Accidentally on Purpose: Becoming a Cello Teacher

By Wendy Max

Wendy Max grew up in a protected environment where a woman's role was to be a caring wife and a loving mother. She married young and had four bouncing boys by the time she was thirty. Wendy wanted more than that-tea parties and flower arranging were not enough for a woman with a lively mind and plenty of energy. But what could she do with only a

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951505165

Wendy Max

Wendy Max grew up in a protected environment where a woman's role was to be a caring wife and a loving mother. She married young and had four bouncing boys by the time she was thirty. Wendy wanted more than that-tea parties and flower arranging were not enough for a woman with a lively mind and plenty of energy. But what could she do with only a Cordon Bleu certificate to show for herself? Here is the story of how, from nowhere, Wendy achieved renown in the world of cello teaching, how the great and the good flocked to her classes, and how she fought to carve herself a career against parental disapproval. Wendy's spirit and fortitude shine out in every page. She writes as she speaks, with an infectious, almost breathless enthusiasm-for cellos large and tiny, for summer schools by the sea and, above all, making learning fun for children.

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How this Book Came to be Written

This book tells the story of how – against considerable odds – I became a reasonably well-known cello teacher. I have for some time been wanting to set it all down, partly to encourage others to find the thing that they want to do, and partly to pass on what I have discovered about teaching very young children to the next generation of music teachers.

But I did not know how to write a book. I was lucky to find a mentor in Jane Dorner who gave me weekly feedback for about 18 months. We nominated Wednesdays as our day for exchanges and she would comment on what I had written and make suggestions for the next step. ‘Think of it as your cello lesson,’ she said. Later, we had a ‘summer school’ when she came to my house in Frinton-on-Sea. I learnt a lot. I hadn’t realised that my grammar and punctuation were so shaky and I soon had any literary delusions of grandeur dispelled by Jane’s pointed corrections. ‘She taught me that in order to write well, you have to read well. To think about how other writers make a reader interested in the telling of an incident. It isn’t necessarily because they have been a success at something – it can be the way they describe an event, an honesty and maturity, or a way of linking two ideas in an unexpected way.’ At first this was daunting, but Jane was patient and encouraging and I hope I am better at it now.

Jane was originally one of my ‘cello mums’, as I called the mothers of the children I taught. I met her in 1980 when I started teaching her son Gabriel (Gottlieb) to play the cello. Gabriel left me to go to the Junior Guildhall in 1987 when he was ten, but Jane and I remained loosely in touch over the years. I knew she was a professional editor and I had earlier suggested to a teaching organisation I belonged to, the European String Teaching Association, that she would make a good editor for their magazine news & views. She transformed it and remained its editor for 11 years. So she already knew something about music teaching.

When her husband Stephen died I went to his funeral and there saw Gabriel again. He greeted me as if we had last met the week before instead of 27 years earlier. Some weeks later I asked Jane if she would like to meet for lunch. We duly met and chatted, filling in many of the gaps in our memories. As we walked out of the restaurant to go home she suggested that I should record my story as it was quite interesting. Or, ‘Perhaps you should write it down,’ she suggested. I grabbed the moment and daringly said, ‘I will write it, if you will edit it’. Jane paused and eventually replied, ‘I’ll have to think about that’. She thought. And then said, ‘My first idea after our lunch was that you would be much better at talking and that we could do a series of taped interviews and see where that would go. But I have had another idea: that I should put a question (or series of questions) to you once a week. The questions would initially be editorial comments on what you have already written and we’d go on until several thousand words had been amassed and then take stock.’

We did this and, almost a year to the day later the bulk of the book was written. ‘Now’, Jane said, ‘comes the fun part’: the correcting and adding and editing. Then Jane became so ill that I thought we should abandon the project. Gabriel convinced me to continue through the hospital weeks that turned into months.

I didn’t appreciate how much work goes into a book. Once Jane was fully recovered, she also helped me through the publication process: the design and layout of the book, and finding a copy-editor and printer. We had decided that I would self-publish, as modern technology makes it so easy, and she advised me that this is the only way it would truly be my book.

It is, however, our book. I certainly couldn’t have written it without her. I would also like to thank Michael Williams who encouraged me to write this story even before I met Jane; Lettie Lyons who read each chapter as it was written; Clive Barda for encouragement and several photographs, not just those in this book; Tim Wells for his wonderful arrangements of the songs I use; Hazel Bell, for copy-editing the book; Athelny Townshend for designing it; Jane Howard who was meticulous in proof-reading; Paul Robinson who photographed my cellos; and thanks to Michael, my longsuffering husband, who didn’t criticise my syntax even when he wanted to.

Wendy Max

London

2017

1

Cordon Bleu Blues

Imarried in 1962 when I was 22 and definitely considered ‘on the shelf’ by contemporary standards. 1962 was the year the Beatles had their first hit, and I remember going to the Finsbury Park Empire to my first (and last!) pop concert. You couldn’t hear what the performers were singing, because of the screaming girls, but I got, and still have, the autographed programme with all their signatures – and Brian Epstein’s too.

In those days girls were not expected to take up a profession. I had not been allowed to study my preferred subjects for A-levels, as they were science-based and my parents had firmly pronounced, ‘girls cannot be doctors’. I studied English, History and Latin instead and managed to get a place to read Economics at University College, London, although my parents did not let me take it up! Instead, they sent me off to the Triangle Secretarial College in South Molton Street, where I learned shorthand and typing so that, in my father’s words, I would be able to ‘earn my own living’.

My mother, Margery, insisted that I enrol at the Cherry Marshall modelling agency as well, so that I could learn to walk elegantly and do make-up beautifully. As I was rather fat and lumpy at the time, and not really interested in makeup, it seemed a waste of time to me. However, now, nearly 60 years later, I still use the brand of make-up they suggested then, and always pinch the heels of my shoes when I take them off and they are still warm. That keeps them in shape, we were assured.

Marriage, in those days, was seen as a natural progression from young adulthood, and girls were to be trained for it as there was no point having any other ambition. In preparation for the skills needed my mother had, without my knowledge, booked a place at the Cordon Bleu Cookery School for me, insisting that this was ‘the only money worth spending on your education’. I think it was quite expensive – as it is now – but my mother thought it was more worthwhile than sending me to university. She had intended the Cordon Bleu course to follow the secretarial course as a natural progression, but as things turned out, there was a two-year waiting list for Cordon Bleu, so by the time my place was available I had already found myself an exciting job as Shop Hound on Vogue magazine. Prior to that I had taken a dogsbody job, straight from secretarial college, at the National Magazine Company’s House Beautiful. I earned Åí7 a week plus luncheon vouchers for making tea, typing the odd letter and trying to work the antiquated PBX phone system (Private Branch Exchange).

I was determined not to be a dogsbody for long, so I pretended that one of my tasks – working the switchboard – was too tricky. I kept on making wrong connections. I suggested that I would be better occupied writing copy. Luckily no one was doing the magazine’s shopping column, so I was given a chance and grabbed it with enthusiasm. I stayed there for about a year and built up quite a portfolio of printed articles, which I used to convince my interviewers at CondeÅL Nast that I could manage the Shop Hound position. This entailed visiting shops and factories around the West End and discovering things that were new or trendy to fill the spaces around the larger, more important articles. I was sent a lot of mail by various manufacturers, each eager to push their particular item. I was sometimes taken out for lunch too, by the very persistent ones, and I had to balance my judgement of the item they were pushing against a feeling of guilt if I didn’t like it enough to publish it. I clearly remember the press release about the first appearance of Lego from Denmark. I loved it immediately as I had been a fan of its predecessor, Minibrix, moulded rubber bricks that fitted together just like the Lego bricks did.

I was soon rubbing shoulders with the likes of David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton, swapping ideas, typing up the results, and drinking coffee in a large open-plan office where each department had its own corner, but was not cut off from the rest of the editorial team. The Editor, Ailsa Garland, was somewhere in the middle and available to all. It was 1959 and I was 19 and didn’t realise how lucky I was. Getting such a position at that age nowadays would be unthinkable – but it was very different then. For a start, there weren’t any journalism schools or courses. You were just thrown in at the deep end and you either sank or swam. It was a shame in a way that my mother didn’t know that because when the Cordon Bleu vacancy came up, she applied pressure and I dutifully left Vogue and went to study cooking in Marylebone Lane.

I had been brought up very sheltered from real life, and had been shocked to find that nearly everyone at Vogue, except perhaps Ailsa Garland, was sleeping with everyone else, and perhaps, with hindsight, I was relieved to get away from it all and into the relatively safe environment of cooking.

I loved my three-month course at the Cordon Bleu. At the end there were two exams: written and practical. I passed both. The teachers were Rosemary Hume and Muriel Downes who jointly wrote The Cordon Bleu Cookery Book – now more than 50 years old but containing some of the best recipes in their original forms. The other book I kept from that time was called Cake Making in Pictures by Muriel Downes and John and Farnhill Cowderoy which has a particularly useful recipe for a damp almond cake. I still have these two cookery books and even now use them more than any other. I remember, when making a layered cake, how to see that the filling always comes right to the edge; I remember that if you boil gelatine it will not set (mine didn’t); I remember how to decorate the top of a cream covered cake with a palette knife; and every day of my life I remember how to skin a grapefruit and cut it into segments, because I always start the day with a grapefruit.

In addition to the books, I still have two box-files full of all the recipes I made while I was there – and I still use many of them. I can tell which ones are the most used, as they have become the most spotted and stained with splashed ingredients. I think the favourite must be the lemon mousse, closely followed by crème brûlée.

On reflection, I made a serious mistake on my first day at the Cordon Bleu. We were all asked why we were there: I was still a little cross at having been forced to leave Vogue, and replied that it was because my mother sent me. How could I have been so foolish? I quickly noticed that the people who said they wanted to be professional cooks were sent to a special class where I assume they had a more intense training. I was put in a group with about four others who were allocated a kitchen on the third floor of a narrow 18thcentury building in Marylebone Lane. Our first task was to make rhubarb and jam compote, which I have never made since. Thereafter we made a three-course meal every morning, which we then ate for lunch. I started the course weighing 9 stone and finished after three months at 10 stone: a 14-pound increase that I have never been able to lose since! We were given the ingredients and instructions for each dish, but did not have to do any washing-up. Our kitchen had a lovely lady called Agnes, who did it all for us. We were actively encouraged to use as many pans and utensils as we needed, regardless of the mess. This way of cooking has aggravated my husband, Michael, ever since he took over Agnes’s job at home!

After lunch we would cross the road to the demonstration studio and watch Rosemary or Muriel make something rather complicated look extremely easy. The most ambitious of these demos was millefeuille with light-as-a-feather flaky pastry, sandwiched with the most delicious creamy créme patissière. I have made this once or twice since, but 50 years ago I didn’t really like to spend the time making flaky pastry.

A useful trick we were taught in this class was how to rescue dishes that had not turned out as they should. This was invaluable on one occasion when I had a smart dinner party at home. I dropped a whole salmon on the floor as I took it out of the oven. Cool as a cucumber, I pieced it together again, skinned and decorated it and calmly served it onto the plates without anyone suspecting a mishap.

The Cordon Bleu course was a very useful asset, and recently I have been wondering if my mother wasn’t right, first in insisting that I should do the course, and also that it was perhaps the best way to spend money on my education. I am surprised now that I didn’t consider cookery as my profession then, but I suppose it was partly because I wasn’t in the right group from the start. I did once apply for a job to teach cookery, but got rejected out of hand and never considered it again.

I had been shrewd enough to arrange that I could return to my old job at Vogue after my cookery course. But when I got back there I found myself back in the same old role which was not very demanding, and I had time on my hands. I asked if I could have more to do and they sent me along the corridor to June Ducas (married to a distant royal) who edited Brides. I can’t think how I got a job there. Perhaps the Cordon Bleu certificate was an attraction but if so, it didn’t lead anywhere. I know I wrote at least one cookery article aimed at the newly married housewife, because I still have it. I also got to write a whole article about lighting, complete with photographer and sets. But for some reason I wanted to move on.

I met an old school friend who worked as an account executive at the McCann Erickson Advertising Agency, and she introduced me to David Bernstein, the then Creative Director. Before I know what was happening I had joined the Creative Department on the upper floor of a building in New Fetter Lane, just opposite the Daily Mirror. Here we were divided into artists and writers, and I soon realized that the difference between advertising and editorial was that editorial was easier. You could write what you liked, and it was usually published. In advertising, every word had to work. Each word was counted, weighed up, and visualised before it was even presented to the client, who might then reject it. The whole department was involved with the Esso account. At that time the big slogan was ‘Put a Tiger in Your Tank’. I can’t claim that I thought of that, but it was fun working with the people who had.

I left McCann’s shortly before I married Michael, a 29 year old solicitor, in 1962, with every intention of returning in the near future. I’m not sure that I was happy to leave work on marriage, but I don’t think I had any alternative. None of my circle of friends went on working after they were married, so it seemed the natural thing to do. All the same, I did think I might go back to work once things had settled down – but in reality what happened was that during the next eight years I produced four little boys. My mother sent me an eighth wedding anniversary card that said: ‘Eight years and what a lot to show for it!’ Her own words.

At one stage, soon after I had the fourth baby, James William (not the Felicity I had hoped for), I decided that I needed to do something that involved my brain beyond stewed apples, nappies and au pairs. I couldn’t go back to a full-time job, even though I had help at home, so I looked around for something interesting to do. My first idea was to read for the Bar. I could take the Bar finals one at a time over several years, which would not involve full-time application. My newly married sister-in-law, with no children yet, was going to do that, and I thought it would be fun to do it too.

Fun? It wasn’t for me. I duly joined Greys Inn and thoroughly enjoyed the dinners and moots, but the studying was another matter altogether. I bought the first textbook, Cross and Jones on Criminal Law, and remember it well in its red paper cover. I read it through and asked Michael what to do next. He sternly replied, ‘Read it again’. That’s when I gave up. Michael, a solicitor, never wanted me to read for the Bar anyway. I had obviously lost, or never had, the love of studying. I also discovered that the rules for passing the Bar exams had been changed and one now had to take the four most difficult subjects all together in the first year. Not easy in only a couple of hours a day and with four small boys to ferry about and feed, too! They probably want to exclude people like me, I thought. After that I tried out several interesting classes at the local Institute: flower arranging, dressmaking and stained glass. But although I enjoyed them, it wasn’t really what I was searching for.

I was 30 years old and married with four children – an age when young women now are just starting to juggle career with child-care. And they have husbands who actively share the parenting, nappy-changing, sleepless nights, bedtime stories, the lot! A wife and mother then was not expected to do anything other than be a wife and mother. In fact my father, Leonard Segal, had said when I left school, ‘Don’t let her have a job, or she will never get married’. For both my parents, a good marriage was what was expected of a daughter. I complied, but some part of me kicked against that. I wanted to make my own mark. On the face of it, the opportunities that came my way could have blossomed into a career path – by today’s standards they were enviable – but when you are in your twenties and all your twenties-friends are getting married and having babies, tea parties, birthday parties and dinner parties it is very easy to join the herd – there is little time for anything else. All these parties took up lots of my time and energy, so at this stage the desire to have a job and leave the boys – naughty, but good fun – at home, went out of the window. I opted for what my parents wanted for me and stayed at home to enjoy my young family.

Looking back, I don’t regret that decision. I think, with one or two very small children you can consider working, but with four under the age of seven – if you want to have any sort of infl uence on their early lives, having a job, even a part-time one, is not realistic: not if you want to give it all the attention a successful job needs. Because getting small children through their early years is a job too. If I had had an established position and had been really needed, then maybe