One Chance by Paul Potts Read Free Book Online Page A

Toccata (one of my favourites), then it usually meant he was in a good mood. If it was J. S. Bach’s Toccata (which always sounded like something from a horror movie), then we knew we were in line for a telling-off.
    Mr. Bussell very rarely raised his voice, but you always knew when he was unhappy. When he got really cross, he’d use a tactic that was effective to the nth degree: he would threaten us with the prospect of introducing girls into the choir. We were bright enough to know what this would mean. There was only space for fifteen or sixteen boys at most in the front pew of the choir stalls. Having girls in the choir meant redundancy for some of us, so it was a very effective threat indeed.
    Despite spending a considerable amount of time banished to the organ loft, I got on well with Mr. Bussell. He was usually funny and pleasant, and towards the end of my time with the choir, he told me that I was one of the best choristers he had ever had the pleasure of working with. For me this was very high praise indeed, and made me feel very happy.
    The money I earned from being in the choir paid for me to have singing and piano lessons. My teacher Miss Wilcox taught in her home in the Soundwell area of Kingswood, an affluent area on the edge of Bristol. I had to get a bus to and from lessons twice a week. She had many talented pupils, some of whom I remained friends with years later. Miss Wilcox was advanced in years and had a reputation for having a bad temper. She was so scary that she filled even her pupils’ parents with fear. She was in her eighties and spoke with very authoritarian tones. She didn’t suffer fools gladly, and though largely immobile in her seat, could certainly move her arms very well.
    One Monday evening, for example, I had left late after my singing lesson and there was a risk of missing the bus. Fortunately, that was running late, too, and I ran to the bus stop just in time to catch it. I was getting on the bus when I was grabbed by the father of one of the other pupils, Chris Gammon.
    â€œCome on,” said Mr. Gammon. “I’ve got to give you a lift home.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” I replied. “The bus is here now, and you only live round the corner.”
    â€œOi!” the bus driver shouted. “Are you getting on or not?”
    â€œHe’s not,” said Mr. Gammon, pulling me back onto thestreet. “Miss Wilcox,” he explained, as the bus drove away, “told me I had to drive you home.”
    His face was as white as a sheet: he was petrified.
    This wasn’t a rare emotion in Miss Wilcox’s presence; she was mistress of all she purveyed.
    Miss Wilcox was a hard taskmaster. My singing was far better than my piano playing, and I was always a little lazy with my piano practising. It generally showed when Miss Wilcox asked me to play the pieces she had given me to practise. She would get more and more frustrated with me, and wasn’t afraid of showing it. I tried to make excuses, saying that our piano at home was out of tune. Rather than just accepting that, Miss Wilcox sent her piano tuner to our house to test our piano.
    Miss Wilcox had another tactic, too. She decided that corporal punishment would make me perform better. After several weeks of playing badly and not really making progress, she picked up a garden cane and started rapping my fingers with it whenever I made a mistake. The more mistakes I made, the harder she hit me. I can see now that having sent a piano tuner at her own expense to look at my piano meant she was very passionate about music and wanted to ensure that we played as well as we could. Unfortunately, her plan had the opposite effect: the caning on the fingers was too much for me and made me give up studying the piano. I didn’t tell my parents about the caning. I just told them I didn’t want to play any longer. I felt that if I told the truth, I would just get into trouble for not practising. I