The Markyate Orchestra of Empty Chairs

The first person I saw on my Markyate round was conducting six empty garden chairs with a wooden spoon. He gave the wheelie bin a particularly stern look, then lowered his arms.

“Percussion’s late,” he told me.

I rested my window-cleaning pole against the gate. “Bins can be unreliable on their days off.”

That earned me a smile, though it disappeared rather quickly. The man introduced himself as Oswin Pellett, newly settled in the little house behind the enormous rosemary hedge. He was wearing a yellow waistcoat, and one of his slippers had a felt strawberry sewn onto it.

I was there to clean his windows for the first time. Apparently, I had also arrived for the final rehearsal of his garden orchestra.

“There ought to be seven of us,” he said. “Nothing grand. Just neighbours having a go. I’ve got shakers, a little drum, some bells. No musical ability required. In fact, I was rather counting on that.”

On a table lay a neat collection of homemade instruments. Two yoghurt pots had been filled with rice and taped together. A saucepan waited beside a pair of wooden spoons. Under each chair, Oswin had placed a cushion in case anyone found the seat hard.

Those cushions bothered me more than the empty chairs. He had thought about people being comfortable before he knew whether anyone would come.

I started on the front windows while he checked his watch. Every so often, someone walked past the gate. Oswin would straighten his waistcoat, lift a hand halfway, then pretend he was adjusting something on the table.

“Did you invite everyone?” I asked gently.

“Put a notice in the window all week. Big letters. Today, half past ten. Come through the side gate.” He glanced at his watch again. “Perhaps people are busy.”

It was twenty to eleven.

I had nearly finished the downstairs glass when I noticed a blue rectangle trapped between the curtain and the window. From inside, it would have looked perfectly visible. From the pavement, the rosemary hedge hid most of it, and the curtain covered the rest.

I stepped back to the gate and crouched slightly. All I could read was: “PLEASE BRING A SPOON.”

That explained the cautious looks from passers-by.

Oswin came out when I called him. We stood shoulder to shoulder, considering his advertisement.

“Oh,” he said.

“Good lettering, though.”

He laughed then, properly, and fetched the notice. With his permission, I clipped it to the gate using the pegs from his washing line.

Our first recruit was a woman called Beryl-Anne, who stopped with a shopping trolley and read every word.

“I thought you were collecting cutlery,” she said. “I’ve had a dessert spoon in my coat pocket since Tuesday.”

She produced it with a flourish.

Oswin offered her the saucepan.

By the time I finished the upstairs windows, three more neighbours had wandered in. A boy named Tolly brought his grandfather and a tin of buttons, which made a very respectable rattling noise. Beryl-Anne persuaded a passing friend to take the bells.

I put my equipment safely aside and accepted the rice shakers.

Our first tune was almost recognisable. Our second fell apart when the saucepan player sneezed, and everyone carried on at a different speed. Oswin tried to bring us back together with his wooden spoon, then gave up and laughed until his glasses slipped down his nose.

Before I left, he handed round biscuits and asked whether anyone fancied another go next week. Every chair was occupied now; I was sitting on the doorstep.

As I carried my pole out, I noticed him moving the notice a little higher on the gate. Beryl-Anne was beside him, already discussing a solo.

I left them negotiating how much saucepan was too much.