Page 45 of The Typo

‘And you can call me Maestro,’ he said.

‘Really?’ The word came out before I could stop myself. Maestro? It had to be a joke. I looked around the orchestra, waiting for them to burst out laughing and let me know that they were in on the gag too, but nothing happened.

He rapped his baton on the stand. ‘Your prepared exercises first, if you please, Cameron.’

I fought the urge to drop in a sarcastic curtsy.

‘Yes … Maestro.’ I tried to keep it neutral, like I didn’t think it was utterly ridiculous to be giving a guy who looked like an unassuming geography teacher such a grand title. Once again, I wasn’t sure I’d succeeded in concealing my real thoughts.

If nothing else, the bizarre surname and title theatrics had at least distracted me from my anxiety surrounding the audition.

‘Where do I need to go?’ I asked.

‘You will be doing your audition here, in front of everybody,’ replied Mr self-proclaimed Maestro.

‘Right.’ Again, this was not what I’d been expecting at all. It was highly unusual even in professional orchestras to get people to audition in front of everybody else, and surely here it would be taking up valuable rehearsal time.

He gestured for me to use the music stand right at the front. Even though it was only a short distance away, it seemed to take forever for me to pick my way through the other musicians, apologising frequently as they moved bags and feet to let me pass.

‘Hurry it along please.’ Mr Maestro sounded bored. I was starting to lose my cool too.

Finally, I made it to the front and set up my music on the stand.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said. It was clearly not a kind entreaty for me to take my time and relax into the process.

As I settled my violin under my chin, I tried to block out the harsh strip lights and frowning faces of my surroundings, and instead pictured Princes Street Gardens and a cheerful black Labrador sitting at my feet eager to join in with the music. I could do this. Despite my best efforts, my fingers fumbled a couple of the more complicated bits of the exercises, but instead of letting it throw me off, I took a deep breath and carried on.

‘Passable, just,’ said Mr Maestro.

‘Thanks,’ I said, as if he’d given me the highest praise. I was proud of myself for getting through it, and that was what really mattered.

‘And your solo piece?’

I knew it wasn’t a conventional choice, going for folk music. And everything that I’d seen so far told me that this was a very traditionally leaning orchestra. But it was the music that had been giving me the most pleasure since I’d picked up the violin again, so I decided to go with what felt best.

I stepped away from the stand so they could see that I was playing from the heart. And then I launched into a medley, starting with my favourite ‘Drowsy Maggie’ and then taking my orchestral audience on a musical tour around the rest of the British Isles. As my bow flew over the strings and my fingers danced, I forgot where I was and allowed the thrill of the music to take over, relishing the joyful liberation from the fear which had held me captive for so long.

I finished my performance with a dramatic chord and raised my right arm aloft in sheer exhilaration. Never mind that this was an audition situation. I had played for myself and loved it.

There was a smattering of applause from some members of the orchestra which soon quietened as the conductor glared at them.

‘An unconventional audition,’ he said eventually. ‘Now please sit here and observe the rehearsal. I will let you know my decision when we break.’

‘Or I could join in?’ I suggested. ‘I’d be happy to sit at the back, and play the first or second violin part, whichever you prefer.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ he said. ‘Over there, if you please.’

The rehearsal continued, and despite the beautiful music which the orchestra was playing, I don’t think I spotted anyone crack a single smile. In fact, it seemed like some of the musicians were doing everything they could to avoid catching the attention of the tyrannical conductor. I didn’t blame them. His capacity to reduce people to a shivering wreck for the crime of playing a bum note seemed unparalleled.

When they’d run through the challenging variation a couple of times, the conductor rapped his baton against the music stand and summoned me to the front.

‘Cameron, violin.’ This time I was demoted to surname and instrument.

‘Yes.’ I once again negotiated the torturous route to where he was standing.

‘You are now a member of the Edinburgh Amateur Orchestral Society,’ he said, without any welcome or congratulations.

A cellist on the front row muttered something, which may have been ‘well done’ or they could just have been coughing.

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