After Ariel: It started as a game (8 page)

I pulled up before the broad, stone steps leading onto the verandah, grabbed my umbrella, climbed out and opened the back door of the car. The dogs burst out and took off, bouncing across the lawn to roll in the wet grass with evident enjoyment.
They can have it!

The door whipped out of my cold, wet hand and slammed shut as Ros and John came out to greet me. At first sight, I was shocked. She had lost so much weight, her face looked translucent; when she smiled and threw her arms around me the frailty of her form sent a shaft of fear through me.

They hustled me up the steps and into the house. ‘Come and have morning tea,’ Ros urged. As always, the lovely sitting room enveloped me in the warmth and comfort of its ochre walls, the fire blazing in the hearth and the comfortable furniture. I was happy to see that Rosalind’s music was set above the keys of the grand piano. At least she was well enough to play...

As Fudge leapt into Rosalind’s lap, I sensed rather than saw her cringe. He butted his huge marmalade self into her chin; she wrapped her arms around his portly body. I settled myself into the couch beside her and reached out to stroke him. There was no point in beating around the bush. ‘You’re looking tired, Ros. Are you not feeling well?’

She lifted her face and I saw tears welling in her eyes. ‘Susan, I’ve got cancer.’

‘Oh no, where?’

‘Inside my left cheek. We only found it two days ago, and they want me in the Royal Brisbane on Monday morning. I had the pre-op checks when I had the MRI.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’m trying to be positive, Susan, but it’s scary. A sort of ulcer actually, but very small.’

Cold spread through my body.
A sort of ulcer?
I knew my fear mustn’t show; Rosalind had enough for all of us. ‘How is John coping with the news?’

‘He’s bereft, but he’s being so strong. What did I do to deserve him?’ The cat settled into her lap, leaving her hands free for tissues and eye wiping. ‘You know, it’s ironic. Here I am, all these years without
anyone
decent in my life –’I know she’s thinking of Tommy Esposito, a criminal who conned his way into her life and who is now in gaol.

I finished for her. ‘– and now you’ve finally found your soul-mate and this happens.’

Ros nodded, sniffing.

 Just then, John arrived with a tray of cups and pots, so we cleared the coffee table and settled in for a cuppa. He adjusted the cushions behind his wife’s back, every move showing his devotion. His face revealed the stress he was under, but as a retired senior constable, I knew he would never allow her to know the extent of his concern.

‘So what can I do to help?’ I asked, after I had taken a sip of tea, wincing because John always makes sure the water is
boiling.

‘I wondered if you would keep an eye out for Pam? She’s coming down tomorrow. I know she’s going to be horrified at just how big this operation is going to be as soon as she lays eyes on me. All the tubes and things. She’ll get all worried and she still has to get through her major concert tonight.’

‘That’s at the Concert Hall in Brisbane?’

‘Yes.’ John passed me the program.

‘Yes, that’s it. She has to finish her tour no matter what, and do the UK concerts as well!’ Rosalind folded her lips in a thin line.
No matter what
...that meant even if she didn’t come out of the operation... I put my hand on her ‘sparrow-leg’ thin fingers, aware that Ros’ cancer may well be further advanced than she was letting on.  I caught John’s eye and we shared a terrible moment. ‘Do you want to talk to me about this? I know you’re going to be fine, but I’ll get into contact with Pam and perhaps we can meet up for coffee if she has time. ‘

Rosalind sighed. ‘The House Organisers should have her unit ready for her by Sunday afternoon, but she’s planning on coming down here to see me on that morning. She had tenants, but they moved out yesterday.’

Over the years, I have encountered victims of every age, sex and social strata, and criminals both vile and petty. Body language is second nature to me and I knew my dear friend was very worried indeed.

With David off up on the Darling Downs and Rosalind facing a life-saving operation, surely nothing more could go awry?

CHAPTER 7

Rehearsal with a Swine

Pam

Saturday, 3.45AM

No matter how long I’ve been awake staring into the darkness or reading, I always lurch into wakefulness with heart-pounding shock when the alarm clock goes off. I fumbled for the switch until the buzzing stopped, squinted at the dial and cringed. Someone had set the alarm for 3.45am.

When I was about twelve and staying on Masters Island with my best friend Ally and her mother, Aunt Eloise, we used to sneak the alarm clock into our room, set it for three o’clock and stow it under one of our pillows. When it was my turn, I always woke up, stabbed at the “off” button with shaking fingers, scared that Ally’s mother, Aunt Eloise, would hear it and come to investigate.

Quivering with excitement, we would get dressed and sneak out into the moonlight – it was always a full moon the nights we went prowling – and roam at will on the island. It never occurred to us that we might come across someone who would hurt us, even though the island had lots of holiday makers most of the year round, for didn’t we always take our dogs along on our adventures? Fortunately we didn’t come to any harm, the most punishment incurred being the delicious secrets – neighbours being in places they shouldn’t, for example – that we couldn’t tell for fear of getting into trouble ourselves. Our mothers were horrified when we confessed years later of the scams we got up to at night.

A vestige of light shone through the window; I glanced around the room remembering I was Goldie’s guest and the major concert of my tour was tonight! I yawned, hauled myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom feeling like a squashed beetle. Downstairs the sound of the electric jug coming to the boil indicating Goldie was up, getting ready to go out early on a photo shoot. I would join her for a cup of coffee and then get back to bed.

 Doing a tour is exhausting as well as exhilarating. Perhaps there would be time for a nap after rehearsal with a Russian wolf and a run through with the orchestra. My reflection in the mirror, drowned in toothpaste and tangled hair didn’t inspire confidence in my ability to ‘scrub up.’ When I got downstairs, Goldie was downstairs drinking coffee, her camera and tripod nearby.

‘Help yourself, love. I’m going to nick off and take some shots of the river at the bottom of the park and the ferry terminal.’ She jerked her head in the general direction of the park. ‘I’ve got to do an article and get some photos of the river and the rowers for KRL magazine in California. Only a small job, but it all helps and it won’t take long. It’ll be light soon. There’s eggs and bacon in the fridge, so just help yourself.’ She nodded at the dress which I had slung over shoulder. ‘The ironing board’s in the laundry and the iron’s in the cupboard.’

She poured the dregs of her coffee into the sink, went to the backdoor and pulled on her boots. ‘Okay, see you in a coupla hours!’ She gathered up her gear.

‘Oh Goldie, have you a spare message stick I can use later today?’

‘I haven’t got a spare one on me, but I’ll get one from the office while I’m out this morning and give it to you this arvo. I’ll leave it in the fruit bowl.’ She pointed to the all-purpose shallow bowl on the counter, filled with bits and pieces. ‘Do you want to borrow a camera?’

Goldie went to a cupboard and took a professional-looking camera off the shelf. ‘You can take my Nikon 2. I left it in the car the other day and I’ve got my new 4 here, so I don’t need it!’

‘Crikey, Goldie, this looks too good for me!’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s my old one. If you lose it or break it, it’s insured.’

‘Well, thanks so much. I’ll look after it, believe me. I need to be at the concert hall early for rehearsal. I should be back here by two. How do the buses run around here?’ I sold my car before I went overseas last spring.
Note to self: get car ASAP.

Goldie shucked her keys over to me. ‘Here, take my car. I’ll catch the bus into town later and walk. I don’t have to be anywhere else this morning.’

Gratefully, I put the keys on the bench beside me and hurried upstairs to put the camera in my carry bag to leave in the car for later. Goldie disappeared down the back garden to the laneway. I picked up my coffee mug and turned to go back up to bed, eyeing my basic, stand-by navy draped over the back of a chair.
Boring, boring
– but it would just have to do.

*

10.30am

I hunted out the musician’s swipe card sent to me by my agent and headed through the morning traffic to the Concert Hall at Southbank. The river air was fresh; I drew a deep, appreciative lungful. Shopkeepers were running up the shutters and putting out merchandise; people bustling to work. Saturday was as busy as any other day in Brisbane. I pulled into a vacant space near the lift, gathered my flute case and briefcase.  Unaccountably, nerves struck. Could I “cut it” after two years away?

Vacuum-wielding cleaning staff made a maroon path for me, as an anxious-eyed young woman of about my own age popped out of a doorway, carrying a sheaf of papers. Her eyes widened when she saw me. ‘Hello, you must be Ms Miller. I’m Joan Hamilton, the admin assistant. I’ll take you down to Mr Seymour. He wants to introduce you to Vladimir Rezanov, and Lance MacPherson will be in to rehearse the orchestra’s item with you after that. We’re at sixes and sevens here this morning because they’ve all just come back from short breaks. Mr Seymour has been away for a couple of weeks, Vlad – er – Mr Rezanov, well I’m not sure when he got in to Brisbane, and Lance has been here since early this morning.’

I was grateful for a friendly face, because meeting a well-known musician for the first time is always stressful for me. What is it about ourselves that we can’t recognise when we are worthy of being in such hallowed company? I allowed Joan to usher me back into the lift. ‘So, has Rezanov arrived for rehearsal yet?’ I asked, hoping to elicit gossip.

She blushed, rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘Oh yes, he’s here. Have you met him before?’
 Hm, I fear you’re too old, Joan.

‘No, I haven’t.’ I was also curious to “suss out” the manager of the Concert Hall and the conductor.

We stepped into the lift and headed down to the dressing rooms. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the clatter of dishes, presumably in the canteen. Voices echoed along the corridor to the dressing rooms; I became aware of a brawl in progress. Although I speak reasonable French, Italian and German, this could only be Russian.
Rezanov‘s throwing a tantrum – or perhaps he’s just discussing the soccer
. I didn’t have to sneak up on them, the noise he and whomever he was bellowing at were making enough for an army. Joan slowed and grabbed my arm. ‘Hang on, Pam.’

I disengaged myself and went to the door. Wondering whether to knock before stepping inside, I was riveted by the words ‘Puking Pam’ followed by more tirades. Russian didn’t have to be a language I understood. The contemptuous snarl with which the words pronounced my nickname revealed what Rezanov thought of
me
. Curling my hands in the ‘kill’ position, I charged into the room. Two men watched, while the third strode back and forth. Dark-eyed, totally gorgeous and sporting designer stubble, Rezanov swung around.

I’m known for my laid back demeanour. The white-hot rage which surged through my body shocked
me
to the core
. ‘How dare you?’

Rezanov stared at me, speechless.

‘Who the hell do you think
you
are, insulting a fellow artist? I’m supposed to work with you. Well, I’ve got news for you, mate, forget it! I wouldn’t allow you within spit of the stage with me!’

He started to say something, but I hadn’t finished. ‘You’re totally unprofessional. It wasn’t
my
idea to play flute to your piano, believe me!’ I swung around to the one I thought could be the manager. ‘Get someone else to play with this drongo.’

Leaving Joan waving her arms, I swept out of the dressing room and charged along the corridor to the canteen, the only possible place of sanctuary on the floor.  The canteen ladies greeted me with smiles as I stalked into the dining area. The way I hurled myself at the counter pretty much showed them the way the wind was blowing. A cup of coffee and a slice of iced banana cake were produced in record time. As I sat at a table forcing myself to hold hot, angry tears at bay, footsteps sounded behind me. ‘You needn’t bother oiling your way around here. I want nothing to do with you!’ I snarled.

‘Er...Ms Miller, I’m sorry you had to overhear Rezanov...’

I turned to find one of the combatants, a tall, well built, extremely good-looking, fair-haired man standing behind me. He introduced himself as the Concert Hall manager, Bill Seymour. Conceding he wasn’t to blame, I invited him to sit with me. Looking relieved, he pulled out a chair and sat down. One of the ladies brought him a cup of strong, black tea. We faced each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Finally, he sighed, took a sip and grimaced. ‘They always make it too hot, bless them,’ he confided, ‘but they’re so good to me I can’t say anything.’ I remained silent; he could make the first move. ‘Ms Miller – ‘

‘Pam.’

‘Pam, I heard you’ve overcome your stage fright and I can’t for a
moment
imagine you’d undertake a concert of this magnitude if you felt you couldn’t perform.’  He smiled and I almost reached over to pat his hand. What he had to put up with would have made me choke the living you-know-what out of most people.

‘I used to have a problem with paralysing stage fright, Mr Seymour, but I’m over that now. Oh, I still get nervous, but nowhere near the debilitating terror that used to overcome me.’

‘Please call me Bill. I used to have a problem with stage fright – yes, I’m a musician too, pianist actually – though I don’t get much chance to play with an orchestra anymore. Sometimes I play with the Gordon Trio as a quartet.’ He laughed, and blew on the top of his tea to cool it down. ‘I’ve been hearing great things about you. The critics are raving over your work but presumably, Rezanov hasn’t been reading the papers! Unfortunately, you’re contracted to play the Haydn with him, so we have to come to some sort of arrangement. Hopefully, his agent is giving him a good bollocking.’