Play It Again, Orla
Knowing how I got my first job at the local hotel still makes me laugh. It was through no fault of my own, but instead, a plan masterminded by my mother. Despite her at-times severe outlook on life, I knew my mother was proud of me. Herself and aunty Hannah often claimed to be out walking the dogs, for a bit of exercise. Passers-by smiled at the sight. They knew that two dogs tethered outside a drinking emporium could only mean one thing. Phyllis and Hannah were out for a ‘walk’. Just one sneaky drink on a Friday wasn’t such a bad idea. I imagine my mam eyeing up the dirty old piano, while Hannah relayed juicy gossip in between sips of vodka. She probably sidled up to the bar-manager while he was shining a glass, unaware of her spectacular power of persuasion.
“That piano is only gathering dust, isn’t it?” she smiled confidently. And in the blink of an eye, I was booked for the following Friday.
The year was 1988. I was an insecure 17-year-old with an embarrassing perm. Growing up in Portmarnock, in a house where children should only be seen, never heard. Unless there were visitors who’d call in unexpectedly, or not. There was always a routine, especially if we had very special visitors like Mrs. McCabe from across the green.
“I’m not staying for long now” she insisted. I’d put the kettle on, and prepare a plate of biscuits. Mrs. McCabe was no ordinary guest. She was someone we wanted to impress, so she got custard creams or Mikado. Never a Rich Tea or Digestive.
In silence, I delivered afternoon tea, and the charade continued. The hour of reckoning was getting closer…my heart firmly in my throat, I watched carefully as each bite was taken.
It only took two biscuits before the inevitable “Orla, why don’t you play a tune for Mary?”
I’m glad my mam didn’t know about the great Liberace back then. If she did, she probably would have sent me off donning a pink feather boa and sparkly anorak for my debut. Still, it was inevitable that I’d play the piano. For a shy teenager with braces, it was the perfect escape. My own private sanctuary.
So, there I was. Having made the 60 second walk in the wind and rain, clutching the leather-bound music case my dad had given me when I got honours in grade 6 the year before. Conscious that my perm was even more righteous after a coastal downpour, I ordered an orange juice, secretly hoping that the barman, upon noticing my trembling hands, might slip in a shot of vodka.
I remember that hotel piano so well. Dusty black and white keys, on first appearance seemed tired, lifeless, like a frothy pint poured too long ago, left waiting on the counter to fulfil its destiny. But tired and lifeless as those tobacco-stained keys were, they responded to my touch with all the eloquence they could muster.
As they waited for the local musical prodigy to deliver her 11-piece repertoire, my proud parents had the best seats in the house. It was as if Phil Coulter himself was about to play ‘The Town I loved So Well’. My mother was not shy of the occasional claim that Mr. Coulter had actually stolen all his music from ME. The promise of a free drink meant that anyone with even a drop of Doherty blood in them showed up. The full house tricked the proprietor into thinking I was already famous, and he must have often kicked himself on subsequent nights when absent loyalties meant empty seats.
I sat on the squeaky stool, quickly applying the lip balm Mrs. McCabe had insisted I use. I was prone to chapped lips from the sea-breeze. She would happily boast about how glamourous I looked that fateful first night, thanks to her.
My heart was pounding. I took a deep breath, imagined the room in years gone by, filled with marvellous music and delighted dancers. I caressed the keys, feigning a sort of self-confidence, and launched into Nocturne in E flat by Frederic Chopin.
At first, there was a respectful silence, as drinks were sipped with reverence. There were no clinking interruptions or crisp bags being noisily punctured. But as the night wore on, ballads gave way to livelier renditions and raucous requests were fired at me from every direction. The alcohol was beginning to tip the balance, literally, in my favour also.
The small glass ashtray sitting atop the piano was filling with coins. Once that first whoop of sheer appreciation reverberated around the room, my confidence soared. I was breathing.
I’m sure I had a silly smile plastered across my face, especially when an elderly gentleman joined me in a rendition of Danny boy, and when the couple celebrating their silver jubilee took to the floor and danced to the strains of the Marino Waltz. Even now, when I hear the Dubliners play it, I think back to that couples’ joy.
When the night ended on a wave of cheers and encore, I collected the princely sum of £25, and exited the building like a rock star, to make the brief return trip home. My anxiety-filled heart from hours earlier was now skipping beats with exhilaration. I drifted off to sleep, my head filled with songs and smiles. Next week’s performance couldn’t come soon enough.
Comments