Guitar

The summer holidays had reached that strange stage where time no longer behaved normally.

One day felt like three Tuesdays glued together.

The washing basket reproduced overnight.

The fridge was somehow always empty despite regular food orders being received to the house. 

And every parent in London had quietly started counting down the days until school reopened while pretending they were “making wonderful family memories, doing crafts”. 

Mrs Brand and Mr Brand were both working from home.

This sounded peaceful.

It wasn’t.

Mrs Brand was attempting to negotiate insurance contracts from the dining room.

Mr Brand was on video calls upstairs, to people who looked deeply interested in not being there.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Barry had discovered that socks could become puppets, tea towels made excellent superhero capes, and Marmaduke was entirely willing to assist with any experiment beginning with the phrase:

“I wonder what happens if…”

Marjory, Marmaduke’s mum, wasn’t faring much better.

As a neurosurgeon, she’d successfully operated on people’s brains.

Yet somehow she still couldn’t persuade Marmaduke to wear matching shoes.

“No,” she sighed one Friday evening, swirling a glass of wine. “I’m officially out of ideas.”

The adults were gathered in the Brands’ garden after the children had finally been persuaded into pyjamas.

“I’ve got one,” Marjory announced.

Everyone looked nervous.

“You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face that says we’re about to spend money.”

“Nonsense.”

Mrs Brand narrowed her eyes.

“…Go on.”

“What if,” said Marjory, “we got them music lessons?”

Silence.

Mr Brand considered it.

“They’d be learning.”

Mrs Brand nodded.

“They’d be occupied.”

“They’d need to practise.”

“They’d be concentrating.”

The second bottle of wine appeared.

This, historians agree, was the precise moment sensible decision-making quietly left the garden.

“No wind instruments,” declared Mrs Brand firmly.

“Absolutely not,” agreed Marjory.

“No brass.”

“Definitely not.”

Mr Brand looked thoughtful.

“What about strings?”

“Lovely.”

“Educational.”

“Civilised.”

The following morning Barry was informed.

“We’re getting music lessons?” he shouted.

“Yes.”

“I’ve chosen.”

“We haven’t asked what—”

“ELECTRIC GUITAR!”

Mrs Brand blinked.

“No.”

“But rock stars—”

“No.”

“They jump off speakers!”

“No.”

“They’ve got smoke machines!”

“You are four.”

“I can still have smoke.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

Barry folded his arms dramatically.

“I’ve already imagined myself.”

Marmaduke appeared beside him.

“I’ll have electric guitar too.”

Barry smiled proudly.

“And drums.”

The adults looked at one another.

There are moments when parents communicate entirely with eyebrows.

This was one of them.

Absolutely not.

Drums vanished from consideration before Marmaduke had even finished saying the word.

By Sunday afternoon the decision had become…

Acoustic guitars.

Both boys stared miserably at the catalogue.

“They’re made of wood,” whispered Barry.

“That’s disappointing,” agreed Marmaduke.

“They don’t even plug in.”

Alfie wandered past.

“I’ll have a go.”

Barry looked horrified.

“You’re doing guitar?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll probably be good.”

“I’ll practise.”

Barry sighed.

“Exactly.”

The school receptionist turned out to be one of those ladies who knew everybody.

“Oh!” she smiled. “You want Ted.”

“Ted?”

“Edward Carter-Brown.”

“Is he good?”

“Very.”

“Patient?”

She laughed.

“Exceptionally.”

“He’ll need to be.”

“Oh, I know Barry.”

That sentence alone probably qualified her for additional annual leave.

Just Music sat three streets away from school.

Old Mr King peered over his spectacles as the family entered.

“Guitars?”

“Please.”

“Renting?”

“Yes.”

Old Mr King disappeared into the back room before returning with three well-loved acoustic guitars.

“They’ve got character.”

“They’ve got scratches,” Barry observed.

“Character.”

“They smell funny.”

“Vintage.”

Barry looked unconvinced.

Mr King produced paperwork approximately the thickness of a telephone directory.

“The deposit is…”

Mr Brand’s eyebrows climbed steadily higher.

“…That much?”

Mr King nodded serenely.

“I’ve rented guitars to children before.”

Mr Brand immediately understood.

“Fair enough.”

Wednesday arrived.

At exactly ten o’clock the doorbell rang.

Barry sprinted to answer it.

Standing outside was…

…not what anybody expected.

Ted Edward Carter-Brown looked about thirty.

His hair was tied into a loose bun.

He wore faded jeans, sandals and a colourful shirt that looked as though it had once enjoyed backpacking around South America.

A guitar case rested over one shoulder.

He smiled with such complete calm that several nearby flowers seemed more relaxed.

“Morning.”

“You’re Ted?”

“Usually.”

Barry frowned.

“I thought guitar teachers were old.”

“I’ll try harder.”

Barry accepted this.

“You’d better come in.”

Ted entered, looked around at the three children and smiled.

“So…”

He glanced at Barry.

“You must be Barry.”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve heard stories.”

Mrs Brand coughed loudly.

“Only good ones.”

Ted grinned.

“I suspect they were… memorable ones.”

The lesson began in the sitting room.

Ted carefully tuned each guitar.

“Before we play,” he said, “let’s learn how to hold them.”

Barry immediately attempted to hold his above his head.

“No.”

“What about upside down?”

“No.”

“Behind my neck?”

“No.”

Marmaduke copied Barry.

“No.”

Alfie quietly held his perfectly.

Ted nodded approvingly.

“Excellent.”

Barry looked offended.

“He hasn’t even been told off.”

“That’s because he’s holding it correctly.”

Barry considered this deeply.

“I don’t like that system.”

“Right,” said Ted.

“We’re going to learn our first chord.”

Barry raised his hand.

“When do we become famous?”

Ted didn’t even blink.

“Probably after we’ve learnt more than one chord.”

“Oh.”

“And practised.”

Barry looked disappointed.

“Practising sounds like the difficult bit.”

“It usually is.”

Ted demonstrated.

The guitar made a beautiful warm sound.

Barry stared.

“That sounded amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Barry confidently copied him.

The resulting noise resembled someone accidentally standing on a surprised goose.

Marmaduke tried.

His sounded like the goose had called for backup.

Alfie played.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was recognisably a chord.

Barry gasped.

“He’s doing it again!”

Ted smiled.

“He listened carefully.”

Barry sighed.

“That keeps helping him.”

For the next twenty minutes Ted somehow remained completely relaxed.

Every time Barry forgot which string to play…

“No problem.”

Every time Marmaduke copied Barry instead of Ted…

“Let’s try again.”

Every time Barry accidentally rotated the guitar sideways…

“Gently…”

Mrs Brand watched from the kitchen.

“He’s incredible.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“I think he’s actually lowering my blood pressure.”

Marjory agreed.

“Can we hire him to live here?”

Halfway through the lesson Ted said, “Let’s learn rhythm.”

Barry’s eyes lit up.

“I’ve got rhythm.”

“Excellent.”

Barry immediately began hitting the guitar like a bongo.

“No…”

Marmaduke joined in enthusiastically.

“No…”

Together they created a sound generally associated with collapsing garden furniture.

Ted inhaled slowly.

Smiled.

“Interesting interpretation.”

Mrs Brand whispered, “How hasn’t he shouted?”

Marjory whispered back, “Trust fund.”

Ted eventually taught them how to strum together.

“Down… down… up… down…”

The boys concentrated.

For nearly twenty seconds.

Then Barry noticed something.

“Ted?”

“Yes?”

“Can guitars do sound effects?”

“What sort?”

“Spaceships.”

“Not usually.”

“Dinosaurs?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Police cars?”

“No.”

Barry looked disappointed.

“I think electric ones can.”

“They probably can.”

“I knew it.”

At the end of the lesson Ted packed away his guitar.

“You’ve all done well.”

Barry looked hopeful.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Even though I only played one proper chord?”

“You played part of one.”

“I’ll take it.”

Ted handed each child a practice sheet.

“Five minutes every day.”

Barry stared at it.

“Does it say five minutes all at once.”

“No.”

“So…”

Ted smiled.

“You can split it up.”

Barry’s grin spread.

“One minute after breakfast.”

“Yes.”

“One minute before lunch.”

“If you like.”

“One minute before dinner.”

“Certainly.”

“One minute before bed.”

“That’s four.”

Barry thought hard.

“…I’ll accidentally forget the fifth.”

Ted laughed.

“Nice try.”

Once Ted had left, the practising began.

Or at least something began.

Mr Brand was on an important video call.

“…yes, I think the quarterly figures—”

TWANG.

“…show considerable—”

BONNNNG.

“…potential for—”

CLANG.

A voice on the call asked carefully,

“Is… someone renovating?”

Mr Brand smiled weakly.

“No.”

“Construction nearby?”

“No.”

“…Livestock?”

“My son has discovered music.”

“Oh.”

A sympathetic pause.

“I’m terribly sorry.”

Upstairs, Mrs Brand was trying to read a legal document.

Downstairs…

TWANG.

TWANG.

TWANG.

“Marmaduke,” Barry whispered.

“What?”

“If we both play at once…”

“Yeah?”

“…we’ll learn twice as fast.”

This made perfect sense to Marmaduke.

It made considerably less sense to everyone else.

After ten minutes Alfie walked into the sitting room.

“You know…”

“What?”

“You should tune them.”

Barry looked puzzled.

“They’re already guitars.”

“No… tune them.”

“What does that mean?”

“It makes them sound right.”

Barry strummed.

“It sounds like guitar.”

“It sounds like an argument.”

Barry frowned.

“I quite like it.”

That evening the adults gathered in the garden once more.

The children had finally gone to bed.

Three guitars rested safely on top of the wardrobe.

Entirely by coincidence.

Marjory poured another glass of wine.

“So…”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“They survived.”

“So did Ted.”

“I genuinely think he enjoyed himself.”

Mr Brand nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ve never met anyone that relaxed.”

At that exact moment there was a knock at the gate.

Ted stood outside.

“I forgot my water bottle.”

He stepped into the garden.

Marjory asked, “Be honest.”

“Yes?”

“Were they your most challenging pupils?”

Ted considered it.

“No.”

The parents looked astonished.

“Really?”

“I once taught six accountants during a team-building weekend.”

Everyone waited.

“They were trying to optimise chord efficiency.”

Mr Brand burst out laughing.

Ted picked up his bottle.

“I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

“You are coming back?”

“Of course.”

“Even after today?”

Ted smiled.

“Barry’s curious.”

“Marmaduke’s enthusiastic.”

“Alfie’s thoughtful.”

“They’re good kids.”

He shrugged.

“They just make… interesting noises.”

As he wandered down the road, humming happily to himself, Mrs Brand watched him disappear.

“I think,” she said, “we’ve accidentally found the only guitar teacher in Britain who can’t be frightened.”

From upstairs came a sleepy voice.

“Muuuum?”

“Yes, Barry?”

“If I practise loads…”

“Yes?”

“…can Father Christmas bring me an electric guitar?”

The three adults froze.

Mrs Brand took a very deep breath.

“We’ll discuss it in about… fifteen years.”

“Okay!”

A pause.

“What about a drum kit?”

Mr Brand quietly reached for the wine bottle again.

The summer holidays, it seemed, still had several weeks left.

And somewhere, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead, Ted Carter-Brown was already planning next Wednesday’s lesson.

He even looked forward to it.

Which either made him the world’s greatest guitar teacher…

…or proof that being unbelievably relaxed was, in fact, a genuine superpower.