1 PERFORMANCE
BEATRICE stood on the steps of an old green Queenslander, a wooden house on stilts. The blue sky’s early morning tinge of lilac had paled, bleached by an unrelenting Australian sun. She mopped her dripping forehead, flicked a mosquito off her arm, stared at the smear of blood on her skin. It was steamy, airless, a cloying summer’s day. Melody, Theo, and Georgy were finalists in the Byron Bay Music Competition and on their way to give a recital. Nervously, they waited by a white minibus glinting in the harsh light. Dreamy-eyed, a chestnut horse ripped at the grass, watched by a kookaburra on the yard’s wooden fence.
‘Luggage goes in here.’ The driver tapped the vehicle’s trailer.
‘Exactly. But this,’ Melody pointed at her large yellow cello case, ‘is not luggage.’ She took off her sunglasses and glared. ‘Putting it in your trailer in this heat would be like locking a toddler in an unventilated car.’
Melody drew her forefinger across her neck as if it was a knife. A flock of noisy white corellas wheeling overhead drew Beatrice’s eye and she reprimanded herself for letting her thoughts drift. If today’s venture was to succeed, it needed all her attention. She looked on, ready to step in if the exchange between Melody and the driver became too intense. Clearly, he had no idea how protective musicians were towards their instruments. She could tell him how some believed a violin or cello had a soul, others thought a string instrument stored a player’s emotions in the wood.
GILLIAN WILLS
He flicked through the company’s dog-eared regulations and read out loud, ‘Golf clubs, suitcases, backpacks, animal cages, and musical instruments are classified as luggage.’
‘If the 200-year-old glue melts and the seams come unstuck the repair costs will break you.’ Melody propped the cello in front of her like a shield.
‘Is it yours?’
‘No, it’s on loan from Turalong Arts.’
The driver checked his phone. Shook his head. Dropped his
cigarette and ground it under his boot.
‘We’re running late. Take it on with you,’ he sneered, dismissing
Melody with a flick of his hand.
~
On board, the air-conditioned interior offered relief from the heat. Beatrice stared through the tinted window as the van cruised past a yard jammed with rusty cars, dismembered machinery, and a solitary goat. Farmland studded with pale brahman cattle silvered in the harsh light made her smile. But she looked away from the crows tearing furry strips off a rotting kangaroo carcass on the lip of the road.
Beatrice began to feel cold, and exposure to dry, chilly air could make Melody’s valuable instrument crack. She wrapped her arms around her to demonstrate how cold she was and asked the driver to raise the temperature. He didn’t need to know it was another instance of cello coddling. With his eyes fixed on the road ahead, the driver nodded, adjusted the temperature, and turned on the radio. A famous singer’s silky vocals, vintage synth, and 90’s back beat wafted through the cabin. Returning to her seat, Beat noticed Georgy, the pianist, asleep, mouth open, her head propped on a folded sweater pressed against the window. Theo adjusted his noise-cancelling headphones. Melody hummed along, bopping to the pop anthem’s groove.
Beatrice was on the brink of nodding off when Melody tapped her shoulder.
‘Beat. We forgot the sheet music,’ she said. Her panicky blue eyes peered through rivulets of blond hair. The van braked abruptly as the
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driver slowed to accommodate the crawl of bumper-to-bumper cars ahead. Melody was thrown forward.
‘For today’s concert?’ Beat asked wearily.
‘Yes. Can we go back?’
‘No,’ Beat sighed. ‘We don’t have time. Let’s hope the competition
organisers have spares.’
~
She should have asked whether they had the music, but she hadn’t wanted to patronise them. After all, they were adults. Instead, she’d chewed on a strand of hair, fidgeted, checked and rechecked the content of her shoulder bag while each one remembered yet another item they needed for the trip and ran back into the house to retrieve it. They had
fussed. Joked. Dawdled.
Progress had been pitifully slow, the traffic congested until just past
Dreamworld, the Gold Coast theme park, but over the Queensland border the vehicle reached maximum speed along the highway slicing between sloping plains of golden, sun-washed hills. Purple mountains loomed in the distance, the wavy, undulating silhouettes like knuckles on a fist.
Beat fretted. Despite the North Coast’s beckoning spirit, she worried about what lay ahead. When she’d agreed to coach the trio, she knew their talent was matched by scatty behaviour. Practice sessions hadn’t been smooth sailing. Theo, the violinist had regularly stormed out, and after each indignant departure, Melody carefully placed the cello on its side and ran after him. First, she let him rant, then hooked her fingers through his and gently, fondly escorted him back.
Rock groups play by ear. Sheet music isn’t essential. But classical trios are judged on how imaginatively and accurately they can spirit an existing piece of music into life. The crucial pages on which she and Georgy, the pianist, had scribbled prompts: when to quicken, brake, blend, whisper, and which player leads, were in Brisbane, marooned on her pine, kitchen table among a rubble of congealed egg and half-nibbled toast.
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‘But it’s not a catastrophe?’ Melody probed. Her muscley fingers and broad hands, ideal for a cellist, scooped her hair into a tight ponytail.
‘It doesn’t get much worse unless you use your iPad readers.’ Melody shook her head. ‘Theo told us not to bring them.’
~
Abruptly, the driver accelerated to overtake an old Land Rover laden with bicycles and camping gear and Beat was sickened by the stench of Theo’s liberally applied citrus deodorant mingled with disinfectant in the
scrubbed interior. If only she could open a window.
Georgy sat up, ‘Stop! I’m going to be...’
The driver swerved into a layby. Theo jumped out and opened the
sliding door for Georgy, who hitched up her crumpled skirt and dashed behind a thicket of scrub swarming with flies. She moaned. Retched. Black Angus cows in the paddock beyond lifted their heads to stare. Unperturbed, the driver drew on a cigarette. His face parked in neutral like his vehicle.
‘Georgy has a migraine.’ Melody thumbed her phone.
‘A hangover more like,’ griped Theo.
Beat raised her eyebrows. ‘Georgy’s piano part is demanding. If she’s
unwell I should ring and cancel your recital.’
Theo scrunched up his face, folded his arms. ‘We’re in the finals. We
could win! This competition has real kudos.’
‘Yeah, but your pianist is out of sorts, and you don’t have the sheet
music,’ Beat reminded him.
When Georgy reappeared, her clammy face was just as blanched but
she was steadier on her feet. Melody handed her a bottle of water. Georgy closed her eyes, grimaced, and cautiously sipped.
~
Beat was once again absorbed by her worries as the vehicle flashed by an endless stretch of glinting sugar cane. When Theo called her name, she
turned and smiled but flinched at the alarm in his slate grey eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s no easy way to say it.’ Theo’s finger toyed with a button on his ill-fitting jacket, an unwise charity shop buy, by the look of it.
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Beat’s jaw tightened. ‘Then say it the hard way.’ ‘Thing is...’
‘He forgot,’ Melody blurted.
‘What?’
‘His violin.’
‘No, no, surely not?’ Beat closed her eyes: she couldn’t bear to look at him. She waved him away. What a loser. She threaded her fingers and twisted and pulled at them. It was unbelievable. Farcical. How could he? Without his violin, Theo had no voice.
Problem solving was one of her strengths, but she had no idea how to salvage the situation. Not having his instrument was as ridiculous as a show jumper without a horse, a rally driver without a car. As they drove into Byron, she envied the hollow purpose of holiday makers. Women in batik sarongs, skinny kids hugging surfboards, lovers hand-in-hand were all heading for the sea. She longed to run along the beach, breathe in the ocean’s salty air, feel the breeze mess with her hair, plough her toes through the sand. When the driver slowed to navigate the snug roundabouts in Byron’s hectic centre, Georgy yawned. She put her head back, stretched her arms, sprinkled water on her face.
‘How are you feeling?’ Beat asked.
‘Better. Yep.’ Georgy lifted her sunnies and rubbed her eyes. ‘Anything to eat?’
Beat rummaged through her bag. She handed Georgy a weathered but unopened packet of salt and vinegar chips.
~
All three were dressed in black and concert ready which was a blessing because the trio was due on stage in fifteen minutes. When the van pulled up at Byron’s Community Centre, Beat rose to her feet and waved at Greg, the competition’s artistic director who shielded his eyes and scanned the horizon like a skipper on the prow of a ship. He hadn’t noticed the people mover. As soon as the driver parked, Beat leapt out. Squinting in the glary light she rushed towards Greg and pumped his
hand.
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‘Can we do the formalities later?’ She gestured at a glum Theo. ‘He forgot his violin.’
Greg swivelled and raised his hands at an oncoming violinist like a policeman halting traffic.
‘I need this,’ he said and snatched a shocked young woman’s instrument. Weaving through the gathering crowd outside the recital hall, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure she and the threesome were following and, when they reached a suite of warm-up rooms, he handed Theo the violin.
‘Here, make friends with this.’
Some say it takes at least a year to coax optimal tone from an unfamiliar violin. Theo had nine minutes.
Beat put her hand on Greg’s arm.
‘Is there something else?’ Greg said gently.
‘Yes. I was hoping you might have copies of the Brahms B Major
Trio and the Shostakovich in E minor?’
‘Yes, but the judges are using them.’
‘Then we’ll have to—’
‘Do it without the dots,’ Georgy chipped in.
‘From memory?’ Greg’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Melody tightened her grip around the cello’s neck. ‘Yes.’
Georgy, meanwhile, stared at her oversized black patent shoes. ‘Have you discussed this with your violinist?’ Greg frowned. ‘You’ll
have to remember each other’s parts as well as your own.’ Theo’s nervy fragments filtered through the practice room wall.
‘It was his idea. He’s keen.’ Melody rubbed more rosin on her bow. ~
Georgy’s introduction was brief. ‘We’re playing from memory. Don’t clap until the end.’
Her words unleashed a ripple of commotion, someone whistled, another shouted ‘go you.’ Greg looked over his shoulder, scowled at the students, and the noise abated. Beat marvelled at Georgy’s recovery and her composure until she shucked off her shoes which prompted laughter.
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Then, joined by Theo and Melody, they stepped forward, the trio firing their quirky icebreaker, stamping in unison and shouting, ‘We are...1 2 3!’ ~
Georgy’s first Brahmsian melody glowed. Melody joined in, closely followed by Theo whose tone was warm if not his eloquent best. Soon, the tuneful skirmishes and emotional chases ended. Random throat clearing and the rustle of lozenges being unwrapped chafed the silence. Beat reached for her phone, there was a text from Marilyn Thorne, Chief Executive Officer of Turalong Arts where Beat worked. She was surprised, but quickly turned her phone off. The next performance was
about to start.
Melody bowed the high-pitched whine of Shostakovich’s eerie hello.
The cello’s lament, grounded by violin, yielded to the piano’s reproach. And, as all three unspooled the menace in the music’s stark terrain, the composer’s fury at Stalin scalded and pummelled the walls.
Now that the music was drawing to a close, the judges stopped scribbling and smiled; probably relieved they had a clear winner. Beat kneaded the knot in her neck, the day’s aggravation retreating. It had all been worth it. Triumph was minutes away. But a mild tickle in someone’s throat grew into a gasping, hacking cough which, in the space’s swimming resonance, overwhelmed the trio’s beautifully sculpted sound. Whether anyone could hear them or not wasn’t an issue now the music neared the end. Beat tensed, her pulse quickening.
How many times had she told them not to stop whatever the circumstances? It was an unequivocal rule. She’d seen a conductor die from a heart attack mid performance. He’d raised his arms in the climax of Verdi’s Requiem and the choir and orchestra had powered on until the conductor keeled over, dead. But Georgy’s chords stopped. Theo’s tone dwindled. Melody braked. The performance aborted mid-sentence. But for those unsung final seconds, 1 2 3 would have triumphed.
No one spoke, no one moved. Beat’s hands nested in her lap. She fought her disappointment, the fractured hope. Greg patted her arm in sympathy. She closed her eyes against the sight of the trio’s slumped defeat. Then the youthful crowd yelled out, thrilled by the trio’s
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storytelling, the flawless memory work. She ought to have focussed on the positives too. Performing two major works so convincingly in such testy circumstances was a feather in their cap and this standing ovation was well deserved. But remembering Thorne’s message, she suspected the day’s rollercoaster ride wasn’t over yet.
~
Beat slipped outside. Marilyn Thorne had never texted her before and she had no idea why, after five years of service, she would do so now. Turalong’s managerial structure was top-down, as hierarchical as a military unit, and as a thirty-two-year-old teacher she had a lowly position. She sat underneath a jacaranda, a riot of purple blooms. These trees had strong-armed natives out of the way, but she loved their beauty. She had a similar ambivalence about the trio’s program of European rather than Australian classics. Next year, she’d program Aussie works
exclusively. She took a deep breath and clicked on Thorne’s message.
Beatrice, Yesterday, Steven Hadley resigned from his position as dean of music. We need to talk urgently. Marilyn
~
Dan, her husband, was the only man Beatrice had ever known who cried out “no no no” at the point of orgasm. He had other quirks: he drank strong coffee before going to bed. When a rock concert ended, he waited until the venue had all but emptied before he got up to leave. Reliably unpredictable, he was a man of extremes. Overly attentive one week, remote the next. His changeable behaviour sparked enough intrigue to keep her interested and mostly content. She was the breadwinner. Dan worked from home on his PhD. Reluctantly, he looked after her horses
Bolt and Storm and her greyhounds when she went away for work.
She started up the ride-on mower before setting off to trim the grass and grind her horses’ manure into the ground. She travelled in straight rows but turned off the cutter when the grass was clean to leave it for the horses. A butcherbird followed her, now and again swooping at an exposed frog or insect on the shorn patches. It was a cathartic activity which allowed her to think and on this stifling morning with temperatures expected to soar even higher by the afternoon she had a
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great deal to think about. She had to talk to Dan, but he thought of Saturdays as newspaper time, an indulgence which rendered him unapproachable as he devoured every page of the newspapers flung over the front gate. She slowed as she approached Bolt, but in a fit of pique he threw back his head and galloped away with Storm not far behind. Annoyingly, they had gouged holes in the ground.
She was just as shocked by Steven’s sudden resignation as she was by Marilyn Thorne’s request for her to become dean. True, she’d taken on his duties whenever he’d toured as a solo cellist, sometimes for months at a time. It was intense and hard work, but she’d managed, and her colleagues were content that his absences didn’t mean the music school’s operations ground to a halt. But doing that was a far cry from stepping into his shoes officially and being accountable. Dan would need to take on extra chores which no doubt he’d grumble about. She inched forward carefully. What looked like a piece of bark could be a frilled neck lizard. When the blink of an eye confirmed her suspicion, she steered out of its way and headed back to the house. Dan waved to her from the veranda. She stopped the machine in the shade and joined him.
‘Dan, we have to talk.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got a tough decision. Need your input.’
‘Let’s see, you don’t know whether to hire a farrier or a barefoot
trimmer?’
‘Be serious, Dan.’
When she rattled off Thorne’s offer he stared at her, stony faced. Afterwards, he didn’t say a word.
‘Well?’ she pressed.
‘It’s a no brainer.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve taken on Steven’s role whenever he’s on tour without
remuneration. As dean you’ll be paid to do it.’ ~
‘Madison refuses to play.’
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‘Why on earth...?’ Beat looked over her pink-framed glasses at Garrett Blue, the visiting Californian conductor, and smiled at Melody and Theo who she’d asked to run errands for him.
‘Apparently, you haven’t met one of Madison’s conditions...’ Garrett whined. The cellist and violinist looked awkward.
Beat’s anxiety had intensified when she saw Garrett take the stairs, two at a time. His red mottled face and his struggle to catch his breath signalled that tonight’s flagship concert, the first she’d managed since becoming dean, was as problematic as she had feared. Conductors don’t leave rehearsals as a general rule unless there is an exceptional situation, a medical emergency, or a bomb scare. ‘Remind me...’
Garrett snatched a cotton handkerchief from Theo to dab at his sweaty forehead. He leaned over, put his hands on his thighs, took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly.
‘Well, it’s not the usual bottled water from Greenland, French champagne, and a deluxe limousine,’ Garrett said. ‘Tell her, Melody.’
‘Madison wants garlic,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I beg your pardon,’ Beat said.
‘You heard.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
The conductor folded his arms.
‘Our celebrity Canadian pianist,’ Garrett rolled his eyes, ‘is unable to perform unless a string of garlic bulbs dangle from the Steinway’s open lid.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Why?’ Beat asked.
‘The aroma protects her from bad spirits.’ Garrett tapped the toe of his white sneaker. Despite the conductor’s outrage, Beatrice threw back her head and laughed. Theo pulled a face. Melody smirked.
‘Glad you find it funny,’ he said, stony-eyed.
‘No,’ Beat placed her hand over her mouth to stifle her merriment. ‘I’m sorry, it’s anything but.’
‘She won’t even touch the Steinway,’ Garrett said.
‘Let’s get the garlic happening then,’ Beat gave the conductor a wry smile.
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‘Really? That’s all you’ve got. It’s preposterous.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed wearily, ‘unless you’ve had a better idea?’
‘Melody, can you and Theo go to the canteen and see if the caterers
have some to spare?’
~
More than seventy-five instrumentalists were squashed into the rehearsal studio on the floor below Beat’s office. Despite the air-conditioning on this hot and humid day, the room would rapidly become uncomfortable. Even so, Beat had expected to hear a mixture of noise streaming through the air vents and up the stairwell; brassy bluster, piano chords, the tuning
of strings.
The ominous silence was all wrong in a school dedicated to music
performance. From early morning until late at night the old, four-storey, red-brick building hummed, noise splashed from practice cells and corridors. Violins, trumpets, and electric guitars competed with singing, flutes clashed with saxophones, tubas, and undetermined sound. Sometimes the cacophony even blared from staff offices and toilets. The wild combinations excited Beat, reminding her the drab old building with its dreary, cream-painted interior, had a bold, beating heart.
Steven, her predecessor, had managed the school’s high-profile orchestral concerts for many years. As a top-flight cellist in demand across the globe, he’d easily garnered respect. It didn’t matter if he did or said something stupid, puzzling, or nasty, the staff’s acceptance of him as dean was unconditional. Today, she had to convince everyone, especially herself, that she could effectively organise her first major event.
For three years, she’d assumed Steven’s duties whenever he was away and the staff had valued her input, with the exception of Winton Thomas, the British Caribbean trumpeter who ran the rock program. Yet, now that Steven had resigned, her colleagues were not in favour of her taking on his job officially. She wasn’t a star performer or a conductor, which her colleagues believed is a pre-requisite for the role. She’d majored in piano performance at Juilliard, but she couldn’t muster the necessary nerves of steel, stamina, extroversion, and gruelling practice routines to be a concert pianist. With considerable relief, she’d
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retired her black concert dress much to the disgust of her agent who had berated her for giving up on her gift. No one had dared say it yet, but she was convinced her gender and relative youth wasn’t in her favour either.
Her desk sat in front of large ceiling to floor windows, giving her an excellent view of students, staff, and visitors as they strolled past. In the middle distance she could see traffic on the busy road out front, visitors to Brisbane’s arts precinct and the Botanical Gardens getting off the buses which stopped directly opposite her office. She loved to go to the Gardens in her breaks, wander off the path and breathe in the leafy, natural world.
Outside, a butcherbird thrashed a wriggling worm on the concrete path. How she envied the bird’s straightforward goal. Since her promotion, the school had complicated her life at work and home. Day in and day out, she was dogged by self-doubt which disturbed her sleep and wrestled her awake at dawn. Marilyn Thorne, director of the government-funded arts institute comprised of music, art, and dance schools, had warned her that a woman had to be twice as good as a man to succeed, further escalating her anxieties. But wallowing in negativities on such a demanding day was stupid. Until she was interrupted again, she’d continue to sort the mountain of paperwork cluttering her desk. She made a start, tossing outdated fliers in the bin.
A disturbance in the outer office distracted her. The loud clattering of furniture was followed by muffled swearing and Polly her assistant crying out as something shattered on the hardwood floor. Emerging from the confusion, Garrett stormed into her office.
The last time she’d spoken to Steven, he had told her the Californian conductor was world class, the ‘best in the business.’ He certainly exuded glamour and youth in his over-used publicity shot. With an easy smile, all-over tan, and wind-ruffled blonde hair – as he posed with a surfboard on Malibu Beach – he looked confident and seductive. Today, he looked fraught, with streaks of noticeably greying hair. His gaunt, sun-wizened face was flushed, his neck ringed by an angry rash. Apparently, if Polly could be believed, his tense appearance was the result of too much
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whisky the night before, a tryst in the early hours, and to cap it all a dud rehearsal.
‘Beatrice, I’m at my wit’s end,’ he dragged his hand down his face and neck. ‘You’re trying hard. You mean well, but honey, this is a specialist role. Do you really have the experience, the whatever-it-takes to do this job?’
She took a breath, locked eyes with him. There were many ways to be a musician and just as many to be a dean. ‘Qualified enough to confirm your contract.’
‘Okay, well... touché, I guess.’ Garrett sighed, lowered his head and scratched behind his ear. He pulled his shoulders back, carefully folding his shirt cuffs over each wrist. Still smarting from his put down she wondered how he would like it if she stormed into a rehearsal to ask if he was skilled enough to conduct? She’d been stepping in and out of the dean’s role for thirty-six months. And next year, she was under no obligation to invite him back as a visiting musician.
‘Look, until the garlic arrives, you could rehearse Ravel’s Bolero?
Garrett stood up and pressed a finger to his lips: the sign for Beat to wait while he bent each hand back for a count of ten before giving them a rigorous shake and picking up his baton. Evidently, Madison wasn’t the only one with performance rituals. Having completed his routine, he resumed his rant.
‘Madison is a bleating, blubbering time waster.’ He brandished the baton, causing Beat to duck. ‘After the demons are evicted, she’d better...’ ‘Steven rated her highly. She’ll come through,’ Beat reassured him,
trying not to project her own major reservations about the pianist.
The conductor clawed his spindly fingers through his ample locks and stomped out of the office. Beat looked at the empty door for a minute, willing her mood to lift, and then returned to her administrative chores, smiling at how much unwanted paperwork filled her bin. Polly
knocked and tiptoed in, teary eyed.
‘He broke my cat!’
Beat knew the ceramic ornament had been a present from one of
Polly’s numerous Vietnamese aunts. She pondered the consequences of
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that as she murmured condolences. If breaking a mirror brought seven years bad luck, what would be the cost of a shattered lucky cat? Minutes later she was interrupted again.
‘Madison, what’s wrong?’
‘I can’t play.’
‘Are strings of garlic hanging from the piano’s lid?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great?’
‘But, it’s...’
The concert was shaping up to be a nightmare. The conductor was
offside, the soloist distraught, and the rehearsal constantly interrupted. Her bittersweet experience with the disorganised piano trio in Byron a few weeks before had been a dream run by comparison.
‘Steven told me the Tchaikovsky was one of your specialities.’
Madison stroked the tip of her perfectly proportioned nose, her hazel eyes pained and weary. Beat suspected Steven had hired Madison because her vulnerability had resonated with his compulsion to champion broken musicians. The former dean had hired duds before, an alcoholic guitarist with nerve-wracking memory lapses, a British pianist who had frustrated the audience with wordy, patronising prefaces to every piece she’d played, and then there had been a baby-faced, out-of- tune cellist who gambolled in dangerously fast speeds. Alarmed, the audience had squirmed and fidgeted, wondering not if, but when, the soloist would be derailed.
‘I never said the Tchaikovsky Concerto was a speciality of mine, I simply meant it was special.’
‘I see.’
Madison closed her eyes, and her fingers massaged her temples. ‘Steven wouldn’t take no for an answer. He rang and rang and pestered until, against my better judgment, I agreed. Garrett doesn’t respect me. When he played the orchestral part on the piano, in our private rehearsal, he was horribly mean.’
‘How upsetting. That’s not...’
‘His mind’s made up, I’m a waste of space. He spooks me.’
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‘Too bad you feel so pressured.’
‘It’s tough, especially since I haven’t performed in public... for more than...’
‘Yes?’ Beat winced.
‘Three years.’
‘That’s a long time, Madison.’
‘Steven told me this was a low-key affair. He insisted it could reboot
my career.’
How annoying. Steven must have regarded the school’s orchestral
concerts as a therapeutic resource he could squander on needy, lapsed instrumentalists. Matthew, the strings convenor or Hermione, the clarinettist, could have been the soloist without all the garlicky angst and expense.
‘I committed to do this, and then Steven resigned.’ Madison slammed her palm on the table with such force that a container of ballpoints jumped off the edge. Beat was unable to console her. Then, in an indignant flurry, the conductor burst in.
‘Take a seat, Garrett,’ Beat gestured at a chair.
‘Look, we’re incompatible,’ he said.
‘Not much we can do about that.’ Madison jabbed a nail-bitten
forefinger at the grim-lipped Californian.
‘Be-a-trice,’ said Garrett, his voice murdering each syllable. ‘I can’t
take the second movement as slowly as Madison wants. Making string players sustain notes for too long could trigger repetitive strain. You know that!’
‘You’re exaggerating, Garrett.’
‘No. I am not.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been chatting to Matthew. He’s forever
concerned about tendonitis, tennis elbow, and—’
‘Regardless, the pace drags, lumbers – it’s not justifiable artistically
and it’s all because of this, this snivelling dilettante.’
‘Garrett, please, there’s no need to be insulting,’ Beat prompted. ‘How much did you pay her? I’d want the fee reimbursed if it was
up to me.’
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‘Well, it isn’t, Garrett.’
‘More than she—’
‘Enough.’ Beat pressed a finger to her lips.
Madison’s hands trembled. It was disconcerting, like observing a
brain surgeon’s hands shake uncontrollably on the day of a complex neurological operation.
‘Can you pick up the pace, Madison?’ Beat asked gently.
The pianist blew her nose on a scrunched-up tissue. Garrett’s eyes rolled with impatience. When Beat’s phone rang, she knew better than to answer. It sounded shrill and complaining, like Dan. She let it ring out.
‘Garrett, please negotiate a compatible tempo.’ ~
Polly poked her head around the door, looking strained, still mourning for her beloved decorative cat. She softly announced Connor was waiting for her in reception.
‘Can’t be long. I’m in a class,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
According to Polly and others Connor Perkins was level-headed and generous with his time, though in her own observation he seemed aloof and cantankerous in meetings. He’d never made an appointment to see her since she’d become dean, nor previously when she’d deputised for Steven. He taught history and music theory now, but Beat knew he’d once had a successful career as a conductor, and sometimes he’d stepped into the breach in orchestral rehearsals.
‘Connor, we’ve got an emergency. I need to ask a favour. Can you please extract yourself from whatever you’re doing and take over the orchestral rehearsal?’
‘Why?’ he glowered. Beat made a fist and dug her nails into her palm, registering the icy blue of his eyes and his cropped dark brown hair that resembled a hogged mane. She knew better than to pull rank. Where musicians were concerned, a heavy-handed approach backfired more often than not.
‘The conductor and soloist are resolving something,’ Beat said. ‘Which is?’
‘The pacing of the—’
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‘Second movement?’
‘Correct.’
‘Deciding on a tempo should take seconds, a minute at most.’
‘The situation isn’t straightforward.’
Connor checked his watch, an old, stainless-steel Rolex like the one
her grandfather used to wear. Who even wore a watch these days? The man was stubbornly last century. A relic. But he hadn’t tried to diminish her, resent her appointment, or attack her personally like some.
‘I’ve got a busy schedule. I didn’t think I’d have to serve as a conductor’s assistant. Why didn’t you warn me I might have to step in?’
‘Look, I had no idea the soloist would be problematic.’
‘Conductors, soloists, composers, and concert masters are like old gelignite in the countdown to concerts. Sweaty and ready to blow. Always have a plan B. As far as orchestras go, I don’t get involved. I’ve served my time where all that’s concerned.’
‘Look, this is a special case.’
‘Special? How?’ Connor leaned forward.
‘The concert is tonight – the conductor and soloist are fighting and
you are my plan B.’
Connor leaned back; his eyes softened.
‘Okay, put it on record, this is the last time I take over a conductor’s
rehearsal.’
‘Yep. Got it. Thanks so much.’ Connor tramped off. Beatrice was
thinking he wasn’t such a pompous grump as she’d first thought, and quite attractive too. But after a few steps he turned back.
‘Oh, and if it’s not too much bother, can you tell me what I’m to rehearse? Or is that classified?’
‘Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Number 1.’
‘Oh great! That arthritic old warhorse is flogged into yet another airing. What you need is a chiropractor, not a conductor. Did you brush the cobwebs off?’
‘How can you? That amazing beginning of
gorgeous theme played by the strings which the pianist takes over and
that’s only in the first minute.’
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blazing horns, the
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How disagreeable he was. Yet she had to admit she’d found their tetchy exchange refreshing. In the heat of the moment, she’d flexed authority. She’d made a stand. She allowed herself to be chuffed, if only momentarily because on the return to her office one glance at Polly’s tense face signified yet another problem.
‘Dan rang again.’
She keyed Dan’s number into her phone.
‘Beat, we really have to talk.’
She knew what that meant. He wanted to scold her for leaving the
milk on the table or not hanging out the washing.
‘Dan, I can’t right now, things are unravelling here.’
‘Nothing unusual then.’
‘Don’t be like that. Remember? It’s that big do tonight,’ Beat said. ‘It’s always something,’ he grumbled.
‘I’ll phone soon. Promise.’
Back in her office, Madison and Garrett gazed at the carpet in
silence. A conductor and soloist log jam, terrific. There’s nothing so tiresome, thought Beat, except maybe a conductor and concertmaster deadlock, or a clash between a rock singer and a sound engineer.
Beat snapped. The softly, softly approach wasn’t working and there wasn’t time for a few rounds of ‘he said, she said’ to clear the air. Resolution was imperative.
‘Garrett and Madison, I’m going to leave you for five minutes. If a compromise on a suitable speed hasn’t been reached when I return, tonight’s concert will be cancelled.’
She didn’t look, but imagined the hurt in Madison’s eyes and how Garrett’s features would have crumpled and creased like a bulldog’s.
Polly apologetically handed her a message.
‘Ring Marilyn.’
She sat down in Polly’s office, took a deep breath, counted to four
and released it, slow and easy, the way Dan had taught her, and she had so often practised, and then she made the call. The CEO’s warmth when she’d offered Beat the deanship a month before had inexplicably curdled into carping disdain.
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‘Beatrice, tonight’s concert had better be great.’
‘We’re doing our best.’
‘As you know, the university’s music faculty has an event tonight
which clashes with ours. That’s annoying enough. But you may not have heard they’ve hired a dazzling singer.’
‘Taylor Swift? Pink? Adele?’
‘A truly awesome family star,’ Thorne cooed.
‘Who?’ Beat was intrigued.
‘Luna Madena.’
‘Well, at least we’re not up against Billie Eilish or Lady Gaga. You
know they’ve deliberately arranged this clash, right?’
‘Beatrice, the point is, Luna is a gem and experienced in performing
with an orchestra. She’ll be a huge hit with the over 60s, the very demographic you keep telling me enjoy classical concerts.’
‘Yes, you’re correct about that, but my goal is to lure a younger audience.’
Afterwards, Beat went outside to breathe fresh air, feel the warming sun on her face and to be reminded there were alternative worlds, just as appealing, beyond the music building. And it was just a building. Feeling calmer, she walked back to deal with Garrett and Madison. When she entered her office, the antagonistic pair were scowling at each other.
‘Well?’
‘I’ll pick up the pace,’ the pianist said.
‘Great news,’ Beat nodded, gratefully.
Garrett straightened his tie, took a neatly folded mauve linen
handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his face, and left. Madison hobbled along behind him in towering, open toed heels.
Through her window, Beat watched a crowd heading towards the Botanical Gardens. Families carried blankets and picnic baskets. Excited primary-aged children jogged along mustered by anxious teachers. They were going to the alfresco big band concert organised by Winton, the rock convenor. These outdoor specials drew huge crowds.
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Beat heard sobbing coming from Polly’s office and when she looked it was Madison slumped in a chair. Evidently, the Canadian wasn’t going to be a triumphant piano warrior. Not tonight anyway.
‘I can’t do it. I’m leaving. I assumed a young Aussie orchestra would be woeful and I could bluff. That was a dumb...’ Madison mumbled.
‘Yep,’ said an exasperated Beat. ‘Dumber than dumb.’ ~
How could she find another soloist at such short notice? She could try a music agency. Fly in a soloist from Melbourne or Sydney? One way or another, she’d have to think of something fast.
A rude, sforzando thump on her door had to be Garrett.
Beat prepared herself mentally, she needed to be kind yet firm. When Garrett stomped in, she stepped towards him and raised her hands for him to stop. She told him Madison had pulled out. Garrett stared, open-mouthed and speechless.
‘Trust me. I’ll find a replacement.’
‘Pianists who can deliver a decent Tchaikovsky 1 do not grow on trees.’ Garrett sneezed and blew his nose loudly, but if he wanted sympathy for his allergies triggered by Aussie pollen, he was going to be disappointed.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the back of her ceiling to floor cupboard door. Tall and slender with an athletic build, a warm smile, knowing brown eyes, and straight chocolate hair nudging her shoulders, Beat had attracted male and female attention in the past and she’d enjoyed it too, but not any longer. Now, her visual appeal and femininity eclipsed the professional image she wanted to project to be plausible as dean. Her gender made her vulnerable, discrediting the diverse range of skills and managerial know how she possessed. She shunned the dresses and skirts she’d once loved to wear, pushing them to the back of her wardrobe, adopting instead a non-conformist uniform of distressed jeans, block colour shirts, and riding boots, a look not far removed from what she wore to ride and tend to her beloved horses. Not conventional optics for a director, but in these clothes, she could
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pretend to be steely, resilient, and faithful to her authentic self and life on Wongara, the small farm she cherished.
~
Beat googled Brisbane-based concert pianists, and there were plenty, but none with the Tchaikovsky in their repertoire. Maybe Connor was right, and the concerto was out of fashion. Then she heard a scarcely audible yet persistent knock on her door. ‘Come in,’ Beat called without bothering to see who it was. She continued her search. If it was Connor or Matthew or Hermione, they could all wait. When she craned her neck
to look, she was taken aback to see Georgy, the pianist from 1 2 3.
‘I’m pretty frantic, Georgy. How can I help?’
By way of an answer, the girl stepped forward and coyly placed a
Tchaikovsky piano score on Beat’s desk. At a quick glance, her shoeless feet could do with a thorough wash. Georgy had earned the nickname Barefoot because she rarely wore shoes.
‘You need a soloist.’ Georgy circled her big toe on the carpet.
‘We sure do,’ Beat sighed. Perhaps one of the Brisbane-based, professional orchestras could give her suggestions. Or maybe the orchestra could present a less demanding concerto?
‘Please, please give me a go. I adore the Tchaik,’ Georgy gushed. Her fingers toyed with a delicate silver necklace.
‘Thank you, that’s a generous offer, but stepping in...’
‘It’s memorised,’ Georgy dropped her shoulders and raised her chin. ‘Really?’
‘I’m the soloist for Sunshine State Orchestra next month. The first
movement’s three tunes are like living souls to me. Every note, every phrase, every key change are in here.’ Georgy placed both hands over her heart. ‘I know it so well I can play it eyes closed.’
Beat noticed her closely bitten nails.
Then she recalled hearing about Georgy’s outstanding performance of another big concerto in the finals of the Queensland Piano Competition the previous year. She’d won second place. Elvira, the piano convenor and Georgy’s teacher, had brimmed with pride. Even piano- phobic Matthew, who regarded pianists with contempt, ‘because the
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piano is nothing but a mechanical wooden box,’ had agreed Georgy had an original voice and something meaningful to say.
‘I can’t let you, Georgy. It would be risky.’
‘Risky for?’
‘Everyone, but especially you.’
‘Beat, please, I won’t let you down. The piano part’s seared into my
hands.’ Georgy held out her upturned palms, those slender fingers stretched and splayed.
‘Even a professional would be wary about stepping in with a few hours’ notice,’ Beat said.
‘The Tchaik sings in my head all day and in my dreams at night.’
Beat closed her laptop. What could be the harm in giving her the chance to run through it?
‘Take a seat, let’s talk it through.’ Beat sat opposite Georgy. With her short, spiky hair, lean frame, and those big, calloused feet she hardly looked the part. Beat’s biggest concern was whether Elvira would approve of her gifted student stepping in without sufficient notice. If Georgy made a mess of it, her solo career could be in tatters before it had even begun.
‘Give me a moment please,’ and Beat paced up and down until she realised she must have already accepted Georgy’s offer because the weight of anxiety had lifted, the tension in her shoulders had gone.
‘All right, Georgy, I’ll give you a go. The orchestra’s in session. Garrett’s not the easiest and, as conductor, he’ll have the final say.’
Terrifying soloists seemed to be one of Garrett’s specialities but Beat recalled the young woman’s courage in the Byron recital.
‘Do you need to warm up?’
‘I’ve just finished three hours practice.’ The girl wiggled her fingers as if to show how supple they were.
~
When Beat broke the news to Garrett, he closed his eyes, pummelled his temples with his knuckles, hung his head, and swayed from side to side. She heard Amy Winehouse singing “no, no no.” But, in a tight spot, with
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a potential catastrophe looming, Beat was unstoppable and the horrified Californian reluctantly consented to give Georgy a hearing.
Relieved after Garrett left her office, she unlocked the door of the dean’s lounge, closed the curtains, set her mobile on mute, peeled off her boots, fluffed a cushion into shape and curled up on the sofa. She should have phoned Dan after their brief conversation, but she badly needed a moment for herself even if it meant he would take umbrage. But she needed something besides Dan to mull over or she’d never drift off.
Eyes closed, she listened to a determined harpsichordist on the floor above, whose nimble fingers navigated a path through the tuneful wrangle of a Bach fugue. A thumping bass guitar’s doof doof doof smashed through Garrett’s elegant orchestral phrasing in the studio below. Sound proofing: she’d have to fix that too. How can a musician be expected to refine and polish their sound if they can’t listen to it exclusively?
Pushing those thoughts aside, she imagined tearing along the freeway to her bush property, inspired by the promise of a greener, less populated landscape. At home, she saw the massive eucalypts framing the paddock as her horses thundered towards her through sheathes of long, long grass.
~
Beat jolted awake when Polly breezed in. ‘Sorry to interrupt but Tim
Newton from ABC’s Drive Time is on hold.’
Beat sat up, stretched her back, stifled a yawn and took the call. ‘Can you confirm Madison Rose has pulled out of your concert
tonight?’ Newton, who she knew socially, was stern in professional mode.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be cancelling?’
‘Far from it. The replacement’s an exceptional 19-year-old.’
‘I want to interview you about it around lunchtime,’ Tim said. Phone down, a gleeful Beat clapped her hands together. If Garrett
accepted Georgy as soloist, she could upsell the concert on air. ~
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With Georgy’s spiky hair, skimpy gold top, denim shorts, and naked feet, she looked better suited for a game of beach volleyball. Could this other- worldly girl climb Tchaikovsky’s lofty heights and sustain the necessary stamina?
Clearly, Georgy’s peers thought so because cheers and whistles greeted her as she gingerly took her place at the gleaming Steinway grand. Her hands gripped either side of the piano stool as if she might fall off. Startled by the garlic bulbs hanging from the grand’s open lid, Georgy clamped a hand over her nose and for that she could be forgiven, for the stench had infiltrated the entire space. Funny how garlic’s aroma in the wrong context could be unpleasant and yet, in a kitchen, sizzling in a pan, it signalled the promise of fabulous food.
Beat looked around, hoping Connor was there. She wanted to thank him for taking the rehearsal earlier. But Garrett’s sour expression as he registered Georgy’s naked feet distracted her. She was afraid he’d stomp off in a fit of pique. Eyes closed, the conductor ruffled his hair, as if in doing so he could replace this wisp of a player with Martha Argerich, the legendary Argentinian-born, Olympian virtuoso whose performance of Tchaikovsky’s concerto had been hailed as the world’s best. Georgy blinked and wiped her sweaty hands on her shorts, but her jittery apprehension was forgivable since Garrett looked ferocious. Beat turned down a trombonist’s offer of a chair and leaned back against the studio’s green wall, willing herself not to reveal a flicker of the anxiety stampeding in her gut.
Georgy shuffled and fidgeted, but then adopted a more convincing pose. Garrett signalled he was about to start, and Beat’s anxiety eased on hearing the introductory horns. But her relief was premature, because the piano was infuriatingly, resoundingly mute. Georgy’s hands were parked on her bare knees. Furious, the conductor directed the players to stop and, when they didn’t, he kicked the podium hard.
Arms folded, the baton pointing towards the ceiling, he turned to Georgy. ‘Was I too fast or too slow?’
Beat imagined a tiger stalking its prey, crouched low, muscles bristling, primed to spring.
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Georgy mouthed sorry, shook her hands and positioned her fingers on the first chord, her frame wired like a thoroughbred in the starting trap. When the opening fired, Beat was delighted to see Georgy’s hands executed the chords with an easy precision. She travelled the breadth of the keys, from the bottom to the middle, to the top, and the same again and then again.
Garrett tapped the end of the baton on the lectern and the orchestra straggled to a frayed-edge stop. Growling at the recalcitrant woodwind, frequently the last to stop in the folklore of orchestral rehearsal, Garrett yelled, ‘Billy, are you familiar with this concerto?’
‘It’s Georgy. My name’s Georgy.’ Her public correction and reedy voice triggered hoots of laughter.
‘And?’ Garrett fumed.
‘I know it inside and out.’
Garrett was old-school, believing a top performer wasn’t made by
encouragement, but by cruel words, parody, and critical assault. If the player, had the goods then, according to the likes of Garrett and Matthew, they would flourish.
Deathly pale, Georgy’s long fingers trembled on the keys. Beat held her breath when Garrett commanded the orchestra to begin for a third time. The eager woodwind, brass, strings, and percussion sections pinned their eyes on the conductor. Beat couldn’t watch. She nibbled on a strand of hair. Her inner critic scolded, begged her to search for a bankable professional. She could scarcely breathe, but to her immense joy, the piano bellowed, the sound colossal, thrusting through the orchestral waves.
WHAM, WHAM, WHAM!
Georgy’s mighty chords had theatrical resonance. Garrett let the first movement run its course. Musically, the young woman charmed and sparkled with a quickdraw dialogue between piano and orchestra, and with a spontaneity which so many struggle to achieve. Garrett cajoled the ensemble to rise to Georgy’s challenge, and when the sound died away, Garrett blew Beat a kiss.
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Excited, Beat looked around to see if any of her colleagues had heard Georgy’s remarkable effort, but there was no one except Polly, who beckoned to her through the glass-panelled door. It was time for her interview with Tim Newton. Beat slipped out as a cheer erupted from the elated orchestra.
