Music From Standing Waves (33 page)

I close my eyes. “No,” I admit. “When I was
on stage, it was amazing, but everything else was such a struggle.
I went to my lessons scared of not having done enough work, I hated
the bitchiness in the quartet rehearsals and I hated practising by
myself in those horrible little rooms all night….”

“So instead you’re just going to stay here
and spend your life wondering what could have been?”

There is a transparency to his voice. I can
tell his words are meant for himself just as much as they’re meant
for me.

I plant my chin on my knee. “To make it in
the concert hall I have to be
this
person. This person I’ve
become who bitches and moans and cares about nothing but my
performances. I threw every inch of myself into the violin and when
it all came unstuck it left me with nothing. I can’t keep living
like that. When it was just you and me playing down here, we didn’t
have anyone to impress or answer to. We just played for the sake of
the music.”

“That’s not why you played,” said Andrew.
“You played as much as you did because it was your chance to get
out of here. And you got what you wanted.”

I close my eyes wearily. I know he’s right.
My thoughts stumble into one another. Suddenly, I glimpse the
future I’m walking into; a silent, music-less future in which the
dexterity drains from my fingers and the hope drains from my heart.
This is the future that Sarah had chosen. It will not be mine.

“God,” I say, standing up. “I need to get out
of here.”

“Yeah,” says Andrew. “Go home and get some
sleep.”

“No. I need to get out of this place. Right
now.” The urgency is squeezing my chest, making my arms and legs
twitch. “I need to go home. To Melbourne. I can’t stay here.” The
desire is so overwhelming that I’m pulsing with energy. I could run
my way across the country.

Andrew smiles. “Good. Go. And don’t ever
think of quitting again.” I throw my arms around his neck. I want
to scream the truth at him, wake him out of his fairy tale before
his talent dries up. I want to say:
see you backstage
or
let’s have a jam down in Melbourne
or something. And I want
to say:
Look at him! When was the last time anyone told you he
looked like you?

Hayley will never tell him the truth, I’m
sure. I had been her outlet, her shoulder to help carry the weight.
I feel an unexpected flicker of something close to sympathy. I know
she also loves Andrew too much to let him suffer for her
mistakes.

So I let the lies hang there uninterrupted.
Instead I just kiss Andrew on the cheek and say “See you soon,”
though I can’t possibly imagine when that ‘soon’ would be. He grabs
my wrist as I turn to leave.

“Wait, Abs. About Hayley. What was it you
were going to tell me?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Nothing at
all.”

I run home and stuff my clothes into my bag.
My violin case is closed; lying against the wardrobe where I had
left it. My mother hasn’t touched it again. I swing the case onto
my shoulder and pull the door shut on my bedroom without a second
glance.

My parents are staring at the TV with glazed
eyes.

“Is that you, possum?” calls Dad, without
turning around.

“I need you to drive me to the airport,” I
say breathlessly. “Please.”

He gives a small chuckle, which disappears
into his throat when he turns and sees my packed bags. Sarah faces
me too. Her eyes fall to the violin on my shoulder. She watches the
case instead of me.

“You’re going back then,” she says
blankly.

“I have to.” My voice is thin. “You know how
it is. The passion never really leaves you.”

She replies with a ghost of a nod, then turns
vacantly back to the TV. Dad’s eyes flicker between us. I bounce
restlessly on my toes. I have to get to the airport. Have to get
the last plane back tonight.

“I’m sorry, Dad. There’s something really
urgent I need to do in Melbourne. Will you drive me to the airport?
Please?”

I empty my bank account buying a ticket for
the day’s last flight back to Melbourne. Dad offers to give me the
money, but he does so in such a wobbly, dismal voice that I can’t
bear to accept even a dollar for the vending machine.

I make it onto the plane with minutes to
spare. My legs are sandy, my hair is tangled and I smell like beer
and seaweed. In my three days in Acacia Beach, I’ve managed to make
those avoidance issues a thousand times worse. My life will be one
in which the town melts into some insignificant speck on a map.
I’ll become a clutched-at memory by the Christmas party
gossips.

‘
Don’t Sarah and David have a daughter
somewhere?’

‘
Oh yes, what was her name? Ashley or
something? Whatever happened to her?’

I wish I could make Justin understand. I feel
an ache of regret for leading him on. I suspect I’ve hurt him more
than he ever hurt me.

“I’m different now,” he’d said tonight in the
pub. But not different enough to bridge the gap between us.

I think about calling him; making an attempt
at an explanation. Try to make him see the way my passion has a
hold on me and won’t let me escape. Then I realise that he
understands enough. Understands music will always be between us.
Understands he can’t break me away from it.

And then I remember. Even if I wanted to
call, I no longer have his number.

I change planes in Brisbane and make a quick
call to Matt. He answers on the first ring.

“Don’t make me get on a plane, Abby. I swear,
I’ll die in all that sun. I’m like a vampire.”

I laugh. “Don’t get on a plane. I’m on my way
back to Melbourne. Can you pick me up?”

I hear a smile in his voice. “Yes. Yes, of
course I can. Just text me the details.”

It’s past three in the morning when my plane
arrives. Matt is waiting at the gate. He envelops me in a giant
hug.

“What’s your story, woman? You had me
worried. I thought you’d given it all up.”

“I thought about it,” I admit. “I tried. But
I couldn’t do it.” I step back from his embrace. “Will you take me
back in Standing Waves?”

A smile spreads across his face. “I can’t
believe you think you have to ask.” He leans in to kiss me but I
hold him back.

“No. Not this. Just Standing Waves.”

His face drops slightly. “Okay,” he says
finally. “I guess we can do that. But, I gotta say Ab, that kind of
sucks.”

“You broke up with
me
,” I remind
him.

“I broke up with crazy obsessed Abby. Not
this sandy, suntanned one who smells like the sea.”

“Yeah well, you don’t get to choose which
bits of me you want.”

He takes my bag and starts walking me to the
car. “Fair enough,” he says with a slight smile. “I can respect
that I guess.”

“Anyway, did you really expect me to come
running back to you after you shag Clara of all people?”

Matt puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad
you’ve come running back to Standing Waves.”

“Yeah well. It’s your music I love, not
you.”

Matt grins. “We’ll see.”

I catch his eye challengingly but can’t help
smiling. His self-assurance makes me lose some of mine.

“So,” says Matt as we drive into the city.
“Post concert drinks are still going. Want to make an appearance?
Jess has been worried about you.”

I smile. “Sure.”

Matt finds a car park close to the bar. Music
and laughter spills onto the street. Across the road, the Con is
bathed in darkness. I take my violin out of the back seat and swing
it onto my back. Matt rolls his eyes teasingly.

“Just leave it in the car.”

“Are you kidding? This is a Pollastri! Plus,
it’s been to Julliard.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you later.” I begin to walk
towards the pub, then change direction.

“Where are you going?” Matt follows me across
the grass to the Con. I let myself inside with my access card. The
foyer is shadowy. Leftover programmes from the concerto competition
are scattered across the tables. The bins overflow with bottles and
papers. The hallway creaks. Clara emerges from the shadows in her
evening dress and a fluffy pink cardigan.

“Clar? What are you doing here?”

“Practising.” Her eyes are red and
glassy.

“At four in the morning?”

“I didn’t win,” she says blankly. “I wasn’t
good enough.”

I smile wryly. “At least you had the guts to
get up there.”

“I wanted this so badly,” she says.

“No you didn’t. Your dad wanted it. Screw
him.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You know we don’t
all find it so easy to walk away from our family.” She looks at
Matt but he avoids her eyes. He takes my arm.

“Come on. Let’s go get a drink.”

“Wait,” I tell him. “There’s something I want
to do.”

I give Clara a final glance, then swipe my
access card over the auditorium door. I step onto the stage. The
hall is dark and quiet. Shadows hang over the organ.

I start to play. Yearning, beautiful Elgar
that fills the empty theatre. Music that takes me backwards. I let
the melody drift into a lyrical improvisation. I want music that
takes me forward, not back. Matt sits at the piano and matches
gentle chords to my melody.

“So, no more competitions?” he asks.

“No more competitions. I’m not going to spend
my whole career keeping score. I just want to perform. Play your
stuff.”

“
Our
stuff.”

I smile. My mind drifts to salsa rhythms, red
wine and Matt’s Kanji freedom tattoo. I think of his lips on my
neck and of snuggling in bed above the coin-laundry, while the
winter winds lash the windows. My melody transforms.

“
Stratosphere
,” says Matt. He
grins.

I let the violin fall from my shoulder. The
last notes disappear into the reflectors. Silence settles over the
hall.

“So Standing Waves is going to go places,
right? Cos I’m not up for just sitting round getting pissed all the
time.”

“Hell yeah,” he assures me. “We’re just going
somewhere different to where all the divas are going.”

“Play,” I tell him. His hands return to the
keys. The music rises, takes me with it. Circles me, pulls me
in.

Thanks to the Victorian Writer’s Centre for
the invaluable feedback, Jane Howard for so generously editing for
me and Kasia Dulinska for imparting a little violinist’s expertise.
Thanks also to the many people who ploughed through early drafts,
especially Kate Francis, Ally Craven and Squish Davis.

Most of all, thank you to Davis for your
endless support, patience, edits and writer’s retreats.

Finally… my wonderful friends from the Con.
Thanks to you, I will always remember which is the fourth movement
of Haydn’s
London Symphony.

Johanna Craven is an Australian-born writer, pianist
and film composer. A graduate of the Melbourne Conservatorium, she
currently lives in London.

Her more questionable hobbies include ghost hunting,
meditative dance and pretending to be a competitor on The Amazing
Race when travelling abroad.

Check out Johanna's books and music at
http://www.johannacraven.com
and follow her on
Facebook
or Twitter at
@JohannaCraven
.