Diary fragment · 2 min read ·
The Piano Under the Canteen Stairs
A steam-cook on the night shift hears a piano playing under the canteen stairs at two each morning, always the same slow tune her husband used to whistle over the washing-up, and the keys are warm when she lifts the lid.
- dated: the brewing fortnight
- narrator: Iris Danby, canteen steam-cook
- reliability: unreliable
Monday. Night shift in the works canteen. Fired the steamers at ten and left the big urn on the low ring for the early tea. Quiet night. Wiped the counters and checked the stock list twice. The canteen clock says two and the works hooter has gone for the night gang.
Tuesday. Heard a piano under the stairs at two. The old upright that was put in the cupboard when the dance hall closed. The tune was slow and plain, the kind of tune that goes round in your head without the words. I went to look. The cupboard was locked and the key was on my chain.
Wednesday. The piano again. This time I knew the tune. It was the one Walter used to whistle at the sink, the Sunday after the shipyard closed, when he dried the plates and told me the lads would be all right. He stopped whistling it the winter he died. I have not heard it since.
Thursday. Went to the cupboard with the key and opened the door. The upright was there with its lid shut and a cloth over the keys. I lifted the cloth. The keys were warm, as if someone had just been playing. There was a single sheet of music on the stand, handwritten, the title in pencil: For Iris, when the urn is full.
Friday. Filled the big urn to the brim, as the sheet said. The piano played all night. I could hear it through the floor while I scoured the trays, and the tune went on steady and patient, and the steam rose off the urn in long soft curls that seemed to keep time with it.
Saturday. The manager says the piano has been in that cupboard since 1957 and nobody has touched it in living memory. He asked whether I had been practising. I said no. He said the cupboard is damp and the piano should be left alone. I agreed with him. I did not tell him that the urn has not boiled dry once since I started the nights, however low the gas.
Sunday. Walter's whistle again, under the stairs, very soft. I stood in the dark kitchen with a cup of tea going cold in my hands and found I was whistling along, as I used to at the sink. The tune came out right at the end. The piano stopped. The steam rose from the urn and hung in the air, and for a moment I thought I could see a shape at the foot of the stairs, a man in a works jacket, drying a plate.