Facing the Music. Andrea Goldsmith
she roamed through London she had noticed everything: dusty faces, fenced-in parks, gilt-edged tourists lugging cameras, a man dragging a German Shepherd on a lead while talking into a dictaphone, his two young children walking solemnly behind. She saw the man and thought of her father, understanding, perhaps for the first time, that the only way Duncan could have assumed a right to her childhood was because he did not see the child, saw only an extension of himself. Duncan always acted as if there were no past, not much present either except in his desire for admiration, it was only the future that mattered. Duncan, a man who eschewed detail, a man who believed he could do anything, was a man without memory, and without memory he lacked moral judgement. This, she decided, was the prerequisite to a no-fault life – no memory.
All the details that nourished memory she gave to the flute: the grime and shadows, the cracks in the pavement, the man with his dog and dictaphone, transforming them into a scrambling, mid-range, percussive torrent above the rocky chords of the piano. And Duncan was there, more a presence than an intrusion, and unusually benign. We have worn out words, Anna had thought. Who can trust the written histories to fill up memory? Who can believe my father? But buildings with their enduring scars, and landscapes and strangers, are quite another matter. And music too.
She wrote the city, she wrote the memories, working in a way new to her, utterly engrossed, answerable to no one, moving between the table and the old upright in the living-room, stopping neither for rest nor nourishment and discovering for the first time the supple pleasures of her own music.
When Lewis returned that evening, he was surprised to find her at home. He slipped in quietly, sat in the living-room and listened. After a while she turned to him and asked if he would take up the flute part. Hours later, when they had finished for the night, Anna smiled and embraced him. ‘It’s called London Nocturne – not particularly original I know.’ And still smiling, ‘It’s for you.’
Nearly twelve years ago in a pokey Islington flat, and so much music since. And other cityscapes too, the latest, Colony, for cello and orchestra, inspired by Hobart, and written for Madelaine Beck. Madelaine had been thrilled, such a commotion when she rang from London, the playing of phrases over the telephone, the minutes ticking by – not that Madelaine Beck and Eve Carstairs were short of money, but still an impromptu concert at two dollars a minute seemed something of an indulgence. Then Eve was on the phone. Everyone was talking about the new work, she said, and everyone expected Anna to be present at the première. ‘I’ve told them you will, you and Lily both. I’ll organise everything from this end, all you have to do is pack your bags and get to the airport.’
Anna had protested at the time, the huge distance, the difficulty of taking Lily out of school, but now as she clambered down the slope back to her house, and Duncan just a few hours away, she wanted to be far from here, wanted to be with her friends. She collected her belongings, made a last minute check of the house and locked up. No sooner had she done so than the phone rang. Immediately she thought of Lily, unlocked the door and rushed inside.
‘I thought I must have missed you.’
It was Eve, and of course it would be, Anna had written to her as soon as she had heard from Duncan.
‘I’ve just received your letter. What could he possibly want?’
‘He says he’s sick, certainly he sounds sick, but who knows with Duncan?’
‘You couldn’t just ignore him?’
‘I never could, if I’d done so years ago my life would have been very different. I have to go, but I’ll make it brief, just a couple of days.’
Anna heard Eve light a cigarette, heard the deep inhalation.
‘I’ve never liked your father, never. He’s not a man to be trusted.’
‘I know, Eve, but for the first time in my life, I feel I have the upper hand.’
There was more puffing on her cigarette and more anxious words.
‘Eve, please, stop worrying. I’ve been away twelve years, what can he do in a couple of days? I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ And decided to change the topic. ‘I’ve been giving more thought to Colony, and if you’re still happy to help, Lily and I might come over for the première after all.’
Eve picked up immediately. ‘Of course you will, I never thought for a moment you wouldn’t. Set aside a month, no, make it two, I want plenty of time with you, in fact, I wish you’d come back to London for good. You should never have left, Lily’s an adaptable child, and your friends are here.’ There was a pause, and a sinking back into the voice that reminded Anna of water boiling. ‘I’m so worried, Anna, so worried about your seeing Duncan. You will be careful, you must be careful. I just wish I were there, wish there were someone close to give you support. How about Raphe? Couldn’t he go to Melbourne with you?’
Anna explained he was looking after Lily. ‘He’ll keep her safe, and that’s more important than having him for myself.’
‘You’ll ring me as soon as you know anything. Anything at all.’
Anna assured her she would.
‘I spoke to Madelaine a short time ago. She’s in America until the end of the month; she sends her love and says she’ll play your old cello scherzo as an amulet for you.’ And again, ‘You will be careful?’
‘Of course, Eve, of course.’
‘It’s hard to refuse a genius, my dear.’
As well Anna knew. No one refused Duncan, not Anna, certainly not Juliet, nor any of his students or admirers. But Eve had, years ago now and had not seen him since. And Madelaine too. Duncan had written a cello concerto for her, and he never understood why, at the last moment, she had rejected it. But Anna knew. Fifteen years ago, and her first meeting with Eve Carstairs, the shock of it and that sense, never again repeated, of being skinned alive. Who would have guessed that Eve and Madelaine would become her closest friends? And what would have happened to Anna if they had not? London Nocturne would have disappeared without a performance, and Anna would still be playing advertising jingles, stuffed with boredom and the futility of a life stripped of its central passion. Or worse, she might have returned to Duncan in order to put some proper music back into her life. If not for Eve and Madelaine – well, it did not bear thinking about, for if anyone had made her a composer they had. And yet, it could have worked out so differently. Only fifteen years old, and running wild, or rather, just running, that was Anna when first they met.
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