The woman studied the piano in the junk shop. Eight keys missing, half made no sound, a suggestion of woodworm.
"£10?" She wore a tight-fitting calf-length red dress and Chanel No. 5, equally powerfully.
"Fit for firewood," said the shopowner.
Drawing up a chair, the woman closed her eyes in prayer, then hovered her hands over the keys. Untouched, the piano began playing: a Chopin Nocturne, then a Mozart Sonata.
"Can I collect it tommorrow?" she asked, eventually.
"Yes."
She paid £10 and left. When the shopowner arrived next day the piano was gone. All that remained was the tenner.
"£10?" She wore a tight-fitting calf-length red dress and Chanel No. 5, equally powerfully.
"Fit for firewood," said the shopowner.
Drawing up a chair, the woman closed her eyes in prayer, then hovered her hands over the keys. Untouched, the piano began playing: a Chopin Nocturne, then a Mozart Sonata.
"Can I collect it tommorrow?" she asked, eventually.
"Yes."
She paid £10 and left. When the shopowner arrived next day the piano was gone. All that remained was the tenner.
| Regular readers will recognise the piano player. You can find out more about her here. |  |
