On the gym floor his large briefcase lay open to reveal a set of tools, the like of which I’d never seen before. What he was planning to do with them I had no idea, and suddenly I burned with the need to know. Questions pressed and whirled in my mind. I had no idea how to put my curiosity into words, still regret even now not having asked anything at all. I’ve revisited that scene so many times since. If I had spoken up then, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much of my life in search of the answers.

I looked on, remaining perfectly still and silent, not wanting to distract this man from his conscientious work. In that moment, the piano appeared utterly majestic, awesome in its near-perfection. I’d listened to smaller pianos so often in my junior school days, and had sung along with them. But a grand piano like this, I had never heard, and now I saw it in a completely new light. With its great black wing flung open and its insides exposed, it seemed to offer up an intimacy. Not only was it the first time I’d heard such a sound, but it was the first time I had been so moved to my very bones.

It was the scent of a forest on an autumn night. In for the long haul, I placed my satchel on the floor and watched intently. Two hours passed without my noticing. The time of year – indeed the time of day – came into sharper focus. Early September, six o’clock on a crisp, clear evening. Some light still lingered from the town, but here in this secluded mountain village, the trees cut off the last of the sun. As the sound – soft, warm, deep, repetitive – continued to spill from the piano, I sensed the nocturnal forest creatures crouching silently nearby with bated breath.

‘This piano’s pretty old,’ said the man eventually. ‘It has a very gentle tone.’

I nodded, although I wasn’t sure what he meant. Was this a good thing?

‘It’s a very fine piano indeed,’ he said.

I nodded again.

‘Must be because the mountains and fields were better, back in the day.’

‘Excuse me?’

He wiped the black piano slowly with a soft cloth.

‘Sheep in the old days ate better grass in the mountains and fields.’

An image drifted into my mind of the sheep, heads bent, leisurely cropping the pasture near the mountain home where I grew up.

‘They used plenty of felt made from the wool of good sheep that grazed on healthy grass. Can’t make decent hammers like this any longer.’

I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What do hammers have to do with pianos?’

The man gave me a look, then a faint smile broke on to his face. ‘There are lots of hammers inside a piano.’

I couldn’t imagine this at all.