Source A: The first note at Platform Six

An original contemporary non-fiction-style practice text, written for this question.

By Venn

Before the morning rush, the station spoke in machinery. Gates clicked. Trolleys rattled. The loudspeaker released calm instructions into the roof and received no answer. Even footsteps seemed to belong to the building rather than to the people making them.

The piano stood beside Platform Six beneath a grey cover. For three months, commuters had flowed around it without slowing, dividing neatly at the last second and joining again beyond it. Under the cover was a dark wooden instrument with two missing keys, a layer of dust and a handwritten notice: AWAITING REPAIR. It looked less like a piano than a large piece of abandoned furniture.

I had been asked to make it playable, not beautiful. I tightened what could be tightened, replaced what could be replaced and cleaned away the dirt in patient circles. Nobody spoke to me. Travellers glanced at the open case, saw tools instead of music and continued towards somewhere more urgent.

At half past eight, I pressed one key.

The note was not impressive. It was thin, slightly uncertain and quickly swallowed by an arriving train. But a cleaner looked up. A child walking behind her father copied the note with her voice. From the ticket barrier, someone called, ‘Is it working?’

I pressed the key again.

This time, the note seemed to clear a small space around itself. People still hurried, but their attention no longer travelled in a straight line. Heads turned. Steps shortened. The child pulled her father backwards through the crowd until they were standing beside me.

‘Is it allowed?’ she asked.

The question surprised me. The piano had been placed there for anyone to play, yet three silent months had taught people to treat it as a display. I moved my tools from the stool.

‘It is now.’

She played four notes with one finger, paused, and played the same four again. Her father added a fifth. A woman holding a bicycle supplied a low note from the other end of the keyboard. None of them appeared to know the same tune, but for a few seconds they tried to find one together.

The crowd changed by accumulation. A courier waited through the next train. The cleaner leaned on her broom. A man in a formal coat played a nursery song, stopped halfway and laughed when three strangers supplied the missing notes. People who had been avoiding one another’s eyes began exchanging instructions, apologies and requests.

The music was imperfect. It stumbled, repeated itself and occasionally ended in a noise like cutlery falling down stairs. Yet the station accepted every mistake. Announcements continued above us; trains arrived and departed; the departure board calmly removed one destination after another. Around the piano, however, nobody seemed embarrassed to remain unfinished.

By midday, the repair was complete. I packed my tools and replaced the notice with a smaller card: PLEASE PLAY.

As I walked towards the exit, another tune began behind me. It was slow and hesitant, but it did not have to compete with the station. The clicks, wheels and announcements were still there. Now they sounded like the rhythm underneath.

How does Venn use language and structure to show the piano’s effect on people using the station?

Support your answer with detailed examples from the text, including brief quotations.