My first childhood memory, or memories actually, was being in the parlour and crawling under my mother's huge Steinway grand piano (well it was huge to a three year old) with my beloved childhood toy, a stuffed giraffe I called Giffy.
You see my mother was an acclaimed concert pianist with the London Philharmonic orchestra when she met my father. My father and grandfather were attending one of the orchestra's concerts in London when my father laid eyes on this beautiful, blonde angel (his words not mine). After the concert he managed to charm his way backstage, (not a difficult proposition for a DiNozzo) where he introduced himself. The rest, as they say, is history. Dad says they were inseparable for the next two weeks while he was in England, and when he asked her to marry him at the airport, she agreed. She quit the orchestra, packed all her worldly belongings, and she and her piano arrived in Dad's arms not two weeks later. They were wed 2 months after that. It was a real whirlwind romance. I always had the impression that maybe her family were not so enamoured by this brash American who took their beloved youngest daughter from them, but it didn't seem to stop her.
Anyway, back in the parlour, the afternoon sun would stream in through the large windows and fall across the floor and I would lay on my side with my head on Giffy and watch the dust dance in the light (not too much dust as we did have household staff to look after that sort of thing) while I listened to her play and drift off to sleep. I would listen to Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart (of course) and many other classic composers I never bothered to learn the names of. I could always tell her mood based on which pieces she chose to play. I never heard anyone else play the way she did, she was truly amazing.
I think that was the only time in my life I ever felt truly … safe.
My mother started to teach me how to play the piano from before I could walk. I would apparently sit on her lap and bang the keyboard with my fist, or often my head and as I grew she started on real lessons. I could play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (well one of Mozart's 12 variations of the original French tune) with both hands by my third birthday. She continued to give me lessons until I turned four, after which she hired Madame Genevieve who was nowhere near a nice to me as my mother was. She believed that by pointing out each mistake by snapping a ruler across my knuckles would encourage me to be more accurate … she was wrong.
By the end of my thrice-weekly two-hour lessons, my knuckles were red, swollen and often had to have ice packs put on them. If a child turned up to school today with the damage my knuckles showed the teachers would have to, by law, report it. I continued under Madame Genevieve's tutelage until I turned eight. I wouldn't touch a piano again until I want off to boarding school.
