Me and Dad – around 1992
Young girl
On my father’s arm,
Dressed in my best,
Lifting long skirts to rise,
To float,
Up the winding wide staircase;
Watching glamorous concert-goers,
Breathing in perfume,
Admiring lace and silk,
It’s swish and swirl,
Exquisite evening bags
Dangling, tantalising,
From elegant, bejewelled wrists;
Envying them their ease of conversation
With men,
Suave in suits and glossy ties.
Anticipation –
It feels like butterflies in my chest.
We take our seats,
Red-velvet, soft,
High in the balcony,
Where I can see and hear
The giddy excitement:
And here they come –
The Orchestra,
Musicians in glittering black
With gleaming instruments,
And there’s the conductor,
He bows, lifts his baton,
And the Music soars,
Up to our ears in glory…
And oh, the fun,
watching:
the flautist floating his sound high and pure
and silver and sobbing,
sitting crouched like a bad-tempered toad in his chair;
The trumpet’s bright and brilliant sound
Ripping through the ponderous strings,
The trumpeter’s face red
and glowing,
and bright with sweat;
and the percussionist,
swinging his hammer back and forth
between gong and base-drum,
“Bonggggg”, “Boom”, “Bonnngggg,” “Boom”,
“Boooonnnnnggggg”
And missing a beat
As he catches and rights
The falling, reverberating gong.
Interval –
We go downstairs
And fight our way through the crowd,
Heading backstage.
We find and talk to
The red-faced trumpeter,
The ‘grumpy toad’ flautist –
My much-loved teacher,
And some of the young cadets –
Flirt with them behind Dad’s back…
Sleeping with my head on his shoulder
Through the second half;
Roused by a roll on the timps.
Edging our way downstairs,
Through the tunnel,
To the car in the parking lot,
Discussing in detail
Every note,
Every musician,
And –
Just being together:
Me, my Dad, and music.
Copyright © Isabel Bradley
