Prelude Read Online Free Page A

absorb every detail and every sensory trace that lands on my ears, my eyes and my nose. The wafts of lily-of-the-valley; the far-off whine of a lawn-mower; the soothing calm of lime-green walls; the sight of India absorbed in her music; and The Well-Tempered Clavier itself, which has now become so elevated it borders on the spiritual.
    She turns on her seat, demure hands in her lap, and smiles with genuine contentment. I have to get a grip, blow my nose, do anything to get rid of the tear in the corner of my eye.
    I clap very lightly. “I would so love to play like that.”
    “Just practice,” she says. “Though I guess it helps if you love the music.”
    By chance, she has a three-page copy of the First Prelude. “Something to get you started,” she says, passing it to me as I leave. “My father gave it to me when I was ten-years-old.”
    She looks at the front cover.
    “It still has all my old notes.”
    What a day, what a day. I can remember saying a clumsy thank you before stumbling into the street and back out into the brilliant sunshine.
    It was life-changing. In one hour, I had fallen in love thrice over: with a composer, a piece of music and a pianist who’d been touched by God.

PRELUDE 1,
    C Major

    FOR A GLIMPSE of Eton at its most formal, I will take you to lunch at the Timbralls.
    At 1.10 p.m., the whole house had to be standing in silence by their chairs in the dining room. It was a handsome room with wide bow windows overlooking Frankie’s garden. When the hubbub had died down, Frankie would sweep through to the top table, his long gown flowing behind him. He would take his place by the window and say a simple grace, “Benedictus benedicat.”
    The fifty boys in the house were sat at five long tables, Frankie was with the seniors, while our Dame, Lucinda—the sole feminine influence in the house—sat with the juniors. I was always stuck with the rabble in the middle.
    There were ten boys on my table, boys who through force of circumstance I had come to know better than my own brothers. We were all in the same year, had known each other from the age of thirteen, and had endured each other’s worst adolescent excesses. They were not necessarily my friends, but they were my most intimate acquaintances throughout my time at Eton.
    I had other friends from other houses, but these nine Etonians were the boys with whom I had three meals a day, who helped me out with my extra work and who were my first port-of-call if I were looking for mischief or amusement. They were my allies and my messmates, the thorns in my side and the butts of my jokes. Some of them I liked, some of them I disliked, but there was rarely open war fare. For, like the Argentinian conscripts in the Falklands, we’d been signed-up for a five-year stretch, and we knew that life was generally more pleasant without too much fighting.
    Our year was split down the middle between the Swats and the Scallywags. The Swats, keen to make the most of their Eton education, were fizzing with ambition. My more natural home, however, was with the Scallys.
    Jeremy, it was no surprise, was also a Scally; then there was Gervase Street, plump and unloved, with sadly the worst acne of any boy at Eton; and Richard Glynn, a sprite, phenomenally gifted at languages and art.
    And then there was Archie.
    “See that headline in today’s Sun ?” Archie asked. He was wiry, with a pug-dog face and a yapping brisk voice that tended to grate. “‘Stick it up your Junta!’”
    Richard poured some water for the five of us. “Hilarious.”
    “Two fingers to the peaceniks.” Archie wafted his head to the side as an aproned maid placed a plate of stew in front of him. “Bloody Argies.”
    “But if we had a peace deal, we might not have a war,” Richard replied.
    “If we have a peace deal, the Argies will have pissed all over us.” Archie planted an elbow on the table and shovelled the stew onto his fork. “Wimpy!”
    “Nothing like a bit of jingoism to get