: http://www.finchcocks.co.uk/ for further information about this super place of interest.

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By Isabel Bradley