The Margin - Chinese Heritage of Australian Federation

The Margin
John Snowdon B.Mus, B.A., M.Ed.
A thesis submitted in total fulfilment
of the requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
School of Communication, Arts, and Critical Enquiry
Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences
La Trobe University
Bundoora, Victoria, 3086
Australia
March, 2013
ii
Table of Contents
Summary
.......................................................................................................iii
Statement of Authorship .....................................................................................................iv
Declaration of Consent ....................................................................................................... v
Acknowledgements
...................................................................................................... vi
Preface
......................................................................................................vii
The Margin
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
..........................................................................................................
........................................................................................................1
......................................................................................................45
....................................................................................................144
Exegesis to The Margin..................................................................................................218
Chapter 1 – Art, Sexuality, and Society .......................................................................219
Chapter 2 – The Context of Literature........................................................................261
Chapter 3 – The Margin................................................................................................278
Chapter 4 – Conclusion .................................................................................................303
Bibliography and References........................................................................................309
iii
Summary
The Margin is my creative PhD. It comprises a novel, which is supported by a theoretical
section. Together they explore the complex relationship between art, the artist, and society.
The narrative refers to historical events surrounding the liaison between the esteemed
musician Eugene Goossens, and the bohemian artist Rosaleen Norton, who shared an interest
in erotica, and the occult that was not tolerated in 1950s Australia. Their affair attracted
sensational press coverage, but my thesis is not concerned with scandal, so much as with the
artistic imperative to create.
My novel begins in the 1950s, but the storyline jumps between decades as it follows the
story of Caroline, who is a fictional student of Goossens. The narration describes events as
they were happening in Caroline’s youth from an omniscient perspective. Her son David
takes up the narration, as Caroline’s life history also forms part of his own, developing the
narrative from a third person limited perspective. As an adult, he collaborates with a dancer
named Lucy, to reanimate the Goossens and Norton story through a stage show, which
involves music, dance, and projected images. His motivation comes from a lifelong interest
in the Goossens story, which he passes on intimately to Lucy. This intense focus does not
only manifest through Goossens and Norton as characters, it transfers into the portrayal of
intimacy between David and Lucy, compelling them to present their homage production.
Whilst Goossens and Norton were ostracized by conservative forces in society, due to
their dedication to deviant creative instincts, David and Lucy’s antagonist is an individual
who is driven by personal motives. Nonetheless, both artistic couples face obstacles, and the
exegesis to The Margin questions who, and what, has fashioned the hurdles that each of the
artist-couples face.
My exegesis also addresses a positive question: how can I dramatize, represent, and
evoke an aesthetic experience of territory shared between artists? I refer to this territory as the
margin – a creative, artistic arena that is separate from, and not able to be assimilated by, a
consumerist and commodifying approach to art.
I have drawn upon research into the years Goossens spent in Australia in order to
epistemologically inform artistic connections between Goossens and my character David.
The process of combining historical research with fiction, and to an extent memoir, has
enabled me to assemble the component parts of The Margin. Fiction allows me to tell a story
that crosses over social boundaries, and encompasses the aesthetics of music, art, and
literature. This places the historical events themselves in a broader context than they would
otherwise occupy, and, in turn, permits me to subject the well-known, yet elusive subject of
the marginalized artist genius to greater intellectual scrutiny.
John Snowdon
October 2012
iv
Statement of Authorship
Except where reference is made in the text of the thesis, this thesis contains no material
published elsewhere or extracted in whole or in part from a thesis submitted for the award of
any other degree or diploma.
No other person’s work has been used without due acknowledgment in the main text of the
thesis.
This thesis has not been submitted for the award of any degree or diploma in any other
tertiary institution.
v
Declaration of Consent
1.
I agree that this paper may be made available for consultation within the Latrobe
University library.
2.
I agree that this paper may be made available for copying.
3.
I note that, in any case, my consent is required only for the three years
following the acceptance of this paper.
vi
Acknowledgements
I wish to acknowledge support from Susan Gillett as principal supervisor for the project, and
my co-supervisor Sofia Ahlberg.
I would also like to acknowledge the generous support and assistance given to me by Ian
Irvine, Rod Blackhurst, Marguerite Johnson, Neville Drury, my readers Laurelle Morris,
Megan Beckwith, Rhonda McGuire, Deryck Reaburn-Jenkin, and the Venue and Event Sales
department of the Sydney Opera House.
Most importantly, I would like to thank the musicians who have generously shared their
memories of the Goossens’ years with me, particularly Enid Thew, John K. Snowdon, Moya
Everingham, and Rachel Valla.
vii
Preface
When my parents met they were students at The NSW State Conservatorium of Music. This
was during ‘the Goossens years’ (1946 – 1956). With this background to my upbringing, I
have a lifelong awareness of Sir Eugene Goossens’ impact on Australian music and culture. I
have also been aware of the scandal surrounding his relationship with the occult, bohemian
artist Rosaleen Norton. Their affair attracted sensational press coverage, but my thesis is not
concerned with scandal so much as with the evocation of a shared aesthetic space and the
artistic imperative to create.
Because the events took place a generation ago, I did not know Goossens or Norton
personally, yet I have a proximity to the topic. This has placed me in a good position to write
The Margin as an 80,000-word novel that reanimates their story in contemporary Australia. I
have approached this through the story of David and Lucy who are a contemporary artistic
couple who produce a stage show involving music, dance and projected images.
The Margin consists of 18 Chapters and it is divided into three sections. Chapters 1 –
4 make up Section One, which is mainly concerned with introducing my characters, the time
and place that they occupy, and their relationship to one another. Section Two provides
further background and develops interpersonal relationships between characters from the past
and the present. It comprises 8 chapters, from Chapters 5 – 12, and during this section David
and Lucy’s production begins to take shape. The final section comprises Chapters 13 – 18.
This is largely concerned with the production and the efforts of David and Lucy’s antagonist,
Garry, to thwart their endeavours.
The narrative is accompanied by a 20,000-word exegesis, which combines with the
novel to explore the complex relationship between art, the artist, and society.
8
Part One
Music finds the absolute immediately, but at the moment of discovery it becomes obscured,
just too powerful a light dazzles the eyes, preventing them from seeing things which are
perfectly visible.
Theodore Adorno Music and Language: A Fragment
1
Chapter 1
‘Do you like music?’
That was all he said – straight to the point. Had he said ‘I have a dream,’ she would have
replied, ‘so do I’. The effect of his smile and the slight inclination of his head resonated
within her, like the vibration that came from the cello’s deeper register.
‘I love it!’ she said, her answer cutting straight through layers of insecurity that
usually prevented her from expressing thoughts in public. Except when she was at the piano.
She loved it – from the noble Romantics, to the ethereal translucence behind Claire de
Lune. Each piece reverberated with a subjective nostalgia that she first recognized at the
convent in Scone and then at high school in Gunnadah. Just how she came to know the
workings of harmony so intimately or could point out that the magpies were singing in A-flat
was her secret. It was too difficult to describe and it seemed unnecessary to explain anything
to others; she’d let the piano do that. Caroline devised anecdotes to conceal the faculty that
singled her out as different: I had to work very hard because my parents were poor and I
didn’t want to let them down, or; my teacher at the convent kept a wooden rule beside the
piano so I made sure I didn’t make any mistakes. She never hit me with it but I was terrified
that she would. She took refuge at the piano, like the time she heard Billy behind her. Billy
was different too. He had a clubfoot and he made a clomping sound as he walked. She needed
to protect herself. Difference was dangerous, so she bolted up the stairs to the safety of the
latticed verandah.
Now she couldn’t hide. The maestro had spoken to her. He wore a big coat that
swished around him as he made his way through the Conservatorium corridors and he was
always surrounded by famous musicians and reporters. He had found her out and, strangely,
Caroline was more shocked by her answer than she was surprised that he had asked her a
direct question.
‘That’s good’, he said. ‘You must play for me please. I’ll arrange it.’
‘Yes Mr Goossens. I will’, she replied and smiled as the sound of his voice shivered
into semiquavers, like birdsong in the startled student’s psyche. She resolved not to let him
down and reasoned that he wouldn’t even need to keep a ruler beside his piano.
Caroline embarked on a new journey, even opened the lid of her Steinway to full
stick, which she had always thought risqué when practicing at home. She steadied herself as
if the lid was a sail. From her place at the keyboard she would use the white notes and the
2
black notes to plot a course and navigate beyond the boundaries of charted territory to a place
that felt familiar to her.
~
The photos were framed with decorative gilt corners and a convex curve to the glass. They
sat on either side of the mantelpiece above the gas fire in what had become Caroline’s music
room. She loved them, although she wouldn’t admit to this openly. They represented a
tangible affirmation of her contribution to the world. Not that the room was exclusively hers.
Everyone went about their business as normal but respected her need to practice undisturbed.
The music room had in fact become something of a curiosity. Passers by often
stopped on the corner to look up and listen whilst family friends inevitably enjoyed a tour of
the sanctum itself. They always admired the piano first. Most felt compelled to touch it and
then inspect the shiny black curve to make sure that they hadn’t left a mark.
Caroline’s father never tired of describing the piano’s delivery to the room above the
shop, as her mother gathered an eclectic mix of crockery from the china cupboard and put the
kettle on. ‘By gee, they make a job of it,’ he said. ‘First they hoisted it on the roof of the
truck, with a crane. Then they took out a section of the railings and rolled it on to the
verandah.
‘There was a crowd all right; all talking about the worst, like what would happen if
the rope snapped or the verandah wasn’t strong enough. Caroline didn’t know what to do so I
said “go and get an ice cream with your brother, then come back out.” Then all the other kids
wanted one. Licking them to stop them from dripping and watching the piano going up.’
The photos were the next item that visitors wanted to inspect although some took the
time to consider the music that sat on the little table. Elegantly bound Peters editions of
Czerny and Beethoven rested next to newer copies of Ravel, Albeniz, and one called
Kaleidoscope by Goossens himself.
Her father proudly pointed out that she was playing Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto
with the orchestra and even those who had gone directly to the photos would inevitably return
to view the music. Underneath the handsome print of the title: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat
Major and the markings for tempo and dynamics lay the bracketed stave. It was simply
marked: Piano. It failed to stress that this was not for the faint-hearted, or declare that the
3
volume contained more than a myriad of crotchets and quavers. Whoever attempted to play
the music needed to transcend these markings before they could even begin.
‘It beats me,’ said her father, looking lovingly at the dots, lines, and symbols that
formed the formidable contours of the piano part. ‘Her fingers leap around the keys like
nobody’s business but blow’d if I know how.’
Caroline wasn’t vain about it. There was much that she didn’t understand. Her family
wasn’t rich but had somehow bought the piano for her. She knew this must have involved a
loan or a mortgage, but had no input into that. Instead her ethos was to work hard, to use her
ability with an infallible conviction. She needed to do this in order to make everything right
and the photos acknowledged this philosophy. The ABC had them taken for Radio Times and
they gave her two copies. One was semi-reclining with her arm resting at the front of the
keys, her eyes directed at the viewer, with a coy smile and her hair hanging loose. The other
image was similar yet more dramatic, more upright and with a less wistful expression on her
face. Both had been tinted so that the yellow of her taffeta gown contrasted with her pale
skin-tone, rouge cheeks, red lips and her mane of auburn hair.
‘She’s only eighteen, you know,’ said her father.
~
Jeux d’eau shivered. The idea of music so malleable that it could describe streams from a
playful fountain was completely new. A coin dropped tingling inside her as it fell. Music had
always come from a hallowed and lofty place as if the composers were Olympian gods with
absolute authority over every nuance. Caroline accepted this faithfully. Her cherished editions
had been set in stone and handed down from on high. But Ravel’s music invited her to
challenge the incontestability of this presumption. It roused her to make sense of the
cascading fountain of notes for herself. Not that this undermined her adoration of Brahms and
Beethoven. She received their monumental messages lovingly, but responded to the
impressionist invitation with a newfound joie de vivre.
Her mother noticed. Sometimes she lingered at the bus stop to watch the passers-by
dally when her daughter was practicing. Today there were several: a woman with a pram, a
girl in school uniform, a man lighting his pipe and the painters. Each had been seduced by the
surge of notes that danced from the upstairs room. The two painters appeared to be on a
4
stage, treading their trestle as they put the finishing touches to the fresh Billy Tea sign that
adorned the wall. One worked on the swagman’s blue trousers, and the other on the kangaroo
carrying the billy.
‘You should have seen those painters,’ she said later. ‘They were dabbing their
brushes in time with your music and bobbing around like ballet dancers.’
It wasn’t just the music though. When Caroline played Jeux d’eau for Goossens, he
leant over to comment. ‘When I saw Maurice in Paris a few years ago he said that pianists
didn’t always approach his music as they should.’ He picked up his pencil and wrote on the
music: Let the sounds come out rather than trying to confine them.
Caroline felt that she was in the presence of an Olympian and had just gained
admission to a rarefied world. It was possible to actually discuss music with composers. All
of a sudden the gods were not unassailable; and this changed everything.
~
‘You’ll be able to catch the bus home after the rehearsal then?’ her mother said. ‘We’ll
all go in a taxi tonight.’
Caroline caught the tram to the Town Hall. She thought it was the most beautiful
building in Sydney. The stone steps to the front entrance beckoned beyond the portico to a
place where architecture gave way to the buzz and excitement of the concert, particularly a
Goossens concert. She loved the sense of anticipation and the suspense that he evoked.
Backstage, his assistant helped him get ready while the orchestra waited for the
rehearsal to start. This part was new for Caroline. When she arrived she explored the
unfamiliar passageways in awe of her proximity to the orchestral players. The marble floor
and imposing panelled walls reminded her of Alice in Wonderland. The stately woodwork in
the orchestral room also amazed her when she popped her head in to survey the heavy
furniture, scattered with coats and cases. The conductor’s room was a little further along the
corridor and next to this was a dressing room all of her own. It was something that she hadn’t
considered. Neither had she given any thought to the actual passage to the stage. She had
assumed there would be a door from the wings, like at the Conservatorium, or the church hall
at Gunnadah. Instead she found a narrow corridor, almost like a secret passage with a strong
5
smell of wax from the polished floor. Before she knew it she had popped out onto the stage.
There wasn’t even a door.
The musicians were talking in groups as the orchestral porters moved the piano to the
front of the stage. Caroline had only seen them dressed for the evening performances and it
somehow set her at ease to join them in this more casual mode. Goossens was talking with
some men until he noticed her.
‘Is the piano right for you here?’ he said. ‘I want to be able to see you,’ then he picked
up a pencil and tapped it against a metal music stand to attract attention. ‘Ladies and
gentlemen, please welcome Caroline, who will be joining us to play the Tchaikovsky Piano
Concerto No. 1 tonight at our first youth concert.’ Idle chatter ceased immediately and the
players applauded or tapped their music stands with something, in respectful recognition of
the student’s newfound status as soloist. She stood by the podium and smiled before sitting
down and adjusting the piano stool to her satisfaction. The orchestra began to tune, which
banished her timidity. She closed her eyes and breathed in as the sounds washed over her,
tweaking the shades of tone colour that emanated from each instrument. Then she listened to
their combined intonation.
‘Bar one, Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso,’ said the conductor and then he
directed the horns to commence the orchestra’s opening bars. Caroline sat immersed in the
Romantic energy of Tchaikovsky’s opening phrase, poised to respond with the first majestic
piano entry.
By the evening she was merely going through the motions of mundane life. Her
mother pushed a plate in front of her and she ate. The rest became blurred: dressing in her
yellow gown, seeing her photograph in the program, finding flowers and telegrams in her
dressing room, waiting in the little passage with Goossens and then having him lead her on
stage to the applause of the full-house. When she sat down at the piano he stepped straight on
to the podium and raised his baton. The orchestra sat, poised to proceed for what seemed like
a very long time. Silence settled in the auditorium as if every sound had been sucked into a
vacuum in readiness for the concerto’s first emphatic chord.
As she played she felt the movements tick away as if the notes were time itself and
each completed passage justified all the hours that she had spent practicing. Afterwards
Caroline sat in her backstage room, the table lavishly adorned with bouquets. A queue
extended from her door and her arm was already tiring from signing so many autographs.
6
‘By gee you’ve got your work cut out for you there, Carrie,’ said her father. She
smiled at him.
‘Thanks dad. How did I go?’
‘Well, I thought they’d never stop clapping,’ he said. ‘What happened at the
beginning? You were standing at the front of the stage for so long I thought you must be
waiting for a tram!’
She laughed. ‘Well, I was a little bit nervous, and didn’t know Goosey was going to
take me right up to the front. With all the clapping I didn’t realize I was squeezing his hand so
tight until he gave it a little shake to make me let go.
‘I was all right when I got to the piano though, wasn’t I?’
~~~
It was a long day. From the taxi to the station, then the train to London, and then the boat
train from Waterloo to the wharf. They carried everything in cases. He helped his mother but
it was a struggle, right up to when all their belongings were loaded into a cargo net and
unceremoniously dumped on the deck. Now the thick ropes and gangways were gone and
slowly the ship began to drift away. David looked out from the deck, half hiding behind the
railing. He squeezed the end of a scarlet streamer, which he had grabbed at random from the
thousands that stretched across the widening chasm from ship to the shore. There was calm
on board. Passengers grasped the last contact with Southampton as if frozen in a steadfast
resolve of inevitable separation, broken occasionally by a wave or an involuntary shout about
writing letters to stay in touch. The mob on the wharf jostled more excitedly, shouting
indiscriminately. David held the streamer to his eye and traced its curve down to the end of
its tightening arc. He caught a glimpse of a figure at the other end. It was a woman with a hat,
standing like a statue. He turned to Caroline who was also solemn.
‘I’m glad we said goodbye to your father last night,’ she said. ‘It’d be too much . . .
much too difficult with all this.’ David felt the urge to run.
‘I’m going up there,’ he said, and ran from his mother’s outstretched arm.
‘Don’t get lost David,’ she said and continued to contemplate the final moments of the
departure, physically and emotionally exhausted from the day’s exertion.
7
The corridors and stairways reminded David of a hotel in London where they had all
stayed just last year. The brass banisters and carpeted stairs seemed posh, so he thought it
best to stand up tall and walk throughout the ship with a bearing that befitted such a grand
establishment. He made his way to A-Deck by the lift, pleased that the porter allowed him to
do so despite the gilt lettering that forbade unaccompanied children from using the service.
A-Deck was even more posh. It had rose-coloured carpets and immaculate woodwork
that smelt of varnish. It was also empty as everyone was outside. David climbed the stairway
to the uppermost part of the deck and found himself in a games area that was set aside for
quoits. The dark funnel loomed massive beyond the deck. He looked at the action below.
Streamers stretched to breaking point then snapped, spiralling to the dark water when
passengers released the ends from their grasp to wave both arms at the crowds on shore.
From the top deck the people on the wharf seemed so far away that they looked like insects,
buzzing around on two legs. Then the funnel belched with a throaty blast that resounded from
the bass baritone bowels of the ship, emphasizing the fact that they were underway. David
watched the twinkling lights reflected in the water. All he knew for certain was that he was
going to Australia, at sea onboard the Ellinis.
~
The early days involved shorter passages, as the ship sailed around European ports before
heading south to the Canary Islands. David found the constant throb of the engines
overbearing. Their cabin was on one of the lower decks and it had no porthole so there was
no escaping their presence, but before long he grew to accept the vibration as part of his life.
He even allowed the rhythm to lull him to sleep at night. He had already combed the
corridors on every deck to satisfy his inquisitive nature and each port of call provided plenty
of new discoveries.
He also explored the lifeboats on their gantries and found his way into other forbidden
areas including the decks at the bow where cargo was kept. He was impressed by the size of
the equipment that was housed around the foc’sle but his favourite proscribed spot was a
flying bridge that extended over the ship’s side. He found his way into this area through an
outer door, which was closed but not locked. It was just below the bridge but partly concealed
from view and he stood there each day to enjoy the motion of the ship as it ploughed south
8
through the swells to Cape Town. He loved the smell of the sea and he loved the flying fish
and the albatrosses that accompanied the voyage.
The ship itself became a stage for a kind of theatrical performance that was more
immediate than most of the recent events in his real life. This suited him. He was both a
starring actor and director of an extravagant stage show. His fellow passengers were his cast
and he could devise scenarios, plots, and entire plays around their everyday actions and
antics. He also went to the cinema each day, which never failed to arouse mixed emotions
because it was free and this seemed somehow wrong. All he had to do was walk in the door
whenever he wanted. Going to the pictures used to be rare and special. Still, his apprehension
did nothing to curtail the activity and David found an affinity with the adventure films and
celluloid heroes who featured at each matinee. He was particularly taken with the wartime
story of an attempted escape from Colditz Castle. He didn’t like the ending but was very
impressed by the prisoners’ efforts to build a secret glider in the castle roof using bits of
wood from their beds and sheets to cover it. He also found Sean Connery fascinating, and
sometimes reiterated the line: ‘Well Mr. Bond, you’ve done it again,’ as this seemed an
appropriate assertion of his own shipboard exploits and antics. David Niven also rated highly
in his realm of cinematic appreciation as he always seemed so clever, witty, and with
desirable qualities that David felt he should emulate.
If he could maintain a similar air of sophistication it would surely allow him to
function in his adult duties. He had no doubt that he was his mother’s companion and
protector, even though he was not yet twelve. It would have been entirely inappropriate for
Caroline to accompany him to the children’s events and activities. He wouldn’t have fitted in
and neither would he have complied with such an infantile arrangement. They joined a table
in the adult dining room where it was important to observe formal conventions. Afterwards
they’d usually go to the ballroom to join the evening entertainment or to watch whatever
show was on offer. There was always a festive air of good-hearted friendliness on board.
Caroline’s reputation attracted the attention of the entertainment officer, so he
included her on the ship’s program. ‘It’s all set,’ he said. ‘I’ve arranged it for five each
evening in the Cocktail Bar. “Soft Music with Caroline”.’ She played on the small grand
beside the bar. David sat quietly on a seat in the corner to watch the proceedings. Sometimes
one of their acquaintances would strike up a conversation, but David preferred to use his
watching skills to interpret the characteristic traits of his fellow voyagers. Then he would add
9
elements from his imagination in order to understand their interweaving stories, all to the
sublime accompaniment of Caroline’s more accessible repertoire.
Before bedtime David sat at the stern. He watched the trails of white water that the
propellers churned out as they went. As they travelled further south he watched the sky
change shape. Familiar constellations gave way to those of the southern hemisphere. He
wondered how the sea birds followed in their wake all night long without getting tired. When
Caroline brought him a radio, duty free, he discovered distant stations and particularly liked
the familiar voice of the BBC Home Service. It didn’t really matter what they were talking
about but he liked the sound of a Home Service. Home was still there even though the signal
became less and less clear. His father worked for the BBC.
~
David was about to switch his radio on when he heard a moaning sound. There was
somebody on the deck below. He leant over the railing and looked down to get a better view.
One of the cabin stewards was lying down. He could see the distinctive red and gold livery
but there was someone else too. Suddenly he realized that the steward was entangled with a
blond woman – kissing and cuddling. Her hair splashed over his vermilion jacket as she
caressed his head and face with both hands. David stood transfixed and imagined what it
would feel like if a girl was tenderly touching his own face. He hadn’t considered that before
and even James Bond’s many romantic encounters paled in erotic intensity to this illicit
experience of observed intimacy. The steward was rubbing his hands over her dark coloured
skirt, crumpling the material and exposing the pale skin of her upper thigh. Without warning
the woman turned her head and her eyes fixed on David. Their amorous embrace broke
abruptly and the steward struggled awkwardly to get to his feet. David fled the deck. He
hadn’t meant to stare and it wasn’t his fault that he had stumbled upon them, yet their
clandestine liaison had aroused an inexplicable blend of excitement and fear. It seemed unfair
for their passion to chill so abruptly and David felt that it was all because of him.
~
10
Further south the Ellinis floundered. Grey skies closed in as Poseidon unleashed a darker
mood. Furious winds whipped white spray through the air and the ship pitched on snarling
swells as if she was little. One day David watched an elderly man lose his sea legs and
tumble down a staircase as the ship heeled violently. At dinner they tried to hang on to loose
items at the table, but the stewards were still kept busy with spillages.
As they approached the Cape of Good Hope it felt as though the fury of the roaring
forties was upon them. They couldn’t proceed to Cape Town until the seas abated. David
walked the decks and inspected the lifeboats, wondering what sort of a wild ride it would be
if they had to abandon ship. There were so many seasick passengers as it was and it’d be
terrible to be stuck on a small boat with them. He made his way to the flying bridge to ride
the storm, hanging over the water with squally sheets of salty wind and rain lashing him.
One day a dissonant boom echoed around the deck. It came from the ballroom and
David watched from the open door. Light fittings rattled and all the furniture had been lashed
in one corner with a thick rope that creaked with the strain of its load. On the stage, the piano
was rolling to port and then to starboard as the vessel heeled. It had broken the bolts that
restrained it and the agitated crew gestured with their arms as they ran after the runaway
grand, shouting and trying to improvise a strategy to restrain it. Each time the instrument
collided with the proscenium pillars tremendous chromatic discord reverberated around the
room.
David gazed at the Titanic spectacle. He imagined the piano had made an extravagant
bid for freedom, rather like James Bond overcoming impossible odds to escape from the
clutches of oppression. He wanted to see it succeed. Not to dash out its innards with an
almighty cadence that left a dozen sailors maimed in its wake, but for it to emerge from the
storm with a new voice.
11
Chapter 2
As the wave was about to break, the light offshore blew a fine mist off the crest, to produce a
rainbow that momentarily hung in the afternoon sun. David picked up the surge and rode in
its slipstream until the drag of the shallows drove the swell beyond the brink of balance. Then
he shot out both arms to surf shorewards.
‘How do you do that?’ said a guy who had taken time out from the hub of backpacker
life to play in the shore break. ‘It’s like you pop out from inside the wave.’
‘Yeah you can do that,’ said David, without caring to discuss his personal affinity with
the sea.
‘That’s cool. I’m gonna try,’ said the backpacker as David made his way back out.
He called Caroline from the bar at the Coogee Bay. ‘Would you like me to bring
something home for dinner?’
‘That’d be nice’ she replied.
He had another beer and bought a bottle of wine before heading up the hill to her unit.
Sometimes she cooked, but these days it was easier to get something for her.
‘Did you go to Maroubra?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Thought you would, because of the surf.’
‘I got some wine.’
‘Lovely. What time are you leaving in the morning? I want you to get a taxi to the
airport.’
‘I’ve booked one for six,’ he said. ‘Glad you like the wine.’
~
It was busy at Mascot but the driver negotiated the seething mass of Sydney cars and hustled
straight to the departure door. At Tullamarine he picked up a shuttle bus to the car park as
soon as he walked out the door and by mid-morning he was well on his way to Bendigo, to
teach in the afternoon.
His peripatetic lifestyle was enough. He got by with part time work whilst others
assumed positions of greater power. By simply doing his job and providing the results that
12
the school wanted he could slip under the radar of bureaucratic accountability. Then he could
manage time for himself and visit Caroline five or six times a year.
Maybe the cinema stars of his youth should have advised him in a more
comprehensive manner. Now look here old boy this is all very well, but you must learn to
stand up for yourself. Settle the score with those chaps instead of lining their parsimonious
pockets. David considered Mr Niven’s imagined advice, deciding that Mr Bond would be less
encouraging. Martini David, shaken, not stirred please. In reality David knew exactly what
he was doing – teaching music, even if it meant scraping by with Pre-Raphaelite bravado.
Climbing the ranks of the Education Department didn’t come into it.
He picked up beer and food before heading home to his hilltop sanctuary. The cottage
with the surround verandah; the old yacht sitting high and dry; his solar panels shining in the
evening sun; the salvaged batteries piled in the shed waiting for his next energy-saving
project; the undulating hills; sheep paddocks; granite of the goldfields; the creek; the dam;
back-roads; kangaroo grass; and the wildflowers. He lit the stove then went outside to enjoy
the space. As the sun sank he climbed onto his boat and drank in the company of the evening
star – like he was at sea again.
~~~
‘It’s you,’ Sally had explained. ‘Don’t you go saying that it was anyone else. It wasn’t
Sylvia or us. Living with you was stifling, like it was always all about you.’ The waitress
dabbled around the nearby tables. It was awkward – a conversation conducted through
clenched teeth. Still, it was the closest they had come to a father and daughter discussion for
decades. In many ways she was right. Marriage with Sylvia was never going to succeed. It
was unfair to have thought otherwise, pretend he could go along with things and imagine that
would be enough – to live a lie.
He had thought his daughter would visit him though. After all, he’d provided shoes
for her feet and most of the other things she wanted. But he couldn’t go on about that. That’d
only make it worse and thwart the possibility of becoming best friends again, like when she
was little. Better not to buckle. Just agree with what she said and then watch her drive off
again, waving as she went.
13
Anyway, it probably was selfishness. That’s why he rattled around his house alone,
studying the workings of batteries and solar panels and doing up his old boat – things he
could manage without the risk of loss, rejection, or betrayal. It was more than a decade since
he’d risked intimacy, or gone out of his way to share with anyone. That was when Lucy had
rolled over and said:
‘This’ll never work. I don’t love you.’
~~~
‘‘Pon my soul, if it isn’t David Wright as I live and breathe,’ she said.
He’d been watching her before he heard the voice calling like a siren, so he steadied
his stance on the supermarket floor as if he needed to find his land legs. ‘Lucy. Thought it
was you.’
‘Did you now.’ They had bumped into each other a few times since her abrupt
departure and he’d even tried to keep in touch by text message. She always replied.
Hi Princess Eversweet, he’d text. Hope you’re well? And she would reply:
Fine, thank you for the dashing nickname. Best to you and yours too. He never
pointed out that there was no such thing for him as you and yours. Instead he imagined that
there would be a man in her life. He suspected the reason she dumped him in the first place
was because she was already with someone else.
Hope you’re happy, he’d end and that would be that for a few months.
In the supermarket he’d been taken by the way she moved. He sank back into the
shelving to watch her selecting groceries. She was skinnier and had a downright sunken look
about her but her presence still ignited a simmering ember. They walked the aisles together,
and when he remarked on her purchases she told him that she’d become a vegetarian.
‘Oh,’ he said and wondered if that was why she looked so skinny, or if something else
had fashioned her mien. ‘Have you been working? Any shows?’
‘No. I haven’t been dancing at all,’ she replied. ‘I did the Sky Festival last year and
that was good, but I haven’t done much since. Just helping out with the occasional Eisteddfod
mum who wants her little girl to win. I’m studying too – Spirituality.’
After that encounter David lost contact for a couple of years. On one of the rare
occasions when he went in to the Castlemaine supermarket he saw her again, at the checkout
14
with a girlfriend. She was walking with a stick. ‘I’ve lost your phone number,’ he said and
then more regular contact resumed.
They met for coffee at a café David remembered from the past. Lucy didn’t share the
recollection. ‘I only remember coming here with the girls after dance,’ she said and guided
the conversation back to the present. ‘I’ve still got Pat, though,’ she said. David smiled. He
remembered her getting Pat as a puppy and tried to calculate the dog’s age.
‘I suppose you’re still living on the hill?’ she said. ‘Actually, I couldn’t imagine you
living anywhere else.’
When he asked about the stick she told him about her back injury. ‘It was sudden,’ she
said. ‘One day I just bent down and couldn’t stand up again.’ He asked whether it was going
to get better and she told him that some of the damage was permanent. ‘I take pain killers,’
she said.
‘What sort?’
‘Strong ones and even then they don’t do much. There’s morphine, then another one
for breakthrough, and Valium too,’ she said.
‘Do you go to the doctor a lot?’
She told him about her doctor, physio, hydro, and meditation. David thought the
appointments would take up most of her week. She’d always filled her time with stuff but it
used to be work – rehearsals, followed by coffee, lunch, and dinners with girlfriends. The
men that she chose to be part of her life had to fit in after hours.
‘I was in a relationship with someone since I was with you,’ she told him. ‘It’s over,
but it’s complicated.’
‘OK,’ he said and wondered where this left him. ‘What’s so complicated?’
‘He sort of thinks he owns me.’
David wondered why she’d bother with someone who thought they owned her. She’d
always managed to drop the men in her life when it was over – had done with him anyway.
‘He sees everything his way,’ she said. ‘Needs to be in control.’
‘Not many people do see beyond themselves,’ replied David. ‘We all see things our
own way. You’d have to be a superhero to shut yourself off from yourself.’ He felt as though
he was sufficiently removed to offer advice – self-contained in his house on the hill. He
didn’t have to cross the Rubicon and he could remain immune from premature entanglement
in her private affairs.
15
‘Garry’s not a superhero. More of a thrill seeker,’ she replied.
~
The concert at the art gallery seemed safe and straightforward but the guitar quartet wove a
contrapuntal web. Each understated note contributed to the ambience, creating a texture that
took them beyond the commonplace – into the world of the senses. Perceived experience
supplanting lived experience. This music toyed with the quieter area of dynamics. Some
phrases tailed off completely. They saw the fingers moving but couldn’t hear the sound.
Instead the silence lingered until the music re-emerged – first a faint pianissimo and then a
gradual build to mezzo forte. Instinctually David reached for Lucy’s hand and she responded.
They touched with the delicate sensuality that a renaissance painter might have conceived on
canvas – his musician’s fingers slipping into her dancer’s palm, stroking her, and as the
guitars consummated their controlled crescendo she closed around his fingers, like a wave
that wraps around the shore. Then they separated to join unselfconsciously in the wave of
applause that broke over the quartet.
~~~
‘Now. You can do a lot with tone colour. But the possibilities aren’t always signposted. It’s up
to you to recognize them and make the music your own.’ Sometimes this advice seemed
superfluous. David’s students already understood a lot about music intuitively and his
commentary was no more than an attempt to discuss the obvious. Trying to string words
together that would inspire their innate awareness and match their emerging instrumental
ability. ‘Try flattening the fifth. It’s a chromatic note, from the Greek chromo, to colour.
You’ve still got the B minor chord like this . . . but when you turn it into a minor seventh with
a flat fifth it adds something. It bites. Like when you wear a hat. It’s still you but everyone
says, “whoa, nice hat,” and then you adjust the brim just a little to sharpen the effect even
more. Improvisation students need to know all about the effect of chromatic intervals, to be
aware of the possibilities.’
‘I do metal,’ came a cry from the class. ‘I’m not really that into the theory that much.’
16
‘Yeah. You can do metal. That’s up to you but there’s more. It’s just as much what
isn’t written down as what is. It’s what’s beyond the page that makes it into music. It’s a
creative, not an imitative process and there’s a whole language to learn. So learn as much as
you can. Otherwise go make a million then come back and tell us how you did it.’
‘I’ve already got a band.’
‘Good point – but can you share your millions with us? No? Same goes. Learn as
much as you can. And that’s up to you as much as anyone else.’
Most of the guys wanted to shred and sweep. The girls wanted to write songs. David
wished he could support them more but the school was more interested in exam outcomes.
Occasionally someone wanted to go deeper – to discover the voice of the guitar and produce
more than just a whole lot of notes. Become masters of their own technique and begin to
create – to transcend the boundaries.
~~~
They could feel the heat from the fire from where they were sitting. David sipped his Corona
and Lucy flashed a cheeky smile at him. He rolled his eyes. She looked happy, as if dinner at
the little Mexican place took away every worry.
‘You could still choreograph shows if you collaborated with someone,’ he said.
‘And you could still do concerts.’
He refilled their glasses from a cleanskin bottle. ‘Maybe. But I’m not sure I want to. I
just do it for the students these days.’
‘And I’m not sure about choreographing shows. I want to be on stage, not directing
things for someone else.’
He poured more wine, wondering how she could still dance at all.
‘You don’t understand. I always wanted to dance – to be a ballerina. Then my mother
told me I was too tall to go to ballet classes.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Six.’
‘That seems a bit harsh,’ he replied. ‘Maybe your mother didn’t want you to do the
lessons?’ The dark haired waitress laid out the salad, bread, and the sizzling skillets. David
17
noticed a tattoo on her stomach that disappeared below the line of her belt. Lucy didn’t
chastise him for looking. Her mind was elsewhere.
‘Maybe it was my mother but I knew I could still dance, so I put on the little blue
leotard that I had and locked the door. I had a record of Swan Lake with a drawing of a
ballerina on the cover.
‘So, I put it on and danced and danced. That’s when I became a dancer. It’s what I
did.’
The irony and the tragedy of the loss struck David. He watched her eat. She shrugged
a smile. ‘So you got over the loss to emerge from the dying swan?’
‘Dunno. Maybe I did, but there’s some loss you never get over.’ She smiled, and
sipped her wine. ‘Haven’t thought about it in years.’
Back at her place they lay on cushions with Pat nearby and held each other. He called it funny
kissing.
‘You fart funny,’ she said. ‘We could go to bed?’ But David drove home. He wanted to
go slowly. He wanted to know more. And he knew the whiplash consequence of getting too
happy too soon.
~
‘I’ll ring you when I get home.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m walking around the block.’
‘What, taking the dog for a walk?’
‘No. I just had to get out of the house. I don’t even have my stick!’
That was surprising. David didn’t think she could even walk that far without her stick,
let alone understand why she would do such a thing.
‘I’m feeling weird. I’ll ring you when I get home,’ she said.
When she rang he asked if she’d like him to come over. She didn’t say no but pointed
out that it was up to him. ‘Look, that’d be fine, but I’m not going to say, “David, David,
please come over”.’
It was already late and he didn’t arrive until after midnight. It seemed odd, but Pat
didn’t bother barking. She lay back down to sleep after a brief greeting, which was more like
18
an acknowledgement or recognition of an inevitable occurrence. David slipped out of his
clothes and slid into bed beside her. Lucy didn’t say anything, but welcomed him into her
arms. They’d been out to dinner often enough and it had probably been remiss that he had not
proposed a stay-over before.
‘What time do you have to leave?’ she asked.
‘The plane goes at six thirty so I suppose I’ll set the alarm for four–thirty.’ There was
no awkwardness that made his senses scream for the familiar feeling of his home. A solitary
lilac candle lit Lucy’s room. She wore clothes: a tee shirt, and pyjama bottoms. He was
unclothed. They sank into rest if not sleep, with the fragrance of the candle washing over
them. David didn’t ask a lot of questions. He left it to Lucy to offer bits of information about
her injured back, her sleeping habits and to tell him why she needed to escape the house
earlier to limp the local streets. He told her about the glider that the prisoners made at Colditz
Castle during the war.
‘What?’ she said.
‘It’s a glider. In the war, the prisoners built it out of bits of wood and bed sheets in the
roof of Colditz castle.’
‘That would have been tricky,’ she said and they laughed.
‘The Colditz Cock,’ he said, describing how they managed to make a runway out of
tables and filled a bathtub with concrete to use as a counterweight for the launch. He just
made up details when he wasn’t sure of the facts.
‘That sounds crazy,’ she said. ‘But sometimes crazy things are the best. Did it fly?’
They lay spooned. Her body felt soft as he nestled into her, resolving to rest his erection
between her buttocks until it subsided. That seemed best.
He got up before the alarm and rattled around the unfamiliar kitchen – shaved, and
made tea. Lucy had a glass of water but said little. Neither did she display any extravagant
emotion, but she did seem at peace – comfortable with the inevitable progression from
friendly companions to bedfellows.
David waited for the shuttle bus at the cold Tullamarine car park. In the grey light
before dawn he felt he’d been privy to a night that he could either forget or remember forever.
~~~
19
Dark cloud blanketed the angry ocean and the tang of seaweed hung in the salty onshore
breeze. He studied the intricate world at the water’s edge – a purple jellyfish next to a
bluebottle with its twisted tendril draped over a piece of driftwood. When he found a clear
patch of water he dived into the dumpy Coogee shore-break, just to feel the salt on his body.
Then came straight out again, dried himself and went back to Caroline’s.
She’d gone out of her way to cook a chicken. David changed a light fitting. He noted
that she was becoming increasingly preoccupied with the mundane matters of her daily life –
medical appointments and making sure that her students were properly entered for their piano
exams:
‘I’ve got two grade sevens, two grade sixes, and some younger ones.’
‘What are they playing?’
‘Well, one of the grade sevens is playing Asturias by Albeniz. You might have heard
me play it?’
David knew the music well. He often played it at recitals but Caroline never
considered this. She was into her own recollections.
‘One of the first things Goosey gave me was the Iberia Suite and it seemed so exotic.
I had to order it in from Boosey and Hawkes and wait for it to arrive.’
He continued talking about the past – guiding her back to her heyday and to her
memory of a timeless place where the world was vital.
‘Goosey lent me his own copy because he wanted me to get on with it. He was like
that and we all adored him because he introduced us to so much that we hadn’t heard before.
Ravel too, with Jeux d’eau. It was exciting – inspiring. Your father used to say that he was
bored when he was conducting classical pieces but he came alive when they were working on
more contemporary music.’
She didn’t usually mention his father and David wanted to hear more, particularly
about Australian music. ‘What about Corroboree?’ he said.
‘That was John Antill. Goosey discovered it because he wanted to find an Australian
piece. Nobody thought much about it before then. We clapped and clapped the first time it
was played. Your father was in the orchestra you know. He got tickets for my me and my
mother.’
David sipped his wine, and waited for Caroline to continue.
20
‘He was a great man, Goosey. And he was a composer too – until he wrote the
Apocalypse. It was a huge oratorio, very extravagant with a big choir and orchestra. He said
audiences loved it. But it wasn’t good for him. It was the end. Then the scandal came out.’
It was difficult for David to join in the conversation. Caroline was reminiscing and he
was a passive listener. Nonetheless he tried to steer her towards areas that interested him.
‘The scandal with Rosaleen Norton?’
‘We didn’t know about that. We didn’t care really. When we were students we just
loved the music. I think he was working on the Apocalypse at the time.’
The unknown parts interested David most – the unanswered questions that had been
omitted from the newspaper reports. ‘But don’t you think she mattered to him?’ he said.
‘I think he would have mattered more to her. He was famous and befriended her. It
ruined him. He never conducted an orchestra again, you know. They called her The Witch of
King’s Cross.’
~~~
Gravel crunched under the wheels when his Falcon pulled in to the driveway. Pat stretched
herself to attention, but didn’t bark. Garry rapped on the back door before coming in. He’d be
charming – like the hero returning to claim his prize. She was OK. Dutifully waiting, but the
thought crossed her mind: what would happen if David was here?
It wouldn’t work. He’d play with her, push her to see what was going on. He’d suss
out the new guy. Then his charm would turn sinister – turn to threat.
‘Hello Luce,’ he said. David disappeared from her mind. She smiled at him, standing
with her stick for a moment before sliding into his embrace. She wrapped her arms around
him, kissing him as he ruffled her hair with one hand. Then they broke off to move to the soft
lounge room furniture. Lucy reclined on her divan and he sat next to her, directing his gaze
around the room. She went through a mental checklist, reassuring herself that no tell tale
traces remained. Pat sat at his feet briefly and then curled into her former position, resting at
the foot of her mistress’s divan.
‘How’ve you been?’ he said. ‘Back any better?’
‘No Garry. It’s not getting better. It’s more a matter of managing the pain right now.’
He ran his hand across her shoulder and down her side.
21
‘How’s life as a white collar worker?’ she said.
‘Good,’ he replied and told her how much money he’d been making. ‘Don’t know
how they get away with it with these Government jobs though. They just chuck money
around in all the wrong places. Don’t know nothin’ about how to do their jobs, so I have to
keep training ’em – telling them what to do. But you can’t tell some people. They’re
hopeless. They’ll never get their act together.’
Lucy nodded. Of course, Garry had to oversee everything personally because no one
else could possibly do a good job. She hoped that she’d remembered to hide her ashtray and
cover any lingering cigarette odour.
‘How are the properties?’ he said.
‘Um, not much new. The tenants are fine at number one and number two. The upstairs
one’s been sort of OK too, now the rent gets deducted. I still don’t like it though. If we ever
get her out, the place’ll be totally wrecked.’
‘But I told you. As long as she pays, it’s OK. We can’t just throw her out.’
It was his pseudo benevolent side – got to look after the girl who can’t manage, so
long as she’s paying her rent. Never mind if she’s wrecking all the work Lucy had done to
make the unit lovely. She knew there was no point in arguing. ‘Haven’t done much on this
house,’ she said. ‘Can’t at the moment. But I’d like to get on with the kitchen and put
insulation in the ceiling before summer.’ She found it easier to talk about the properties than
anything else these days. They were tangible. But she also wanted to move on and decided to
test the climate with a direct question. ‘I think we should sell the upstairs unit.’
Garry shifted in his chair then moved to sit on the edge so he was closer to her.
‘Maybe one day Luce but not now – not a good time. There’s other things to do first.’
‘What other things?’
‘I’ve got a few ideas – been talking with these guys I met that’ve got a band. They’re
fantastic but I reckon they need a manager, or something.’
‘You’re going to manage a band, so we can’t sell one of the units?’
Garry chuckled. ‘Not exactly like that,’ he said. ‘Something I’ve been thinking about
though. Reckon I’d be able to help them get organized.’ He stroked her back and she rested
her head on his shoulder. ‘Not much I can say about it now though.’ It seemed like ages
before he said, ‘Gotta move along now, but I’ll come back later.’
22
She knew he would. She never knew exactly when he’d be back in town, but when he
came to visit it was because he needed her again. His wife didn’t understand him. ‘OK. Ring
first,’ she said, compliantly accepting her entanglement in what had become an adversarial
attraction.
When he had gone Lucy stared at the walls. They bothered her. There were cracks in
the plaster. She scrutinized the section above the fireplace. The hairline fractures converged
to form a pattern that resembled a spider’s web. She resolved to plaster over it – make it right.
When everything was all right she could move on.
She sat on the divan with a glass of port and a fresh hot water bottle, picked up her
mobile phone and scrolled through the messages. One was about coffee with her girlfriend.
Then she wrote: Hi David. Thanks for coming over last night. Hope you’re OK in Sydney. See
you when you get back. Love Lucy.’
~
She was ready when Garry knocked on the door. She always was. He made a fuss over Pat
when she got up to greet him but she quickly reverted to scratching herself on the rug in the
middle of the room.
‘Ay. Cut it out!’ he said. Lucy walked into his outstretched arms. She’d forgotten how
bad his breath smelt and when they kissed she could feel his lean body pushing into her body.
He ran his hands down the length of her back, resting his palms on her bottom, before pulling
her loose chemise over her head. As they shuffled to the bedroom she unbuckled his jeans
and slid her hand down to fondle the familiar form of his hardening penis.
23
Chapter 3
‘Warm & snug.’ That’s what her mother used to say. It stuck with her and she liked it.
Sometimes in her imagination it manifested as the personification of safety, as if a Mr Warm
and a Mr Snug actually existed. Lucy was still unsure whether they guarded the deeper vaults
of her personal security or if she simply craved the safety of feeling warm and snug. In any
case the connection with her mother sat securely in the back of her mind as a subconscious
connection so deep that it survived, nestled in the dark of night as warm and snug as the
words themselves.
Garry stirred. She glanced at him. Ironically, her men had been anything but warm,
snug, safe, or complacent. This one wouldn’t even admit to being anything more than her
business partner. His breath smelt sour so she nuzzled into his neck in order to avoid a direct
whiff. He felt bony as always but awkwardly familiar, although his rhythmic breathing set her
on edge. Why had he fallen asleep tonight? That was unusual. He’d have to wake in time to
go home. She waited for him to stir, grab her, jump on her one more time before walking
away. But he hadn’t fallen asleep for ages. She told David that she hadn’t slept with him for
over a year. If she didn’t fall asleep that’d be true. What else could she do? Garry would
always be hopping in and out of her bed as if it was his territory. This night of closure, of
goodbye sex with him, didn’t feel warm and snug and she wondered why she had ever let her
self-hatred dissolve the essential intimacy of her mother’s bedtime comfort.
He woke, reaching out to wrap his arms around her. She rolled to her side, but felt
him roll with her and they settled with Lucy lying on her back with him on top, kneeling
without placing his full weight on her. He leant down so his face was close to hers and his
sour breath hit her. They kissed before she pushed him onto his back.
He felt her slide over him and stroked her hair as her breasts brushed down his chest.
She had lost her dancer’s flexibility since her injury. She’d have to overcome that. He’d help
her sort that out with more exercise. She’d get strong again and then they’d be back to
working on the properties. This back injury thing wouldn’t take that away from him. They’d
done so much work already. He held her in his arms and said, ‘Don’t think for one moment
that anything’s changed.’
‘We’ll see,’ she replied and sank back in the bed to welcome him, momentarily
glancing at his silhouette flickering on the wall in the scented glow of the lilac candle.
24
~~~
Autumn had supplanted the sub-tropical humidity that made David uncomfortably sweaty.
Thankfully sleep came easily in his room at Caroline’s. He woke with the recollection of a
dream as vivid as the memory of an old adventure film. Then his mother’s footsteps padded
along the hallway beyond his door but this didn’t distract him from his reminiscence, and he
played over scenes in his mind.
The golden sands of the familiar beach had given way to a vast expanse of desert and
David issued commands with absolute authority. ‘Right, you lot dig here.’ But then he was the
one digging at a completely new site.
He smiled involuntarily and let out a little laugh, remembering the feeling of euphoria
that had engulfed him.
He was certain that he had found the right spot to excavate. All of a sudden the site
was a major archaeological dig with lots of bamboo structures lashed together to form
scaffolding, ladders, and cranes that hoisted rocks from the depths.
Again David laughed as he lay in bed recalling the ease with which he could negotiate
the layers of his subconscious construction.
He was really quite agile as he climbed or simply swung from bamboo to bamboo but
try as he may he couldn’t work out the point of it. There was definitely something there,
something significant that was buried beneath the surface but he really had no idea what it
was. He couldn’t see it.
He reached for the glass of water beside his bed, listening to the pad of Caroline’s
footsteps coming back down with the Herald. There weren’t any new messages on his phone
so he scrolled through last night’s correspondence with Lucy.
I’m glad you’ve got something to be getting on with this weekend. She had written.
I’m fine but I thought you might need some reassurance.
It did feel reassuring, perhaps uncharacteristically, as there was no proof of her loyalty
– nothing physical. She told him that Garry was coming over. So, he was coming over and
she was going to say goodbye. That was a good thing, not a reason to feel rejected or
betrayed. David stretched his legs and sat up in bed. It wasn’t his place to delve or to
mistrust, not then and there by text message. He didn’t own her and he didn’t want to
aggravate her. They had only shared a short time together and he wanted more. He didn’t
25
want to scratch whatever wound Garry might have left. He picked up the phone and
continued reading:
Trust me. I’m going to tell him.
That’s Good. David had replied. How will he react? What does he say to his family,
‘back soon, popping out to say goodbye to Lucy?’
I couldn’t care less what he says. He’s taking them to Europe. He’s not taking me, is
he!
Leave it, thought David. Leave the loss to her and bury your insecurity and
trepidation if you can. What you can’t fix you can only make worse.
Particles of dust danced in the autumn sunbeam that blazed through a gap where the
curtains didn’t close completely. David put his phone back on the bedside table, lay down,
and closed his eyes. Footsteps again receded down the hall. He climbed out of bed.
~
‘What are you planning to do for the day?’ said his mother as he sat down in the chair
beside her desk. She was working on her shopping list.
‘I’m going to Kings Cross,’ he replied.
‘Kings Cross, what for?’
‘I want to walk around. Have a look at where Rosaleen Norton lived.’
‘Do you? She wasn’t a nice person you know. It was the end for Goosey. He never
worked again after what happened with her.’
‘I know that. But it’s not just the scandal. I’m interested in the period – the 1950s, his
music, her art, and the ideas.’
‘Well, watch out if you’re going there.’
~
David remembered sailing into Sydney harbour and arriving at Woolloomooloo on the
Ellinis. This was to be the place that would bring an end to the life he’d known. He
remembered looking at the Harbour Bridge and taking photos of the opera house that was
being built. Caroline had told him that her family would be meeting them.
26
He was unsure. He wanted to avoid the inevitable and busied himself by observing the
pilots and tugboats at work as they inched into the dock. It took ages for them to disembark.
He spent his last shipboard hours looking at the hill that rose up from Woolloomooloo. When
they had made their way through customs and immigration, Caroline’s father was waiting
with his old Holden. They drove up the hill on the way home and his grandfather sang,
‘King’s Cross, what’ll we do’. He sounded happy.
Caroline’s voice cut into David’s reverie, ‘do you remember when Lottie used to
come to visit, and we’d drive her home to Potts Point? We’d go through The Cross, past the
fountain and down Elizabeth Bay Road to her street.’
‘Yes,’ said David. ‘She used to chatterbox away when she was in the car and we’d call
her dotty Lottie. She used to say: “I don’t know why they all come here? To look at all the
girls with their nothings on.” It wasn’t all crooks and prostitutes though. There were all the
cafes and lots of women like Lottie, who just lived in the apartment buildings. It must have
been a good place, close to the city and by the harbour.’
‘Lottie taught me at the Con. Before Goossens, you know. She always kept in touch.
She lived in quite a nice block of flats. I think a lot of women moved there after the war when
their fiancés never came back.’
‘Lots of people lived there.’
‘I suppose so. Lottie used to say she lived at Elizabeth Bay.’
David knew that the boundaries between the suburbs were frayed. He had always
found the older parts of the city fascinating and remembered Kings Cross bustling with
servicemen and sailors. He also remembered the protests, and the moratoriums. All the time
he was aware of the Goossens story. ‘Goossens used to meet Rosaleen there too, I suppose?’
he said.
‘Goossens wasn’t at Kings Cross. He had a big house at Woollahra.’
‘Yes, but the Orchestra used to rehearse there, didn’t they?’
‘At Darlinghurst, in the Woolworths building when it was new.’
‘That’s what I’m interested in, the ambience or at least what’s left of it, if anything. I
want to write some music.’
‘For the guitar, you mean?’
‘Probably, or maybe for other instruments too. Something about Goossens.’ He’d
always been there in the background – behind Caroline’s playing and his father’s orchestral
27
career. David was connected to it, as if it was his legacy to join the dots and link the
relevance of the heady Goossens’ years to the present day.
Norton was different. He didn’t know her, only what he had read in books and
newspapers. He wanted more, not just the facts or the scandal but the art and the music. What
he had read raised questions.
‘I think Rosaleen and Goossens were important to each other,’ he said and got up to
look out the window, across to the sea. ‘We can go down the street when we’re ready and get
your shopping. I’ll go to the Cross later. It’ll only be for a few hours.’
‘Yes, I need to get a few things. I’m just writing a list.’
~
It was still early when they finished shopping.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Caroline said and they crossed the road to a familiar
Coogee Bay Road café.
‘Where have you been reading about the witch woman?’ she asked.
‘Rosaleen Norton,’ he replied and watched her pour a sachet of sugar onto the
cappuccino froth, which sank into the froth of her coffee as if it was quicksand.
‘I’ve been reading,’ he said. ‘Newspaper cuttings and books, but they all go on about
the sensational side of the story. I want to look at her art too.’ He picked up his latte, but it
was too hot to drink.
‘I suppose it’d be interesting. But I think you’ll find that it’s all horrid. She painted
murals too, but I’ve never understood why Goosey became interested in someone like her. He
wasn’t like that you know. Some people say he was doing research for the Apocalypse when
he met her.’
‘Maybe they could have worked together. That’s what I’m thinking of doing. Writing
music that combines some of Rosaleen’s artworks and dance.’
‘Oh are you? Would that be Goossens’ music? He wrote pieces for the piano too.’
‘Not sure. At the moment I’m wondering how it all came about, how she became the
way she was and how he found her.’
When she had finished her coffee, Caroline looked up and said, ‘I think you should
write something’.
28
~
Only a few things transcend time. A tune, a smell, or love remembered, direct us to the very
heart of things. The waters of Woolloomooloo Bay were the same as they were on the day the
Ellinis pulled in, yet they were unrecognisable. The big wharf had been completely
refurbished. Apartments and cafes replaced the customs and immigration stations. David
looked back. Before the passenger liners came the fish markets were at Woolloomooloo,
before that the square-riggers, and before that there were no Europeans. He sat on a wooden
block by the waterfront and listened for familiar sounds, inhaled in search of familiar smells,
but instead he reverted to reason, and took out his notebook to write:
Sailors came here. They were a transitory crowd. They sailed. It wouldn’t really
matter where they were; the port of call was only a sojourn. When they arrived at
Sydney Cove they would have noticed the hill too. Even though it’s built up now, it still
looms from the waterside like the Acropolis. It has an attraction.
So they climbed it, raised ladders and later quarried steps from the
wharf to the top of the hill. Then they kept going through Potts Point and down to
Elizabeth Bay on the other side, to form the junction with William Street and
Darlinghurst Road, marking the hilltop territory of Kings Cross. The no-man’s land
squashed between affluent Sydney suburbs, providing a safe haven for Sydney’s fringe
dwellers.
Salt air and sea birds cut through the Woolloomooloo air to remind David where he was. He
walked along Cowper Wharf Road towards the navy base, vaguely aware of where he was.
Harry’s Café de Wheels had a radio blaring. The caravan was bigger and more established,
but the songs were the same old 1970s hits.
‘Hi. Latte please.’ He took a seat at the counter, and picked up his phone to message
Lucy. Hi darling, hope you’re OK. Did Garry come over? How did it go?
He was aware of the impulsive nature of his questions, but sent the message anyway.
Then he drank his coffee quickly. By the time a reply arrived he was at the foot of the
McElhone stairs, musing about the convict gangs that quarried the sandstone to build this
back entrance to the Cross. A girl with white runners reached the bottom of the steps and
jogged around him before heading back up to the top again.
He read the message. Hi darling. It went well.
29
Are you OK?
Yes I’m fine. I told him about you. He even said he’d like to meet you.
Like for coffee?
Maybe. He wants to go out for lunch. I said you were in Sydney.
He wanted me to go out for lunch?
No. We’re going to have lunch, then I’ll say goodbye to him. How is it going?
I’m walking around Sydney. Thinking about writing a show. He sat on the railing with
the phone in his hand, and then sent another message. So. You’re going to have lunch with
him?
Interesting. What sort of show?
He wondered if their messages might have crossed before she had a chance to respond
to his query, but decided to let it pass, dashing off a reply about his plans instead. 1950s
Kings Cross, odd Sydney characters, the occult, sex, lies, betrayal. Caroline’s old music
professor led a double life and had an affair with a bohemian artist.
Sounds great. I’ll text you later.
Take care darling. He stood at the foot of the stairs with an uneasy feeling, before he
began the climb up to Victoria Street.
The old terraces looked strangely comforting through the canopy of plane trees. The
Green Bans that had secured their survival came to mind, as fresh as if they had happened
yesterday. He crossed over to walk down to Elizabeth Bay but diverted to the path beside an
Onslow Street apartment block. Despite Caroline’s disapproval he used to walk around
Sydney’s streets and alleyways in his youth, and the tracks that he mapped still guided him
through familiar territory. He still thought of the old grotto halfway down the path as a secret
remnant from another world, with an ancient staircase that led up to the waterfall. He ran his
hand along the sandstone surface of the elegant balustrade. Then he sat by the pool at the
bottom of the cascade and watched water splash on the rocks, unaffected by the art deco
apartments that had closed in all around.
Further on he stopped at the El Alamein Fountain and listened to a girl singing with a
guitar. That was familiar too. There had always been poets and buskers at the fountain and
even though the area had been done up it was certainly the same place – just a different
singer. He was aware of people walking past, but only as background to an emerging idea. He
thought about Rosaleen holding court at a coffee shop, with one of her murals adorning the
30
wall. In the hot afternoon sun the focus of his idea sharpened: characters and images from the
past could mingle with those from the present. Drawn, like animations, with Kings Cross as a
stage. Bill Dobell, Mary Gilmore, Kenneth Slessor, Bea Miles, Christopher Brennan,
intellectuals, soldiers, sailors and prostitutes could all be there listening to the busker’s song
unfold as an accompaniment to a living tableau. He imagined Goossens rushing up from his
Darlinghurst rehearsal building to visit Rosaleen, oblivious of the police and the press who
were snapping at his heels.
The singer’s voice was deep, but occasionally it soared with a sweet soprano sound.
She instinctively strummed a rhythm that fell off the beat, counteracting the regularity of
authority. Sometimes she repeated a sharp refrain that bounced off the surrounding
brickwork, like sonar seeking someone to draw back to the source of her spell. It was
hypnotic but not obvious, connecting the intersecting threads of times gone by with the here
and now like a fabric or a magic carpet to support the flight of David’s imagination, directing
him to the core of his quest. He couldn’t touch it yet it was tangible, as if the song provided
signposts to something beyond the lyrics. He hadn’t even listened to the words, didn’t have a
clue what she was singing about, but he felt happy and smiled as he slipped a five-dollar note
in her guitar case. She winked at him as he walked away towards the Metro theatre.
He headed down the Butler Stairs to get to Rosaleen’s old place in Brougham Street,
turning to look back at the Victoria Street terraces that sat on top of the vaults. The workings
below the street level added to the sense of descending, delving beneath the surface to the
underground heart of Kings Cross.
The district at the lower end of the steps had been made over and looked smart in the
leafy autumn sun. Rosaleen’s old terrace house had been pulled down and nothing remained
of the shabby, seedy squalor that the tabloid press relied on to construct salacious stories that
sold newspapers. He wondered what Rosaleen would have thought of the place now and
whether the parts that polite society had considered squalid and wanted to eradicate were
gone, or if they had just been pushed further underground.
He didn’t stop, but walked back to the station. Daylight faded as his train slipped
below the surface and he decided he needed a beer.
~
31
The view between the rooftops seemed more expansive and satisfying through binoculars.
David focussed on a yacht working its way up the coast to windward. It was a small vessel
and he imagined being on board. It would be the right size for him – he could manage it
alone. Plot a course past Wedding Cake Island to cover some distance on the starboard tack,
and then go about and maybe lay The Heads with two more tacks. The ocean shimmered in
the afternoon light and the sound of the piano coming from the next room washed over him.
The tone from the middle register sang with familiar warmth. It wasn’t only the
music, but it was also the playing. Caroline’s touch returned him to his childhood years –
lying in bed with Debussy Preludes lulling him to sleep, or the bravado of the Revolutionary
Etude firing his imagination. This afternoon it was Chopin in a mellow mood. One of the
waltzes was providing the soundtrack for the yacht’s progress.
Sweet melancholy music, sad, laden with appeal, saturated with a passion, an
unrequited climax falling to an understated cadence. As the phrase repeated, the boat tacked.
David watched the headsail luff for a few moments. He could see a tiny figure bring on the
sheet to trim the sail, seemingly in time with an effervescent passage of music. The second
section took over as the boat sailed out to sea, dancing over the sparkling swells to the
romantic piano accompaniment and he concluded that the waltz was in F minor.
Chopin tacked as well – set up a struggle between minor and major keys, with
turbulent diminished chords controlling the flow and direction of otherwise elegantly
straightforward passages. The waltz moved away from the piano’s middle register to settle on
a high note, launching into reworked territory for the final section. Already familiar motives
combined with fragmented phrases to expose a pathway to more expansive intervals.
Sometimes chromatic harmonies lingered in Caroline’s unit, as if to assert the music’s
undeniable depth. Chopin evoked qualities of loss, perhaps of lost love, or maybe his
homeland, yet the texture of his evocative passagework invited a retrospective perception.
Without loss, no such poetic nostalgia would be possible.
As Caroline played the final A-flat Major chord, the boat put in another tack to
starboard and disappeared behind the block of flats on the headland. David listened to the
notes decay and tilted his head as if he was watching the sounds dissipate into the corners of
the ceiling. Then he walked into the music room, still holding the binoculars.
‘I try to keep up a bit,’ she said. ‘But it’s hard. I’ve been enjoying the shorter
pieces though. The others are just too much work for my fingers these days.’
32
‘You used to play the Revolutionary.’
‘Yes. That was one of them.’ She launched into the dramatic opening chord and the
left hand passagework that led to the first forte octaves of the theme. ‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘You still know it so well.’
‘I knew it very well indeed once upon a time. It’s just not in my head as it should
be. You’ve got the binoculars.’
‘I’ve been watching a sailing boat,’ he said.
~
They sat quietly for a few moments, David with a beer and Caroline with a brandy and dry.
Before long she spoke:
‘I don’t want you talking too much about Rosaleen Norton. I think enough’s been
said about that and his family hated what she did.’
David wondered how to broach the subject without being insensitive to her
memories. ‘Well I think that there’s still a lot to be said. Why the police and the press kept
hounding her, for instance.’
‘He knew, you know – that they were waiting for him at Mascot,’ she replied. ‘He
said, “They won’t search me.” He knew they were waiting, but he thought he was above all
that.’
David concentrated on the scenario. Goossens probably didn’t think he’d done
anything wrong. He wanted to hear more. ‘The press seemed to have it in for him?’
Caroline continued. ‘And that detective – Bert someone. He had it in for him
too’.
He’d put together parts of the story: A reporter infiltrated Rosaleen’s group. He
stolen stuff and some of that put Goossens in the picture. Then the press followed him. They
told the police, so when he arrived at Mascot they were all waiting. ‘They worked together,
the police and the press,’ he said, reciting one of the headlines from the time: Teams of
reporters sat poised to pounce on the unsuspecting virtuoso.
‘Well, at least they said he was unsuspecting. But Goosey used to say: “as usual,
the press have greatly exaggerated the position.” I don’t think he realized it’d be the ruin of
him like it was.
33
‘Anyway. She betrayed him. He told her not to show the letters to anyone.
“Whatever you do, be sure to burn these,” he said, but she didn’t. She kept them.’
David had heard his mother talk about the past all his life, but it was different now.
He was more interested. ‘Don’t you think that the letters would have been very important to
her? She’d have wanted to hang on to something because his attention must have meant a lot.
And he can’t have been that naïve if he told her to burn the letters. Then there were photos.’
‘Yes, he was a wonderful person really. I suppose she would have been impressed,
but she lived such a different lifestyle. There were supposed to be all sorts of high up people
involved too – judges, and public figures.’
David wasn’t sure. He knew that there were a lot of stories, conspiracy theories,
and exaggerated reports that amounted to little more than gossip. Goossens knew how to
manage the press and how to cultivate his public persona, but it seemed out of order for
reporters to pore over his private life too. It was as though he’d been set up for public
vilification, like a scapegoat required by a myopic system that was intent on maintaining
control.
‘He was naïve though,’ said Caroline. ‘Bennelong Point was a tram depot when he
chose the site for the new concert Hall. He said, “Oh, they can move that.” He had no idea
what it would take to get all the government departments to agree to give up the land right on
the harbour like that.’
David thought of the plastic camera that Caroline had bought him, duty free, and
taking photos when they came in to Sydney on the Ellinis. ‘It must have taken twenty-five
years before they built the Opera House.’
‘Goosey was dead by then,’ Caroline replied. ‘ Anyway, you seem to be finding
out about it all.’
‘I’ve known about it all my life – grown up with it. But I’ve been reading a lot
lately, so I know more now. You haven’t forgotten though, even though it all happened when
you were a student.’
‘Well. It was such an important time for us all. We didn’t know anything about the
witch woman. You’d have to be there to understand what a great musician he was. We adored
him because he introduced us to music that we’d never heard before. That’s what I
remember.’
34
Parts of the story still didn’t add up. The press were watching when Goossens got
his knighthood at Buckingham Palace and then went directly to Soho to pick up stuff for
Rosaleen and himself before catching the plane back to Australia. He wasn’t at all concerned,
but why did he volunteer to go with the police when didn’t have to? Perhaps he was naïve or
perhaps he really did think he was above it all. If he let it stay a customs matter, they’d have
confiscated his prohibited imports and let him go.
David looked out the window at the sun setting over the Eastern Suburbs, and then
looked at Caroline. She was looking at the sunset too. ‘I think there’s been a lot written but
it’s all about the scandal,’ he said. ‘There’s still a lot that I don’t understand about what
happened, how the press and the police behaved, and why he gave himself up, when he didn’t
have to. I wonder if it would still be the same now?’
Caroline stood up to take her brandy glass back to the kitchen. ‘There were a lot of
questions then, and there still are,’ she said.
35
Chapter 4
‘Did you see Sally?’
‘No. Left messages but she didn’t get back to me.’
‘Pity,’ said Lucy, reclining on her divan in front of the TV. From time to time she put
down her knitting to engage with an ongoing stream of text messages. David looked around
the room and shifted in his chair. The air was heavy and he felt claustrophobic sitting beside
the divan with the TV on. There was no verandah, no jobs for him to do on his boat or in his
shed. He was also aware that he was excluded from this telephone chat.
‘I’ll take Pat for a walk,’ he said. The dog loved the excursion from the moment he
picked up her lead. He’d taken to going around the block but tonight he kept going – down to
the railway crossing and over the creek to take in a larger area of town. Lucy was still
knitting and watching TV when he returned. The phone went off again.
‘OK. I’ll share that one with you,’ she said. ‘Garry’s going with her mother and her
friend and it’s funny ’cos he’s going to be so frustrated.’ She paused to sip her port. ‘He’s got
to be in control of everything but he won’t be able to. He’s trying to be on his best behaviour
already and they haven’t even got on the plane yet. They’ve been sitting in the lounge for two
hours and he keeps trotting off to get them coffees and magazines. Trying to look after them
like he’s in charge, but there’s nothing he can do.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t think he’ll last three
days, let alone three months!’
‘So they’re going for three months?’ said David. He had realized that the goodbye
process was far from complete, but didn’t want to admit that she was chatting with Garry
right in front of him – seemed like he was still asserting his power.
‘They’re all going around Europe for a month, then the mother and her friend are
coming home and it’ll be just the two of them.’
‘What about their children.’
‘They’re not going. They’re staying here.’
‘Well, that’ll be nice for them,’ he said, and settled into the chair, trying to concentrate
on the television. Combinations of syllables ran through his head:
I am a demon
Embroiled in an argument
Between two lovers
36
‘Yes, but I don’t think he’ll cope. It’s not usually like him to do what other people
want. That’s why it’s funny.’ She looked at her phone again and smiled. ‘Finally they’re
getting on the plane,’ she said, already punching in a reply.
David’s phone lit up with a message alert. ‘It’s from Sally,’ he said. ‘She said sorry to
have missed me in Sydney. And I need to give her more notice when I’m visiting.’ It seemed
important to relay the message immediately, as if this provided a model of expected message
etiquette and he was playing some kind of trump card by establishing this show and tell
policy.
‘At least she’s in touch with you.’ Lucy reached out for his hand. She asked about the
show he had in mind. He sank his head back into the cushions so his face tilted towards the
ceiling and spoke in a deep voice.
‘It’s about layers upon layers; worlds within worlds; and a sense of place for the
dispossessed in the maelstrom of an uncaring world. Should be lots of fun.’ He laughed out
loud and she hit him playfully with a pillow as he got out of the chair to squeeze onto the
divan next to her.
‘You’re very funny but very deep too. He could never talk like that ’cos he’s got to
twist everything round to his way of thinking.’ They held each other – entwined in mutual
reassurance on Lucy’s awkward divan.
‘I walked around The Cross looking for traces from Roie’s time,’ he said. Then he
spoke in his deep voice again:
Where the night is full of dangers
And the darkness full of fear
And eleven hundred strangers
Live on aspirin and beer.
’Did you just make that up?’
David laughed. ‘No. That’s Ken Slessor, talking about Darlinghurst.’
‘OK. Is that where Roie picked you up?’
David laughed and told her that was a funny idea seeing as she died in 1979. ‘She was
a bohemian artist who worshipped Pan.’
Lucy turned away from him to engage with the program that was starting on TV. He
continued talking about the King’s Cross café scene; the Sydney Push writers, intellectuals,
and artists mingling, even though Lucy was more interested in her program. When a gaudy
37
advertisement blared she became more attentive; said she could picture the café atmosphere,
and wanted to know what he had in mind for the show?
‘Music and dance,’ he said and settled back, resting his face on her breast to retreat
from the raucous television. She stroked his head. They were both aware that Garry’s plane
would have taken off and he was gone.
David didn’t offer any further details about Roie and The Cross until Lucy had taken
her tablets and was climbing into bed. ‘I’ve got this idea that the images could come to life in
a dance piece. Like animations.’ He told her about Goossens, and how his affair with Roie
was such a scandal. That’s where the music comes in to it. You see Goossens was Caroline’s
teacher at the Con.’
Lucy thought about this new twist and the elements started to connect for her. She
could imagine it: the dance, the images, the affair, and the music. The bits that were on the
fringes of polite society, Kings Cross in the old days. ‘So Caroline was there then, through all
this and she remembers Goossens?’
‘Yeah. She calls him Goosey. Doesn’t care for Roie though. None of the students did.
They were only interested in the music side of it. He kept his affair private.’
‘As you would,’ said Lucy.
~
He knelt beside her, on top of the bedclothes, holding one of her teddy bears. It was a brown
hound dog with floppy ears. He sat it on the pillow and moved the arms like a puppet.
‘Hello, I’m Roie,’ he said.
Lucy smiled. ‘Hello Roie, pleased to meet you.’
‘Welcome to the night, dream well.’
‘I’d rather not actually.’
‘Why not? Have you been troubled by your dreams lately?’
‘Hmm, that’s a funny question Roie. As a matter of fact I have. They’ve been really
vivid. They scare me.’ David moved the puppet’s paws to each side of its face in a teddy bear
hound dog imitation of Edward Munch’s Scream.
‘Do not be afraid,’ he said.
‘That’s easy for you to say Roie, but they’re weird.’
38
‘Not to me. I’ve always enjoyed dreams. I’m a trance artist and spend a lot of time out
on the astral plane.’
‘Do you Roie. That’s all very well but I’d rather not.’ David put the teddy dog down
and stroked Lucy’s cheek with the back of his hand. He wondered if her weird dreams might
have been fuelled by the morphine, then he switched off the bedside light, leaving the room
bathed in the pale glow of the lilac candle.
‘Maybe you should ask your doctor,’ he said.
She told him she was going to ask the physio tomorrow and that she was seeing the
doctor on Thursday. ‘The dreams scare me. Sometimes I’m in this big house with stairs and
there are people that I know. Well, sometimes I recognize someone. It’s too weird.’ Pat
plodded in and lay down at Lucy’s bedside, as if she was aware of the trauma that these
nocturnal events had been causing.
‘You recognize some of them then?’ said David.
‘It’s like I know who they are without being able to put a name to them. Only
occasionally somebody stands out. Usually they’re just there. I didn’t get to sleep till late last
night, and then they started. There were lots of men.’
‘What were they doing to you?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Maybe you’ll sleep better tonight if I’m here?’
‘Hope so.’
He tossed the teddy hound across the room.
‘Poor Roie,’ said Lucy. She rolled over; thinking about Garry. He could never be like
that. He wants to manage a band, but doesn’t a clue about the art side of it. There’d have to
be something in it for him, as if music or art was the same as renovating houses. That’s why
he could never understand dance, or the need to go back to study just for the sake of it. He
needed to be in control. David was the opposite. He didn’t know where he was heading but
opened a door and went out to see what was there. Something creative that she could relate
to. A future.
David slipped under the covers and lay on his back.
‘How did she become a trance artist then?’
39
He told her that Roie was born during a lightning storm, with webbed fingers and no
earlobes, which gave her an otherworldly appearance. ‘She had strong psychic abilities and
the press latched on to her, so she used to play up to them.’
Lucy imagined the scenario: Kings Cross; occult; bohemian artist; scandals. ‘She
played up to them? But it still leaves more questions than answers. How did it begin?’
‘Well, she went to a private school or a church school or something, but got expelled
for writing scary stories and doing grotesque drawings. They said she was a bad influence on
the other girls.’
‘Can’t imagine why?’ said Lucy poking him in his side. ‘Is that why you’re interested
in her then?’
David grappled with her playfully under the covers before continuing. ‘Yeah, well.
She just didn’t fit the mould.’
‘I’ve got to roll over again,’ she said, snuggling into him.
David kept talking about Roie’s astral experiences and her drawings. He propped
himself up to look at her, wondering if he should be telling her these things right now. She
didn’t tell him to stop so he continued talking about Roie’s partner Gavin. ‘He was a poet and
they did a book together – paintings and poems. They were going to have it covered in bat
skin but it ended up being banned anyway.’
‘Banned because it was too scary?’
David thought for a moment. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It was pretty explicit; demons with
big snakes for dicks and there was one with a naked woman embracing a black panther. Then
there’s a whole lot of symbolism and imagery, philosophy, psychology, and the astral stuff:
He is the castle of echoes,
And the walking mill, sideshow to attraction beyond sleep,
We created those dissolving, mobile corridors,
From the dream logged, archaic flesh,
Of giants no longer valid.
That’s what Gavin wrote.’
‘It’s pretty creepy.’
‘Roie would have said, “if you don’t want to know, don’t go there”.’
‘That’s all very well.’
40
‘OK,’ said David as he rolled over and wrapped his arms around her. ‘I’ll hold you.
Maybe that’ll help, then you can dance into the embrace of the black panther.’
‘I think I’m trying to dance my way out of that embrace right now.’
~
The night was cool in Castlemaine. Lucy was breathing steadily when David left the room. It
was chilly in the kitchen. He put the kettle on, glad that he’d taken the precaution of putting
on his jumper and warm socks. He had no shortage of ideas but needed to sort them out
before he could start. He filled the teapot, recalling Roie and Goosey’s first meeting was for
tea, after he’d picked up a copy of her book. That was easy to understand; he must have been
impressed with the drawings and poems.
His was thinking about Goossens when he opened the back door to let the dog out and
looked up at the crescent moon. It was slowly sailing towards the end of its journey across
the sky and the constellations appeared elongated in the still hours before dawn. Goosey had
come in triumph as the great composer, conductor, and teacher, who was going to revamp
post-war Australian culture. All the newspapers had said that. Someone even worked out they
were paying him more than the Prime Minister. David called the dog, sotto voce, and waited
for her to come in. He mulled over of odd bits of information he’d read. They all dwelt on the
downfall; how Goossens left in disgrace when their affair became public. Pat ran in, oblivious
to the cold. David watched her shake, wondering what lay beyond the obvious. Goossens’
interest in the occult and the subconscious had been intellectual till he met Roie. She was
different. That was important. He closed the door and sat at the table with his tea, a pile of
articles that he’d printed and a brand new journal.
He started his notes about Roie. Sorting out the sequence of her career. No one had
taken her art seriously until she started at East Sydney Tech. But she still couldn’t make a
living because the police kept hounding her, so she told fortunes. David put his pen down and
tried to imagine the art world at the time. He knew Roie had modelled for Norman Lindsay
but he hadn’t been very flattering about her work. Still, he might’ve been an influence. He
continued picking out bits from newspaper stories.
He wanted to know more and he leafed through his articles, settling on a more
scholarly piece about the esoteric. It described how Roie formed her own philosophy –
41
mixing elements from Jung and Freud with mythology, the Kabbalah, Pan worship, ritual
magic and Voodoo. Then she used images from all these in her drawings and paintings. He
added to his notes before putting down his pen to leaf through other articles. There was a bit
of information about her Melbourne University exhibition and a lot about how the police
raided it, removing four paintings and charging Roie with obscenity. Someone had claimed
the works were lewd and disgusting and Roie replied, obscenity, like beauty, is in the eye of
the beholder. Somebody else complained that her work was as gross a shock to the average
spectator as a witches’ orgy and Roie retorted this fig leaf morality expresses a very
unhealthy attitude. Some articles included images and David studied them, wondering who
controlled this fig leaf mentality.
He found a reference to magazine called Pertinent and searched for it on the Internet.
It contained a review of one of Roie’s exhibitions and the reviewer argued that it was unfair
to criticize her drawings as presentations of evil, even if they depicted terrifying images,
concluding: to the impure, all is impure. Then David read about the court case that followed
the Melbourne exhibition. Roie defended her painting Witches’ Sabbat, which the police had
confiscated, saying it was an embrace between the artist, representing humanity, and a
panther, personifying the powers of darkness. David looked at the image. It featured Roie
naked and entwined with a black panther. She explained to the court that both humanity and
Lucifer, or the panther, had fallen from grace and their embrace acknowledged the dark
attraction of an inevitable desire.
He sipped his tea, thinking over what he’d written – attraction to a dark desire. Then
he put down his pen and poured another cup of tea. His stream of consciousness had touched
on something he could almost feel, something in the back of his mind or just below the
surface. It wasn’t only Roie’s painting. Perhaps attraction to someone or something that could
never lead to any great happiness was part of being human? He glanced at the little clock on
the dresser and became aware of its ticking for the first time. It was just after five. He picked
up his pen and wrote about Roie the maverick, an outsider from the fringes, who was the
opposite of society’s middle class values – paraded as the antithesis of morality. The more
defiant she became, the more the press and the police intervened. He put down his pen and
closed his journal before the first glimmers of light washed away the atmosphere of his
nocturnal note taking. He left the teapot and the cup beside the sink, switched off the light
and stumbled through the darkness of the semi-familiar house to Lucy’s bed.
42
‘Where have you been?’ she said.
~
‘That’s the trouble with getting up at night to work,’ he said, looking at the teapot
sparkling in the morning light by the sink. ‘It’s all right if you can sleep in.’ Lucy was sitting
at the table doing her banking. Pat sat at her feet.
‘What time do you start?’
‘Not till 10.30. But I’d better get going. Got a school concert coming up. What about
your study, have you got much to do?’
‘The next essay’s due at the end of the month. I’m just doing the banking before I’ll
have to lie down.’
‘Do you get all the statements?’
‘Yep. They’re joint accounts.’
‘Are they? So your finances are mixed up with Garry’s?’ He sat opposite her with a
couple of pieces of toast. ‘Sounds like he’s got you trapped.’
‘Perhaps it looks like that, but it’s the way we worked it out.’
‘You could sell the properties, or maybe one of them and get a place of your own?’
‘I’d love a place of my own, when I sort this out. Garry always says it’s not the right
time to sell yet. We usually go through the statements together to see how much we’ve paid
off.’
‘I don’t see how he can stop you. What sort of place would you like?’
‘Dunno. I’ll have to think about that. It’s a business arrangement. We’re still business
partners.’
‘Yeah. But you can decide what’s best for you though – for your own business
interests. Garry can’t just hang onto them. Surely he’s got to deliver, come up with the goods,
if it’s a business deal.’
‘I know.’ She pinched a piece of toast from his plate and smiled. ‘It was good when it
started out: Let’s go into a property together, he said. I’ve got the money and you’ve got the
talent for design and decorating. I’ll teach you what you need to do and make it into
apartments, then you can do them up. Fifty/fifty. It’ll be good, and I thought it sounded great.
43
I’d tried to get a loan for my own place but I never had the steady income as a dancer, then
Garry came along.’
‘OK,’ said David. ‘So what about now? How’s it looking?’
‘Pretty good. I get income from the rent and Garry’s pretty generous. Like if one of
the tenants moves out, he always helps me out until I get it ready for the next one.’
‘He’s not just your business partner though, is he?’
Lucy thought for a moment. At first it had been fine, great in fact, but then the
arguments started. ‘He’s different. He never wanted to say we were together. We always said
it was a business arrangement. And I get the rent money.’
David sipped his tea. ‘As I said, sounds like you’ve been trapped.’ Lucy didn’t reply
immediately. She looked at her little clock on the dresser listening to it tick.
After a few moments she said, ‘I didn’t even like him much at first. Then he was
everywhere – kept turning up at parties and wherever I was. Then I fell head over heels, big
time.
‘There were good times for maybe a year and a half. But he’s very good at arguing.
He makes every argument come around so he’s right and I’m wrong.’
David put a piece of toast up to his mouth but bit his tongue and winced. ‘Well,’ he
said trying to regain his composure. ‘Maybe you can think about what you want from now?’
‘I still wouldn’t let him down though. There’s always work to do on the properties.
The tenants are moving out of one of the units when it comes up for lease next month, I’ll
have to paint it – even though I can hardly move right now. Then there’s this place.
‘It’s Garry’s, but I can live here while I’m doing it up. It’d be really nice if I could
finish it the way I wanted.’
‘But you don’t have to stay here, do you?’
‘No. I decide what I want to do. But I do need the rent to keep coming in.’
‘Even so, you could decide to sell.’
‘Ha! Without Garry – that’d be good. He always says: Not a good time to sell, Luce.
Says it would be stupid, and we’d lose money: They’ll be worth much more in three years.
It’s already been going on for years, anyway. Now he wants to manage some sort of band’
He stroked the dog’s face with the back of his hand. Pat rolled on her back with her
legs in the air. Then David looked up abruptly. ‘I’m going to be late,’ he said.
44
Part Two
Odium Psychopathologicum:
Behold, my friends this empty space
That doth this volume thus disgrace,
The drawing that should fill its place
Hath vanished:
Banned and banished!
O Puritanic Harpies, rage!
Thy breed alone doth this disgrace,
That mirrored saw its own foul face:
With mind as empty as yon space,
Whose culture (O enlightened age!)
Is even as a missing page.
Enraged Caliban
(Whose knowledge is, to thy perdition,
Limited as this edition);
Snipping art, in art’s expression,
Secrets of thine own repression,
Howl thy malice! Ban –
Yet know, O ape of little sense
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense!’
Rosaleen Norton
45
Chapter 5
Her mother’s voice reminded her of the sing-along evenings in Scone, particularly the
carefree nature of the singing, rather than the quality. She also knew that Barney Google, with
the goog-ly goog-ly eyes was her mother’s going out song and that Barney the cocker spaniel
would soon come strutting in to share the little puff of scent that he had been awarded.
‘Mother, did you put perfume on the dog again?’ she yelled.
There was no reply. Caroline’s mother wouldn’t sanction yelling. Barney’s job was to
escort her daughter back to the room so they could conduct a more intimate conversation.
When Caroline arrived at the doorway her mother was seated at her bureau pinning the
family brooch to her lapel.
‘He likes to have a little bit of scent behind his ear,’ she said.
Caroline squeezed past to sit on the bed. ‘I know you do,’ she said, holding the dog’s
head in both her hands. ‘He doesn’t like caster oil though. I’ve tried it.’
‘Have you. Well, what did you expect? Don’t you think he knows the difference?’
Barney walked over to sit beside Caroline’s mother at the bureau. He dropped down to lie at
her feet when she turned to face her daughter. ‘Well, I’m wondering what this Corroboree is
going to be like.’
‘It’s not a real corroboree you know.’
‘Of course not, but I’m wondering what it sounds like with the orchestra.’
‘Well, Mr Antill did see a corroboree at La Perouse, you know.’ Caroline had
marvelled at the creative process. She had seen the boomerang throwing, gumleaf blowers,
and the children diving off the jetty for the coins that the servicemen threw, but writing music
about an actual ceremony seemed extraordinary. For her, going to La Perouse was an outing –
riding the tram to the end of the line. She thought it was fortunate for the mission children to
have a roof over their heads, rather than to live in the humpys that were nestled in the scrub
that spilled over the rocky headland. Now, the idea of a piece of music that explored
ceremonies opened the possibility that there might be more to aboriginal culture than she had
noticed. ‘I suppose you’d have to go there at night to see one?’ she said.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ It wasn’t how her mother remembered the children at Scone. At
La Perouse they looked sad and she thought the Mission looked squalid. It made her sad.
‘Anyway. The music’s a ballet suite,’ said Caroline. ‘I think it’s exciting.’
46
‘That’ll be nice then. And it was kind of Jack to get us the tickets. It’ll be exciting to
see him in the orchestra won’t it?’
Caroline thought about this. ‘I suppose so. He doesn’t say much about the music
though. I think he’s just happy to be playing with the orchestra.’
‘I think he’s very lucky to have got in.’
‘Yes. He is. His father didn’t want him to.’
‘What about that other chap? Colin. He’s a nice boy.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being popular Caroline. Just as long as you don’t rush
into anything.’
‘I’m not rushing. Colin’s different though. His family let him do music but Jack
wouldn’t have been able to unless he got the place as a repat. student. That’s why it’s exciting
he’s in the orchestra. And he wanted you to come too. That’s why he got the tickets.’
‘Well, it’s a cold night for a corroboree. I don’t know if they usually have them in
July.’ She patted her dog before getting to her feet and looked at her daughter. ‘You’d better
wear your warm gloves. Get your hat and your coat?’
~
The tram rattled away from the Coogee terminus. Caroline watched the conductor who was
perched on the runner board, rolling a cigarette with one hand and steadying himself on the
railing with the other. It struck her as odd that he had to collect the fares from outside. They
lurched into the tunnel by the Bundy clock and then commenced the steady climb to The
Spot.
The conductor approached. ‘Evenin’ ladies, s’pose I’d better give you yer tickets.
Kelly’s been round.’ His cigarette sat between his cap and his ear.
‘Town Hall please. One and a student,’ said Caroline’s mother. When the tickets were
issued she turned to her daughter. ‘You know your father has to deliver the papers on the
trams if one of the boys doesn’t show up. It’d be funny to see him swing in through the door
like a tram conductor with a bundle of papers under his arm, wouldn’t it?’
47
‘Sometimes my friends say they’ve seen him.’ The image of her father hopping
around like a tram conductor, feeding papers to the passengers made her think about the hard
work he had to do at the newsagency. ‘He must meet all sorts of people,’ she said.
‘He works very hard,’
Caroline wondered if he bothered to buy a ticket or if he had some sort of special
exemption. She imagined a gang of ticket inspectors boarding the tram and demanding to see
his ticket. She could never imagine riding on a tram without paying. ‘I don’t know why they
still call the inspectors the Kelly gang in this day and age,’ she said.
‘Some things don’t change,’ said her mother. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to hold on to old
ideas, no matter how odd they are.’
‘But you’ve changed a lot – from Scone, then Boggabri, then to the city, the shop, and
now Coogee; and tonight you’re going to see the world premiere of Corroboree in the Town
Hall.’
‘Well you do see a lot of change as you get older. But sometimes you have to let go of
familiar things before you can see something different, even if it is hard. Boggabri was
different to Scone, but I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. I thought about it a lot before
coming to the city, and I think it’s what you all needed.’
‘But we could have stayed in Scone?’
‘Not really dear. Your father wanted his own shop. I wanted you to go to school in
Sydney and there were other reasons for moving.’ The tram was quite full by the time it was
racing under the canopy of Moreton Bay Figs on Anzac Parade.
Caroline hadn’t thought much about all the moves. It seemed natural for her father to
buy the house near the sea as a kind of reward for working hard all his life. ‘You like it here
though, don’t you,’ she said.
‘Of course. Coogee’s a wonderful place to live. You’re doing so well. And I always
wanted to be able to buy nice books and enjoy all the things that I couldn’t do in Scone. The
only shops in Boggabri were the newsagent, the mixed business and the hardware.’
‘You must miss some things though?’
‘There’s the people and lots of things about Scone that I miss if I let myself, but it’s
more important for you to get a good education so you can have the opportunities you need.
Then you can decide what’s really important – make your own choices.’
48
‘It’s like that with music too, you know. Mr Goossens says that you have to make
your own choices about each note that you play.’
‘Yes I’m sure, even though I don’t play the piano. I can hear it when I listen to you. It
takes me away, just like reading a book.’
‘Even though the story isn’t written down, like in a book.’
‘I can use my imaginations whether I’m reading or listening to music, don’t you
think?’
‘Yes, I do. That’s why I’m looking forward to Corroboree so much.’
‘Sometimes music makes me sad too. But tonight it might be different.’
‘First there’s Corroboree and after the interval it’s The Rite of Spring by Stravinsky.
I’m sure you’ll be able to imagine whatever you want.’
Caroline’s mother was already lost in thought – looking backwards. She remembered
the aboriginal mission at Scone and how the children always smiled at her. Sometimes they’d
be playing by the river when she took the school children down to learn to swim, but they
never came close. The tram click-clacked over the points and into George Street, bringing her
back to the present. She looked out at the city shops to get her bearings. ‘I don’t know about
The Rite of Spring,’ she said.
‘Well, music isn’t all about the past, you know,’ said Caroline.
‘No. Of course it isn’t, but sometimes it’s difficult to shift from what we’ve grown up
with. It can be confronting.’ The toast rack tram lurched along George Street, through the
darkened alleyway of city buildings – empty after the bustle of the day. ‘We don’t want to
miss our stop. Better be getting ready to be getting off,’ she said.
~
The tickets were for the Northern Gallery, so they had an excellent view of the audience as
well as the stage. Caroline liked looking at all the people, particularly those who she knew, or
knew of. She was happy to have guided her mother to the security of their seats because she
had found it disconcerting that every second person wanted to greet them from the moment
they stepped into the foyer.
‘You certainly are popular,’ said her mother. It was nice to be the centre of attention,
although she’d never admit it. After the Tchaikovsky she’d played Brahms D minor with the
49
orchestra. The critics praised the power of her performance, and after the photo appeared on
the cover of Radio Times she’d become even better known. It seemed as though everyone
wanted to stop and say hello.
The hall was humming with activity and even though some members of the orchestra
had taken their place on the stage, much of the audience was still chatting away. ‘There’s
Jack’s name in the program,’ she said. ‘Here they come now.’
‘They do look very smart in their tails, don’t they,’ said her mother. ‘Is that Colin
sitting down there?’
Caroline scanned the audience. ‘Yes, that’s him. He says the excitement’s like
electricity when everyone’s waiting for Goosey to come on.’
‘It is when you play too, dear.’
‘It felt pretty electric for me too, you know.’ Caroline knew that it was all part of the
show. Goosey really knew how to captivate crowds. She watched Jack take his place as
second flute and waved. He couldn’t wave back, of course, but she thought she saw him fire a
cheeky wink, just for her. She also looked down at Colin, who seemed to be miles away –
captivated by the thrill of the event.
‘Who’s that man down near the front?‘ said her mother.
‘That’s John Antill. The composer,’ replied Caroline.
‘He looks like a kind, gentle man.’ ‘I wonder why he chose to write about a
corroboree?’
‘He’s very considerate. Like I said, he saw a corroboree at la Perouse so he decided to
base the music on that.’ Caroline’s mother thought about this.
‘I’ve read books about Aboriginal people. But I haven’t heard of composers doing
that before.’ They sat back to watch the orchestra prepare, as the racket from the audience
began to diminish.
‘It’s so exciting waiting,’ said Caroline.
‘Waiting for Mr. Goossens?’
‘Yes, and for the music to start.’
‘Won’t be long.’
‘It’s different because it’s a ballet, not like a symphony, and it’s in seven sections,’
said Caroline.
‘Well everybody’s certainly turned out to support it.’
50
‘When Goosey found Corroboree he was so happy that he danced around the room
saying, I’ve got it, at last. What I’ve been looking for since I came here. An original
Australian composition.’
‘Did he. But how on earth do you know that?’
‘His daughter Donie told me. She said he’d been looking for Australian music since
he got here. I asked him about it too, when Mrs Goossens got me to play at the David Jones
Fashion Show.’ They watched while the stragglers found their seats and the chatter from the
audience gave way to the ambient sounds of the orchestra warming up. Jack sat next to the
principal, Neville Amadio. Caroline fancied she could hear an occasional high note from the
flute, and thought he was showing off. The sounds seemed to lull the audience. Colin looked
as though he had closed his eyes and Mr. Antill was resting his head in his hands, but the
overall effect of the orchestral sounds was to heighten the sense of expectation that permeated
the auditorium. When concertmaster Ernest Llewellyn stood to ask Horace Green for an A all
other sound ceased. The note from the oboe hushed the audience even more and by the time
they’d all finished tuning, every extraneous sound had been sucked from the atmosphere.
Somebody coughed. Somebody else dropped a clattering walking stick, but these random
incidents only served to strengthen the collective focus. Caroline fixed her gaze on Jack and
her mother squeezed the program so tightly that it crumpled.
Then he appeared. Striding on to his stage like a colossus, and the audience responded
with heartfelt applause. It seemed to Caroline that he reached the podium in no more than
three or four strides, mounted it immediately, and raised both his hands to the orchestra,
holding this pose until the clapping suddenly surrendered to a thick silence. The only
movement came from his baton, which directed the percussion section to commence the first
movement, Welcome Ceremony.
~
Bass drum and trora sticks began, while the other players sat silently. Caroline listened to the
dialogue of rhythm against rhythm, closing her eyes when she heard the first notes from the
lowest register of the reeds. It was a sparse orchestral pallet yet the low vibration and the
rhythm captivated her. It created a mood that grew out of the earthy beginning to secure a
sense of anticipation. She could almost see the tone colour and sat spellbound taking in the
51
timbral contrast of the contra bassoon’s first low note. She opened her eyes as the music
intensified. The bass clarinet joined the dialogue, contributing further to the overtly rhythmic
introduction. She glanced around at faces in the crowd. Some looked as though they were
trying to latch on to a metrical arrangement of rhythm or pitch, but there was no opening
theme to secure attention. Instead the music created a sense of openness: a conversation
where the characters didn’t go out of their way to explain the drama that lay ahead, but
seemed to seduce listeners with each understated note. She glanced at her mother who was
gazing at the conductor. She was gripping the program tightly – captivated, as if she also
needed to know where this monosyllabic dialogue would lead: to new themes, action,
violence, or would tension be resolved?
Without warning, violins, flutes and piccolo shattered the suspense, slashing the
texture like lightning, followed by the crack of the slap stick. Caroline leant forward. The
glissando heralded the arrival of a new motif played by the bass that increased tension by
bringing the story to a new phase. She looked at Jack and tried to discern his flute part from
the chromatic flurry that came with this new entry, but she could only hear the bassoon and
colourful snatches from the ‘cello. Then the sudden flash of another shrill glissando, with the
slap stick, usurped the rhythm of the erratic ambience again. She sat back as a contrarymotion horn motive led to an onslaught of repeated chords, unleashed by the full orchestra at
fortissimo. She tried to close her eyes again but couldn’t. The violence of the orchestral attack
was too vibrant. Eventually a glissando from the piano brought about a tempo change and
Caroline noticed that, like her mother’s, her hands were forming fists as the orchestra secured
the consummation of Corroboree’s alluring opening paragraph.
At the close of the seventh section Caroline noticed that her mother was squeezing her
program even tighter. She sat upright as the piccolo joined the bull roarer and the snare drum,
launching the full orchestra into the Closing Fire Ceremony. Her mother was also sitting on
the edge of her chair. The orchestral crescendo grew stronger with trombones, celesta, piano,
harp, xylophone and more cymbals, joining in. Caroline had lost track of the tonality, feeling
the musical forces as a mad riot of colour instead. Then timpani and military drums rallied to
pronounce the emphatic final cadence. She sat with her mouth open as winds, reeds, brass,
percussion, aboriginal instruments, and strings reverberated to every corner of the hall from
the orchestral broadside that hung in the atmosphere until the captivated audience responded
with a spontaneous volley of thunderous applause.
52
Goossens shook hands with Llewellyn and left the stage. When he returned the entire
audience was standing and clapping with more strength than ever. The maestro left again and
returned to bring the orchestra to their feet to acknowledge the continued ovation.
‘How long are they going to keep clapping for?’ asked Caroline’s mother above the
din. ‘I’m going to have to sit down soon.’ She looked at Mr. Antill, who seemed rather
perplexed by the extent of the audience appreciation of his music.
‘Who cares,’ replied Caroline. ‘Oh look.’ She pointed to Goossens and the orchestra,
acknowledging the composer with a round of applause from the stage. The audience
remained standing.
~
Caroline would have liked to linger with Jack and the orchestra – maybe go to Cahill’s Coffee
Shop for a caramel waffle, but her mother thought it best to go straight home. He had come to
see them at interval and her mother had made a point of thanking him for the tickets then, so
they walked straight out to catch a tram. Although they chatted at the tram stop, Caroline
preferred to relive the music in her mind. There were so many disjointed sections and
rhythms that this wasn’t easy, particularly with The Rite of Spring. She could recall a few
themes but her overall impression came from the effect of the entire concert, rather than from
individual phrases.
‘It’s not as if there’s a melody that you can latch on to so you can hum it as you’re
walking out the door, is there?’ her mother said.
‘No, although the Stravinsky had some bassoon parts that are still fresh in my mind.’
‘I suppose so. Both halves of the program were very different, but in some ways they
seemed similar too.’
‘Well, they’re both about ceremony,’ said Caroline. ‘Did you know that after the first
performance of The Rite they chased Stravinsky and Diagalev out of the theatre?’
‘I did hear that. They mustn’t have been ready for it yet.’
‘It would seem not. Everyone clapped and clapped tonight though.’
‘Yes, didn’t they. I think it’s an exciting time. Let’s see what the papers say about it
when your father brings one home. Here’s our tram.’
53
~
Her father found her at the dining room table, bathed in a shaft of winter sunlight that was
streaming through the window.
‘By gee they must have been packed in to the Town Hall last night,’ he said. ‘They
were still around when the early paper came out, waiting to see what Martin Long had to say
in his review. I told them they should be able to make up their own minds.’
‘You didn’t say that really, did you?’ Caroline replied.
He went into the kitchen to put the kettle on the gas. ‘Your mother said it was
exciting, but it was a bit modern.’
‘Well, it is new music. Mr. Goossens says we can’t live on Brahms, Beethoven, and
Bach any more than we can only read Shakespeare and Dickens,’ she said, imitating the
maestro’s voice.
‘I think he’s right there. We’ve all got to move with the times.’
‘I think you can have both,’ said Caroline as her father came in with his cup of tea.
Her mother came out of the kitchen with his toast.
‘I’ve got to be getting off now. Do you want me to put you both down for seats at my
graduation?’
‘Too right,’ said her father. ‘But that’s a way off yet, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but you have to book you know.’
‘OK. Can you book them for Doff and Georgie too then?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
~~~
The mood was light-hearted at the Con. since classes had finished. Caroline was enjoying the
spare time, socializing, after her years of study. She walked in to find Colin laughing with the
chorus from the opera school.
‘Did you hear what happened last week?’ one of the singers said.
‘Well, Goosey found this wonderful singer to play his Judith.
‘That’s Richard’s girlfriend Joan,’ said Colin.
54
‘Anyway, just when she’s about to deal with Holofernes she gets her sword stuck in
the floor.’ Even though they’d been entertaining everyone with the story for days, the opera
students presented an impromptu re-enactment. ‘So,’ the singer continued, ‘Holofernes
wonders what’s happening and looks up, but then he loses balance on that old couch that they
always have for a prop and rolls off. Everyone laughed – cast, crew, and audience. Judith had
to help him back up before she could get her sword out and deal her final blow.’
‘No!’ said Caroline, laughing along with Colin as the opera students hammed up the
re-enactment of Holofernes end.
‘You were in the orchestra weren’t you, Jack?’ said Colin. Everyone turned to see the
dashing flautist standing next to the successful young pianist with her flowing auburn hair.
‘Yes, I certainly was,’ said Jack. ‘You should’ve seen the look on Goosey’s face. He
held up his baton for ages and the longer he had to wait, the angrier he looked. He didn’t
want to delay the trumpets’ stabbing notes for the beheading.’
‘It sounds like a Charlie Chaplin film,’ said Caroline.
‘It was,’ said the opera students, still giggling.
‘Come down to Cahill’s with me?’ said Jack. Caroline was surprised by the
abruptness of his invitation, but the thought of caramel sauce allayed her trepidation.
‘Sure,’ she said, glancing at Colin and the others in the group. She touched Colin’s
shoulder and said, ‘I’ll see you at the graduation then?’ a little surprised that he did nothing to
halt her abrupt departure.
‘Oh. Yes,’ he replied,’ as Jack ushered her away with a hand behind her back.
She turned as they were leaving, smiled and said, ‘Abyssinia.’
‘Ceylon,’ replied Colin and the opera students in unison. Jack smelt of Old Spice.
~
The graduation itself was a dull affair. Caroline’s mother had been fussing around, feeding
her family and making sure they were dressed warmly.
‘It’s still not really summer yet,’ she said, and in the end they arrived so early that
they were bored even before the formalities began. Caroline saw them to their seats and took
her place at the front with the other graduands. She sat next to Colin and they recounted
stories about their fellow students: the way they felt when they first had to play on the stage
55
and anecdotes about their eccentric professors as well as the ones they considered sleazy.
Their memories were punctuated with periods of silence, as if their jovial conversation was a
necessary antidote to the solemnity of the event. Conversely their graduation would never
have come to fruition without their rich experiences and they savoured these periods of
silence in the midst of their reminiscences as a time for personal reflection. Caroline looked
around at her family from time to time, but felt silly when her mother waved. She was also
looking for Jack and eventually caught a glimpse of him sitting a few rows back. That was
awkward, because she had to twist right around in order to see him and she didn’t want to
appear obvious. She wasn’t sure if Colin noticed. He had been looking around to wave at his
proud parents too.
After the event they had arranged to go to Cahill’s. ‘You’ll be home by ten then,’ said
her mother, by way of a statement rather than a question. Caroline unrolled her diploma to
show her brother and sister.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Colin. ‘I’ll see her home.’
They were standing outside in the early summer evening when Jack approached.
‘That’s your diploma,’ said Caroline. ‘Don’t throw it up in the air like that. After all
you’ve been through to get it you’d think you’d lo0k after it!’
‘What. This?’ said Jack, somersaulting it through the air and then catching it again.
‘Just kidding. Evening Colin. Congratulations.’ As the young men shook hands a puff of
evening breeze danced through Caroline’s hair and carried her scent through to Colin.
‘How about a ride on the ferry?’ said Jack.
‘Well, we were going down to the Quay,’ said Colin.
‘I think it’s a lovely evening for a ferry ride,’ said Caroline and took Jack’s arm as
they paced along Macquarie Street, with Colin at her left side.
‘Did I tell you that I live at Neutral Bay?’ said Jack.
‘I knew you lived somewhere over there, but I wasn’t sure where. You were telling me
about how you used to do army training on the harbour.’
‘That’s right. We trained here before they sent us off.’
‘What did you do?’ said Colin.
‘Signaller on supply barges in New Guinea.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t have been too bad. Was it?’
‘No. It was all right where we were, but I just wanted to play the flute.’
56
‘Of course you would’ve,’ said Caroline as they arrived at the Quay.
‘I’ll get the tokens,’ said Colin.
‘No. That’s all right. Let me,’ said Jack, and they walked off, leaving Caroline by the
wharf holding all three diplomas.
Colin stood close to Caroline on the deck of the Neutral Bay ferry, resting on the
railing. He could feel her shoulder rubbing against him and wondered if he should put his arm
around her. ‘Are you cold?’ he said.
‘A little,’ she replied as the deckhand pulled the gangplank away and they slipped out
the Quay.
‘That’s where Goosey wants to build his opera house – over there, where the tram
depot is,’ said Colin. Jack came out to join them and rested his arm on the railing between
them, forcing them to part. Caroline thought it was rude and half expected Colin to protest,
but it was Jack who spoke.
‘He’ll have more trouble than he thinks, building it there. He hasn’t got a clue how
hard it’ll be to get the tramways to shift so he can build an opera house.’
‘Well. I think he can do it,’ said Caroline.
‘I suppose we’ll see,’ said Colin. Jack stood up and took off his coat to wrap around
Caroline’s shoulders. Colin looked back at the Harbour Bridge.
‘Thanks,’ said Caroline.
‘It can get chilly on the water,’ said Jack. ‘But I like it out here. It’s not confined, and
you can do whatever you want.’
‘What are those red flashing lights?’
‘Port marks. You’ve got to keep to the left of them. You can say: is there any port left
to remember what side – and port’s red too, so you can tell the difference between them and
the green starboard marks.’
‘Oh. I thought you said you were free to do whatever you wanted out here and now
there are all these rules.’ Jack laughed.
‘Got to have the rules of the road, Caroline. Safety comes first.’
‘So whereabouts at Neutral Bay are you, Jack?’ said Colin.
‘I’m right on the water. Got a room in a boarding house.’
‘Sounds super,’ said Caroline.
‘It’s a one-room attic flat. Come up for a nightcap.’
57
‘That’d be nice,’ said Caroline. ‘But we can’t be late, can we Colin.’
‘No. Can’t get you home late. If we come up we’ll have to catch the next ferry back.’
‘Good. We can all have a glass of port and then you’ll be well fortified for the trip
back.’
~
Jack’s room was small but neat and not without charm. It was an attic and the most prominent
feature was a gable window that overlooked the water. Caroline thought it must be lovely to
get up in the morning and watch the activity on the harbour. There was nothing hanging on
the walls and the furniture was basic – a single bed, a wardrobe with a small mirror hanging
on the side, a chair, and a desk with a pile of music with his flute resting on top, in its case.
Caroline felt a tinge of sadness at the thought of a person living alone, away from his parents.
It would be all very well looking out over the water, but what would be the point if he
couldn’t share the view with anyone. They put their diplomas down and she handed his coat
back to him. Colin picked up some photographs from the back of the desk. They were
mounted on card. Caroline noticed that his tails were hanging behind the door.
‘The bathroom’s just down the hall, by the way.’
‘Do you have a kitchen?’ asked Caroline.
Yes. A shared one on the second floor,’ he replied, which led Caroline to conclude that
it would be much easier to eat out when finances allowed.
‘It’s not bad though. Everything’s there for breakfast – stove, teapot, even a
refrigerator and I don’t mind sharing the room with the others when I want to cook. But I’m
usually out at lunchtime and playing in the evening anyway.’
‘I suppose we all keep musician’s hours,’ said Colin, as Jack produced a bottle and
two glasses from the bottom of the wardrobe. Caroline went to look out the window.
‘Oops, only got sherry I’m afraid. Hope that’ll do?’ Caroline turned and nodded and
Colin made some affirmative remarks.
‘OK. I’ll just have to pop down to get another glass then.’ Caroline wondered why he
had two glasses in the first place, but upon reflection she considered that it must be quite
normal for people to come up to each other’s rooms to share a glass of sherry.
‘Here’s a photo of Jack in his army uniform,’ said Colin.
58
‘Let me see. Oh yes. That’s quite a nice photo,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ve already seen these
other ones,’ she said looking at the professionally coloured publicity portraits before putting
them back on the table beside the flute. ‘The ABC took those ones at the same time they took
mine.’
‘Have a look at the view. It must be lovely looking out over the water every day.’
Colin crouched to squeeze into the tiny attic alcove and look out the window. He could feel
Caroline’s breath on the back of his neck as she bent down behind him.
‘He really is right on the waterfront isn’t he. We’ll be able to see the ferry coming.’
‘You can,’ said Jack re-entering his room. ‘When it comes in I’ve got just enough time
to run down the stairs to catch it.’
‘Do you practice up here?’ said Caroline.
‘Not much. I think it’d annoy the neighbours. Now, here’s yours, and yours Colin.
Bottoms up!’
Caroline watched the men sip theirs and smiled at them both before lifting her glass to
her lips. It tasted bitter – a bit like medicine, but not like syrup so much as an expectorant.
She took small sips to ensure that she didn’t wince or cough.
‘Congratulations all around,’ said Jack. ‘To the end of four years of study, and to our
diplomas!’
‘To our diplomas!’
‘That’s the navy dock over there,’ said Jack, ushering Caroline into the window
alcove. ‘They use it to supply submarines.’
‘Oh,’ said Caroline. ‘I think it would be one of the worst things to be cooped up in a
submarine.’
‘Well, I suppose you’d see the world, even if it’s only from underwater,’ said Colin.
‘Is that the ferry coming, Jack?’
‘Yes. But it’ll take a few minutes to tie up,’ he replied, standing upright to finish his
sherry.
‘We’d better be getting ready then,’ said Caroline, standing beside him. She put her
glass on the table, slightly unsure what to do prior to departing.
‘Thanks very much, Jack,’ said Colin, as he opened the door. ‘Very nice indeed.’
Caroline made her way to leave.
59
‘Yes, thanks Jack,’ she said and felt his hand on her arm. It seemed strong and
somehow appealing.
‘Will you be warm enough?’ he said.
‘Yes. I think I’ll sit inside on the way back.’
‘OK then,’ he said and reached around her back to draw her into an embrace, which
she inadvertently returned. Then his full, soft lips met hers. He smelt of Old Spice, just like
her father did on special occasions. ‘I’ll come down to the ferry with you,’ he said and they
stumbled down the stairs arm in arm, oblivious to any extra noise they made, catching up
with Colin at the front door.
‘Come along you two,’ he said.
Perhaps it was a combination of the sherry, the heat of the embrace, and the passion of
the kiss, but Caroline didn’t feel cold as she stood on the lower deck with Colin. They waved
as the ferry pulled out from the wharf and Caroline folded her arms, aware that she wanted
more of Jack’s warmth, and his lips.
‘We’ve forgotten our diplomas,’ she said.
60
Chapter 6
Riders surged through the picturesque town and the animated announcer described their
progress as the peloton peeled to the left and right of a roundabout. Lucy fumbled with her
knitting, craft materials, and assorted books until she found the remote control. Footage of
France was the last thing she needed and it was a good half-hour until her next morphine was
due. She thought about taking an Endone, but stoically decided to hold out.
She lay back against the disheveled cushions and pulled a rug over her knees. Her
knitting fell to the floor as she flicked through the channels to settle on a documentary about
fishing in the North Sea. It somehow reminded her of David, but that didn’t help. With a
concerted effort she got to her feet, shuffled to the kitchen, put the kettle on for a hot water
bottle, and went to her medication drawer. Pat lay on the rug by the sink.
When she returned to her place on the divan, the deep-sea fishermen seemed less than
pleased with their catch. Lucy found their speech incomprehensible and could only get the
gist of their dialogue. It seemed such a battle just to manage. She waited for her regular
message from Garry, which arrived as expected:
Gday. Lovely morning in France.
Nice. When are you going to Paris?
Yep. Tomorrow. They’re all crazy about pushbikes over here. He asked how she was,
and she told him that her pain level was high. I told you. You need to improve your life. Eat
properly and meditate.
She lit a cigarette and stared at the television. The skipper was managing a cup of
coffee as he pointed the trawler into the waves – punching through turbulent seas, with the
steady-footed crew busy on the decks below. Lucy saw them through dancer’s eyes and
thought of the muscles that would come into play for them to roll with the waves and
maintain balance. She imagined they’d swagger when they arrived back on land, but the
thought only suppressed her the urge to sob until she couldn’t breathe properly. Everything
was a battle, both within and in the world at large. The sensation rose through her body until
air and a mess of unintelligible sound escaped from the back of her throat. At the same time,
tears welled in her eyes. She needed to blow her nose and felt trapped – as much by her own
grossness as by the insensitivity of his messages. How could Garry still transform her into a
blubbering mess even when he was on the other side of the world? She had to reply:
I’m fine. David’s been helping me.
61
Who?
David. Remember. I told you I’d had coffee with him.
That won’t help you. You need to stop drinking coffee and eating meat. That’s why I’m
so fit.
Lucy steeled herself. Last time he told her to become a vegetarian she just became run
down. On television the fishing trawler was sailing into the safety of the harbour at sunset.
The credits rolled away. She hesitated before sending: I like seeing David. She listened to the
sound of her heartbeat. Stunned – like she had just pulled the trigger of an explosive device,
and was unsure of the consequences.
The reply arrived a few minutes later. Seeing him? What does that mean? And before
she could manage a response: You haven’t gone too far already have you!
Lucy sniffed, smiling absentmindedly before she replied: Yes. We like each other more
than just coffee. The television announced the start of the news and Lucy reached for her
glass of water and her morphine. She felt strangely settled now she’d stood up to Garry. But
she still waited for his response. It arrived about ten minutes later:
I’m crying.
The weather announcer bounced on to the screen with the jovial news that a cold front
was approaching Victoria. Lucy held her phone, wondering how to respond. She was usually
the one to crumple and resume the role of comforter when Garry became remorseful. This
time she felt shell-shocked by her response until another text message arrived.
This guy must be really something then.
Uncharacteristically she held her ground instead of dashing out a reassuring reply. But
she still felt obliged to engage. Then another message arrived.
Don’t think for one minute you can get out of my web so easily. Wait till I get back.
You’ve got to stop this. I’ve always been fair, and it isn’t right for you, or for your mr david!
Now Lucy was crying again.
~~~
The chic stretch of Rowe Street shops housed galleries and even a basement haunt of the
Sydney Push. Marjory introduced her husband to the laneway at one of the local fashion
62
events that she patronized. ‘Please come with me darling. I’m tiring of the constant questions
and you answer them all so well,’ she said.
‘Not about clothes I can’t,’ he replied, but he accompanied her anyway, amused but
also bored by the assumption that their recent arrival from America marked both of them as
contemporary style experts. ‘I find it petty, bourgeois, and boring,’ he said.
‘Thank you darling,’ replied Marjorie but when she was comfortably ensconced in
conversation her husband slipped away. He walked in to the Notunda Gallery and straight up
to the handsome edition: The Art of Rosaline Norton with Poems by Gavin Greenlees. He’d
heard of the book’s risqué reputation and was surprised to find a copy on display. The
proprietor stood watching him from the doorway as Goossens leafed through the pages –
entranced.
‘How much is this?’ he said and the proprietor approached.
‘You’ve heard about it?’
‘Yes. I have. But I had no idea how brilliant the drawings actually are.’ He left with
the book wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string, very pleased with his purchase. He
wanted to take it straight home, but slipped back to the fashion emporium, leaving the
package in the cloakroom.
The bookshop proprietor also gave him the artist’s address and when he finally got
home he wrote straight away. The reply arrived in late spring. Rosaleen was pleased by his
enthusiastic praise and suggested a time and a place to meet: ‘If you want to discuss my work
further may I suggest tea at The Lincoln Inn, in Rowe Street?’
Without much preamble the discussion turned to magic. Rosaleen proclaimed that
deities and demons were real and she could contact them when she was in a trance state.
Goossens talked about inexhaustible power that could inspire true art.
‘Astral communication enables a more exalted level of consciousness,’ she said.
‘Yes. That’s quite right.’
She continued in a quieter, more directed tone. ‘It comes from Pan, who is all. The
unfallen one who expresses himself through the powers of the earth.’ Goossens drank his tea.
He couldn’t refrain from smiling at her.
~~~
63
The messages came at odd times now and Lucy began to wonder if this irregularity was a
strategy, designed to upset her. So far she had begrudgingly received his regular travel
updates, stories and anecdotes. Not only had he abandoned her to take his family on holiday,
but he also had to report back on what they were up to. She endured his constant descriptions,
which were usually accompanied by his professions of undying love. If it was true, why
didn’t he ever take her on holidays?
Why did he need to keep telling Lucy how close she was to him? How much he
needed her? How she was the only one who understood him, and nobody else could? It had
taken a while, but Lucy knew he’d never leave his wife. They’d be together and she’d be left
waiting.
Now she didn’t know what to expect, where they were, or when his messages would
arrive. Sometimes she noticed that he must have sent them in the middle of the night, and at
other times it would have been lunchtime. The content varied too. Sometimes he told her how
devastated he was:
You’ve completely ruined my holiday! That was easy to ignore, even though Lucy was
tempted to reply, ‘Oh, good!’ At other times he wrote about his plans for their real estate:
Now look, you need to keep working on the properties. It would be stupid to stop now.
They’ll be worth much more in 3 years time. Don’t do anything. Wait til I get back. That much
hadn’t changed. He never wanted to sell and whenever Lucy used her initiative, he said her
ideas were stupid. Now it was as if he was fishing. Trying whatever message he felt might act
as bait.
The most difficult to ignore involved a personal attack.
Look, this isn’t new. You’ve had good men before and it’s never worked out.
Good men wouldn’t take their wives on holiday and expect me to be here waiting.
Why not? Lots of people do that!
Not me any more.
What does mr david do, anyway?
He was drawing her out. Delving for detail that he could use to manipulate her. He’s a
musician she replied.
Musician? That figures. He’ll never be able to look after you like I can.
And the texts would go on like a rally in a tennis match, with opponents slamming
shots at each other until one of them tired. Then he started on David.
64
Musicians can’t pay the bills. Believe me. I know. You’ve got to leave him. It’s all very
well but they haven’t got the money. It hurt her. What did he know? I know you. You’ll only
hurt him. It’s not the first time I’ve had to bail you out.
Maybe this is different?
Don’t think so Luce. Haven’t you already hurt him, or am I wrong? You were pretty
happy when you said goodbye to me a few weeks ago! I’m being reasonable. Do the right
thing. Leave him now, and nothing’s changed.
~~~
It wasn’t as though Goossens left much room for input from the rank and file: no humour, no
anecdotal stories and no cajoling or praising the players. The cellos struggled but conductor
knew what he wanted, making them go over and over the passage until he was satisfied. Jack
watched them grapple with the passage, and looked on respectfully when they finally
achieved the required tempo. Then the maestro addressed them:
‘Thank you gentlemen, now we’ll do it with one beat to the bar, not two.’ The whole
orchestra burst into laughter. ‘It’s not my choice, it’s Mendelssohn’s,’ Goossens retorted. ‘He
always conducted his Italian Symphony one beat to the bar.’ When the laughter subsided he
continued, still with a deadpan face, ‘I was told that by my father, who knew Mendelssohn
personally.’
It was dark by the time they left the rehearsal. Jack paused to hold the door open for a
double bass, and Goossens adjusted the brim of his hat, as he brushed past. If there was a nod
of thanks or recognition, it was imperceptible. He strode into the night.
At the Cross he turned left to walk down William Street until he reached O’Malley’s
Pub on the corner. She had told him that her place was on the left, not far down Brougham
Street, number 179. It was shabby, and even in the dark he could tell it was derelict. The lack
of paint gave the entrance a distinctly dingy appearance and when he knocked at the front
door, he felt the roughness of worn timber with the remnants of flaking paint. Nobody
answered but he had been told to expect this and to wait for a few moments before letting
himself in.
65
He looked up but couldn’t see any light coming from the top flat so he entered and
made his way up as instructed. He rapped on the door and immediately a strong female voice
called, ‘Come in.’
He opened it to see Rosaleen at her easel with a brush in one hand and a cigarette in
the other. She sucked on her Craven A.
‘Thought it was Kelly banging on the door like that,’ she said. Goossens looked at the
altar by the far wall. It was decorated with a painting of Pan, a stag’s antlers, a red cactus
flower in a brass urn, and a cobra’s head candlestick.
‘Gosh,’ he said. ‘That’s good. Pan.’
‘Like I said, we worship him here,’ she replied and a thin peel of laughter came from
a concealed area in front of her, which was lit by two lamps. Each was decorated with
demonic faces. He approached to see a naked man kneeling on a low, red couch with his legs
apart at an angle to the artist. His body was slight, even skinny, and his bushy hair tended to
accentuate his already elongated facial features. He was framed by heavy black drapery that
also covered the windows, and the airless atmosphere was thick with smoke and incense.
Masks grinned from the walls and Goossens noticed a smaller altar.
‘Hecate?’ he enquired.
‘We worship her too,’ said the model. He smiled before resuming his pose, leaving the
conductor to make whatever he would of the fully-fledged erection that he sported.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rosaleen. ‘Gavin Greenlees, this is Eugene Goossens. Gavin’s
being a demon for me, he’ll have a serpentine phallus for elemental force and eternity but for
the moment he can only keep it up as best he can.’
‘I see,’ said the conductor.
‘How is your orchestra behaving itself, maestro?’ asked the artist.
‘Fine. They’ll be one of the world’s best, as long as they concentrate on the task. At
the moment they still think I’m going to laugh and joke with them.’ He walked behind
Rosaleen to observe her work. The demon was taking shape as she worked on the groin area
in preparation for the appendage that it was to support.
‘Well, I’ve got to go out soon and I haven’t got a thing to wear,’ said Gavin.
‘Never mind, darling. You may as well go as you are, seeing you’re already losing
your manhood.’ He walked over to join them at the painting, without bothering to reach for a
robe.
66
‘Hmmm, what do you think?’ he said to Goossens.
‘I think you make an excellent model, Gavin, and now I’m convinced that your work
is what I suspected when I first saw your book, Rosaleen.’
‘Oh yeah, what’s that then?’ she replied. ‘You do know that Gavin wrote the poetry
don’t you?’ she added.
‘Thank you darling,’ said Gavin, walking out of the room.
‘Yes, I’ve read it. In fact the whole concept is very bold, and I think that’s excellent.’
Rosaleen cocked an eyebrow in his direction. She rinsed her brushes, lit another
cigarette, and walked over to the altar to Hecate, looking at it for a moment. ‘Do you really
think so?’ she said. When Gossens affirmed that he did, she picked up an unbound copy of
her book that was beside the red couch. ‘These are the proofs,’ she said. ‘What do you think
of The Queen of Air and Darkness then?’ holding the drawing up for him. Goossens was
familiar with the work, but in the artist’s presence he looked at it intently.
The central image was clearly a representation of Rosaleen, magnificent in her
nakedness. She knelt, with her legs apart, on a bed of petals, and seemed to emerge from the
picture plane in three dimensions, as her torso was inclined forward. Her arms were out to her
sides and the pose accentuated her pectoral stretch. Goossens moved closer to inspect the
detail, and at once felt both privileged and somehow connected to both the artist and her
drawing. He could feel her breath on his cheek, in the close atmosphere of the upstairs flat.
In the image, her right hand was open with her palm towards the viewer, and she was
holding a twine between her thumb and her index finger. It looked as though she was pulling
in a fish that featured in the lower right of the drawing. The figure’s left hand was closed with
the palm away from view, but it also held a twine that fed loosely to another fish, which
slithered beside the first. Goossens wasn’t certain whether this was a representation of a
magical act, or if she was actually fishing. The tendril-like twine framed the torso with a
triangular shape that emanated from one of the creatures in the corner and returned to its
counterpart. Goossens absent-mindedly rested his elbow on his arm and lifted his free hand to
his chin.
Rosaleen stood, holding the drawing and watching him with her head slightly
inclined. She resisted her usual impulse to speak, as she could see he was concentrating. He
stepped back again and let his gaze trace the musculature of the figure, which followed a
curve from the lower left of the picture plane. Her proud breasts sat in the centre, and her
67
closed eyes accentuated the serene yet slightly aloof expression on her face. Her hair
consisted of writhing snakes with a circular orb of light surrounding her head as a nimbus.
Goossens stepped back to continue the viewing experience from a distance. Rosaleen
shifted on her feet. She looked at her cigarettes but continued to say nothing. Goossens again
stood silent, rubbing his chin with his index finger. He closed his eyes then opened them
again to take in the whole image afresh. The subject was framed in an oval, or egg-shaped
area of light, which curved into darker lines at the corners. He took his fingers from his chin
and opened his mouth as if he was going to speak.
‘Well?’ said Rosaleen.
He wagged his finger, still gazing at the drawing. ‘The panther,’ he said, pointing to
the large black panther that was curled around the figure. It’s body was wrapped behind the
kneeling woman with the tail almost touching her leg and, on the other side, its chin resting
on crossed paws. ‘The female figure has clawed feet, similar to the panther’s,’ he said.
‘It’s an important union to me,’ said Rosaleen. She placed the drawing on top of the
cupboard and turned towards Goossens. He noted that her ears were also pointed – like a
cat’s. He addressed her directly, quoting from her book:
Panther of Night . . . enfold me.
Take me, dark Shining One; mingle my being with you.
Without hesitation Rosaleen continued:
Prowl in my spirit with deep purring joy,
Live in me, giver of terror and ecstacy.
Then she lit a Craven A and immediately exhaled the smoke. ‘Well blow me down,’
she said. ‘That’s certainly impressive.’
‘I told you I loved your work,’ he replied. ‘It’s easy to remember something when you
love it. I wouldn’t be able to conduct an orchestra otherwise. I like your drawing too but I’m
confused by some of the symbolism. Is it Hecate?’
‘A bit,’ replied Rosaleen. ‘It’s The Queen of Air and Darkness. Hecate’s chthonic. She
comes from the earth, From before the meddling manipulations of men, but so does Lilith.
Jung talks about her in his Psychology of the Unconscious. Tells us that Lilith was Adam’s
first wife. I like that. She can become a queenly consort at God’s side, so I tend to link them
68
together.’ She drew on her cigarette. ‘She’s also wild, like my panther. That’s where the union
comes in.’
‘I see,’ replied Goossens. ‘That makes sense to me. I’ve been fascinated by your
drawing Black Magic – the one that goes with the poem. I know some of the symbols you
use, but there are others that I’ve never seen before.’
‘Yeah, some of them come to me when I’m in a trance. That’s important to me. It’s
not like I’m just making them up.’
‘But the main focus in Black Magic is the union between the woman and the panther.
I like that,’ said Eugene.
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘Because. There’s something inevitable about it. They’re drawn together, if you’ll
pardon the pun.’
‘Ha,’ said Gavin, emerging from a bedroom with his trousers on but no shirt. ‘The
Queen of Air and Darkness. She only gets that one out if she really wants to get to know you.
The unavoidable attraction, you know.’
‘Oh, go and find your shirt, Gavin.’
‘Yes, yes. So where is it? In your room, maybe?’
‘Both of the drawings remind me of Norman Lindsay,’ said Goossens. ‘But you’re
better.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It’s the detail – the attention to detail in the figures. But your work has more primal
appeal. To me anyway. I’m not an artist of course, or an art critic! But I think the paintings in
the book have much finer detail.’
‘He didn’t like me, you know.’
‘Who? Norman Lindsay?’
‘She doesn’t like him because he called her a grubby little girl,’ said Gavin, now
wearing a shirt and pullover. He sat down to put his shoes on.
‘When was that?’ said Goossens.
‘Oh, I modelled for him a few times, then went up to his place at Springwood,’ said
Rosaleen.
‘Maybe he found you threatening?’
‘Do you find me threatening?’
69
Goossens thought about that. ‘I find you very strong, and your work’s very strong
too.’
‘Right then I’m off,’ said Gavin. ‘Do I call you Eugene?’
‘Yes. Eugene’s fine.’
‘Bye darling,’ said Rosaleen.
Eugene nodded to Gavin then turned to face her. ‘Lindsay paints women. Lots of
women, but all the same really, always idyllic scenes, but your work is stronger.’
‘Yeah? Well one thing’s right. He works and works at it. He’s insatiable for models.
Draws from morning till night. Not just figures, either. You might find yourself sitting for two
hours while he just draws hands, or faces, or feet. Then he gets tired of you and wants
someone fresh. All day, everyday sometimes.’
‘I see. But don’t you think all the attention to detail has rubbed off on you? Maybe
that’s why there’s so much detail in your drawings?’
‘Yeah? He never wanted to rub off on me, Eugene.’
‘Oh. I see, I didn’t . . .’
She laughed. ‘For goodness sake, call me Roie, like everyone else.’
‘Oh, yes, thanks.’
‘I know. You mean did he influence my style? Maybe. About the detail anyway, but
his paintings don’t. They repeat the same themes over and over, like you said, sacral idyllic.
She lit another cigarette and slumped into a worn out sofa. Eugene sat on an adjacent lounge
chair.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘The paintings in your book, like this drawing here, and the one
you’re working on all have strong, individual themes. Very strong and individual.’
‘Yeah, the panther’s Lucifer and Lilith represents the primal urge of humanity –
drawn together as you say. It’s an attraction that can’t be avoided, no matter how much you
pretend it can.’
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘It’s something that your paintings recognize – the significance
of the adversary.’
She looked straight at him. ‘Lucifer’s a rebel. He’s exciting but he’s also vain.
Reckons he can do it on his own, without God, so he’s doomed. All he’s got’s himself.
70
‘In Latin he’s the light-bearer; in the bible he’s the King of Babylon, bringing
inevitable destruction to his city. Judeo-Christians called him the fallen archangel when he
was in heaven, Satan on earth and in Hebrew Satan translates as the adversary.
‘Lilith’s vain too in her own way. She’ll celebrate the union, but she won’t allow man
or beast to master her.’
Goossens remained still for a few seconds.
‘Now I’m impressed,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. I went to a church school once,’ replied Roie. ‘I’ve been trying to sort it
out ever since. You know they accuse me of worshipping evil? I don’t. I worship Pan. Some
of my work’s symbolic, some of the paintings are just funny and some are cheeky, specially
since the cops started pulling them off the walls. The demon I’m working on now’s going to
be a goat, to symbolize energy and creativity.’
‘Humour is important as well,’ said Goossens. ‘And I’m familiar with a lot of your
symbolism. As a matter of fact I can instruct you further, if you like. I have a collection of
writings that might interest you, and my master in Paris instructs me in the advanced rituals
and practices.’
Roie sat still for a second, cigarette in hand. ‘Go on . . . you don’t say’.
~~~
There were no obstructions. She didn’t have to wait for the tram, the weather was fine, the
mounted policemen signalled them along Anzac Parade at the busy intersections and now she
was pushing through the turnstiles to the waiting ferry. She sat outside to breathe in the blend
of sunshine and salt air, oblivious of the scenery on the harbour. She almost forgot to ask for
a token to Neutral Bay, but checked herself to regain her coy composure before actually
purchasing one. Then she stood at the rail as the ferry pulled alongside the wharf and the
deckhand coiled the thick rope around the bollard. Water churned as the stern swung in and
another deckhand secured it.
He wasn’t on the wharf. It seemed silly to imagine that he might have been. She
considered the possibility that he may not even be home, and a sensation akin to her mother’s
term ‘having kittens’ fluttered inside her. She finally found him on the stairwell, between the
second and the top floor.
71
‘Caroline,’ he said. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Hello Jack,’ she replied and stood for a moment, unsure what to do. He reached out
and rubbed the top of her arm.
‘Come on up,’ he said.
‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you? I just came to get my diploma.’
‘No. No. You haven’t disturbed me. I’m delighted you’re here. Surprised, but
delighted. I noticed that you and Colin both forgot your diplomas. I thought I’d drop them at
the Con. when I go to work tonight.’
‘Silly of me, wasn’t it.’
‘No, not at all. It’s good to see you.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said as he opened the door then stood back to let her go in first.
‘You keep it very neat,’ she said.
He laughed. That’s what the army does for you. And maybe my father even before
that. I’m afraid I’m still used to getting up and making my bed straight away.’
‘That’s OK. I think it’s a good thing. Where should I sit?’
‘Well. There’s the bed and the chair, just the one of each, I’m afraid. Would you like
me to make you a cup of tea?’
‘Not really. I thought we could talk for a while?’
‘Talk?’
‘Well, about what happened last night. You see, the thing is I’ve been thinking about
it?’
Jack closed his arms around her and this time his lips lingered as if he were playing a
prolonged rapturous melody. Caroline responded, her lips slightly parting as they kissed.
Their mutual ardour reached the softness of the bed and their caresses explored sensual
places in a way that Caroline had hitherto only imagined. His hands knew exactly what to do.
She glimpsed the gabled window, open to the early summer sunlight as she succumbed to the
pleasure of sensation, and then felt him push into her.
~
72
‘It must be late,’ she thought, with a sense of panic, looking down at the dockyard
with her diploma in her hand. A crane was hoisting a torpedo onto a barge. She reasoned that
it must be for a submarine.
He whistled a familiar melody as he came in. ‘Here’s your tea.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That’s the Haydn Seranade.’
73
Chapter 7
‘Good,’ said the counsellor. ‘That’s the first time you’ve spoken to me in two years –
honestly that is.’ Lucy wondered why she still liked being told she was good. She didn’t
answer for a moment even though she wanted to. Her thoughts simply weren’t coming
together and wouldn’t fit into words. She had at least three ideas that were presently stuck in
her throat and was reluctant to blurt them out in a jumbled form. Eventually a word formed:
‘Sex.’
‘Yes. And . . . ’
‘Like I went to this counsellor once and he just wanted to go over all the details.’
‘Of the men in your life?’
‘Not really. I was breaking up at the time and that’s what I went to him about, but he
went on and on about all the others.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to make the same mistake, but which others?’
Lucy looked at the picture on the wall. It was a yacht, some sort of racing boat with
all hands fully engaged to maximize sailing speed. It reminded her of David and she
wondered what the boat he was restoring actually looked like. ‘I know,’ said the counsellor.
‘It’s a bit of a cliché but the picture just looks good. It’s dramatic and I like it there.’ Lucy
adjusted her position in the chair.
‘It’s like the Colditz Cock,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Never mind, just the idea of sailing away.’ She winced and leant back again, knowing
she was expected to talk. ‘The illegals I used to call them. When I went out dancing.’
‘To night clubs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Some people go out to dance; some go out to pick up. It’s not inappropriate to go out
dancing and meet people.’
Memories of crowded clubs swam around in Lucy’s mind – pick up lines, the drinks
that she gladly accepted, the ones she didn’t, and the times when she left alone feeling
unwanted and rejected. ‘Sure. You meet people in a kind of a way,’ she said. ‘There were nice
guys but I’d always go for the ones who were just out for the one-night stand. The ones that
watched from the sidelines, planning their moves. They’re the ones I’d go with. They’d come
up and I’d say let’s go baby. Like we could go to Shangri-La – for a little while anyway.’
74
‘You wanted to find Shangri-La?’
‘Maybe, or maybe that’s just what I said for the sake of it? When I was young I saw a
film with my mother, about searching for Shangri-La in the Himalayas.’
‘Lost Horizon.’
‘Was it? I just think of it as Shangri-La.’
‘Was that when your mother was ill?’
‘Yes. But nobody told me that. Then she died.’ Lucy looked at the floor and shifted
forward in her chair. The counsellor handed her a box of tissues. After a short pause she said:
‘Is there more?’
‘Dad,’ replied Lucy. ‘At least I could do ballet. But I could never please him. I tried
and tried.’
‘That can be quite a burden. Sometimes trying to please someone so close can seem
hopeless and leave you feeling let down, even betrayed.’
Lucy sat more upright in her chair and rested her hands on the arms. ‘Well,’ she said.
‘You spend your childhood trying to please your father then discover that you can turn heads
and please men. Only trouble is I ended up with Garry and now I can’t even dance.’
‘But what about David?’ Lucy had forgotten about David for the time being. Talking
about dancing and turning heads had brought Garry to the forefront of her mind. She sat back
in the chair again.
‘I can see a future with David,’ she said. ‘I can’t with Garry because he’ll never leave
her. He did once because she doesn’t understand him and has no idea how to be with him, but
I think they’re meant to be together and always will.’ Lucy sank into silence. The counsellor
sat still also.
‘Good,’ she said after what seemed like a long pause. ‘They’re all huge issues to bring
out. That’s the first stage in letting go. Now you need to decide what you want to do.’
‘Maybe.’
‘The things you’ve talked about are deeply entrenched. They’re long-term beliefs. It’s
not easy to change them.’ Lucy wiped her eyes and drank some water. ‘Sit for a few
moments,’ said the counsellor, but Lucy was restless.
‘I need to move,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sitting for too long.’ She got up gingerly, with
the aid of her stick.
‘I can heat the kettle for your hot water bottle and bring it out to you.’
75
‘Would you?’ said Lucy as she dug it out from the back of the chair and went out to
her waiting dog. There were three messages from Garry.
Haven’t been able to sleep since the other night. Still crying.
Lucy looked around her. It was a bright winter’s day but not warm. She thought of
Garry and imagined him walking the back streets of Paris, unable to sleep. Her first impulse
was to write back and console him even though she knew that he was quite capable of finding
comfort on the streets of Paris. He was just picking up from his last line of messages, probing
for a weakness, a trigger point that would set off a reaction and force her to engage so he
could disempower her again.
She could see her counsellor coming with relief in the form of her hot water bottle.
‘Thanks,’ she said and climbed into the car.
‘Two o clock next Tuesday then,’ said the counsellor. Lucy looked up and managed a
thin smile.
‘OK,’ she said out loud and waited until she was alone with Pat before opening the
second message.
You do know you’ve ruined my holiday, don’t you!
She scrolled straight to the third.
Don’t do it. You’ll only hurt him. I know you. He must be really something, but we’re
so close, you and me. You’ll have to let him go. It’ll take more than this guy to change
anything.
Lucy accelerated as she drove under the railway bridge. Pat sat silently on the back
seat. Another message arrived and she was relieved to see that it was from David, asking
what she was doing for the evening. When she got home she took an Endone and replied. I
want to be alone tonight honey. I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come over.
~~~
The aroma of freshly ground coffee drifted into Macleay Street from the café, transporting
the maestro directly to Paris. Not a particular café or the memory of a significant event, but
the heady scent awakened an instant awareness of what Sydney lacked. The Kashmir had
even gained notoriety by installing the espresso machine when the Sydney Council insisted it
was a steam engine that required a special permit. Goossens hated the local coffee syrup
76
mixed with chicory. He stood at the door savouring the welcoming warmth and admiring the
serpentine mural adorning the wall before him until the sound of marching boots stomped
into his consciousness.
Two young men in uniform paraded across the wooden floor and up to the counter
with a show of precision more appropriate to a drill hall than a café. ‘Left, right, left, right,
halt, one, two.’ Wolf-whistles sounded from the mezzanine and Eugene heard Gavin’s voice.
‘Hello privates,’ he said. ‘Thank goodness you’re here to protect us in case there’s any
trouble. You can stand at ease now though.’ Immediately the synchronized soldiers shot their
left feet to shoulder width and their hands behind their backs, with more laughter and wolf
whistles coming from the crowd.
‘Oh, there you are Eugene,’ said Gavin. ‘Over here.’ When Goossens came closer he
got up to greet him, ‘honestly, I don’t know why they insist that these boys still have to do
Nasho. They’re dancers you know, not soldiers.’
‘Well, they’ve got good timing,’ said Eugene, noticing that the soldiers had relaxed. ‘I
think they met each other in a tent when they were on bivouac. Come on over,’ said Gavin.
He was with a group of six and Roie was sitting at the head of the table smoking a cigarette.
‘Welcome,’ said Roie, as the others turned to face the newcomer. Goossens greeted
each member with a nod. As if sensing his surprise at the group’s diversity, Roie said, ‘we
support each other to develop our inner wholeness. Everyone’s different so we unify the
opposites, our conscious and unconscious minds, masculinity and femininity, the animus and
the anima. Among us you’ll find us a varied bunch. And we welcome you, the musician,’
‘Thank you,’ said Goossens. It’s a great pleasure to find a group of people who
understand these matters. It’s rather more enlightened than I’d expected to find in Sydney.’
Gavin shifted in his chair. ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ he said. ‘That’s the way we
look at things.’
Goossens smiled. ‘I know that phrase,’ he said. ‘But I always thought it was about
chivalry. I didn’t know it referred to magic.’
‘Well, it doesn’t really,’ said a young man sitting next to Roie. ‘Not specifically
anyway. I pinched it from uni. But not everyone, how shall I say, understands our group, so
we adopted it as our motto: shame be to him who thinks evil of it.’
‘I see,’ said Eugene sitting down at the table. It was refreshing to hear such open
discussion.
77
‘Well, not many would come out and admit that Pan’s a supreme being of delight and
harmony, expressing only goodwill,’ said a middle-aged woman.
‘No,’ said Goossens, ‘I’m finding Australia quite claustrophobic. That’s why I was so
pleased to find Rosaleen and Gavin’s book, and now to meet you all. I believe it’s crucial,
especially for an artist, to call upon both goodwill and elemental power.’
‘Have you studied previously?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes. I have with friends, colleagues, and with a master in Paris, and I have a
collection of books in my library as well. What’s the basis of your tradition, though?’
‘Well I don’t think any of us have had the opportunity to study in Paris,’ said Roie.
The others smiled and chuckled. ‘It’s a bit mixed up I suppose. I began by studying Freud,
then Jung and his archetypes, but I also read Crowley, and theosophical writings and the
Kabbalah of course.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Eugene.
‘Roie’s High Priestess at the altar of Pan,’ said the young man.
‘Pan is vital,’ said Roie. ‘We need to reach for higher forms because we’re so
destructive. Man’s the fallen one expressed through the human race by Adam Kadmon, and
he’d destroy all creation if it wasn’t for the neutralizing power of Pan the Elemental.’
‘Indeed,’ said Goossens.
‘Our activities are based on the magical writings of Crowley, but we also use
Kundalini Yoga, Left-Hand Path Tantra, and voodoo. Tonight it’s Beltaine. We perform the
Great Ritual. Maybe you’d care to join us?’
‘Sex-magic?’ said Eugene.
‘Yes,’ replied Roie. ‘For the continued fertility and growth of the community.’
~~~
Lucy had kept David at arm’s length for three days, restricting contact to text messages and
telephone calls. That way it was easier for her to cope with Garry’s stream of messages whilst
he worked through his master button-pushing repertoire in search of a way to change her
mind. She felt bad and missed David, but simply said she needed to be alone to do her
essay.
She tried to explain to Garry. I’m writing an essay about angels.
78
You should do something useful for yourself, he replied. Something real like interior
decorating. But this hadn’t unhinged her. She just shrugged him off – didn’t even break down
or over react to his single-minded insensitivity.
Angels are real. Can’t think of anything I need more right now.
Yeah, right but they can’t pay the bills.
She heated water for her bottle, took refuge on the divan with her books and was
leafing through some Renaissance pictures when the phone rang.
‘Angels,’ said David. ‘I think that’s a great idea.’
‘Do you really? Thanks. I’m wondering where to start – looking at lots of paintings
right now.’
‘Sounds like a good place to start. Big topic though. Maybe you could narrow it down
a bit?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, depends what your point is really, but what about referring to the paintings?
Look at the different ways that the same angel’s been depicted. For instance lots of painters
represented the story in Luke about the archangel Gabriel whizzing down to earth to visit
Mary.’
‘Whizzing down?’
‘Well, yeah. Strange visitor from outer space comes flying in the window and says,
Hey Mary, don’t be afraid, I’m just here to let you know you’ll be having a baby, and he’ll be
the son of God, type of thing.’ Lucy laughed. She loved the way he could have that affect on
her. He talked about the paintings that were familiar to him: Giotto’s setting of the
annunciation, then Fra Angelico’s interpretation, and Leonardo’s later version.
‘That’s really interesting,’ she said. ‘How on earth do you know all this stuff?’
‘Just through music. I like looking at paintings when I’m working on the music. Like
the Renaissance stuff I play on guitar for instance. Then again angels are pretty interesting in
themselves. Like they bring messages about things that’d otherwise escape our attention. Bit
like when you’re writing and you have an idea, so you pop it in the margin to look at later.
Then it’s as if it’s inspired a whole new thing.’ Lucy admired the way he pulled ideas
together; thoughts that seemed random but turned out to be entirely reasonable and made
complete sense. She loved the paintings of angels that were playing the lute or the harp. They
79
were inspiring, and helped her to stand on her own feet in the real world – messengers from
God’s margin.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I love Luke and I’ve got some of those paintings in my book. It’s
a great idea to look for angel themes.’ She was tempted to talk more but decided against it.
‘I’ll talk with you later,’ she said. ‘Bye for now.’
David hung on to extend the connection for long moments. She hated that and was
about to hang up when he said, ‘OK. I’d like to talk later.’ The line went dead with a click.
~~~
In real life it was much more vibrant and intense than he’d imagined. The flat in Brougham
Street smelt both sweet and pungent with a blend of incense, paints, and thinners, mingling
with the thick blanket of smoke. It was hot and humid in late October, and the heavy black
material covering the doors and windows gave the flat a cave-like quality. Goossens wiped a
film of sweat from his collar and brow. The place was definitely seedy, but the excitement of
anticipation swept this from his mind.
Roie lit candles at her altar and around the room then she crumbled hashish into some
tobacco and invited the coven to partake. Goossens inhaled when the offering was passed to
him. He was unfamiliar with the others but felt privileged to be invited into the circle and
wanted to contribute. The hashish heightened his desire to proceed, then without ceremony
Roie disrobed. He watched her fasten a loincloth.
The others undressed also and he observed their bodies as he folded his clothes,
hanging his jacket on the back of a chair. Most members of the coven were neither young nor
pretty and their flesh hung in folds beneath sagging breasts. Others had bony, underupholstered bottoms. As the group assembled to form a magic space around the threadbare
carpet, Goossens realized that he hadn’t considered that there’d be such variety of bodies. He
had hitherto imagined an idyllic setting inhabited by lithe nymphs and muscular satyrs but
now he saw the naivety of these thoughts, particularly with regard to his own shape. He
smoked another draught, believing that hashish smoking was a centring, power raising part of
the ceremony.
Roie stood in the middle with Gavin beside her. He also wore a loincloth. Eugene
admired their figures, standing as Priest and High Priestess. Without speaking they discarded
80
their cloths as if this represented a ceremonial disrobing, and Roie sat on the edge of a
wooden chair ready to receive the Drawing Down of the Moon by way of the fivefold kiss.
‘Blessed mother and Goddess Lilith, Hecate, Venus, and what other names you are
rightly called. See here, your vessel is being prepared at the altar of Pan,’ said Roie. She
opened her knees wide apart. Gavin knelt between her legs and then bent down.
‘Blessed be the feet that walk the sacred path,’ he said. And as he was kissing her feet,
the group chanted: ‘Blessed be the feet.’
For the first time Goossens realized that the group was to remain throughout as the
Priest and Priestess consummated the Great Rite.
‘Blessed be the knees that kneel at the sacred altar,’ said Gavin before kissing
Rosaleen’s knees, and the group repeated the blessing. Being with the group intensified
Goossens’ experience, concentrating energy through collective meditation on the fertility rite.
The candlelit attic was far more vivid than the descriptions in his books. Gavin moved
between her legs with his chin resting on Rosaleen’s sex and his lips connecting with her
belly. He kissed her softly. ‘Blessed be the womb, most fertile of fields,’ he said and the
group responded in unison. Gavin knelt up. His waist bore the marks and lines of his recently
discarded clothes and his buttocks were red from his heels pushing into them when he knelt.
‘Blessed be the breasts, symbol of nourishment, formed in beauty,’ he said and proceeded to
suck first one, and then the other of her nipples. The group repeated the blessing. Before their
lips met in a succulent kiss he said, ‘blessed are the lips that speak only truth,’ and after the
group response they stood side by side.
Gavin spoke. ‘Great Goddess, your servant, daughter, and Priestess stands ready for
you. Descend upon her, filling her with your wisdom, power and goodness. Join us Great
Mother, by use of your Priestess’s flesh. For her good and the good of us all. So mote it be.’
Then he sat down on the edge of the chair.
Rosaleen involved Pan, Hecate, and Eros, and then prepared to deliver the fivefold
kiss to Gavin the Priest. When this was complete she picked up the symbolic chalice and he
picked up the knife to place in the cup. ‘See, the field is ready,’ said Gavin.
‘The sower cometh,’ she replied and they were ready to consummate the ritual in the
presence of the assembled group and their newest member.
~~~
81
It was the eyes that caught her attention straight away. Gabriel and Mary held each other’s
gaze as if they were sharing a special moment. Lucy knew the passage from Luke’s Gospel,
but Fra Angelico’s fresco did more than simply reinforce the text. The painting fascinated her.
She looked at the gardens outside the arched portico. The cultivated parts were bordered by a
fence, with thickets of cypress trees beyond the perimeter as if this was a glimpse of the
inaccessible Garden of Eden. Gabriel had just flown in from this space and crouched slightly
in the cloistered enclosure, as if he was steadying himself after landing in Mary’s interior
domain. His wings featured filigree feathering in gold, red, and green, and he wore a red
robe. He was leaning slightly towards the Virgin with his head inclined in her direction, and
his golden nimbus sat slightly lower than her own. Both angel and human crossed their arms
in front of themselves.
Mary was sitting on a wooden stool, her blue robe fringed with gold. She wore a plain
white garment underneath. Her golden hair was tied with a red headband and she looked at
the angel in rapt attention as he delivered his message. This annunciation featured no hint of
fear or sense of inequality and Lucy thought Gabriel appeared very modest and confiding as
if he had come to engage in a private conversation. It was as though Mary and he were set
aside from the concerns of the real world, and she wondered if this level of intimacy was
common to interpretations of the episode.
She turned a few pages and found another painting from about fifty-years later.
Lorenzo Lotto had depicted Mary turning away from Gabriel, shielding her face with her
hands. In this painting the angel was again crouched inside the doorway, but this time his
right hand was raised towards towards an image of God, who pointed almost accusingly at
Mary from his position on a cloud.
‘Hmm,’ said Lucy out loud as the phone alerted her to a message. She picked it up out
of habit, more than anything.
Don’t you think that it’s unfair of you to be dishonest to your mr david!
She almost threw the phone across the room but kept herself in check and simply
dropped it on the divan between her knitting and her bible. She looked at the painting again,
concluding that Lotto could just as easily have painted Garry the brute issuing orders from a
lofty cloud to the panicking Mary.
She put down her book and replied. What do you mean dishonest?
82
It wasn’t long before the reply arrived.
Do you really think you can be with me and then just go sleep with some other guy
when I’m not there.
She’d been waiting for that one to come up. Goodbye sex with Garry was closure. She
needed that to define a point of finality, sex that marked the end. That has nothing to do with
it, she replied.
Well what does your mr david think about that, then? You can’t go back on what
you’ve done. You never can.
~~~
The intensity of the encounter remained with him after the event. Goossens went straight
home to his study, to search for something that had been in the back of his mind. The trouble
was he couldn’t remember if it came from a book or if it was something that had come up in
conversation years ago, in England. It could have been one of the conversations he’d had
with his old friend Philip Heseltine about music and spirituality. They had concluded that
inspired composers were able to unite with higher powers and uninspired composers weren’t,
but Goossens simply couldn’t recall how they had come to this conclusion. He could find no
mention of it in the writings or critiques that Philip had published as Peter Warlock.
He took his copy of Cyril Scott’s Music: Its Secret Influence Throughout the Ages
from the shelf and sat in his armchair. Scott argued that artists who drew inspiration from
spiritual forces could also inspire humanity and these artists could bring about a further
spiritual awakening. He knew Scott wrote about the spiritual dimension but he couldn’t
remember where, and he needed to let Roie know how excited he was. He was sure Gavin
and Roie would both be interested in this extra-musical connection.
He wanted to show her how he understood the significance of her abilities. It was
more than simply aspiring to belong to a creative unconscious; it was an active engagement
with the spirit world. And the way she drew upon this made her artistry all the more potent.
Deities were real and her contact with them provided a portal to enhance creativity. Together
they could develop this capability to the full: Roie the artist, Gavin the poet, and Goossens
the musician. He decided to write to them both, and send a copy of Scott’s book.
83
~~~
‘It’s so abrupt, dear. You’ve taken us by surprise. Your father didn’t know what to say
last night. He just went out to work after his dinner.’
‘But I don’t see what’s so unusual about it?’ said Caroline. ‘When two people are in
love it’s normal for them to get married.’
‘Do you have to marry him?’
‘Mother!’
‘I’m just surprised. I didn’t think Jack was the marrying type.’
‘Why did you say that? He loves me.’
‘I’m sure he does dear, but we don’t know a lot about him. We don’t know what sort
of a person he is, or how you’re going to manage together in the long run.’
‘I do,’ said Caroline.
‘Nobody really knows that though, do they?’ said her father, coming in for his
breakfast. We weren’t much different ourselves once, were we?’
‘No. We weren’t. But he only has a casual position with the orchestra dear. How are
you going to manage?’
‘Jack wants to play with the best orchestra in the world. And Mr. Goossens agrees. He
says we need to go to Europe if we’re to get anywhere.’
‘Is he planning to whisk you off to England then, is that it?’
‘No mother, not right now. That’ll have to come later.’
‘Well, how is he going to support you then?’ said her father. ‘Maybe you should wait
for a while?’
‘Actually, Jack’s got a job. When we’re married he’s going to Perth. He’s got a fulltime job with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, and I’ll go over to join him when
he’s settled in and found a place for us to live.’
84
Chapter 8
The chatter annoyed him. It always had. By the final years of school the students ruled the
classroom, with skills honed from an early age: where to sit; how to get attention; how to
avoid the teacher’s gaze; how to stay out of trouble; and when to back off. So David fished
for a phrase from the nether regions of his teacher’s thesaurus in order to bring about hush.
He walked to the middle of the room and simply said: ‘Enough.’ Then he walked towards the
ones who were still talking, speaking directly to a boy named Luke. ‘Diatonic music. Scales,
and modes.’ The student stopped talking and looked up. David backed away, to address the
whole class. ‘What is diatonic music, please?’ Those who knew sat upright, poised to speak.
The others simply stopped talking. ‘Yes Angela.’
‘Well, it’s like the system we use with sharps, flats and key signatures. So, like, you
can play in all the different keys, isn’t it?’
‘Good answer. Diatonic: can play in all the keys. But how did that come about?’
David went to the piano and played some chords, working his way through the keys. ‘Who
invented this amazing instrument that can play everything?’ He directed his question to the
guys at the side of the room who couldn’t care less about theory. ‘Luke, let’s go back. What
music was around before we had modern pianos and guitars?’ Attention focused on Luke; to
see how he was going to answer. But then everyone started chatting again. A few grunting
sounds issued from students discussing the wellsprings of music. David played a few more
chords on the piano. ‘Luke?’ he said.
‘Dunno really. But is that when they had modes?’
‘It could,’ replied David. ‘Modes predate diatonic keys.’
‘But on guitar you can shift the same pattern of frets up and down the neck,’ said
Luke. ‘Is that the same?’ The guys in a row beside him sat with their elbows on the desks,
cradling their heads in their hands.
They looked up together but Sarah, who sat next to Angela said, ‘Isn’t that like
cheating?’ The class giggled at the thought, except for the rock players who said nothing.
David considered the prospect of music cheats – people who didn’t conform but played
wonderfully.
‘I think traditional societies had a different concept of cheating, Sarah. And musicians
can be creative because they see beyond boundaries. When it comes to guitar Luke, of course
you use the fingering that fits on the fretboard. But the guitar can still play in all the keys,
85
same as piano. And you can use modes and blues scales too, for instance you wouldn’t say
Jimi Hendrix was cheating by expanding the repertoire like he did.’
‘So did you play with Hendrix?’ said one of the guys sitting beside Luke. His
neighbours began to laugh and the rest of the class giggled too. David smiled, but after a few
minutes he drew them back.
‘No. But my father did,’ he said, and suddenly he had their attention again. He told
them about his father, who studied under Goossens and then went to England to work for the
BBC as a flute player. ‘Have you seen old clips from the 60s, Luke? The announcers talk like,
“that was the orchestra, now we’ll cross to the studio, where a young man from America is
going to play his guitar and sing for us”. And Jimi would be there with his afro hair and
outrageous costumes.’
‘They used to wear suits in those days, like mods,’ said the guy next to Luke.
‘What did he think?’ said Luke. ‘What did your dad think of Jimi?’ David smiled and
told the class that it wasn’t his father’s style of music at all. ‘But the Hendrix stuff’s been
released as the BBC Sessions,’ said Luke, as if it was incomprehensible that anyone could be
less than enthusiastic about actually being on the same stage as Jimi.
‘He just didn’t appreciate rock music and we never played records at home when I
was growing up. I used to listen to the radio in my room,’ David said, diverging to tell them
about pirate radio stations. ‘As for my father’s views on Hendrix, he just described him as
very pretty, prancing around in his frilly costumes.’ He walked over to the guys at the side of
the room who didn’t quite know what to make of that information. ‘So back to the scales and
modes,’ he said. ‘Imagine a time when the first people made up their songs from whatever
notes they wanted. They had to invent their own notes, or modes. Suppose each tribe made
bamboo flutes with the holes in different places, so they ended up with their own individual
modes. Eventually three major and three minor modes evolved.’ He wrote them on the board,
telling the class to copy them into their books. Then he continued.
‘Now, one day somebody with a very active mind thought they could make a kind of
super-instrument that combined all the bamboo flutes in one. Imagine that person lying
awake all night, dreaming up their invention – a prototype piano, or maybe a kind of organ
with bamboo flutes sticking out and a rough keyboard.’
‘Are you just making this up?’ said a girl at the back.
‘Of course he is,’ said Angela and they all laughed.
86
‘Yes, and no,’ answered David. ‘I’m illustrating the concept, but of course there’s
more to it than that.’
‘What about enharmonics then?’ said Sarah. ‘You know, how the note F sharp can
also be G flat.’
The guy next to Luke raised himself up in his chair and said, ‘Yeah, what about that?’
‘Tricky,’ said David. ‘The crazy inventor had to think about that – the idea that one
sound can have two names. It’s hard to get your head around, but it depends on the context. I
was born in England for instance, but now I’m in Australia – dual citizenship you see. In
music, the inventor came up with sharps and flats. For instance, even though you can play F
sharp and G flat on the same key,’ he went to the piano to demonstrate, ‘F sharp’s a sharp key,
and G flat belongs in the land of flats.’
He played a tune in a key that used F sharp. ‘Now listen to the same piece in G flat,
which has six flats in the key signature,’ he said. The class listened and agreed with Sarah’s
suggestion that the music sounded darker.
‘Doesn’t it,’ said David. ‘Different tone colour. So, that’s the story of diatonic music
for now. Next we’ll construct diatonic keyboard instruments using bamboo flutes, cardboard
boxes and some superglue.’
‘Oh-Kay,’ said Angela. ‘That’ll be interesting.’ The guys from the side of the room
had already packed up, eager to head out the door. At least they’d contributed to the
discussion, and engaged with some of the concepts. Luke looked up.
‘But what’s the use of it? I can just use guitar tabs?’ he said.
‘Oh it’s useful, especially if you want to make your own music.’
‘But you can do that on Guitar Pro anyway?’ The others lingered, genuinely wanting
to connect with something that they knew about.
‘The theory and notation’s no more than a means to an end,’ said David. ‘You use it to
write down your own ideas rather than imitate what you already know.’
~~~
Despite the bleak winter it wasn’t uncomfortably cold in the kitchen. David sat at the table
with the gas heater behind him and a casserole simmering on the stove. His legacy of one pot
cookery came from Caroline: preparing something before her afternoon pupils arrived and
87
tending to it during lessons, yelling instructions from the kitchen: that should be an F sharp,
not an F natural.
David searched for an elusive melody as his meal matured in the pot. He’d been
looking for a theme from Goossens’ music that he could use as a basis for a set of variations –
something simple but with a substantial harmonic structure. It had to have a chord
progression that would allow him to develop motifs and melodic fragments – subject the
theme to fast, slow, reflective, dashing, major, minor, and virtuosic treatment.
Goossens’ luscious, impressionistic orchestrations were wonderful. So were his
intricate attention to detail and his spine-tingling chromatic passages. The trouble was that
they were full-blown, complete works. No simple melody that David could rework, or
remodel to bring the musician’s story to the twenty-first century. He needed music that he
could develop.
The scent of his meal called him and he stood up to stir the stew, gazing at the
combined ingredients as if he might find his melody mixed in with their flavours. When he
sat down again, he picked up his pen and opened his notebook. Candles lit the table, partly
because he liked them, partly because they saved electricity and partly so he could write
without shadow on the page, but mainly because this was a ceremonial start to a project that
he wanted to see through to completion. In the glittering light he wrote:
The Margin
Theme and variations for musicians, dancers, and animations: with
reference to Goosey and Roie, but set in the present time.
~~~
Mondays were tricky. Home help came at nine in the morning and Lucy felt obliged to tidy
up before the cleaner arrived. This put her behind schedule because by the time she’d
straightened up the place she was too sore to do her physio. She usually needed to rest again
and when she resurfaced the day was half gone. Today was particularly problematic because
of her essay. She’d bundled the papers, photocopies, and books together to clear the floor for
the vacuum cleaner. Now she had to restore it to its previous order, which she needed to
recreate before she could actually start writing. The time-consuming reorganization was
88
going to leave her late for her physio, and after that she’d need to rest again. The morphine
just wasn’t working anymore.
Despite the cumbersome process, Lucy loved research. She loved taking notes and it
didn’t matter if this penchant took her into areas that lay beyond the topic. She could discard
irrelevant information later. David’s suggestion concerning interpretations of Gabriel, God’s
messenger from the margin, still formed the basis of her essay plan but she wanted to find out
more about angels in general. She knew the word angel translated as messenger in both
Hebrew and Greek, but was hoping to find more about the nature of the actual angels, not just
their job. All she’d discovered was that angels were ageless and sexless, with a freshness that
indicated immortality. But their proximity to God suggested they weren’t independent. They
were called into being, and constituted by His purpose.
This realization was disappointing. It didn’t help her explore her belief that everybody
was under the care of a personal guardian angel. Neither did it support her theory that
everybody also had a bad angel – prompting evil and averting good. The evidence didn’t
support this at all.
Instead she’d become fascinated with Gabriel – The Mighty One, or The Hero of God,
commissioned to Daniel, Zacharias and to announce Mary’s position as mother of the
Messiah. This was the visitation was the one she associated with Fra Angelica’s fresco.
Even so, apart from Renaissance paintings Lucy found no information about Gabriel’s
station. One point she found interesting was that the archangel was also honoured in the
Koran, as the Spirit of Truth, empowered to deliver the Koran to Mohammad.
The physio found the information fascinating, listening as she applied adhesive tape
as a support to Lucy’s lower back, although she mainly wanted to talk about her teenage
children and her husband’s shortcomings. Lucy was sick of listening, but accepted the
treatment gratefully. After the session she was tired but worked on her essay anyway. She
switched on her computer and heated water for coffee and a bottle as it was booting up. When
she returned to the screen she was greeted with a message that read: No signal. Try loading
the start-up disc manually.
~~~
89
Winter brought silence – no birdsong, no throaty sounds from the banjo frogs, and it was too
early for the bleating of newborn lambs. Darkness closed in with the evening chill and David
stood on his verandah gazing into the void with a glass of red in his hand. He felt warm in his
coat, waiting and watching for moonrise and as if on cue the first glimpse of the glowing orb
peeped over the eastern horizon to bathe the hillside in pale nocturnal tones.
His mind hovered over territory that hadn’t quite formed coherently. A musical theme
was proving evasive and the overall shape of his variation set was still unclear. He could
imagine each movement expressing a quality of its own – a major key for the thrill of
Goossens’ work as a teacher and a minor key for reflective contemplation, but these ideas
needed to develop. He wondered how he could portray joys and sorrows from the viewpoint
of students, audiences and from the perspective of old age, or perhaps retrospectively from
the present day. He wondered how Goossens and Roie would have felt after the scandal.
He sipped a little wine as the moon entered the clear sky beyond the tips of the tallest
trees. It cast a shimmering reflection on the still surface of the dam. It reminded him of Roie’s
drawings – how she delved below the surface to find inspiration from what lay beneath, from
the place where her symbolism originated. David gazed at the dark waters of his dam,
wondering how to allude to this notion of subconscious inspiration on stage. He’d initially
thought about creating animations from the drawings, so they’d come to life, so to speak, but
there was more. Merely bringing the drawings to life wouldn’t be enough to portray the
connection between magic, ritual and art. Then there was the sex. He didn’t want to create
some sort of voyeuristic show with dancers embracing black panthers live on stage. He
hadn’t worked out how this would happen.
The frenetic call of plovers took his attention. The sentinels, early warning sign of a
threat – fox. A splash echoed through the night air as wild ducks found shelter on the dam.
David stared at the radiating ripples that spread from the source of the sound, breaking the
reflected image of the moon. Ducks drifted across the rippling waters, their silhouette
contrasting with the pale reflection. The little hairs on David’s arm tingled. He sipped his
wine and the beginnings of an idea stirred as he stared at the living tableau. It was the ducks
that did it, dancing across the reflection of the moon, but also forming an integral part of the
picture. He could project Roie’s images onto a screen, maybe onto the dancers’ bodies. Then
they could emerge from the artworks to bring the drawings to life and form a union between
reality and representation. That would work. He wondered how to set up the projections.
90
David drained his glass went into the kitchen, and took off his coat. Last night’s
casserole was bubbling on the stove with the smell of onion and garlic reminiscent of an
Italian restaurant. He topped up his glass and was about to sit down when the phone rang.
‘Hello,’ said Lucy. She seemed eager to chat, which felt comforting, and asked what
he’d been up to. He told her about his ideas for the show.
‘It’s called The Margin,’ he said and explained what he could. Her response lacked
enthusiasm. ‘What’s up?
‘My computer won’t go,’ she replied. ‘My essay’s due on Friday and I can’t even
write it.’ David wondered how to help.
‘What about writing what you can by hand, then typing it up later?’
‘I’ll have to take it to get it fixed,’ she replied.
He repeated his suggestion, adding that she could borrow his. ‘Maybe I could come
over?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ she replied and David felt relieved. For the first time in a week
there was a spark of hope for their relationship and a release from the days of depression that
had followed her rejection.
‘Have you had dinner?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Well, why don’t you come over here? It’s only leftovers but I can add to it.’ Her reply
wasn’t immediate and he wondered if something else was on her mind.
Eventually she said, ‘I’ve got to do the essay and tomorrow I need to talk with the
doctor about my medication. I think it needs to go up again’. David considered the situation.
‘I’m not working in the morning, so I could take you to the doctor, then bring you
back and you’d have the rest of the day for your essay, unless there’s something more urgent?
You’ve started it though haven’t you?’
‘I’d like it if you could come to the doctor with me. That’d be good, but I’ve still got
the essay. All I’ve done so far is to look at paintings and that’s not enough. I can’t just write
about that. I wanted to write about angels that look after us, but the readings say there’s no
such thing. They say angels are messengers from God and that’s that.’
‘I see,’ said David, glancing at Roie’s drawings that were lying on the table. ‘I don’t
see why you can’t discuss angels from your own perspective. That’s basically how Roie came
up with her ideas about art and the supernatural.’
91
‘I can’t. Angels are creations from God, not me.’
‘Sure. But even so one could come flying through your window at any time. That’d be
pretty supernatural.’
‘Maybe he could fix my computer,’ she said and they laughed.
‘Why don’t you stick to your guns? I think you’re entitled to think about angels in
your own way. If the readings say they come from God that’s fine, but it doesn’t mean you
can’t experience things for yourself. Maybe that’d be a really good way to talk about your
topic, or even discuss the annunciation from your own, personal point of view?’
‘OK. That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll come over to you, and you’ll be able to take me to the
doctor tomorrow then?’
‘Yes,’ said David and hung up the phone. He stoked the stove and put a couple of
potatoes in a pot.
~
Much to David’s relief it was an affable and easygoing evening. Early on in their relationship
Lucy was confused because he hadn’t been particularly focussed on sex. She thought he
mustn’t have wanted her because men were usually more interested, and she had expected
David to be more demonstrative. It wasn’t so straightforward. David didn’t know how to be
supportive of her medical condition or her study, and he was less than convinced that Garry
didn’t retain a predominant position in her mind. He knew that until recently her relationship
with this ex had consisted of sexual encounters on the irregular occasions when he was in
town. But the likelihood of Garry’s continued presence and the assumption that he was a man
of great sexual potency had brought a chill to his own passion, right when it should have been
at its hottest. Lucy had been kind and tried all her tricks, but nothing much happened.
Sometimes it was enough to simply lie down by the fire with no further action than to cuddle.
Last time she came over they parted company in a state of uncertainty. She felt he wasn’t
attracted to her, and he just felt inadequate.
Tonight David’s main concern was that the meal would be OK. He lit the fire and
illuminated the room with candles. They sat comfortably and drank wine, with Pat lying
nearby. David listened to Lucy reading from her research notes.
92
‘You’ll be able to write a good essay once you’re focused on your topic,’ he said. ‘All
you’ve got to do is begin to begin.’ He stood up and lit a stick of lilac incense.
‘Yes Mr. teacher,’ replied Lucy and put down her loose papers. She stabbed at a
burning log with a poker. David bent down to toss more wood on top. Then he pushed the
cushions and some sheepskins into an arrangement that would suit them both. Lucy dropped
the poker onto the hearth and smashed her empty wineglass. David kept his annoyance in
check and even resisted his impulse to clear up the broken glass immediately. Instead they
took the opportunity to sink into each other’s arms as angels and demons dance together in
the flickering radiance of red, yellow, and blue flames. ‘I think it’ll all end up all right,’ said
Lucy.
~~~
Even though the Sydney winter was mild, Caroline’s main topic of conversation concerned
drying her washing in the bitter conditions. David noticed her comments becoming more selfdirected each time he visited.
‘It’s not as though you’re a stranger to cold weather though, are you?’ he said,
directing her back to a time when she had to contend with northern hemisphere winters.
‘I spent fifteen-years in England and I’ve no inclination to return. I never want to see
snow again. Your nappies used to freeze on the line and I had to bring them in before they’d
dry, you know.’ David smiled. He didn’t bother reminding her that he did know, because he
was actually there. And he knew the feeling of icy toes and of fingers kept warm with the
gloves that Caroline had knitted. On the way to school they invariably became saturated
when he dug his little fingers into snow. Then the knitwear coloured the corridors, draped to
dry on pipes that fed the radiators. He’d been hearing about Caroline’s hatred of the cold all
his life, and how she had to scrimp and save to buy a half-decent pair of snow boots. Those
details of her time in England were clear, but David had to piece together much that lay
behind the façade of anecdotal stories before could begin to understand how those frozen
years came about.
After a period in Perth her parents sold the Steinway and gave Caroline and Jack some
money for a start. But Caroline had no piano. She sometimes accompanied Jack at recitals,
93
but didn’t play with the orchestra. Then Jack left for England and found a position with the
BBC Northern Orchestra. Caroline followed.
David remembered a little. They lived at 242 Abbey Hills Road and he used to sit on
the front step, swinging his legs so his heels would bang into the cold stone. Women with
scarves on their heads knelt in a row along the footpath polishing their own steps with a stone
and chattering constantly. He remembered the coal cellar and the Rayburn stove – the slush,
the cobblestones, and odd excursions to the moors to cut peat for fuel. He remembered that
their row of terraces had one missing because a bomb had dropped on it during the war. It
hadn’t occurred to him that Caroline could be less than happy because she didn’t have a
piano. They’d go to the church hall, where she used to teach.
Later, Jack got a job with the BBC in Birmingham and they moved. David started
school. He didn’t like it much and resolved to spend his first day standing on a spot in the
playground. When the headmaster made it clear that it was unacceptable to spend the day in
one spot he sent a teacher to fetch him. David resented being dragged from his spot by the
scruff of his neck so much that he lashed out with his shiny shoes and kicked the teacher in
the shins until he released his grip, in full view of the school assembly. He was puzzled by his
instant notoriety, but quite enjoyed being an entertainer.
One day he heard an argument. Apparently Caroline’s parents were coming to stay
and the discussion revolved around moving back to Australia. Jack was very angry and told
Caroline that she should be happy to be making good money as a music teacher. The next
weekend she took David to the cinema to see The Sound of Music and when the lights went
out he thought it was night time. Caroline told him that it was even more exciting at live
concerts. She gave him some money to buy an ice cream but he couldn’t find his way back to
his seat. He thought it must be late and that he’d be in trouble for getting lost, but Caroline
found him wandering along the aisle and everything was OK.
He remembered that everyone made a fuss of Caroline and praised her when she
played the piano for the school. Then one day he asked her why Jack used to go out to work
and play in all the concerts but she could only play at the school or in the church hall.
‘I used to play at concerts when I was younger,’ she said. ‘Then I fell in love with
Jack and had you.’ It didn’t seem fair. David didn’t think she was old.
~
94
‘I thought we should go out to the hotel for dinner,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s always nice at
Clovelly as long as it’s not too noisy.’ The pub was within her comfort zone, particularly if
she wanted to drive.
‘That’ll be nice then,’ he said. ‘I was miles away. Thinking how hard it must have
been for you in England.’
Caroline confirmed that it had been a change, going from playing with the orchestra
to not even having a piano, but she didn’t seem to resent it. ‘It’s teaching that’s kept me going
for all these years,’ she said. ‘It’d be terrible not to be able to even do that, like Goosey. He
never had an orchestra again.’
‘But he’s not forgotten. You think about him a lot, and I’m looking for some of
Goossens’ music to use for the show I’m writing.’
‘I’ll have a look tomorrow,’ said Caroline.
‘That’d be a big help. Don’t suppose you feel like walking to the pub, seeing as
you’re finding it so cold then?’
95
Chapter 9
Winter sun shone through the kitchen window at just the right angle to warm David’s back. It
was his favourite mid-morning spot where he could work without distraction. Sunbeams
splashed over the things he’d brought back from Sydney – drawings and faded music spread
out on the table. Caroline’s old copy of Kaleidoscope contained Twelve Short Pianoforte
Pieces by Goossens. David had chosen number twelve, Good-night, as a starting point for his
variations. Its bluesy quality mingled surprisingly well with intricate chromatic harmony. He
thought of using it as a recurring theme, like a motif to signal retrospective moments in the
drama, perhaps as an on stage narrator reflected on the story that lay behind the events.
Maybe even Goossens could fill that role – sometimes being part of the action but at other
times looking back?
It wasn’t enough though. Kaleidoscope was just a series of miniatures recollecting
childhood experiences and Good-night lacked sufficient depth to carry the show. After the
initial excitement of finding the piece David’s dilemma began to grow.
~
He’d gone for a walk around the cliffs near Caroline’s to contemplate the quandary. Strong
southerlies combined with big swells, high tides, and chill winds to lash the coast; conditions
that didn’t help him concentrate. He rested on the wooden slipway among the fishing boats at
Thompson’s Bay. Modern tin-hulls had replaced the heavy old clinker-built boats that used to
fire his imagination, but little else had changed.
The sea wasn’t lapping so much as hurling itself at the shore. When the snarling
swells broke they foamed and sucked up sand from the rocky little beach. Seaweed streamed
with the surge and shellfish tightened their suction-like purchase on the rocks as the waves
broke over them. David sang the bluesy phrases from Good-night to see if they suited the
wild conditions. They didn’t so he considered subjecting the themes to a variety of musical
styles rather than clinging to the original, but then an extra strong wave pushed right up to the
slipway and sent him scrambling to his feet.
He climbed to the edge of the cliff and watched the waves suck up the reef around the
bombora, then across to the maelstrom surrounding Wedding Cake Island. He felt as though
he should somehow project himself out there to stand on the rocky island with foaming spray
96
all around and seek answers to his quest. Then an icy gust bit into his nose and the tips of his
ears. He continued along the path to the Coogee Bay Hotel, to sit at the bar looking out at the
deserted beach, and he sent a message to Lucy.
How’s Sydney? she replied.
He told her about the wind, the waves, and his search to find music with enough
depth.
At the end of their exchange she wrote, Well, I hope you find lots of music then.
He got another beer and replied. Thanks. That’s brilliant. I think you’ve hit the nail on
the head. Of course he needed lots of music, not just one piece.
~
Papers covered his kitchen table. He started arranging them into separate areas, sheet music,
his notes, and the copies of Roie’s images and it occurred to him that he was sorting the
pieces of a big jigsaw. All he’d really done so far was to tip the bits out but there was no
picture on the front of the box to show him the image he was trying to assemble. David knew
that each item, idea, and incident had its place and it was up to him to put the work together
note by note.
He had an orchestral version of Kaleidoscope, and that provided a huge clue:
Goossens was a master orchestrator. He set himself musical problems to solve. Like Ravel, he
could create a true crescendo by simply adding instruments to the texture one by one. His
orchestration of Kaleidoscope coloured the bare bones and took the piano version to a new
level. David decided to use this same technique to bring The Margin to life. It wasn’t
necessary to rely on melody alone.
The other music that sat on the table was Goossens’ Symphony No. 1, which began
with dramatic orchestral chords featuring the horns. It’d be perfect for the opening. He could
see a dancer representing Goossens enter from the wings and take a position on stage to
reflect and comment on the drama as it unfolded. The second movement of Symphony no. 1
was even more dramatic. It began with a progression of orchestral chords, introduced by the
strings. Then Goossens developed the same progression through a series of episodes that
reworked the chords using different orchestral permutations. Each repetition dripped with
increasing amounts of tone colour. David thought of Roie’s artworks projected onto a screen,
97
while the dancer representing Goossens promenaded before them, admiring the images. The
movement progressed to a more languid passage and David thought of a female dancer as
Roie standing in front of the projected artwork with the image still cast over her body. When
the movement reached a passionate crescendo the dancers could come together in a pas de
deux. The music suited this perfectly. It grew in intensity to a full-blown orchestral
fortissimo, which could accompany an embrace or a consummation of the dancers’ meeting,
as if their connection with the projected images formed a link between the human and the
spirit world.
David looked at the items on the table, struck with the realization that the drama
unfolding in his mind reflected the real life connection between Roie and Goosey – the path
they followed as a way to enhance their art. The Margin would explore this imperative – the
artists’ need to create something new rather than replicate something that was already known.
Turning the treadmill of commonplace repertoire would never work. It was necessary to
glimpse a realm of experience that lay beyond the confines of conformity where there was no
need for the artist to justify art. David decided that he needed to focus on the artist, not on the
society, if he was to achieve this aim.
The sunlight surrendered to a thick blanket of cloud leaving David’s kitchen table in
the shade. He smiled; satisfied that The Margin was emerging from the music and the images
he’d gathered as if the artefacts formed the roots of an organic entity that had lain dormant in
his life since his childhood. It was growing, and he wanted to tell Lucy about his ideas and
discuss the practicalities of choreography and projected images.
~~~
The back steps weren’t warm. Lucy sat with a glass of port, and lit another cigarette. Garry
would be home again before long, although she didn’t know exactly when. His messages had
turned nasty, and she thought she ought to tell David. It’d become too awkward later. Garry
had made it plain that nothing had changed as far as he was concerned. Lucy had slept with
him before he left and it was only right that their arrangements should continue as they were.
Whatever she did in his absence was nothing but her own folly, and it certainly was no good
for her mister david, as he called him, always avoiding the capitals.
98
There were still times when it seemed futile to leave. Garry retained control, even
when he was away. His messages bombarded her, challenged her belief in her own strength,
and undermined the boundaries that she thought she’d established. Whenever she replied, he
came back with stronger, more emphatic assertions. He was the one who had provided her
with the lifestyle that she wanted, so why would she reject him?
She hated his ego, the way he could sustain his power, and operate with such ease
from within his comfort zone. It was as though he’d singled her out, promised her salvation
from her dissatisfied life simply because he could control her. Somehow he maintained this
hold, he continued to push her buttons, and she contemplated her complicity in the
adversarial attraction, her own dark side. It bothered her, so she poured another glass of port
and wondered why she wanted him, needed him – just as he needed her, to affirm his own
self-righteous superiority.
~
There was little moonlight, and patches of fog sank into the places where the road dipped into
a hollow. David turned his headlights to low beam, and drove slowly, otherwise the light
would reflect back at him in a foggy glare. When he arrived, Lucy was still sitting on the
back step. She offered him a glass of port from a cask that she had beside her. Pat got up to
greet him. He dropped his overnight bag and climbed onto the step behind her to move in
close. Her back felt cold. Pat insisted on joining them, climbing halfway up the steps to
nuzzle David with her wet nose. That placed her in an awkward position that was neither up
nor down.
‘What are you doing?’ said Lucy.
‘Just sitting here.’
Lucy laughed. ‘I was talking to the dog.’ Pat decided to walk up the stairs, then turn
around and walk down again, to sit at the bottom. ‘Thanks for coming over,’ said Lucy. ‘I
appreciate that. What have you been up to?’ David told her that he’d found some new
batteries for his solar power setup.
‘They were going to throw them out, even though they’re OK, so I hooked them up to
the charger. Then I’ll have some spare ones, so there won’t be any more blackouts. I’m also
thinking of making a fridge.’
99
‘Making a fridge? Can you do that?’ said Lucy.
‘Sure. I’d just have to make a box that’s really well insulated, and get a compressor
from somewhere.’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone making a fridge.’
‘I’ll have to see if the batteries are up to it. Anyway, it gives me a break from The
Margin. It’s been doing my head in.’
‘What! You lost for words?’
‘I’d like to talk about it, but it’s too hard.’
‘Go on. Try,’ she replied.
David sipped on his port, then spoke in a deep voice, as if he was quoting
Shakespeare. ‘It’s intimately revealing. Touching and warm, but not leading anywhere – like
an island in an ocean of confusion and uncertainty.’
‘I can relate to that much,’ said Lucy, pouring another port for them both. David
searched for the words that could encapsulate his ideas. ‘I want The Margin to be about the
tragic melancholy that alienates us. It’s not just one sad story. I think most people would
relate to it. As for Roie and Goosey, they believed in each other, and their art, but their
relationship made them social outcasts. It wasn’t allowed. They wanted to express something
that was essential to their creativity, but the police and the press hounded them and in the end
it was hopeless. Society just didn’t let them have a private life.’
Lucy wrapped her arms around herself. She wanted to smoke another cigarette, but
was trying not to when she was with David. She wanted to go inside too, but thought she
should let him keep talking. What he was saying made her think of Garry.
David picked up the packet to offer her a smoke, as if he could read her mind. He
struck a match for her, sipped his port, and continued:
‘At first we’re all so outwardly giving. With art, music, and relationships it’s all a big,
adventurous, generous response to life. Goossens’ early works are like that. The harmonies
keep expanding, and growing outwards, but later it changes.’
Lucy could hear herself telling her friends how wonderful Garry was, at the beginning
of their relationship. How he gave her unconditional love. She really thought he did, then.
David went on. ‘I’m thinking The Margin should be a show that looks back, like a
retrospective impression. But then it becomes solemn, laden with a sense of realization that
comes from the perspective of age. Goossens is at the end of his life – looking back. His
100
music still lives, but it’s reflecting inwards – recollecting events. The harmonies close in, and
become darker and darker.’
‘Sounds gloomy,’ said Lucy. Her relationship with Garry certainly got darker and
darker; it just wasn’t obvious at the time.
‘Yeah. I know. I’m not sure how dark it should get. Life can still be eloquent at the
end, but it’s about closure, and that’s important too. It’d be silly to pretend that it’s all
unnaturally happy. What do you think?’
Lucy stubbed out her cigarette on the wooden step, and put the butt in an old dog food
tin. Garry had always contradicted himself. She could see that in retrospect. His
unconditional love had conditions. He was just the same as the intolerant society that David
was on about. She wrapped her arms around herself again, touching David’s hand with her
fingertips as she did so. ‘I think it’s uncanny,’ she said. ‘Gotta say it hits a nerve right now.
Um, reminds me of Garry, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m cold. Can we go inside? We can
talk more in there.’
‘You mean that Roie and Goosey remind you of Garry?’
‘No. I mean the controlling bits do, and the intolerant people, and trying to pretend
it’s happy when it’s not. Let’s go in. There’s something I need to talk with you about
anyway.’
David stood up and helped her get to her feet. Then he picked up his overnight bag
and followed Lucy and her dog into the house.
~
The round table in the kitchen was a riot of colour and shape, littered with painting tools,
plaster, piles of letters, bills, and advertising brochures. David stared at it as the water boiled
for Lucy’s bottle, wondering if there was a way to place a kaleidoscopic contraption over it so
it could generate geometric patterns. Perhaps it could have several eyepieces connected to a
periscope, so multiple viewers could experience it.
‘What are you staring at?’ said Lucy. She was leaning in the doorway, looking in at
him with a wry smile. Pat was by her side, also regarding him.
‘Just looking at the stuff on your table. You’ve started on the decorating?’
101
Lucy told him that she was always plastering and painting, ‘It just goes on and on.
But I don’t mind it. There are cracks everywhere in this place, and I’m fixing them while
Garry’s away. That was the deal before I did my back, but I still need to do the painting.’
‘Maybe you need to be able to work on your own place, though.’
‘That’s the plan, but I still need to do the work here. Garry lets me stay. So I need to
finish what I’ve started.’ She shuffled across the lino as if she couldn’t lift her feet properly.
David wondered if her dancer’s step had changed to a saunter because of her sore back or
because the moccasins she was wearing were too floppy. Lucy let the water from her bottle
gush over the dishes in the sink and David picked up the steaming kettle for her. Then he
organized the dishes into piles, and started to wash the saucepans.
‘Leave them. I’ll do them later, I’ve got to go and lie down.’
‘I’ll just do a few then.’ He didn’t like the idea of her overdoing things. When he’d
finished, he joined her in the lounge room, sitting in the chair by the divan. ‘Can you climb
ladders and do all that sanding without hurting yourself?’ he said.
‘Not really. I’m not so bad on the ones lower down, around the windows, but the
ladder’s not so good. Think I might’ve overdone it.’
‘You’ve got more patience for plastering than I have. I reckon you’re obsessed with
it.’ She was certainly thorough and had all the right tools. He wondered what help he could
offer, but he also wondered why she was still intent on decorating Garry’s house – whether
her preoccupation with the place was directly proportional to her relationship with the owner.
‘Are you going to stay on here then?’
‘Not sure about that, it’s Garry’s house,’ she replied, and poured another glass of port.
‘I’m doing the painting while he’s away, so he can’t be bossing me around all the time, telling
me what to do.’ Lucy held out her hand, and David hesitated, before placing his palm on top
of hers. She curled her fingertips around his, and squeezed. It felt like she was fidgeting
rather than touching him sensually and, after a few moments, David discretely withdrew his
hand.
‘I thought you were the expert at decorating,’ he said.
‘I am the expert. Garry’s always got to tell me how to do things though, even if I’ve
done it a thousand times before. Once he got angry with the way I was plastering and said,
“haven’t I taught you nothin’!” ’
102
‘He’s got a way with words then.’ They laughed at the pathos. Lucy reached for her
port, and David picked up his glass too. ‘But why do you need to be the one doing all this?’
‘We can’t have tenants in it the way it is, and I need the rent. Maybe I can move to
one of the other places. One of the units needs painting too, and I could go there. It’s not
about Garry. I wish he’d just stay in Europe, and vanish, but some things still need to be
done. I can’t leave it the way it is.’
‘Haven’t ya learned nuffin’?’ said David, and Lucy smiled.
‘I’m learnin’.’
David stared at spots of plaster on the wall where Lucy had been working. She
seemed as embroiled as ever in her own twisted fairytale. If it wasn’t one property, it was
another, and the entrapment was arranged to Garry’s design. ‘Why not sell the units, split the
profits, give Garry what’s his? Set yourself up in a place of your own,’ he said.
Lucy laughed and slopped her port. ‘What. While Garry’s away?’ she said. ‘That’d be
so funny to see the look on his face.’
‘Well, everything to do with the properties seems to have his face stamped all over it,’
said David. ‘Has he been in touch?’ Lucy stopped laughing. She carefully placed her port on
the little table beside the divan and sat upright, looking David in the eye.
~
‘Earlier. Sometimes he calls. Usually it’s just a message or email, but today he was
just going on and on and on.’ Lucy wrapped her arms around her knees and squeezed them to
her chest, lowering her head to bury it, so that she formed a tight bundle. She looked up.
‘He’s been getting angry lately, since I told him about you.’
David sat still for a moment. ‘Angry?’ he said, wondering just what she had actually
told Garry about him.
‘He still thinks he owns me,’ she said, and told David what had happened when she
tried to get away in the past. He kept undermining her defences until she acquiesced. ‘He
says he’s really sorry, and feels so bad. Then he admits that he’s been a dickhead, and I end
up giving in.’ David tried to remain patient, and wait for her to continue, but he couldn’t help
himself.
‘So, what’s he got to be angry about now then?’
103
‘He’s only just realized that I’m seeing you. He still thinks things should stay as they
were.’ She shifted her position, straightening her legs, and reached for her port. ‘At first I said
we met at a party. Then I told him we were meeting for coffee, and then dinner. The other day
he figured out that it was more than that – wanted to know if I’d gone too far.’
David sat up in his chair, leaning slightly towards Lucy. ‘So, when he came over, and
you said goodbye, didn’t that fill him in? Didn’t you just dump him?’
‘Yes, but not exactly. It’s not so easy. He bluffs, cons, twists, threatens, and then turns
everything around to make it seem that it’s all my fault.’ David’s head was inclined towards
her, and his face looked open, not wide-eyed so much as perplexed, as if he was trying to
work out a riddle. Lucy fleetingly thought about applying top-coat to the plastering above the
door.
‘So, what was he going on about today, then?’ said David, shifting back in his chair.
Lucy met his gaze. His head was still inclined, although he’d lost his puzzled expression. He
didn’t look particularly angry, or threatening, and she thought she could even detect the
glimmer of a smile.
‘He started texting,’ she said.
‘And? Did you text back?’ He felt as though a heavy weight was sinking through his
body, like an elevator – going down. He widened his smile, as a strategy to help him maintain
his composure.
‘I always text back. It’d be rude not to. But then he kept accusing me. He called me a
liar.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t text back? Don’t engage with him if he’s going to play power
games.’
‘Maybe.’ She hugged her knees close to her chest again. ‘He got angry, and resorted
to threats, saying that I was doing the wrong thing by seeing you and I’ll only hurt you. He
wants things to be the same as they were when he comes back.’ David looked up at the
ceiling. The patches of plastering looked ready for painting. He returned his gaze to Lucy.
She was crying into her knees.
‘I don’t want to lose you,’ she said. He moved over to sit on the divan next to her and
stroked her hand. It was clasped tightly around her knees, so he placed his on her knee, and
then let go so he could reach into his pocket for a handkerchief.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
104
‘Why do you think you’d lose me now?’ He placed his hand over hers. She shook
free, clasping the handkerchief and held it to her nose. ‘What’s going on?’ She breathed in
deeply, and then let out a series of short, sharp exhalations.
‘I don’t know why . . . why I always make things so complicated. Maybe I’ve had too
much port.’ David sighed. He hoped that all the years he’d known her might provide some
sort of immunity from complications.
‘You already dumped me once,’ he said. ‘We’ve seen each other at our worst, so
there’s not much to hide from now.’
‘He’d say that I already decided about you then, so what’s the point of trying again?’
she replied.
‘So, maybe you should tell him to bugger off. That’s what you did to me, without any
problem.’
‘That was then,’ she said. ‘I wish you could just live in the present, not the past.’ Lucy
felt her face begin to contort. She pushed the handkerchief into her eye to rub away tears,
words, or emotions, and whatever primal ooze needed to emerge.
‘Tell him before he gets further under your skin.’
‘Don’t you start. You’re telling me what to do just like him!’
David felt himself tense involuntarily. He’d been caught out. ‘I’m sorry, but please
don’t compare me to Garry. I just meant that you should stop engaging with him before it’s
too late.’
‘It’s already too late, anyway. That’s what he’s been going on about today.’ She put
down the handkerchief, and sipped her port. Silence filled the room. It seemed darker than it
really was, more intense, as if all the air had been sucked out, and they were stuck in a
chamber, waiting, and dreading the inevitability of discussing their predicament. David could
hear his own heartbeat. He tried to hold Lucy’s hand, but she shook free, and spoke in a
hushed voice. ‘You know when you went to visit Caroline, and walked around Kings Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. When Garry came over, I said goodbye.’
‘You told me that.’
‘But he came back.’
‘When.’
‘Later at night.’
105
‘Oh.’ David put his hand on her shoulder. She felt stiff, like a mannequin. He forced a
smile, and the ephemeral realization that this admission was not such a big surprise passed
through his mind. ‘Did you invite him?’
‘Not exactly. He rang and then he came over. I needed to say goodbye. I needed to . . .
needed a time to end it so I could just finish it.’
David thought the best thing to do was to climb on the divan and hold Lucy tight.
There was no rescue from this moment. They were stuck – on a stricken submarine, on their
own. Her body trembled at first, and then her open mouth bit into his shoulder as her tears ran
down her face. David held on, the stillness punctuated by the sound of her muffled sobbing.
~
The candle flickered, but it had no lilac sweetness this time. The light bathed the room in
shades of grey, casting vague shapes that skulked around the walls and the ceiling. David lay
on his back, and stared at the edges of the shadows. They were blurred, and ill defined, frayed
at the borders between dim light and the darker nooks and crannies. Lucy lay beside him,
breathing with a rhythm brought on by overindulgence in port. David licked his own parched
lips, and went over the evening’s events in his mind. The residual taste reminded him of their
passage to the bedroom. It had taken a while to negotiate a path from the site of their
emotional wreckage. They had sunk into each other’s arms. Maybe it was an hour, maybe
less, before David tentatively stirred to check for damage – moving fingers, flexing muscles,
scratching a forearm, and wiggling toes as a prelude to disentanglement from the scene. He
got up first, and then helped her to her feet, so they could limp to the safe harbour of the
bedroom. Sleep came quickly for David, but it hadn’t lasted long.
He wondered why. Why did he waft around writing music, as if he was so aloof from
the real world? What drove him? His father had spent his life working away at it, practicing
orchestral flute passages over and over, when David lay in bed. Perhaps Roie would have
liked that, and then she would have had a flute accompaniment to her Pan worship. In the end
it didn’t do Jack much good anyway. All he did was relocate to Europe in search of his
elusive dream. And Caroline was still caught up in the glory years of her youth. Goossens’
inspiration might have been enough for her, but it hadn’t brought about any great happiness.
106
And what about Roie’s life and art? And what about now, for that matter? What drove him to
go over all this stuff from the past?
He felt as though he was a product of it all – a manifestation of the cultural cringe.
Marginalized, as his family followed the course of their own careers. At school in England
they all wanted him to talk Australian, and he indulged by improvising imagined monologues
about drovers, brumbies and wallabies. In Australia they just called him names. He was
different, and they loved to highlight difference. David played along, ensuring both notoriety
and conflict between himself and the status quo. Music was his trump card – he was both
saved, and jinxed by it. Like Caroline and Jack, or Roie and Goosey, and just about everyone
else in his life, driven by an inner awareness, informed by an innate understanding of music
and art.
It wasn’t an accident. He was born to it like Lear’s fool, caught in a destructive
tradition, but needing to comment. He knew writing The Margin wouldn’t change the way
things were, but he was compelled to do it.
Then there was Lucy. She knew dance, and how to use theatre to underlie the
commonplace. So why was she stuffing around with this Garry character? He seemed no
more than a phantom opponent, a playground bully who needed to be told to piss off and go
away. What was his role? Tyrant, tormentor, persecutor, intimidator, oppressor, walloper,
police, press, judge, jury, and lord high executioner, all rolled into one, or was he just some
selfish scumbag.
David felt small, lying in Lucy’s bed, watching the shifting grey of the shadows. It
didn’t seem real. He contemplated his own failures, and decided he should write to Sally.
He’d have to find her address. That’d be better than running around with his tail between his
legs, writing The Margin as if that could fix anything.
And Lucy had lied. Why did she do that? Garry was still part of her life, and there
were issues. How could he deal with them by writing music? Then again, how could he avoid
it? Garry had set Lucy up as his mistress in these ridiculous properties to shore up his own
ego. Still, was Lucy really so naïve and vulnerable? Maybe she was strong and independent,
but still needed to be part of Garry’s scheme?
David reached for a glass of water. Then he snuffed out the candle, and lay back down
with his arm resting against Lucy’s back. Instantly, her breathing became quieter for a few
107
moments. Question marks curled around every thought in his mind but one thing was plain.
She didn’t have to sleep with Garry.
108
Chapter 10
The winter sun brought light but little heat to the room. Lucy found David sitting at the table
with her dog lying at his feet. When she woke alone she thought he’d gone. She leaned on the
back of the chair to support herself, and bent down to kiss his neck. He didn’t talk, but placed
his hand over hers. The dog stood up.
He’d been writing – something about beginnings and endings. Lucy put the kettle on
and got her medicine from the drawer.
‘You slept soundly,’ he said. She smiled and watched him as he resumed writing –
transforming the tragedy of life into something else. At least he was genuine – trying to make
sense of the composer, the artist, the police and the press. She couldn’t see how this could
help her though. There was no a metaphor to magically transform her. The reality was quite
the opposite. Garry would be home soon and he’d expect her to be waiting for him. It was
exasperating. Why couldn’t he simply go away?
She filled her hot water bottle and pulled up a chair beside David. She wasn’t certain
about him either but wanted to try. He put down his pen and quite unexpectedly said, ‘maybe
we could go away for a few days? Would you like to go to the sea?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I’d love to.’ Suddenly her melancholy was replaced by thoughts of
gazing into the ocean. She wondered how she’d manage walking along the sand. David
sipped his tea.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s work out when. Perhaps I could get time off on Friday, then we
could have the weekend? That’s what I do when I go to visit Caroline.’
‘Is that where you want to go?’
‘No. I was in Sydney the other week. I’d like to go somewhere you’d like.’
‘That’d be lovely. I’ll see if I can get someone to look after Pat. I think it’ll be good to
spend some time together, away from here.’
He looked at her. ‘Yeah. It would after what’s been happening.’
She sipped her tea, annoyed that he hadn’t just left it as a simple invitation.
‘Well you love the sea, anyway,’ she said.
‘I do. I’ve always felt safe there.’
‘You may as well be at sea where you live. It’s like you’ve substituted the ocean for
the side of a hill where you’re safe. You’re lucky like that. My worries just keep coming
back.’
109
After a few moments he said, ‘Garry could come back any day then?’ Lucy didn’t like
the way the conversation was going.
‘He doesn’t tell me when he’s coming or going. You’ve got to understand that he just
turns up. Rings first, then if I say it’s OK he comes round, but the visits are few and far
between, like once a month or so, or even less.’
‘But you told me you hadn’t been sleeping with anyone.’ Lucy bit her lip.
‘Did I? Well I haven’t. I haven’t actually slept with anyone for ages before you.’
‘Well, had sex then.’
‘I needed to. It was my way of saying goodbye.’ She stood up to go to the sink. ‘I
needed a time for closure.’
‘But you didn’t have to sleep with him.’
‘No. I didn’t. I didn’t have to sleep with you either. Now I’ve got both of you blaming
me for everything as if you’re so perfect, and he certainly isn’t. I’m sick of it.’
David wanted things to settle. It was difficult to remain passive though. There seemed
little option, little point in going over and over the same territory. ‘Well, maybe we can spend
a few days healing by the sea as long as Garry doesn’t just walk right back in.’
‘Lucy looked at him and tried to smile. ‘Trust me,’ she said.
‘I did,’ he replied.
~~~
‘That’s very honest of you,’ said the counsellor. ‘It’s good.’
‘Thanks.’ The counsellor smiled.
‘You don’t have to thank me as if you’re a teenager talking with her schoolteacher
Lucy. I think it’s good because you made the decision to speak honestly, even though it’s
difficult.’
Lucy buried herself in the armchair. She didn’t feel like talking now and waited for
the counsellor to ask her something directly. She didn’t – just sat looking at her, so after an
awkward silence Lucy said, ‘Garry will be back in town some day soon.’
‘I see,’ said the counsellor. ‘You knew he’d be coming back and we’ve talked about
strategies to help you retain your independence. But do you feel ready?’
110
‘I wish he’d stay in Europe and never come back,’ said Lucy. The counsellor smiled
and agreed that this would be easier, if somewhat unrealistic.
‘You’ve mentioned that you want to make your own decisions but it seems like you
also need support.’
‘I don’t just want to go from one man to another. David’s very caring but I don’t want
him to take over from where Garry left off.’
‘Would that happen?’
‘No, not in the same way, he’s not manipulative like Garry, but maybe in other ways.’
‘Like?’
‘Oh I don’t know. He’s writing this show called The Margin and he wants me to come
out of retirement and work on it with him.’
‘That sounds interesting,’ said the counsellor. Lucy told her a little about Roie and
Goosey’s story. She also talked about the way Garry controlled her. ‘I’m not sure about the
show though. I could get trapped in David’s obsession and that’d be just the same as being
trapped in Garry’s investments and properties. Maybe not quite the same but I know what it
takes to bring a project to the stage and that’d involve another demanding partnership.’
‘Yes, but you have skills that you could use. Why is that so controlling?’
‘Artistic control – it’s the same thing,’ Lucy said and explained that when she was
dancing it was always her dictating the parameters of her expression, ever since she was a
child.
‘Yes, you talked about that – Swan Lake.’
‘Did I? Well, I’m not sure that I want to be directed right now, whether it’s in my life
or if it’s in a show.’
‘It doesn’t have to be an all or nothing sort of thing. If you establish boundaries you
can stop before you find yourself doing things you don’t want,’ said the counsellor.
‘I just get addicted.’
The counsellor talked about that personality trait for a while. She pointed out that
Lucy already delegated areas of control in a healthy way, gave over to her cleaner, doctor, or
physio.
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Lucy.
‘Perhaps your support network is more established than you think? You have coffee
with friends, meditation, and you’re studying too. Garry doesn’t control everything and
111
neither should David.’ Lucy could see the point but it didn’t seem so easy. She adjusted her
position in the chair.
‘Garry still takes over though. He twists everything around so I end up agreeing with
him.’
‘I’m sure he has in the past. But he can’t take over from your doctor, or your physio,
can he?’
‘He hates doctors. Doesn’t believe in them.’
‘And you?’
‘I need that sort of support right now.’
‘Exactly, so you make your own appointments regardless of what Garry tells you to
do.’
‘Yes, but this time I’m not just rebelling against him.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said the counsellor. ‘You’re taking control because you want to look
after yourself.’
~~~
They drove into the dark with rain lashing against the windscreen. It was later than David had
hoped but Lucy wanted to see her doctor after her usual Friday appointments. The doctor
thought it was a good idea to go, as long as she took breaks and didn’t spend too much time
sitting in the car.
Her water bottle was still hot as they skirted the slopes of Mount Franklin and made
their way through Daylesford. Lucy felt at ease. She liked to navigate, to plan trips, and to
have a clear picture of the route in her mind. All David had said was they were cutting a
straight line from the middle of Victoria down to the ocean. She looked out at the rain-soaked
trucks, utes and horse floats that were gathered outside the Spargo Creek hotel, illuminated
by the glow of the Carlton Draft sign. Then David turned onto smaller roads that wound
through undulating farmland, followed ridges, and then gave way to flat country. The road
narrowed to a thin strip of bitumen and with the lights on high beam they could see the
raindrops as they fell. David drove as if he was a doctor in his surgery, confident in his ability
to operate their warm capsule with precision. It was comforting. Then he started talking in
rhyme:
112
With those windscreen wipers flappin’ time,
I’ll open up a cask of wine,
Guzzle deep into the night,
So you and I, we’ll feel all right.
Lucy laughed. So did he. They stopped at a place called Martians and sat outside so
Lucy could smoke while rain danced on the tin roof. David got another beer and said, ‘would
you have some hot water that I could fill this up with?’
‘Well, that’s a first,’ said the barman. ‘I’ve never seen a fella bring his hot water bottle
to the pub before.’ They drove off laughing as they climbed she slopes of the Otways.
‘I used to ride my bike here,’ said David. ‘Sally came with me when she was young,
but this hill was a big challenge for her. I kept telling her to keep going, and when we reached
the top it’d be downhill all the way to the sea. Poor girl. I was pretty bossy.’
‘Was?’ said Lucy. She slapped his arm. ‘Kidding. I’m sure Sally looks back on it more
fondly than that. It was her achievement after all.’ Lucy wasn’t feeling bossed, or pushed, or
anxious. Maybe the counsellor was right and she’d delegated sufficient control to her doctor,
her hydro, and her physiotherapist. Garry hadn’t been in touch and she liked listening to
David reminisce about his daughter. That wasn’t a threat. They pushed on through the dark,
dripping rainforest to the summit, then cornered cautiously down the slippery road to the
Skenes Creek motel.
Salt air tinged the saturated bush with an old familiar scent and they listened. From
the verandah they could make out the lines of swells that pushed shoreward, crashing on the
sand and the rocks. They started singing, with spontaneous synchronicity:
Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside . . .
Then they laughed out loud at each other, in total puzzlement. ‘How did you know I was
going to sing that?’ said Lucy.
‘I didn’t.’ They ate cold chicken and drank champagne by the gas fire before
embracing each other in bed.
The sound of the sea permeated their sleep and in the morning Lucy wanted to walk
on the beach. She held David’s arm and discovered that she could get a firmer footing in the
sand if she turned her stick upside down. The sea spilled over rocks to explode as dazzling
white cascades, each with a unique shape, and Lucy studied seaweed in the sand as David
113
skipped stones. When she joined him he pointed out features in the rocks – weathering,
ironstone, shale layers, and basalt intrusions. ‘It’s metamorphic,’ he said.
‘How come you know all this?
‘I grew up by the sea and used to play on the rocks, checking out the changes.’
Lucy moved closer to take his arm. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’ she said. ‘To really
change?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I mean I was growing up, but once upon a time the rocks changed
through earth movement, or a volcano. Then they’ve had thousands of years of winds, tides,
and rain. That changes them too. There’s sudden change, and gradual change.’ Lucy held his
arm tighter and guided him back to the sand. He made the chaos of change sound inevitable.
Then he related it to his life. She led him too close to the water and a large wave drenched
their clothes. He hopped around swearing as she laughed out loud.
When they hobbled back to the motel they hugged each other. ‘Thanks so much for
that,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s been so long since I walked along a beach. I’d forgotten all about it till
just now.’ She hung their clothes by the gas fire and went to lie down for a rest. ‘Are you
coming?’ she asked but David wanted to work on some music.
~
He sat at the table, looking out at the lines of the swells and listening to the crash of the
waves. There were two distinctly different actions. One involved a rising and falling motion
between crest and trough and the other a matter of turmoil when the waves broke, either
dashing themselves against the rocks or rolling onto the beach.
The motion of the swells didn’t have any immediate connection with Roie and
Goosey but it seemed like as good a form as any to begin his composition. The ocean flowed
in a duple time, with two beats to the bar. David picked up his guitar, playing with chromatic
chords that rose from a single bass note – a pedal A. Then the final chord of the progression
sank by a semitone. He counted the rhythm as one and two and. Then he matched the rising
chords to the rhythm, with the last chord slipping down: bass chord chord down. He liked it
and continued playing with chords and their inversions, taking the rhythm from the waves.
Then it occurred to him that he could match the rising and sinking motif with its
opposite. One bar would imitate the crest of a wave with its ascending contour followed by
114
the sinking semitone. Then the next bar could represent the troughs, with descending chords
following the bass note, and the last chord rising by a semitone.
He played with the idea and it worked really well. The semitone shift on the last chord
led to a new tonal area, so the sequence could be repeated half a step higher using new
chords. The model for this pattern had been in the back of his mind since he heard the second
movement of Goossens’ Symphony No.1. Now he just had to rework the chords to adapt
Goossens’ harmonies to the guitar. The rising harmonies that expanded and grew outwards,
with the falling chords on the last beat closing back in on themselves in a retrospective
gesture.
He made some sketches that fitted into metrical eight-bar phrases, to suit the dancers.
Then he looked closer at Goossens’ harmonic development. The chords grew in breadth to
include wider intervals and bigger leaps, leading to higher notes before sinking down again.
From the highest chord they formed a pattern: bass down down down, bass down down
down, bass down down down. David kept working.
The chords sat comfortably on the guitar and he sketched his ideas on the manuscript.
Then he played around with them using the material he’d written as a starting point and
colouring the progression with further chromatic development before leading it towards a
conclusion that felt natural. It came to rest on a dissonant chord, but David decided to draw
this out in a series of arpeggios that led to a more satisfying resolution that settled on a major
chord. He’d just clinched this climax when a large wave smashed on the rocks before him
and sea spray shattered like a cymbal crash.
That fell into place too. He imagined dancers coming on stage during the eight-bar
sections of his exposition. A kind of processional for the Kings Cross painters, poets,
prostitutes, actors, alcoholics, and writers, maybe gathering at an art event. The cymbal crash
heralded a new phase – added a new momentum to the dance. A segue to a jazz beat with an
easy swing feel. Guitar, a descending bass line, brushes on the drums and perhaps a tenor sax
to accompany the dance. What could be a better introduction to the atmosphere of 1950s
Kings Cross?
David wrote a few sentences, in the margins of his manuscript.
Characters enter from stage left and right to music inspired by the rise and fall of
ocean swells. The dance itself emerges from the built-up energy that drives the waves
to dash themselves upon the shore.
115
He thought about projections, wondering how multiple images would work. Artworks mixed
with press clippings, to illustrate the narrative and inform the action. He lent back in his
chair, excited.
~
She stood in the doorway backlit by the ocean-grey sky and said, ‘come to bed.’ David
smiled, put down his guitar, closed his manuscript and pushed it to the middle of the table,
placing his pencil on top. He stood up to join Lucy at the window and wrapped his arms
around her from behind, so one hand rested on her tummy and the other stretched over both
of her breasts. Lucy thought about the size of his span as she instinctively turned her head to
kiss him but couldn’t manage the manoeuvre. He nuzzled her neck and kissed underneath her
ear.
‘How’s the masterpiece going?’ she said and he tried to describe the way the music
rose and fell with the waves, the dancers, and the images. ‘Oh yes,’ she said and wriggled
free so she could lead him to the bedroom.
Her skin felt soft under his fingers as he worked oil into her shoulders, kneeling on
the bed beside her in a tee shirt and pants. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Not in here with the fire on.’
He worked his way down her back, pushing the bedclothes away as needed. Lucy lay
still, receiving his touch, her skin tingling with the sensation. ‘You’re not bad,’ she said.
‘It’s all the scales and arpeggios. Not to mention the Opus 1a exercises.’
Lucy laughed, and adjusted her position of her arm. ‘Opus 1a! I should be so lucky,’
she said. ‘Would you massage my coccyx? That’s where it really hurts.’
David rested one hand across her shoulders and slid the other down the length of her
back to rest at her panty-line. ‘Sure,’ he said and slid the panties over her bottom so that he
could work on the sore spot.
‘I’m sorry I’m such an invalid,’ she said. ‘I’m really not at my best for you.’ David
didn’t reply. The base of her spine seemed crooked. ‘It’s out of whack isn’t it?’ she said.
David worked around it with his thumbs.
‘Does this hurt?’ he asked.
116
‘It always hurts, but what you’re doing’s good.’ He pushed into her lower back as
deeply as he felt he should and then introduced long strokes from her neck to her buttocks,
resting his hand on the soft skin, then continuing to the upper legs and inner thighs.
‘These should go,’ he said and she rolled over, removing the panties.
‘Reckon these should too then,’ she said and slid his pants down, freeing his penis
from confinement. David slid the tee shirt over his head as she cupped his erection in both
hands. He was still kneeing, but arched his back and heard Lucy mumble something about
Opus 1b before he felt her teasing tongue.
~
Sunbeams broke through the clouds, radiant in the pale afternoon. Lucy sat on the verandah
with a cigarette. David joined her with a beer. ‘How magnificent after all the rain.’
‘Yeah, it makes me think of the Hallelujah Chorus when the clouds’ve got those
shafts of light beaming down,’ she replied.
‘What about your angels essay then? How did you go?’
‘I’m still waiting – thought I’d have heard by now. They insist you hand everything in
on time but they’re not so good at giving them back.’
‘I suppose it’ll turn up.’
‘But I’ve been waiting more than two weeks though. The discussion group’s OK and I
told them about angels and the paintings.’
‘You put them up on the website?’
‘Just a link, but a few people commented.’
‘About the art?’
‘Both. The art, and the whole idea of angels. I can imagine Gabriel descending from
the clouds right now, in fact?’
‘Hallelujah,’ sang David and they laughed. ‘It’s a bit of a stereotype though isn’t it?’
‘Well, you don’t usually see angels depicted playing banjos, electric guitars, drums, or
piano accordions though do you?’ she replied.
‘I don’t know. I could imagine angels playing accordions. Why not?’
117
‘I don’t think it comes up in the scriptures. But you’re right. You can be a spiritual
person without copying the pattern – like your Rosaleen. She was spiritual, but I don’t think
she was an angel.’
David looked at the spectacle in the sky. The rays were like the spokes of a wheel,
distinct and separate, yet in combination they illuminated a large patch of ocean, clear blue in
the midst of the deep grey. He liked the way Lucy had brought Rosaleen into the discussion
and he wondered if she’d put any thought into the show. ‘I’ve been wondering about
Rosaleen’s drawings. How difficult would it be to project them onto a screen, and then have
them come to life, as animations?’ he said.
‘Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too,’ she replied. ‘It’d be easy to project the
images. To animate them wouldn’t be too difficult, but it would be really time-consuming.
Lots of hours sitting at the computer.’ She told him how long it had taken her to produce
animations for her other shows; interactive insects and butterflies that flew with her
choreography. ‘Days and days. I like doing it but I don’t know if I can sit for that long any
more.’
‘You’re not doing too bad today. The drive down here, walking on the beach, and
you’re still OK.’
‘I know.’ She leaned across to kiss him. ‘It depends how much animation there is
anyway.’
‘Well, I’ve been working on an orchestral theme that segues into jazz.’
‘Oh yeah. Good.’
‘But there’ll be variations too. Slow passages; like a reflective intermezzo, lyrical bits,
icy minor modes, warmer sections, and the clarity of major keys. Then there‘ll be something
faster, a sherzando, or even improvised sections. There’s a lot to work with.’ She lit another
cigarette. Clouds engulfed the sunbeams and the sky turned to grey. He wondered if he had
made it sound too difficult.
‘I sounds huge,’ she said. ‘It’d be impossible to animate the whole thing.’
‘Not the whole thing. I’ve got this idea of dancers coming out of the images, coming
to life so to speak, but the animations wouldn’t necessarily keep moving the whole time.’
‘OK.’
He described the idea of projecting images onto the dancers’ bodies. ‘Is that
possible?’
118
‘Yes. Sure. But it’ll still take time to set up. I’ll think about it.’ The sunbeams returned
but they were only a pale reflection of their former glory. David and Lucy drank in the sight,
the sound of the waves, and the smell of seaweed.
After a while he said, ‘I’m going in to town. See if I can catch the fish co-op before it
closes. Do you want to come?’
‘I think I’ll stay here so I can go online and write my entry for the discussion group.’
‘Maybe check your essay too?’
‘Yeah. Will you get some more wine?’
~
He heard laughter as he approached the motel door. Lucy was standing by the fire, talking on
the phone. She looked at him, smiled briefly and went outside to finish talking. He put the
groceries on the kitchen bench.
When he came out he found her sitting in the corner, smoking. ‘Want some wine?’ he
said.
‘Yes. Good.’ He poured. She said Garry was back – had been for a week or so, just
hadn’t been in touch. ‘It’s just as well. He was worried about the house, with all the rain.
Apparently it’s been really heavy up there so he moved the things off the back verandah and
unblocked the drain before the kitchen got wet.
‘He’s been in the house?’
‘Yes. He emailed me. So I rang him back and he said the water would have backed up
and run down the kitchen wall on the inside, if he hadn’t fixed it. Lucky eh?’
David wasn’t so sure. He didn’t like the idea of Garry coming round and letting
himself in, leak or no leak.
Lucy noticed his apprehension. ‘It is his house. He does all the work himself.’
David pointed out that it was up to her who she let in the house, whether Garry owned
it or not. They sat in silence looking through the rain towards the ocean. Daylight waned and
the evening chill settled. He went inside to unpack the groceries and prepare the dinner.
The fresh fish fell apart in their mouths and after dinner they enjoyed more wine and
played scrabble. Lucy went to bed early and David picked up his guitar, but in the midst of
his serenade he heard the bedroom door close.
119
~
‘Thanks for coming in to bed with me last night,’ she said.
‘You closed the door.’
‘I wanted to get to sleep.’
‘I was playing for you.’
‘Well, I thought you were just practicing. I’m not used to it that’s all.’
They retraced their route home, from the coast to the centre of the state. The drive was
uneventful, with puddles and patches of water lying across the road.
David picked up the bags and followed her. He felt he could sense the change in
atmosphere in the empty house after someone had been walking around in it and wondered
what traces might remain after Garry’s intrusion. Lucy snatched the letter that was leaning
against the flowers, burying it away. She moved to the kitchen with surprising agility, leaving
David holding the luggage and looking at the flowers. He could hear clatter from the kitchen
as Lucy filled the kettle and lit the gas.
120
Chapter 11
The evenings were getting warmer. David and Pat walked under the canopy of the trees lining
the street. No spectacular sunset tonight, just the red-tinged clouds above the Castlemaine
rooftops suggesting that warmer weather was on the way. He thought how nice it would be
out on the water, as he tied Pat outside the supermarket and told her to stay.
They were back at Lucy’s before dusk. She was still lying on her divan, engaged in
hushed dialogue on the telephone. He went to the kitchen, opened a beer and unpacked the
groceries before pouring a glass of port for her. She smiled and accepted the drink. Her
conversation had grown louder.
He listened to her say, ‘David’s here. Yes. He’s cooking dinner.’ Then he heard the
click and watched as Lucy let the phone drop. She looked at him. ‘He got angry, didn’t expect
you to be here.’
‘Didn’t he? But we’ve just had a lovely time by the sea. Why wouldn’t I be here?’
‘I’m glad you’re here but it’s not always so straightforward,’ she replied, and
explained that she was always arguing with Garry when they went anywhere. ‘He was
surprised to find that I was comfortable with you still here, that’s all.’
‘So if that’s how it was, why were you with him for all that time?’
‘Does it really matter? I think we’re good together and it’ll work out all right. It’s just
awkward at the moment. He expected to be able to come over, same as always, but he
changed his mind pretty fast when I said you were here.’
‘Did you say he can’t come over?’
‘No. I said he could if he wanted to, but that you were here. Then he wanted me to go
out and meet him somewhere.’
‘So, I’d be cooking dinner and you’d be off with Garry? That’s not very respectful.’
‘No, he doesn’t have any respect. I wouldn’t do that. That’s when he hung up.’ David
sat beside her. Pat lay on the floor at their feet, echoing David’s dejection with an empathetic
huff.
‘He’s coming here tomorrow anyway,’ said Lucy. ‘He’s going to do some work on the
outside while I get on with painting the kitchen.’ David sat still. He imagined Lucy’s
relationship with Garry had always revolved around renovating these ridiculous properties.
Then they’d fall into each other’s arms when they’d finished their day’s work.
‘Will you be up to painting, after the long drive?’ he said.
121
‘I’ll just do a bit at a time.’
‘Still, I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘I know. But he saw the work I was doing and wanted to fix the leaks in the roof.’
‘Maybe get someone else to fix the leaks in the roof. I’ll have a look.’
‘In Garry’s house? Maybe not. He’s got to be head rooster and he always does the
work himself.’ She sipped her port. ‘I’d like to see his face if he turned up and it was all done
though.’
‘Well how about you come over to my place when you’ve finished working, maybe
before you lie down for a rest?’
‘Yeah. I could, except I might be too tired.’
‘Pace yourself then, don’t let Garry dictate what’s going on.’ She put down her empty
port glass and hugged him reassuringly although it felt like David was becoming the one who
dictated what she should do.
‘I’d better get dinner going then,’ he said.
~~~
Massed white and yellow blossoms on the almonds and the acacias heralded the impending
change of season but a crisp frost still covered the ground, burning into the softer parts of the
less hardy plants. Clammy fog clung tenaciously to the valley below the hillside. Spring was
still some weeks away, although the early daffodils were out. They always were for Sally’s
birthday. Her card sat blank on the kitchen table. He didn’t know where to send it so he sent a
message to her mobile instead: Many Happy Returns and best wishes for a wonderful day.
Love David.
He sipped his tea and looked out the window, deciding that he could leave the
batteries hooked up to the solar panel to make maximum use of the sunlight hours. He felt the
heat from the gas fire on his legs. It was cool enough to run it at full strength and he enjoyed
working in its warmth. At ease in his habitat, he savoured the hours before school when he
didn’t have to worry about anything more complicated than his teapot. It was a time to work
on the show. Not necessarily The Margin, but any show. Usually the actual work in progress
made no difference but this one teetered on obsession. It spilled into his everyday life and
joined the dots that outlined the significance of deeply personal events.
122
He reasoned that Sally’s rejection wasn’t intentional. She was a busy twenty-eight
old, caught up in her own affairs. Even so he missed her, and the years of separation
reinforced his awareness of all the other absences – transient threads in the pattern of his life.
Jack had had left Caroline and him to find their own way and David had managed little more
in his own failed relationships. Even with Lucy, he felt far from secure because of Garry’s
continued presence.
Recurring themes went around too frequently, like links in a chain of rejection. And
stories from the past simmered in the back of his mind, as if they’d been implanted. Roie and
Goosey’s tragedy echoed his own alienation, fostered by Jack’s departure and then by
Caroline’s lifelong recollection of a past that she could never recreate. He felt estranged from
the here and now.
Goossens ostracism hadn’t helped. Important parts of the creative process had
fragmented. There was no continuity. The pattern was lost, with no successor appointed to
join the frayed ends. David closed his eyes. His ears felt cold and then he heard the clock
chime eight.
He was going to be late – five-minutes late, as always. The illicit space of an extra
five minutes, the in-between time. The five-minute margin where he kept his inheritance
from Caroline and Jack as affirmation that he was part of the same musical stream. He could
see the colours of something alive and growing in a place where he could nurture it.
~~~
She waited until she was alone before calling, ‘Yeah, he’s been sitting on the end of the divan
talking for most of the day. Going over the same old stuff’.
‘Has he been working though?’ said David. Lucy told him that Garry had been fixing
timbers to secure the roof but kept coming in to talk. ‘He’ll be going home soon, anyway,’
she said.
‘Has it been OK, talking?’
‘Yes, but it’s just going round in circles.’
‘So will he be back for more talk tomorrow then?’
After a short silence Lucy asked if he’d feel any better if she came round to his place.
Then Garry could just come over and do his work.
123
‘I think that’d be good,’ he replied.
~
He sat back at the table to get on with his work, waiting for her to arrive, looking at one of
Roie’s pictures. It depicted Pan as a randy satyr with goat attributes. His sexual prowess was
obvious but David thought about Pan as the musical god of the wild, associated with rustic
shepherds, flocks, and pasture. He contemplated his place in theatrical tradition, wondering
why the satyr chose trickery to create pandemonium, concluding that it was simply because
he could. Teasing audiences with suspense and drama, getting them to suspend their disbelief
and then filling them with terror and a fear of what might lie beyond everyday experience.
Roie didn’t find it frightening. She worshipped Pan. Maybe because he encompassed
everything, both seen and perceived. To worship him was to revere the world in its entirety.
~
Outside, the evening settled. David lit the gas fire, alone in his cosy world until he
heard Lucy’s car. Pat rushed in as soon as he opened the door, circled around David and
jumped up, then ran back out to Lucy who was using her stick to walk from the car. David
noticed that she wore a wan smile, which was almost a wince. He figured she must be sore,
and went out to greet her.
‘Hello. What have you been up to?’ she said.
‘Thanks for coming over,’ he replied, helping her inside instead of lavishing an
elaborate greeting.
~
There were four copies of Roie’s drawings on the table. The one on top featured a crouching
goat-like figure. David had written on the top of the page: To know panic is to experience
both ecstasy and terror at the hand of God.
‘Scary,’ said Lucy as she sat down.
124
‘Pan?’ replied David, noticing that Lucy was crying. It dawned on him that her pained
expression might be a mask she was wearing in an attempt to maintain her composure.
‘What’s up?’ he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She shook free.
‘What are you doing,’ she replied in a fast yet emphatic voice, to counteract her upset
state. ‘All these pictures of Pan, demons, panic. How do you think you know panic? It just
consumes you.’
‘I don’t necessarily know panic in advance,’ replied David, wondering if he might be
better off keeping his mouth shut. ‘It’s Roie. She worshipped Pan.’
‘I’m sorry. I happen to know a bit about panic myself though. It’s the opposite of what
I worship. Ecstasy and terror at the same time is Garry. That’s what he is.’
‘So. What happened?’ said David putting his hand back on her shoulder.
‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing. You’d better be bloody well telling the truth when you
say you want me here.’ Lucy sat twisted in the chair. She looked uncomfortable. Her facial
features were distorted, more with of a look of terror than ecstasy. She hugged a cushion to
her chest and drew her knees up to assume a foetal position. David wondered if she was
about to suck her thumb. He looked at Pat curled on the floor in front of her, then he knelt
down to hold Lucy. She settled and David gave her his handkerchief.
‘He didn’t want me to come here. I rang him to say I wouldn’t be there tomorrow and
he got angry and said:
Don’t Luce, don’t go. Not for a musician. He won’t be able to provide what we’ve got.
‘I snapped. Just like that.’
‘But you came out anyway. That’s OK.’
‘He said he was going to come straight over and I yelled at him. Was perfectly quiet
one minute, then the next I’m yelling my head off. I’m sorry.
‘It’s the ecstasy and the terror thing that set me off again. Thought I was OK but it’s
just like Garry. Mr Thrillseeker, life in the fast lane, God.’ She wiped her eyes with the
handkerchief before continuing at a less agitated pace. ‘You’re right though. I’ve been living
with both terror and ecstasy. But I also know that I chose to be there.’ David sat silently and
listened. ‘I allow that state of mind to exist, even though I’m scared that I make it happen.
Then I shut off because I don’t want the same thing to happen to someone else if I get too
close.’
125
David stayed on the floor and patted the dog. Lucy struggled to straighten herself in
the chair so she decided to join them on the floor. ‘Garry’s not God though,’ said David.
‘Thinks he is.’
‘But that’s just his pride in himself. Thinking he controls everything doesn’t make
him God. It just means he can’t recognize anything but himself.’
‘You got that right.’ David got up to stoke the stove. He needed to light candles and
start cooking.
Lucy watched him. He couldn’t simply explain everything, or shrug off her feelings
and make them go away. ‘What about you then?’ she said. ‘You have to have everything just
the way you want it too, don’t you?’
David stood at the mantelpiece lighting a candle. His impulse was to deny the
suggestion but he thought better of it. Instead he smiled and said, ‘Well, I’ve lived alone for a
long while and I’m used to doing what I want. Is that OK?’
‘Not sure,’ said Lucy, with a more friendly tone in her voice. She opened a bottle of
wine and poured two glasses. Then she picked up the other copies of Roie’s drawings and
settled back in the chair, leaving David to prepare dinner – ruler of his own kitchen. If she
tried to help she’d only do something wrong, use the wrong bowl or something. She sat
down, surprised that she’d opened up at all. It was unusual for her to share, except with her
girlfriends or someone she wasn’t close to, like a doctor, or therapist, or even a stranger.
Getting too close was a threat, though at the moment she felt strangely at ease. She looked at
the drawing.
~
‘Oh, I got a distinction for my essay, by the way.’
‘Well done,’ said David, in between slicing vegetables. ‘They liked the topic then, and
the way you set it out?’
‘Yes. He said the pictures were a great way to introduce angels and what they do.’
Lucy stood up to refill her wineglass. She looked at Roie’s picture. ‘There’s a coincidence,’
she said. ‘From angels to fallen angel’.
‘Lucifer? Maybe, but Roie didn’t see it like that.’
‘Lucifer in heaven, Satan on earth.’
126
‘Later on, yes. In Christian theology, but Roie came at it from the Judeo-Christian
point of view.’ David added the vegetables to the baking dish, with layers of cheese, tomato,
and lasagne.
‘How’s that?’ said Lucy, looking at a picture called The Adversary.
David told her about a passage from Isaiah that predicted impending doom for the
King of Babylon. ‘He planned to ascend in power like Venus the morning star, rising in the
sky until we can’t see it anymore. Thing is that Venus is also the evening star that sinks to the
horizon. So theologians gave a name to this notion of rising too high then falling from grace
and chose Lucifer, which means light bearer in Latin, like bright star. That’s where the thing
about fallen angels came in. It was really about a king who had grown too big for his boots,
and thought he could take on God.’
‘I know that,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m the student here. But are you saying there’s no such
thing as Lucifer the fallen angel?’
‘I’m not sure about the whole idea of conflict in heaven. That’s more something we
make up on earth.’
‘Yes, that’s when Lucifer came to earth.’
‘When he was kicked out for being too vain? Not sure. Lucifer was important to Roie
but not as a fallen angel, so for a start that put her in conflict with the overwhelmingly
Christian majority in Australia then. They used her as an example of how not to behave, like
“don’t go to the Cross, or the witch’ll get you,” sort of thing.’ Lucy settled into the chair,
studying the drawing. David continued with the dinner and poured a glass of wine for
himself.
It was a powerful image, depicting an encounter between a small, vulnerable, naked
man with a sword and a huge, imposing winged creature. The entity was also naked, and he
sat, resting on one elbow, in a semi-reclining pose, wearing a headdress with a snake on top.
The figures gazed at each other and a lightning bolt shot diagonally across the picture,
matching the direction of their eye contact. David had made some notes at the top of the
page: The Adversary. Hebrew for Lucifer. Roie associated the adversary with rebellion. It
wasn’t necessarily an evil role.
The central figure dominated the picture. His face was serene, yet he commanded
respect through an overpowering authority. She read on: Roie believed that The Adversary
controls and limits people who became too arrogant. She said he tried to trick man, not with
127
malicious intent but to expose the limitations of the ego, and man’s pride in his own
existence.
David was leaning against the sink with his glass in his hand. Lucy looked up and
said, ‘doesn’t seem too different from the old King of Babylon then does it? Or anyone who
sets himself up as God for that matter.’
‘Maybe not.’ But I still find the notion of an angel who thought he could rise above
God and then fell from grace a bit much. I don’t understand it. On earth sure, specially some
people, but why would that happen in heaven? Why did the angels have this conflict and
throw Lucifer out? There’s a question for you.’
‘Maybe he had to – needed to be destructive, even though he knew it’d be hard to
find a better job than archangel in heaven? It’s a good question though, even if it’s not what
I’m planning to study.’ It was good, and she was glad she’d come over. It was homely with
the candles and the smell of lasagne cooking. The wine was nice too. She picked up the next
picture. David dabbled with some dishes.
It was a colour copy of a painting. On the top David had written: Lucifer, Latin for
light bearer. The rebel embarks on a quest for secret knowledge where the greatest reward
becomes the eternal adventure of the search itself. Lucifer was again naked, standing in the
centre of the picture with golden light radiating around him and a grotesque mask in his left
hand. Pan was seated at his feet playing his pipes and a naked cat-like creature with clawed
feet was crawling beside him, holding some kind of smoking censor, burning incense.
‘Is that Roie?’
David turned to look, being careful not to drip dishwater over the picture. ‘Yeah. She
often painted herself in the picture, see her pointy ears?’
‘Yes. She looks kind of interesting. But I don’t get the significance of these weird
creatures around the edges, or the bare-breasted snake-person. They look like they belong in a
nightmare.’ She put the drawing down.
‘It’s very strange, isn’t it. I don’t get a lot of it either. Roie put in her own stuff that
came from dreams, or from when she was out of it on hash. I think that’s where she found a
lot of her inspiration.’
‘She was a rebel though,’ said Lucy. ‘To stick up for herself.’
~
128
‘I’ll leave it in the oven for half an hour,’ said David, rattling the grate with the
unmistakable sound that comes from a combustion stove. ‘How’s the wine?’
Lucy tilted her glass to indicate that it was empty, still holding the last of the
drawings. ‘That’s Roie again,’ she said. ‘It’s so passionate, her embrace with the panther. Not
sure about the extra images but she’s certainly comfortable to be wrapped in his arms.’ She
sipped her wine. ‘So. Is the panther the adversary or the light bearer then?’
‘It’s both in Black Magic. I’ve been reading about it. Lucifer’s the adversary who’s
supposedly been expelled from heaven, if you think of it from the Christian theology, and
mankind’s also fallen. Both are attracted to what they can’t have, in an adversarial
relationship. It’s unavoidable. Humans are drawn to their darker side.’
‘Lucy felt her throat tighten but still forced herself to speak. ‘Wait a minute. I thought
you didn’t believe in the fallen angel bit.’
‘That’s right. Roie didn’t see it that way at all. She was quite comfortable with
Lucifer.’
‘Clearly,’ said Lucy. ‘At least she is in the picture. They’re both right into each other.’
David told her the history of Black Magic and the obscenity charges that Roie
defended in court. ‘She’s embracing the powers of darkness as a magic practitioner in a
symbolic initiation into the infernal mysteries,’ he said.
‘Well, where’s the light bearer then?’
‘Roie’s ecstasy is with the midnight sun. Like in the drawing, she’s fully at home
there. It’s a mythic place where her being resonates with the primal pulse of the universe.’
Lucy sipped her wine. It was hard to understand. She’d always needed to cultivate a
physical presence. Her men had to actually be there, to buy her drinks, pass compliments,
take her home, or in Garry’s case set her up in a house where he could come around to visit.
It suited her because she liked to be alone, too. Sometimes she even wished that the men in
her life would simply go away, vanish or even come to grief instead of coming back home. ‘I
can relate to the first interpretation more,’ she said, ‘The adversarial attraction.’
~
129
It wasn’t great. The mornings never were. Sure it was warm and snug, but Lucy’s back pain
determined the terms of her engagement with the day. She dug her cold water bottle out from
under her and pulled a pillow closer to her back for support, remaining on her side and
wrapping herself in the quilt. It was quiet, when it wasn’t punctuated by David’s footsteps,
his rattling the dishes or clanging the stove. That made sleeping impossible.
She figured he must be working at the table and this gave her a reprise – dozing time
in Shangri-La. The clatter wouldn’t start until he discovered he was running late. Lucy
contemplated the option of bypassing the entire morning process by staying tucked under the
covers until he’d gone. Funny that. The thought entered her mind automatically, even though
it wasn’t what she wanted. Not this time, not with David. She’d make a point of getting up to
wave him off. Pat would come out with her and when he was gone they’d sit in the morning
sun and have a cigarette.
She licked her lips, aware that there was water by the bed but reluctant to move just
yet. She waited for the clock to chime, and then it’d be time to take her morphine tablets.
Sometimes Garry started early. Maybe he’d already be working at her place,
particularly if she wasn’t going to be there. He’d just do the work. There’d be no argument,
no spark to ignite the smouldering volcano while she cringed underneath. Pouring water on it
might make it hiss, but it wouldn’t make Garry slink away with his tail between his legs. It
wouldn’t happen like that. There’d be more – a token, but not flowers this time. Something to
hit hard, to stab at her deeper defences and lay bare her broken promises. He’d want to reveal
her shortcomings with maximum effect, make it plain that he was correct and she’d only
fooled herself. He was the ecstasy and the terror in her life, even though she didn’t want to
comply any more.
She struggled to roll onto her back. David was moving. The kitchen sounds had
started and he was coming. Lucy reached for her medications.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You’re awake. Feeling any better?’ He smiled at her as she took the
tablets.
‘Back’s sore,’ she replied.
He took off his jumper and his shirt, standing in front of the bed. ‘That’s no good.
Wish there was a magic pill to cure everything’
‘Panadol,’ she replied. ‘Ecstasy terror in a tablet.’
130
He laughed. She watched him as he turned his back and raised his arms to draw the
curtains.
‘Nice bum,’ she said. He was strong like a statue, still perfect in spite of his years of
sex, drugs and rock and roll – at least in a minor, toned down sort of way.
‘Behold,’ he said.
‘I am,’ she replied as he slid open the curtains, dazzling Lucy with the sun-drenched
fruit tree blossoming brilliantly in front of the window. It seemed to give off a white light of
its own like burning magnesium.
‘The bringer of light,’ said David as Lucy heard the clock chime eight.
‘Come over here,’ she said and embraced him. ‘You’re freezing.’
‘Well I can warm up on you then,’ he replied and she screeched like a cockatoo as he
grabbed her. She settled in his arms, trying to avoid the cold bits. ‘Five minutes,’ he said.
‘Then I’ve got to go.’
131
Chapter 12
It was little more than dawdling, but at the time it seemed like a sophisticated strategy to
assess the situation and minimize the extent of the damage. The counsellor found this
interesting. ‘Go on,’ she said and drew out more detail.
‘I didn’t do that often,’ said Lucy. ‘I usually hurried to get home,’ but that failed to
constitute a satisfactory explanation. The counsellor wanted to know why she thought she
was in trouble. Lucy described several incidents as if they were rolled into one, relating her
father’s matter of fact expectations. She knew better than to disturb the order of things. He
would inevitably find offence.
Not that he was always angry. He was quite inconsistent. But sometimes he’d snap an
unkind phrase to inform her of her silly behaviour or that her execution of an everyday task
was substandard. On these occasions he might as well have tied her to the mantelpiece and
lashed her with a cat o’ nine tails, his words stung with such ferocity.
‘So what did you do when you dallied on the way home?’ asked the counsellor.
Lucy squirmed in the armchair. ‘I’d exaggerate in my mind,’ she said. ‘Imagine the
worst case scenario. That he’d be fuming with anger and do something terrible when I got
home, like lock me in my room or something. Then, when I’d gone over and over all the
atrocities that would be sure to happen, I’d find it wasn’t so bad when I eventually got there.
Usually there was nothing wrong at all, actually.’
The counsellor pointed out that this wasn’t a unique situation. ‘It can be difficult
trying to please your father and then realizing that it’s impossible to do everything the way
someone else wants you to. It’s part of growing up.’
Somehow Lucy felt bigger in the chair. She rested her hands on the arms and leaned
slightly forward, as if she wanted to engage with the conversation more fully. It worried her
though. The past was one thing but the present unfurled with an order of its own. It was
easier to recognize events from the past than to alter anything that was happening at the
moment. ‘I can see how that affected the way I grew up,’ she said, ‘but these days I can
hardly move. I’ve got to keep the work up on the properties and now there’s the show.’
The counsellor waited for a few seconds in case Lucy had anything to add. ‘When
you’re ready you’ll know how to tackle things. You can only do what you can manage and
there’s no point in going beyond your own boundaries. Are you still going to painmanagement and physio?’
132
‘Yes. And hydro. But I need more and more morphine just to get through the day. I’m
going to meditation, too.’
‘Maybe you do need the pain-killers just now, but perhaps you could ask your doctor
how much is treating the pain and how much is your body needing larger doses because of
the drug itself.’
‘I know,’ said Lucy. ‘I think I’m an addictive personality and that bothers me. The
show’s interesting too, but I don’t want to go straight into something that isn’t really mine,
even though part of me says I could make it whatever I want.’
‘Hold that thought,’ said the counsellor. ‘That’s something to pick up on later. You
making things your own, rather than letting others disempower you.’
~~~
The effect was always the same. She wanted to react, to scream. Just when her course seemed
plain and conditions were favourable, a sudden squall sucked her straight into the eye of the
storm. It was never enough to ease the sheets and let the wind out of the sails, reduce the
pressure, adjust to the conditions and simply keep going. She had to engage. Lucy flayed in
the water, dismasted and battered like a hapless actor from Turner’s Shipwreck. Sudden
exposure to the forces of the wild manifest in a single imperative: to rally the emotional
strength to yell back in the face of the tempest, ‘no, no, no!’
She read the email again, mentally formulating a response to repudiate each
allegation. It began:
Luce,
You said you would always be there, and you’re right. You will. That’s because
you think you can be above everyone else. But you can’t. You and me, we’re so
close. This mr david must be really something. But he’s not the only one who can play
music. You’ve had at least 2 good men since you met me and you always end up
hurting them. Like they’re not good enough.
The first paragraph was relatively harmless. She’d heard it all before, each time she’d
tried to leave. Sure, she’d met other guys but only when she’d already broken up with Garry.
He didn’t let go easily though. He kept on and on. The first time he knew there was someone
else he simply went nuts, screamed and smashed things when her lover wasn’t there, yelling
133
threats and accusations that made her yell right back. He didn’t even know that this other
relationship had already come to a natural end. After his display, the other guy simply slipped
off never to be seen again.
Next time Lucy was more cautious. Garry was away with his family, which had
prompted the split once again. She met a man who displayed more fortitude. He wouldn’t
simply run off on Garry’s return, leaving the head rooster to strut with even greater self-pride.
Garry countered with more persistent tactics: coming around to work on the house. The
constant sound of his radio invaded most days. Then he kept ringing until Lucy wouldn’t
refuse. There were the illicit meetings and her new lover became suspicious. He grew
increasingly possessive and eventually Garry trapped him into a position of disgrace by
colluding with Lucy to catch him checking up on her.
Garry was in control again, as if this made them so close. But why was he now
accusing her of being above everything? Lucy read on:
I’ve always been totally honest. Provided the money for you to make the
properties nice. It’s a good deal. It’s a huge investment and you’ll only lose everything
unless you stay with it. Like I say I reckon they’ll reach their maximum potential in 3
years.
With you, you have to be in some place above everyone. Like when you’re a
ballet dancer. That’s why the men in your life think they’re your equal but you’ll
always be above them. Like you’re something unattainable.
I’m more honest. I work so we can keep investing. I’m even thinking about
investing in a rock band. They can’t afford to pay their way either. With me you can
share the profits but you won’t be able to share with your mr david because you’ll
always be above him instead of on the same level.
He was twisting it all around. He always did – the master manipulator, asserting
himself as honest then challenging. Systematically pushing her buttons, then challenging her
to engage, toying with her as if she was a captive mouse. Lucy blew her nose.
It was time for her to go to physio even though she was getting sick of it. She wanted
a therapist who would do more hands-on treatment. She sniffed, then read the final passage:
Look, I’m a very reasonable person and I’m being honest, even if that might
be hard for you to understand. You’re no good for your mr david. You’ll only hurt him
like you’ve done before.
What you’ve got to do is live a more healthy lifestyle to get your back right.
Look at me, I eat well and there’s not many men who are more healthy than me. Then
you can get on with the decorating. Maybe even do a course in interior design so we
134
can expand the business as partners. I know construction and you’re good with the
decorating and I know how to invest the money.
Lucy paused before she read the last paragraph. There was always a last paragraph; a final
ultimatum that somehow followed from the general gist of his emails:
If you decide to ignore me it won’t be easy. I’ve got the means to fight you and
keep on until you end up with nothing. The only thing you can do is get your back
better so you can manage your part of the deal. Don’t think that you can just hang
around and expect a payout. If that’s what you’ve got in mind let me assure you that
you will end up very sorry.
~~~
The plane was delayed. That gave David some time to make phone calls after the dash to the
airport. ‘I’ll let you know when I get to Sydney,’ he told Lucy before he cancelled lessons and
arranged for a key to get into Caroline’s. Then he sent Sally a text: Your grandmother has had
some sort of a heart attack. She’s recovering in hospital. I’m going to visit her. I’ll let you
know how she is. Love David.
By the time he’d got a taxi at the ridiculously crowded Mascot terminal it was almost
midnight. ‘Prince of Wales hospital please,’ he said.
He wandered through empty corridors on several floors before finding a cleaner who
directed him: ‘ICU sure. That’s next floor down.’ But even then it wasn’t straightforward.
David peered into sleeping wards looking for a nurses’ station. Struggling with his anxiety, in
an environment that was not his territory.
Eventually he found the intensive section of the coronary unit. ‘Caroline Strong,’ said
the nurse. ‘Wait here a moment.’ David looked around. Each of the pictures on the wall was
accompanied by a few paragraphs describing a former patient’s experience. He turned as the
door behind him opened. ‘She’s just been moved,’ said the nurse. ‘High Dependency Unit
where they can keep a closer eye on her.’ Once again David made his way to the floor below.
‘It’ll take about half an hour for us to admit her. If you take a seat in the waiting area
the doctor will come out and talk to you after he’s assessed her,’ said the HDU sister. So
David sat with his travel bag in the deserted foyer at the end of the cold corridor. The
windows were black against the night sky.
135
‘David Wright,’ said the doctor. They both sat. ‘Your mother’s very sick. She’s
suffered multiple organ failure and we’ve moved her here so we can monitor her closely. To
see if we can find out what’s caused this. She had a heart event before she came in and since
we admitted her, liver and kidney function have deteriorated rapidly. She also has pneumonia
and there was some bleeding too.’
David listened. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘She must be very scared?’
‘Yes. She’s also very disoriented and doesn’t understand what’s happening to her.’
‘But will she be able to recover?’
‘We know she had heart surgery two years ago, but we don’t know what’s caused this
massive breakdown of her other organs. That’s why we’re monitoring her closely. The thing
is deterioration can happen quickly, but healing takes place very slowly.
‘In the event of further deterioration we have to consider just how much intervention
is possible.’ David looked at the brightly coloured soft drink machine. ‘I’d like you to bear
that in mind,’ said the doctor.
David picked up his bag when they both stood up.
The doctor paused. ‘Also, she’s been very confused and we’ve had to restrain her. I
want you to be prepared when you go in to see her.’
She was squirming when they walked in, pulling against the wrist restraints and
shaking her head in an effort to dislodge the oxygen mask. David stopped at the doorway,
rubbing some hand disinfectant through his fingers and palms. Several people were trying to
reassure her, reasoning that she shouldn’t resist, while they checked the lines, drips, and other
monitoring equipment that flanked both sides of the bed. Despite the attention, David’s
immediate impression was that Caroline was alone in an alien world. He looked at the banks
of pumps and monitors. ‘Gosh. Is one of those a toaster?’ he said. Someone smiled and then
the doctor introduced him.
‘This is Caroline’s son, David.’ The nurses and other staff nodded. ‘And this is
Munya, who’ll be looking after your mother tonight.’ A dark-skinned man wearing a
colourful bandana smiled and shook hands. He had an extremely gentle touch and his pearlywhite teeth somehow conveyed a fleeting image of ancient Egypt. Caroline was on a
sarcophagus, being primed and prepared by high priests for her part in a supreme ritual.
136
She was talking almost constantly. ‘I can’t breathe with this thing on me. I’m an old
woman. It’s not fair. I’ve got to go. Will you help me? Fetch me the scissors from the little
table . . .’
‘Hello,’ said David, standing at the end of the bed. She stopped talking and squinted
in an effort to focus her gaze on him.
‘Is that David?’ Everyone looked up, impressed by this act of recognition. ‘What are
you doing here?’ she continued.
‘Just came you see you,’ he replied, walking around the bed to stroke her hair. He felt
the tension of her wrist restraints.
‘We don’t like to,’ said the doctor, ‘but sometimes it isn’t safe when someone’s trying
to get up with all these attached.’
‘Will you do something?’ said Caroline. ‘If you could fetch my good sharp scissors
from the little table.’ David looked at the doctor but he received no instruction or hint of what
to do.
‘We’ll have to wait and see what the doctor says.’
‘You won’t even help me! They’re keeping me here and I haven’t even fed the cat.
I’m an old woman. I can’t stay here all night. If you’d just fetch me the scissors.’
David sat on a chair beside the bed. ‘No. There aren’t any scissors here.’
‘My own son. You’re in with them. I’d never have thought it’d come to this. I’ll
remember. You’ll see. It’s terrible to treat an old woman like this. I can’t even get up.’ David
resisted the urge to react.
‘She can’t help it,’ said the doctor.
‘No. I’m sure,’ replied David. Caroline resumed shaking her head and was now
making some progress in her bid to shed the oxygen mask. ‘Is this necessary?’ said David,
and after explaining the reason for the mask the doctor relented, agreeing to try a tube to the
nose instead.
‘Now I can breathe a little bit,’ said Caroline, until the nurse attempted to fit the tube.
‘No, no, no,’ she said, shaking her head with renewed vigour.
‘I think it was a good thing when you played for the people in the home last week,’
said David. Caroline stopped struggling, and leant over to speak.
‘Yes. So do I,’ she said solemnly. ‘That was for the old people.’
137
As the hours wore on, Caroline continued to struggle and shout. David spoke quite
abruptly at times, telling her that there were no scissors, to stop messing around, get some
rest and that she hadn’t been kidnapped but was actually in hospital. Events from the
narrative that she erratically recited often overlapped and sometimes it was difficult to
determine whether her recollections were from England, Perth, Sydney, Scone, or the present
time. David discovered that she was most clear and collected when talking about her early
musical career. It was possible to speak with her in a calm, clear, and loving way when she
was reliving these days.
‘They had to hoist my piano up to the room above the shop, you know.’
‘In Dulwich Hill?’
‘Yes. Wardell Road. Dad must have done without to have bought me the Steinway.
They used to stop on the corner and listen. Mum said the painters kept in time with their
brushes, painting the big Billy Tea sign. I’d like to see my mother. Could you tell her I’m
here?’ But then it was back to the distorted reality of the present. ‘Where are you from?
You’re not a real nurse,’ she told Munya and struggled with her restraints again. ‘There’s a
little gap there if I can just squeeze out, but you’ll have to fetch me the scissors.’
‘But you were playing with the orchestra then,’ said David.
‘Huh,’ said Caroline turning to look at him. ‘The Brahms D minor, but it was the
Tchaikovsky first.’ She smiled. ‘Goosey helped me get on the stage because I was nervous.’
Eventually the doctor came in and calmly announced that Caroline should rest. He
told David that her vital signs were as stable as could be expected but she was disturbing the
other patients. ‘They’re sick too,’ he said.
‘It’s not fair. I’m an old woman.’
‘No. It isn’t fair is it,’ replied the doctor.
David spoke softly and tried to encourage Caroline to get some rest. She kept
wriggling, confined by the restraints. Sometimes she stopped suddenly, and started talking.
‘He was good like that,’ she said.
‘Goosey?’
‘He demanded a lot though. I was only young, you know.’
David considered what an influence he had been. ‘He’s still with you, even now.’
‘He had no orchestra in the end. That’s what killed him. It was wrong.’
138
The doctor came back and told David they were going to administer a sedative to
make her sleep. David nodded but Caroline continued.
‘I think that’s what happened to me. It was a nervous breakdown because he pushed
me too hard. I got to a certain point in the fugue.’
‘What fugue?’
‘The Bussoni, Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue.’
‘What did you do?’ asked David.
‘I just stopped-’
~
Out in the night. Red light bathed the bitumen as he approached the crossroads. He continued
walking onto the road and stood on a dark patch in the middle of Avoca Street. First looking
south towards Botany Bay then to the north, as if tracing the old track to Sydney Cove. All of
a sudden green light illuminated the intersection, beckoning nocturnal travellers like a siren
calling sailors across otherwise dark waters. ‘Celery stalks at midnight,’ said David out loud.
Then he laughed, wondering where that phrase came from. The siren’s celery lights washed
the centre of the deserted junction with an exquisite hue, an ethereal green through the
ghostly haze with something of an aquamarine tinge. He could clearly hear Tchaikovsky’s
Piano Concerto No.1 and he dropped his bag as the majestic chords rolled into his
consciousness like a series of waves, washing Caroline’s Steinway to centre stage. She was
commanding the colours of the crossroads and David stood silently until an amber flash
disturbed him, then red. ‘Don’t walk,’ it said. He picked up his bag but waited before heading
east, towards the sea, as if a run-out tide was pulling him. ‘Walk,’ said the green light.
~~~
Pat huffed as she slumped down at Lucy’s feet. After all, it was late for the computer screen
to be flickering. Lucy looked at her dog. Her thoughts were with David, but she was also
compelled to check her emails. It took an eon for the bloody thing to boot up.
Luce,
I must point out how rude it is of you not to reply to my emails...
139
She winced. He had gone for a quick response. Of course she should have replied to his
earlier messages. It was rude of her, and even now her finger hovered over the keyboard –
drawn like Pavlov’s dog to respond immediately: I’m sorry. What other option was there?
She read on:
… but as I’ve said clearly already this doesn’t surprise me.
She stared at the screen but then a smile came to her face and she read the message
out loud imitating the voice of Marlon Brando as The Godfather:
I told you there’s no point in doing anything for the next 3 years. It’s not a good time
to do business. We’ve got to stay put till then. You’ll see.
Double dare. The set-up. Either you do as I say or it’s your fault, as predicted. It was
always like that. The amazing property boom was always three years away. It was no more
than the proverbial dangled carrot. Lucy huffed and Pat looked up. Then Marlon returned:
It’s no good pretending it’s any different.
And with deadly resolve the amicable veneer of the Godfather’s message turned:
You’d better understand how patient I am. But even so every man’s patience wears
thin eventually. I’ve got the money and I’ll drag this on so you’ll only lose.
Lucy glared at the final line:
Haven’t I taught you nothing!
The glow from the late night computer sucked sensation from the room. Pat lay still
and Lucy heard the deafening surge of blood pulse through her own body, amplified by the
vacuous atmosphere. Pat looked up as she slammed the computer keyboard with her hand.
‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’ she said, stamping her feet before reigning herself in, to
avoid a fully-fledged collapse. ‘Fuck off!’
She was sitting in the kitchen with her dog, hot water bottle, glass of port and an
Endone when David’s message arrived.
Caroline had another incident. A stroke. They’re saying there’s nothing they can do.
I’m OK. Keep in touch.
~~~
‘I can still remember her Brahms, the D minor’ said a man called Colin
140
‘I do too,’ said a woman who wore rather chunky jewellery. Despite her eighty years
she looked striking. ‘Her performance was so strong.’ Talk turned to the Goossens years and
David listened as always to the larger than life memories that the old students and colleagues
shared. They never mentioned the difficulties, the issues with the orchestra, or the suggestion
that the maestro of their youth had passed his prime by the time he came to Australia. They
were the ones who had made it after all, and it was more to their advantage to remember how
his encouragement had defined the course of their own careers. His uncanny ability to bring
out the best had eclipsed the indifferent reception that his later works had received, and the
old cohort stood as testament to the positive aspects of his influence.
‘I for one would love to hear The Apocalypse again said the woman wearing the
jewels, ‘Why doesn’t someone record it?’ David withdrew to sit with his thoughts, leaving
the old performers in the background. There was no escape for them. They were saturated
with music through a lifetime of involvement. He watched them moving with a legacy of
theatrical mannerisms, still fresh from their years of performing. He smiled, exchanging
greetings with those he knew. Each offered hearty condolences. He filled his glass with a dry
white wine and sat on a bench underneath a pine tree.
‘Hello, David. No, don’t get up,’ said Colin, reaching out his hand. ‘Colin Woolcot. I
am so sorry about your mother,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
David had been observing the older man but couldn’t quite place him. He knew Caroline’s
close friends but was only familiar with her more distant colleagues and student associates,
through her often repeated stories. Her recollections usually focused on people who had
moved on to reach ‘the very top of their profession,’ as she would say. Over the years he’d
formed, or tried to form, an impression of those heady days. Some were performers,
conductors, or composers, and others were academics, or commentators on music. All David
really knew was that they came from the same stable – the Conservatorium during the
Goossens’ years.
Colin sat, and sipped his wine. ‘Your mother was such a powerful pianist,’ he said.
‘She appeared quite vulnerable, on the stage but when she was at the piano it was
mesmerizing.’
‘Thank you,’ said David. ‘You’ve held that memory for a long while.’
‘I’ve never experienced quite the same sense of excitement ever since,’ he went on.
David looked at him, bent in thought, or reminiscence, holding his wineglass between his
141
fingers with his elbows resting on his knees. ‘First came the feeling of anticipation, with the
orchestra tuning and the audience taking their seats. I used to arrive a bit early and sit in the
stalls to take it in. Then everyone would hush, waiting for Goossens to come on. When he led
Caroline out to the front of the stage she just stood there looking radiant, but also vulnerable.’
‘She said she used to hold his hand,’ said David. He had imagined Caroline’s
performances but the depth of Colin’s feelings took him closer.
‘She did,’ he said with a chuckle, and sipped his wine. ‘I think she was so nervous
that she couldn’t let go. And then he’d lead her to the piano and she’d be fine.’
David looked at the others chatting in the dappled light and then he looked back to
Colin. ‘You were at the Con with Caroline then?’
‘Oh yes. Many of us lost touch with her when she married your father and moved to
England. How is Jack, by the way?’
David sipped his wine. His father had always been fine, never admitting to any
shortcoming or health issue. ‘He’s doing well,’ he said. ‘Retired from playing. But he plays
the piano in the mornings. Just for himself. Says he prefers it to TV.’
Colin smiled. ‘Lovely. I’d forgotten he even played the piano. He was rather
overshadowed by Caroline in that regard. Tell me, what about you?’
It was unusual for anyone to ask. Throughout his life it had always been musicians
talking about their own careers, past or present, and the question amused him. ‘I lead a quiet
life in the country, these days,’ he said, and told Colin about his cottage and the way he’d
been experimenting with charging batteries using solar panels in order to make a fridge. He
went on to talk about his boat. ‘I’ve been working on the hull for some time and now I’m
getting on with the fit out.’
‘So you can sail away even further?’
David laughed. ‘I miss the sea. At the moment it’s a bit like the glider that the
prisoners built during the war.’
‘The Colditz Cock,’ said Colin.
‘That’s the one. Maybe I’ll finish it and retire to the sea one day.’
‘That sounds like a plan that you need to put into practice if it’s going to happen,’ said
Colin. ‘But what about music? I know that you play, and teach too.’
142
David looked up and paused for a moment. ‘Thanks for asking,’ he said and went on
to tell Colin about his teaching, his own musical career, his interest in the Goossens years,
and The Margin.
‘You’ll be needing a rehearsal space then.’
‘Working on it.’ He’d been looking and had set his sights on the old Capital in
Castlemaine. It was closed and was on the market. ‘I’m thinking of leasing a place if I can.
An old theatre that a scenery-maker friend was telling me about but I need to fund it
somehow.’
‘Well, good luck with that.’
‘Thanks. Anyway it’s astute of you to think of it.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Colin. ‘Stands to reason. You’ve got to get the show off the
planning stages and into rehearsal. Same as that yacht of yours. It’s there, but you’ve got to
launch it if it’s going to sail. If it’s important to you, that is.’ He tilted his glass to indicate that
it was empty. David shrugged, replicating the motion to indicate that his was in a similar
condition. ‘It’s good to meet you and to hear of Jack,’ he said shaking hands with the light
touch of a musician, before he went to rejoin his old colleagues.
David thought about the old theatre and how to pay for it, as he watched Colin go. His
middle name was Colin.
143
Part Three
Don’t squander too much time on the easy, the obvious, the prefabricated, or the possible!
Pursue the impossible and vault with it.
Sir Eugene Goossens.
144
Chapter 13
Seagulls distracted him, swarming past to settle on the sand around the rubbish bin.
Southwesterly gusts whipped up the otherwise indifferent sea, but the white caps only
stabbed at the darker water with angry splashes that punctuated the drab reflection of the grey
sky. Even the breaking waves seemed half-hearted in their lacklustre labour of dumping
clumps of seaweed onto the beach, and mist enveloped the island, extending the formlessness
of the dull day. David walked along the sand, sometimes stopping to stare at odd pieces of
kelp that lay in tangled piles at the otherwise deserted high tide mark.
The seagulls squawked into action as he approached, taking off and then hovering
over the sand, to land again in much the same spot as before. David smiled as the stronger
gusts of wind ruffled their plumage. He kept on his course, up the steps to the traffic lights,
then across the road to the Coogee Bay.
‘You’re early,’ said Chris, pulling a schooner for him.
‘Should always have one at eleven,’ he replied, the ambiguous reference to the old
Carlton ale caption successfully stifling further small talk. He sat at the window looking over
the intersection to the beach and then got up to leave.
Chris cocked her head from behind the bar as if to ask if he wanted another, but he lay
his glass down to signify that he was out.
‘Ta,’ he said. ‘Got to catch a plane. Going home.’
The taxi skirted Centennial Park, passed the racecourse, and continued down Alison Road to
merge with the mass of airport traffic. David arrived early and sat facing the wall at the
departure lounge. When a tear welled in his eye as the inevitable aftermath his memories of
his mother, or his face quivered with an involuntary emotional twitch, he simply wiped it
with his hands. He sent a message to Lucy. At the airport, about to get on the plane.
You OK? Have been thinking of you.
I’ll be fine.
He got up to wash his face before boarding and repeated the process after disembarking at
Tullamarine.
It wasn’t a time to talk, so much as to maintain a self-sufficient level of composure
that’d enable him to get back to the car. He almost lost it at the pay station, and for a moment
contemplated the irrational notion of picking up the entire machine and hurling it to the
145
heavens, like Superman. He refrained, to avoid disturbing his fellow motorists who were
queuing behind him in an orderly fashion. Instead he said, ‘stupid thing,’ and they chuckled
in empathy as he eventually managed to insert his credit card correctly in order to escape the
car park and take the familiar route home.
~
A red glow penetrated the thick forest even before he could see the flames. There was no
mistaking it, having seen a wooden house go up at night once before. The spectacle remained
etched in his mind. ‘It’s really pretty,’ he thought as he drew closer, watching the pink and
orange flames lick at the sky.
David clenched his teeth in defiance of the reality that dawned. It wasn’t until he
reached the corner that he could no longer avoid the truth, slowing down, and then drawing to
a halt. A knot tightened in his stomach and he felt a weight sink down from his chest,
pressing uneasily.
Other cars had stopped and families were standing, looking up the hill. He could see
the flashing lights and hear the racket of fire engines. The place was glowing nicely now,
after the initial blaze of the weatherboards. He moved forwards in first gear.
Red and blue lights strafed the driveway and stretched over the paddocks. Both of the
local fire trucks were there as well as two police cars and a lot of people. He recognized
some, but was sure that others were strangers. It seemed as though they were all walking
around – going about their business slowly and silently outside the burning building. The
weight that pressed on his internal organs intensified, and as he looked up something
exploded. Random thoughts flew through his mind: the clock on the mantelpiece, Sally’s
kindergarten pictures, his teapot, the music room, the little radio beside his bed. He wondered
what sort of chord his piano would unleash when the frame shattered, a final cadence to mark
its death throes.
He approached the scene slowly, not with caution but as if he was suspended in slow
motion. Then he realized it wasn’t the house, it was the shed. The lofted structure located on
the hill behind the house, had given a false impression of the source of the flames. The frame
was still standing. It was the first structure he’d built and it was solidly constructed with large
posts and beams, recycled from an old sheep station. The explosions he heard had come from
146
petrol, outboard motors, the lawn mower, whippersnipper, paints and other combustible
materials. Then the roof caved in with an almighty crash and David thought how awkward it
would have been for the car if it was parked in its usual spot.
He looked around to check on his boat. It was sitting undamaged as he had left it.
Turning back to see the timbers glowing red, with smoke issuing from where the twisted
roofing lay, he stood transfixed, then walked forward, very slowly. His heart raced as blood
rushed through his system. He held his jaw tight and tasted the smoke, which collected in the
back of his throat. As he breathed in the gathering gloom, he wondered what had become of
the batteries and the refrigerator he was making.
~~~
Little waves splashed around the rocks, sending ripples across the surface. They both stared
at the effect this had on the micro-cosmos. Flashes of orange growth clinging to the sides
amidst deep purple weed streamed over the sand, rocks, and shells, illustrating the direction
of the flow. The whole rock pool shimmered with shattered sunlight.
‘I should have been there with you,’ said Lucy. David didn’t reply at first. Instead he
poked his finger into the water and observed the small, but perceptible, ring of concentric
circles emanating from the epicentre he’d created. Eventually he spoke, recalling odd details
from the hospital: the doctor who was helpful, the sister who seemed supercilious but was
really very kind, and the African nurse’s patience.
‘Caroline didn’t have a clue where she was,’ he said. Lucy rested her hand on his arm
and they strolled along the beach, both gazing into the distance. When Lucy mentioned the
fire David only seemed concerned about his boat. Then at one point he stopped and said, ‘It
never flew.’
‘What?’
‘The glider that the prisoners made. Like, they built it but never launched it. Didn’t
have the chance, I guess.’
‘Or didn’t want to?’
‘Maybe. Somehow they’d filled a bathtub with concrete to drop down the castle wall
to catapult it out of the roof. Maybe that’s when someone got cold feet: “Right lads. I want a
volunteer to hop up there, and off you go”,’ he said, imitating David Niven.
147
‘No thanks Sir. Don’t want to,’ replied Lucy, and they laughed, squeezed hands, and
fell into a deep embrace. Warm and deliberate, yet spontaneous.
‘I was thinking of calling the boat Caroline,’ he said.
‘That would be lovely. Then you can launch her, and sail away. It’s just a shame about
all the stuff that went up in the fire, but you’ll be able to replace most of it, won’t you?’
‘Sure. It’s a matter of getting things done bit by bit. I still can’t believe it. Then I still
need a crew. “Volunteer required for a sea voyage”,’ he said in his imitative voice.
‘Yes cap’n. Lucy Fields reporting, cap’n.’ They turned to make their way back to the
motel. ‘Just set the course, and let me get my bearings.’ David smiled. She squeezed his arm
a little tighter and, for the first time, he noticed that she wasn’t using her stick.
‘Well. Let’s see. Steer a couple of points to starboard, helmsman person,’ he said.
‘That’ll take you across the bar and out through the heads. Like a rebirth, through the narrow
channel, and out into the big wide world, where you can sniff the salty scent of a spreading
horizon.’
She looked at him, breathing in the tang of seabirds, kelp, and the fishy air. For the
first time he told her a little of his plans. ‘From Port Phillip it’s a day to Refuge Cove at
Wilson’s Prom. You can rest up as long as you like, it’s sheltered from everything, but you
won’t get radio or mobile phone reception there. Pick your weather and then lay Lakes
Entrance. There’s not much till Eden from there, except Gabo Island, and then we can begin.’
Lucy noticed the collective pronoun. ‘Got the job then, did I?’
‘Well, I prefer volunteers to press ganged crew. You’ll do. We can wait for the
Humpbacks, and join their migration, day by day, all the way up the coast to Hervey Bay.
They love it there, and you’d get to know them all – flippers, flukes, head markings, scars.
‘There’s a point just shy of the Sandy Cape light where they pass between the land
and a shoal. When the calves are old enough, and they’ve learnt all the songs they’ll need, the
mothers lead them that way. Out into the open waters of the world.
‘We can follow them to Lady Elliot, and Lady Musgrave, then past 1770 and right
through the Capricornia section of the reef. Pull in at the Percy’s, and past McKay to the
Whitsundays. Drop in at Airley Beach, or Bowen, and keep on going. That’s about all I can
think of right now.’
‘Are you going to put in a bathroom?’
148
David laughed. ‘That’s pretty important. It’s called a head on a boat. But there’s
places to stop too, like towns with hot showers and cold beer, unless you want to go all the
way to Lizard Island.’
‘Lucy breathed in again. ‘Aye aye. A couple of points to starboard it is then,’ she said,
and they sat silently on a sand dune, watching the waves roll in.
~
Claustrophobia surfaced. She kept it at bay as much as possible and tried to concentrate on
being at the beach. Maybe it was no more than his way of escaping the reality of Caroline’s
death and the things that he’d need to sort out about her estate, or maybe it was the fire. It
frightened her but so did the idea of sailing over deep water with massive whales underneath
cooped up in a tiny boat that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. She kept her fears to herself,
deciding to tell him about Garry’s correspondence instead.
‘I’ve had enough. It starts out nicely enough, but then he turns to threats.’
David blinked as he transferred his gaze from the shoreline to her face. ‘Somewhere
along the line you’re going to have to make a break. Leave him.’
‘I’m not with him. I’m with you.’
On the surface that seemed to be so. ‘Why is it so hard for you to let go?’
‘It’s not, now. I’ll tell you what he said: “haven’t I taught you nothin’!” like he really
thinks I’m a pet parrot.’
‘But you’ve got to think for yourself, anyway,’ said David. This talk of Garry was
becoming too tedious. He kept interceding when he wanted to get away from a reality that
was too much right now.
‘That’s just it,’ she replied. ‘I used to do whatever he said, instead of what I wanted.’
David held her hand. She was staring across the sand. His face opened, offering her a
generous smile. ‘That’s why it’s important to write about it, talk, express. To do the show.’
‘The show?’ said Lucy. ‘Garry’s talking about backing some rock band and putting on
a show too now.’
‘What?’
The conversation was giving her stomach cramps. Her reaction to Caroline’s death
triggered something deeper in her, loss in the lofty slopes of Shangri-la. But her memory of
149
her mother did nothing to release the dread of entrapment that formed the warp and weft of
her life ever since. She knew the thin hope of finding a measure of elusive happiness would
come from within her, not via Garry’s, or any other guy’s, agenda. Running away to sea
wasn’t the way. That only gave her a sinking feeling of deeper dread. She looked at David
and said, ‘What’s the show got to do with it?’
‘Everything. I’m not just putting on a rock band to make a buck. It’s all about Goosey
and Roie. Their relationship was only illicit because they didn’t conform.’
‘But they were so different. He was supposed to be such an upstanding person, and
the great maestro of the orchestra, and she was this occult bohemian artist.’
‘Exactly. They were. That was the image of them in the public eye, the way the
newspapers wrote about them. But their relationship was private. It was up to them. Nobody
had the right to turn around and say, haven’t I taught you nothing! That’s just being told what
someone else wants you to do, whether it’s Garry, or a collective of so called upstanding
citizens calling the shots. Do what I say, or else. So what if Garry wants to help out a rock
band!’
~
The old Capital Theatre had never been abandoned, but it hadn’t shown films for ages.
‘You’ve got to have a look at it,’ said David. It was direct of him, but she liked it and asked
questions. The answers flowed naturally as he told her about the scenery-makers, and their
extraordinary skills. They had just finished a show, making sculptures, huge rocks that
weighed next to nothing, big polystyrene props, wooden sets, and fantastic rubbery masks.
‘They looked amazing, particularly the rats. They had eyebrows and whiskers that looked so
real. Now they’ve got another show to do in Queensland, and the lease is still good till the
end of the financial year.’
‘The lease on the theatre? That’s pretty convenient,’ she replied, suppressing an
uneasy feeling.
‘Well, they’re old friends of mine,’ said David, explaining that they turned their hand
at anything. ‘When there’s money in doing rock acts they’d be there, and when there’s a
contract for an opera or a ballet they’ll tender for that too.’
‘So how come they’ll let you use it?’
150
‘Theatre workers need friends too, you know,’ he replied, explaining the difficulties of
working in make believe. ‘They need time out for themselves. I’ve worked with them a bit.
Sometimes some of the guys come out to my place to chill for a few days. They don’t forget
– see it like they owe me.’
He continued describing the venue and the flat underneath. Lucy listened, strangely
tantalized by the idea. It’d be her theatre, her space, and it could also provide a way out, a
halfway house, separate from the pull of Garry’s assertiveness, a way stop on the road to a
future. She could do The Margin, on her own terms, and it’d be part of her study too. The
idea had appeal. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘I want to get out of Garry’s, but what happens
after the financial year?’
David walked over to join Lucy at the motel kitchen, and leant against the wall.
‘There’s a lot to do. I’m taking time off from school so I can sort out Caroline’s things in
Sydney. Then there’s the insurance stuff from the fire.’ Lucy looked at him. He seemed to be
racing through a lot of territory, all at once. He went on, ‘But I should be able to find time to
set up the show, if I’m not going to school. I’ll need to work out the finances so we can afford
to pay the cast and keep the theatre until at least Christmas.
~
Red and green navigation lights flickered at the harbour entrance. David counted the seconds,
and explained the significance of the quick and long sequences of flashes. It was peaceful
enough from the motel verandah, but Lucy was still worried. She didn’t want David to sail
away and leave her, but the prospect of heading into the unknown in a small boat didn’t
appeal to her. either ‘It’s OK sitting here looking out over the surface, but it’s what’s
underneath that bothers me,’ she said.
David continued counting the seconds between flashes. ‘What’s underneath doesn’t
bother me. I’ve always wanted to run away to sea.’
‘But it does me,’ she said lighting another cigarette. ‘The idea of going into the
unknown scares me.’
‘Lots of things are unknown,’ he replied, thinking about his present predicament. The
insurance company wasn’t impressed with his explanation for leaving the batteries charging.
‘Working out how to make a refrigerator,’ just didn’t sit easily on their claims form,
151
particularly when the fire investigator had singled this out as the cause of the blaze. Even so,
he was covered for fire, and most of what was lost could be replaced, although working with
brand new tools would be strange. He still had to wait for the outcome of the assessment
anyway.
Caroline’s estate was more straightforward. She had kept her important documents in
orderly folders, and David had discussed options for her old age. She said that she would
favour selling up, so that there would be enough money for her needs. Now that the time for
going into care had passed, matters were cut and dried.
As well as these issues, David felt a strong concern for each of his students. Despite
this, the Education Department had been quick to honour the leave that was due to him, and a
replacement teacher would step into his job. That only left the uncertainty of The Margin and
Lucy’s part in it. He wanted to grapple with the fundamentals of the production, to get his
ideas and his music out from his notebooks, off the page and onto the stage. He sighed,
sipped his wine, and said, ‘working out how to deal with things is the hardest part of it all.
Putting the show together’s just a series of little jobs, one after the other – sand this, paint
this, fix this, and then rehearse it.’
‘Well, I’m glad you can think like that with all these things going on. At least I could
bring you down here, for a couple of days. Not a bad place to sit and look over things, is it?’
David thought about it. He put his arm around her. She still smelt of cigarettes. He
stroked her head, and moved closer in order to rest her head on his shoulder. ‘Maybe I should
buy a place near the sea. Then I can sail away, and you can welcome me back when I’m safe
in the harbour,’ he said.
‘Maybe it’s me who should buy a place by the sea. Does sound nice though. Time for
bed, so we can get out of here by ten tomorrow.’
~~~
Blackened debris and twisted tin lay in a monumental pile on the hillside, surrounded by a
big patch of darkened earth. Sometimes he found a familiar shape, the blade of a chisel, or a
piece of barbed wire that didn’t yield to the heat. It seemed indiscriminate that the sootsmoked world within the ruin contained buried artefacts that by rights should have melted,
152
alongside the hardest items of tempered steel, rendered almost formless by the intensity of the
inferno. It was dirty work.
David pulled pieces of tin from the rubble. Sometimes they came away easily, and he
could stack them without further ado, but other pieces were still attached to angle iron and
other bits. He thought about his angle grinder – gone. Even his long extension cord was gone,
so power tools were useless. He picked up whatever tools he could find in the car or the boat,
and worked as best he could, holding the metal in his blackened gloves. It became a
methodical process, treading carefully to avoid injury, and carefully considering the best way
to disentangle the components of the defunct roof.
The lofted part, over where he kept the car, was easy. It was just a big, empty space.
That left the skillions on either side. Each piece of roofing that he cleared revealed burnt out
objects, from the water pump to stainless steel rigging and other boat parts. By late morning
he had stacked much of what he could. He wiped his sooty brow and blew blackened bits
from his nose, watching the car coming up the track.
She hugged him, which he thought was cavalier of her, given his grimy condition.
Then he followed her around as she inspected the site. ‘I think I’ll rake through it bit by bit,
to see what turns up,’ he said.
‘That’s thorough,’ Lucy replied, stepping out of the ruin, having decided that her
hands and runners were becoming needlessly stained. ‘The other option would be just to
bulldoze it.’
‘I know,’ said David, still fascinated by tiny details – traces of whatever had been
engulfed by the conflagration, yet still existed beneath the rubble. ‘There might be some
interesting sculptural items.’
‘What about being practical?’ David turned to look at her. She must have been talking
about rebuilding and moving on. He told her about the insurance assessor.
‘Funny thing. He’s been asking if there was somebody else here. They say it was the
batteries being overcharged, so the electrolyte dried up and some newspaper, or dry grass, or
something combustible ignited from a spark. I said I didn’t think that could happen from the
solar pane, not enough watts, and then he wanted to know who else could have been here.’
Lucy looked at him, and then walked over to where she remembered the batteries had
been, on a makeshift shelf beside the outboard motors. ‘There’s nothing left of them,’ she
said.
153
‘Not the aluminium,’ he replied. ‘That gets white hot.’
‘So why do they think there was someone here?’ she said.
‘It hadn’t occurred to me. But this guy wanted to know everything: how far off the
ground the batteries were, where the petrol for the motors was, what other combustible
materials were nearby. He wrote it all down, and then said, “Is there any way that someone
else could have been in here?” At the time I said no because I’ve never had any problems like
that around here.’
‘Did he think the fire was deliberate?’
‘No. I think he accepted what I said but it made me wonder. I’ve lived with solar
power for ages, and none of the other batteries have overcharged and caught on fire.’
Lucy turned looked at him, stained like a chimney sweep. He took off his gloves,
massaging his slender, musician’s fingers. As they walked towards the house Lucy said, ‘It
could be Garry. He’s just smart enough to set it up so it looks like an accident.’
~~~
‘It’s big,’ she said, standing centre stage stretching both arms at shoulder height and
rotating her hands. David stood in the middle of the auditorium, talking with his old friend
Pete. They both looked up. Lucy thought of curtsying, but decided against it. Although her
ease of movement was improving she was wary of overdoing things. ‘It’d be fantastic to hold
the meditation group in this space,’ she said.
‘You can,’ replied David. ‘You can do whatever you want here, in between
rehearsals.’
‘Yeah. I suppose I can,’ she said, and turned in a full circle, using delicate little steps.
Coming here was certainly abrupt, but, then again, that was how she’d come to most life
situations, spontaneously and suddenly. It felt OK, if not a hundred per cent right. The pieces
were falling into place. Moving away from Garry, but leaving the properties tenanted for the
time being, so money was still coming in.
David followed Pete to the corner where equipment, and bundles of material were
stacked. ‘There’s a rock show lined up for when we get back, but some of this stuff might be
good for your show too. There’s theatre drapes, legs, teasers, tormentors, chiffon, and a
Tarkett dance floor.’
154
‘What colour’s the Tarkett?’ said Lucy, coming down the steps from the stage with the
aid of her stick, to inspect the heavy rolls.
‘Don’t lift it,’ said David. She shot him a classic look of incredulity, complete with
eyebrow raises.
‘You do think I’m dumb, don’t you. I just want to check the other side.’ She peeled
back the corner revealing that it was white. ‘Fantastic. They can dance on this, and it can be a
screen too.’
David saw what she was getting at. ‘Brilliant. So we can project the images on a
screen at the back, and on the floor too. Over the whole stage, and onto the dancers. See, it’s
snapping into place, isn’t it?’
Lucy smiled, and David held her hand. ‘We’ll need at least 4,000 lumens, or 5,000
would be better, for more resolution.’ Her enthusiasm was driving her – rising above the
oppressive climate that recent events had imposed on them both.
‘What’s the rock show then?’ asked David.
‘Some guy’s pet project.’ said Pete, re-stacking some chiffon. ‘Don’t know much
about it. I met him at an opening night. Funny guy.’ Lucy sat on a pile of plush velvet, and
David stood beside her. ‘He’s not an artist, not at all. Reckons art has to describe something
he can understand and relate to. Like he needs to know what it means before it’s any good.
So, he wants to do this show but he wants to stay in the background. It’s a rock spectacular,
with dancers, like showgirls or strippers.’
They were silent for a moment. Garry flashed through Lucy’s mind, like a red light on
a passing fire engine, but her suspicion was too much to accept. Instead she said, ‘Like a
porno AC/DC show,’ and they all laughed.
‘Well, he’s got the money,’ said Pete. ‘This stuff just turned up one day, “here’s some
of the gear we’ll be using.” he said. He’d got it from a show at a casino that closed’
‘David ran his fingers over the velvet beside Lucy. ‘It’d be good if we could interest
him in The Margin instead.’
‘Who knows,’ said Pete. ‘Maybe you can.’
Lucy was about to say something, but thought better of it, and turned away.
155
Chapter 14
As she paced the perimeter of the space, memories of shows from the past flickered through
her mind and mingled with images and ideas for the work in hand. Now it was hopeless with
her stick, but she felt vulnerable without it. Nonetheless, the dimension of the working area
was crucial. She had to walk it, feel it from a dancer’s perspective before she could imagine
the physical plane, and dare to direct the show. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to demonstrate
was a depressing reality, so she took an Endone, her cigarettes and lighter from her bag and
went outside to sit on the back fire escape, with Pat following at her heels. Pete was there,
pulling the makings of a cigarette from a crumpled pouch.
‘Hello,’ he said, ruffling Pat’s thick mane. ‘Good spot to catch a bit of sun, long as it’s
not too early, eh.’
‘Hi. Sure is. The mornings are freezing though.’ Pat chose a spot on the metal step,
and Lucy sat down beside her.
‘Light,’ said Pete, shielding a match in his hands and offering it to her before lighting
his own. ‘Dropping off some odds and ends. Then I’m off to Queensland. Got White Gaffa
for you too, to join the Tarkett, like you were talking about.’
The sun left an angular shadow on the brickwork below them, having risen high
enough to warm the top of the staircase, where she was sitting. The metal step was cold on
her bottom although Pat didn’t seem to mind.
‘David says you’re going to use this show as part of your study,’ said Pete.
‘May as well,’ she replied, and told him how awkward she felt about being unable to
dance.
‘Don’t worry. If your cast’s up to it, just schedule the rehearsals, do the blocking, and
tech stuff. Then they’ll know what to do.’
Lucy knew that was true. The dancers just needed her to tell them what was going on.
If she did her job, they’d do theirs.
‘So. You’re studying angels? How’s that going to work with the show?’
‘It all ties in,’ replied Lucy, stubbing out her tailor made before it reached the filter,
and scraping the embers into a pile in the corner of the stairs. ‘I’ll try to explain, if you’ve got
the time? But I’m still working on it myself.’
‘Sure. If it helps.’
156
Lucy looked up at him. The mid-morning sun was shining on his curly hair and
splashing over his bony, yet rather elegant frame. She wondered if he’d been a dancer before
settling into a life of backstage work. She was positive that his sexual preference wasn’t for
women.
‘The maestro, Goossens, is the narrator. He’s got position, and power,’ she began,
going on to describe Roie and her art. ‘We want to present it as beautiful, rather than
sensationalize the scandal. That’s been done to death.’ She told him about Gavin, the poet,
how the police hounded Roie and him, and how the press revelled in the story of their occult,
bohemian, Kings Cross lifestyle.
‘Goossens used to meet her there. He went right out of his expected role in society. I
want to do a pas de deux with them, and with Roie’s images coming to life.’
‘Wow. That’s sensational. Dancers coming out of the projected images. 4,000
lumens’d be fine, but you’re right. 5’d be better.’
‘Yeah. Think it’ll work?’ she said, going on to describe the way parochial 1950s
Sydney couldn’t let them be, dragging their personal lives into the arena of public judgment.
‘The fall from grace,’ said Pete, screwing out his cigarette butt with the sole of his
shoe.
‘Exactly. But Roie and Goosey’s work lived on beyond the supposed fall, anyway.
They had faith in what they were doing.’
‘Ah!’
Lucy found herself talking about God, angels and Jesus as saviour, drawing an
analogy between divine power and the power that art and music have to move the spirit in
each of us. ‘So, with Judeo-Christian belief, the beauty’s in the pure love. The Virgin Mary
gave birth, on earth, of course, not in Kings Cross, but in a manger, right? So my pas de
deux’s about Roie and Goosey finding faith in each other. Their relationship was important,
but society couldn’t help it. They had to crucify them, just like they did Jesus in the Christian
story.’
They remained silent for some seconds before Pete said: ‘So what about your own life
then? David says you’re trying to get away from some bloke.’
She wrapped her arms around herself, and leaned to the side, so she could see inside
the hall. Her dancers were chatting and settling in to their warm-up routine. She sat up
straight on the step again, turning her head to look at Pete. ‘Yes,’ she said.
157
‘So, how’s it going there?’
Lucy exhaled audibly, in a series of short bursts. He was direct, but seemed sincere.
She’d already talked more openly than usual. ‘His name’s Garry,’ she said. ‘It’s funny though.
He’s like the opposite of all this. The inverse. He’s the adversary. He promises everything,
but can’t deliver.’
‘You mean the opposite of the Virgin Mary?’
‘When you think of it like that, yes,’ replied Lucy, aware, but bemused by the way she
was opening up to Pete. ‘Garry’s power is himself. He thinks he’s all pure love, and I’m the
dancer, or at least I was the beautiful thing that he needed to trap. His place isn’t Kings Cross,
it’s these properties that we brought together, his money, but my work. Now he doesn’t like
being rejected. There’s no amicable life ever after, beyond settlement, or beyond the grave.
The only way for him’s to totally destroy. Then he’ll move on, I guess. There’s no hope of
life beyond what he can control.’
Pete put his hand on her shoulder. Lucy responded by placing her hand over his, and
patting it. ‘It’s OK. I like it that I’m talking about this stuff. Thanks.’ Pete pulled his hand
away to fish in his pocket for his tobacco. Lucy lit her own cigarette.
‘Heavy stuff though,’ he said.
‘Yeah. But when you think about all that fall from grace stuff, it’s like what Garry
does to himself. He sets himself up as the enlightened one, light bearer, God of power, but he
can’t live up to it. All he’s got’s himself, so it’s inevitable that his vanity’s going to catch up,
and bring him down.’
‘True enough, but what about you though? Why did you pick up with a married bloke
when there wasn’t anything in it for you?’
‘I thought there was. Didn’t know he was still married and always will be with her.
And I thought he really was enlightened at first.’
~~~
The music seeped into gaps, snaking into Lucy’s sensibility by means of a reedy theme from
the bass clarinet. Then it took the form of luscious harmonies, played by the strings, although
it was actually a flute that first secured her attention. When she was sitting outside with Pete
it occurred to her that Pan might be nearby. Before long it drew her inside, as if she was being
158
called by something. But as soon as she thought she could glimpse a place where this music
came from, belonged, or pointed towards, her perception vanished, her understanding
evaporated, and her reward was simply to smile.
She wasn’t alone in this experience. Her dancers had stopped chattering, and marking
their movement and warming up, and get their legs and upper body movement in sync with
the music. David was standing beside the stage, setting up for the band. He had pointed the
PA speakers inwards, towards the dancers, so the rich harmonies washed over them. Their
movements responded to the sound waves, like they were lapping at a primordial shore.
‘What do you make of that?’ he said, as Lucy approached.
‘For the pas de deux?’
‘Yeah. Perhaps the ballet chorus can work at floor level at the same time, like they’re
doing now?’
‘Maybe,’ said Lucy, wondering if that’d be too much on stage at once. ‘Don’t want to
detract from the duet. The music’s good though. It’s a slow eight, but it’ll work.’ She walked
to the front of the stage area, feeling somehow lighter, and stood with her stick in her hand
rather than using it to support her. It was strange, this music. Usually the soundtrack didn’t
actually matter, as long as the rhythm suited her dance, but this felt perfect – intrinsically
evocative of what she wanted to express.
She looked at David. He was busy plugging in equipment, sorting out cables, and
uncoiling leads. He seemed right too, almost as though it was his place to inherit this director
of music mantle straight from Goosey. Not that he had the maestro’s status, or position in
society, but he did have a certain power. It wasn’t pretentious like Garry’s know it all attitude,
but he did have authority over what he was doing. He was the musician’s son. Someone who
understood and could perhaps reunite the broken threads of beauty that still permeated
Goosey’s music, touched by Roie’s art. The sounds even aroused Lucy’s sense of the
beautiful; it stirred her.
The music was an ocean, a strange open space where David seemed completely at
home. It was his domain and she didn’t want to see him fall. No ostracism like Goosey faced,
and no crucifixion. She wanted his voyage to succeed, their voyage, even if it was
frightening: to undertake a passage over the vastness of fathomless waters. The dancers were
getting up to their feet, shaking arms and legs as the music built to a crescendo that begged
some sort of resolution.
159
‘What is this?’ asked Virginia, coming up to David.
He smiled at the long-legged dancer. ‘It’s the slow movement from Goossens’
Symphony No. 1’.
‘It’s gorgeous. Are we going to dance to it?’ she asked, directing the question to Lucy.
‘Not today,’ replied Lucy. ‘It’s for the pas de deux. What do you think?’ The other
dancers gathered around, nodding their approval.
‘I’ve never heard anything quite like it,’ said Virginia.
‘That’s good,’ said David. ‘That’s what we want to sell to the punters. Goossens’
music hasn’t been played in ages and this show can open it up to a whole new audience. If
they’ve never heard it, good. Then they can decide what they think for themselves.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of him,’ said Tina, standing next to Virginia.
Lucy walked over to David. ‘OK, we’ll see what the audience thinks of it all. Easy as
that,’ she said and everyone laughed, but beneath the sarcasm she held David’s ethos in
admiration. The music was certainly sublime, and why shouldn’t the audience form their own
opinions? Surely they should be able to do that without some entrepreneur telling them what
it all means before they’ve actually experienced it. ‘You mean that, don’t you,’ she said.
‘That’s why you’re the way you are, such a will-o’-the-wisp that no one can get to you. Just
get the audience in, and then let them make up their own minds. It’s brilliant, because you
remain independent. No matter what anyone else thinks, no one can touch you.’ David put his
free arm around her, and dropped the cables he was holding in his other hand.
‘Here you are then,’ said Pete, coming across the hall with three of his crew, looking
like cowboys walking down the otherwise empty main street of some western town. ‘The
Tarkett needs to be rolled out with the white side up.’ He said and they shifted the heavy rolls
where Lucy directed them as if it was easy. ‘Stick them up with the white gaffa.’
‘Ta,’ said Lucy.
‘When are you off?’ said David.
‘Pretty well ready to go, mate.’ They stood in a group, Pete, Lucy, David and the
dancers, while the scenery workers continued lining up the seams for taping.
Virginia stood next to David, ‘We’re all so sorry about your mother,’ she said.
David shifted on his feet, and leant on the bench with one hand, while Lucy held her
arm around him a little tighter. ‘Thanks.’ When he stood up straight again everyone had
moved in a little closer. Lucy let go as Pete came over to shake hands with David and to hug
160
them both. ‘Give my regards to Queensland,’ said David, as Pete walked out the door with
the others.
‘See you,’ said Lucy, already half turning towards the troupe. All righty, Let’s start
work then.’
~~~
‘I’m never quite sure if I’ve written it properly for drums,’ he said, placing the part on
the music stand beside the kit.
‘Let’s see,’ said Megan. ‘It looks easy enough, but what’s with all these cymbals?’
‘That’s the thing. The first time through it’s guitar alone, and I want you to use the
metalwork – cymbals, bits of the stand, odd bits of percussion, the chair, anything, still piano,
but whatever’s going to be effective, punctuating the guitar.’
‘The notation’s not strict then?’
‘Just use it as a guide. I wrote it when I was looking at the sea. Waves, rising and
falling, then crashing on the shore.’ He moved to make some marks with his pencil, but
hesitated. ‘Maybe if we play it a couple of times it might make more sense.’
‘So first time’s guitar alone?’ said Michael.
‘Yes. Punctuated by percussion, like I said. You come in on piano for the repeat. Bass
too, Allara, accenting the first beat.’ Kathleen stood looking at her part. David squeezed past
the drum kit. ‘You’ll have to stand there taking it all in for thirty-two bars, Kathy.’
‘Like a good little tenor girl,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll take up knitting.’
‘Yeah. I want the sax entry to bring in a complete change of texture. Subito, after the
cymbal roll.’
‘OK.’
The image wriggled across the screen and onto the floor, disappearing at the edge of
the Tackett, before making another entry at the top of the screen. ‘It’s just the basic idea,’ said
Lucy. ‘I want it to slither more, more action with bursts of light shattering in different
colours, like red, blue, and gold.’
‘It looks like a giant python,’ said Kathleen, putting her sax to her lips to play the first
little bit of the Monty Python theme.
161
‘And now for something completely different,’ said Rob, who was standing next to
Tina and Virginia. His voice was higher, and even more comical than the original, which
momentarily disrupted the previously serious mood of the rehearsal.
‘All righty,’ said Lucy. ‘Let’s try the first part. We’re in Kings Cross. 1950s, Roie’s
safe haven. So. Let’s create a world within worlds. Christine, you’re solo now. Thirty-two
bars, right. That’s four lots of eight, on the floor.’
David sat down and adjusted the volume on his guitar, waiting for his cue. Little
animated bugs that were to crawl across the Tarkett before he started playing. Christine
slipped into position amongst the bugs, and then he began the rising and falling passage he’d
written at the motel by the beach. The dancer began a series of rising and falling movements
of her own, exploiting the space at floor level, as the snake made its way down the wall and
across the stage. Christine raised arms, legs, and arched upwards, as Lucy directed her, and
David tried to cue Megan by nodding when he thought tinkling, cymbal, or other percussive
sounds would be appropriate. As he reached his final passage, Lucy counted in the other
dancers.
‘All right. Tina and Virginia, Mandy and Rob. Ready. Stage left and right. Here we
go; five, six, seven, eight.’
David glanced at his band, but they were into it for the repeat of the first thirty-two
bars with piano, bass, and drums. The dancers had moved the action from floor level to their
knees, using their arms in expressive port de bras.
When they reached the end of their last eight, David’s final guitar arpeggios heralded
the cymbal roll that led to the swung, four in the bar section.
‘OK. Fine,’ said Lucy, clapping her hands. ‘Well done.’
‘Oh, just when I was about to get into it,’ said Kathleen.
Lucy continued without pausing, ‘That’s good, but I’ll have to do more with the
projected images, or animations in the video. The snake’s a bit naïve all by itself, don’t you
think?’ Nobody offered comment, leaving Lucy’s rhetoric to itself, as the musicians
considered their parts and the dancers thought about their moves. ‘So, that’s where you enter,
Steven. I want you to come in through the band. You’re the famous musician, coming into
this outsider territory to meet Christine. Meet her in the middle of the ensemble.’ She looked
at David, ‘Can we try that please?’
162
‘Yep. Sure. From the cymbal roll, and we’re into it. You ready Kathleen? Same
tempo, but swung, with a steady walk from the bass, please Allara. Let’s go; one, two, three,
four… ’
Steven entered as directed, walking tall with the music, or rather strutting with the
alignment a leading dancer, to encounter Christine, not to dance with her so much as to
connect. They circled en ménage with the ensemble still on their knees, arching backwards,
arms stretching upwards, sometimes describing a slow, circular motion. Kathleen’s sax bit
into the texture, oozing a reedy infusion of desire and passion.
‘I think we need more red light, like a wash over the stage,’ said Lucy.
~
The first movement of the symphony reminded him of a conversation he’d had with a
choreographer years ago. David had said it was important for the mood of the music to suit
the action of the dance, but the choreographer had insisted that a good dancer could work
with anything. He tried to imagine how dancers would sort the lovely, lyrical, and evocative
passages from Goossens’ music from the angular brass phrases that added a sinister quality.
Lyricism interrupted. Bombarded by jagged rhythms that drove the orchestra into darker
territory, as if to thwart the softer themes, stopping them from developing to their full
potential. David listened as he absent-mindedly watched Lucy editing images of Kings Cross
on her laptop.
The two principal dancers stood behind her, watching as well. Christine turned to look
at David. ‘But this is different music, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Same symphony, but the first movement. I think it’s very different.’
‘All righty,’ said Lucy, which took everyone by surprise. ‘I’ll just get this up.’ David
faded the music, changing to the opening of the second movement: solo bass, then clarinet,
leading to the strings, introducing the luscious harmonies of the exposition. An image of a
staircase appeared on the screen, becoming brighter as the projector warmed up. ‘So. There
are going to be images of Kings Cross on the screen as you enter, Steven.’
The dancer looked at the screen and said, ‘Is that in Kings Cross?’
‘Christine answered, ‘aren’t they the long stairs that go from Harry’s at
Woolloomooloo right up to Victoria Street?’
163
‘Exactly,’ said Lucy, as the image shifted to an elegantly curved old sandstone
stairway, complete with an elaborately shaped balustrade. ‘The Cross has been quarried for
years. It’s riddled with excavations, and steps. So, that’s where you enter, Steven. As if you’re
climbing up, into Roie’s territory. Her temple, if you like. Her hilltop.’
Lucy froze the image and asked David to pause the music so she could explain how
they’d been struck by the idea that the hill rose up from the waterside, like Athena’s acropolis
looming over Athens. ‘At a stretch of the imagination, anyway.’ Steven, as Goosey, was to
make his way up the stairways that led to Roie’s domain.
‘So I’ll be moving amongst the images?’
‘Yes. Wearing a coat and hat.’
‘Sounds Michael Jacksonesque,’ he replied. ‘It’s not quite what I’d imagined though,
like Kings Cross, bright lights, neon signs, and strip clubs.’
‘I like it,’ said Christine.
Lucy resumed the video, with the old staircase image fading into a long shot of a
waterfall surrounded by apartment buildings – the sun reflecting off thousands of windows.
The image focussed on the little cascade, bubbling over age worn sandstone blocks, and after
a few seconds it started to transform, with animation bringing the water to life.
The music cut to a clarinet theme, with flutes floating above, and then another image
grew out of the cascading water, as the symphony grew in dynamic intensity. It retained a
sublime, almost aloof quality, but the strings added further chromatic development to the
harmonies that they had introduced at the beginning of the movement.
‘Wow,’ said Steven, watching the new image emerge.
‘Individuation,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s one of Roie’s drawings, with the artist herself as the
subject. That’s where you come in Chris. I want you positioned in front of the image, here.
I’ve marked the spot with glow tape. You need to adopt the same pose.
‘That’s easy. She’s standing like a showgirl. Give her a backpack and fifteen kilos of
plumage and she’d be right at home at The Rouge, apart from all the other stuff.’
‘All the symbols, the giant insects, and the clawed feet on the winged creature with a
serpentine phallus,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s Roie.’
‘There’s a mixture of stuff, for sure,’ said David, standing beside Lucy. ‘Goosey was
working on The Apocalypse, and she was dreaming up these images.’
‘Literally,’ said Lucy.
164
‘She found inspiration in dreams, but, actually, this drawing came from Jung. The
psychology of it’s all about the unification of mind, body and spirit.’
He moved back to the mixing desk as Christine made her way to centre stage and
stood in front of the projection. The creases in her top distracted from the image.
‘Um, would you take your top off, please,’ said Lucy. Christine obliged, and the result
was much clearer, even though she was wearing a dark sports bra. ‘How would you feel
about going topless for this one?’
‘What, while he’s walking round in an overcoat?’ replied Christine, and they all
laughed.
‘No. Let me walk you through it.’ Lucy froze the image, and David stopped the music
again. Christine raised her arms, to mirror the pose in the drawing, and Lucy directed Steven
to approach her, emphasizing the need for him to direct his gaze at the drawing. ‘The music
builds in a gradual crescendo, poco a poco, as you’re looking at her, spellbound. You’ve got
eight bars before I want you to return eye contact Chris. Then a reveal from you, Steven. Hat
first, then lose the coat. Another eight, while the violins keep building up, until they reach a
high point. That’s when you come out of the image, keeping the pose, but with your head
turned towards him.
‘So, what am I wearing?’ said Steven.
‘Tights. But bare-chested. It’s got to be powerful, and very erotic.’
‘And you want me to be nude?’ said Christine. The girl in the drawing’s got a penis,
or a snaky thing, anyway.’
‘Don’t worry about the penis.’
‘Oh good.’
‘But what do you think? How would you feel about going topless, with tights, or a Gstring even? It’d be good to have the legs to highlight muscle definition.’
‘Maybe it’s more Virginia’s thing.’
‘Yes. But you’re the principal. And it’s artistically appropriate, no, essential really.’
Christine left her spot on stage. ‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘Will I get loading?’
Lucy looked at David. ‘It’s about $15.50, I think, or at least it was last time I
checked,’ she said.
165
David stood behind the mixing panel. ‘Yep,’ he said, after a few moments thought.
‘It’s just rehearsals at the moment, but I’ll see about budgeting it in. Don’t want to start a
demarcation dispute though.’
‘Well, you’ll have the projections on you, so it won’t be a spot,’ said Lucy. ‘We can
talk about that later. It’ll just be the other dancers side stage, too. As long as Virginia doesn’t
get her nose too far out of joint.’
‘Virginia’s got a new mister wonderful, anyway. All she talks about is how amazing
he is.’
‘Well good luck to her,’ said Lucy. ‘Do you know who he is?’
‘He’s the one who knows the rock band. The one who wants to do the rock show. She
said she was going to tell him about The Margin, to see if he’s interested in us too.’
‘Is that right?’ said David, before Lucy called them all back to order.
‘Passion. The dance is a fully charged meeting between Goosey and Roie. It’s erotic.
Let’s go through it,’ she said, leading them back onto the stage, and directing Steven to dance
around Christine, seductively worshipping her body, from head to toe, with expressive arm
and hand movements. After another eight bars, the music intensified, to proclaim the moment
for Christine to lower her arms, and wrap them around Steven in a passionate embrace, whilst
he was to cradle her head in both hands. They had eight bars to maintain an intimate, mutual
gaze, until their embrace enveloped them, to join in corporeal union. Lucy stepped off the
stage. ‘All righty. Can we run through with the music, please.’
~
From the back of the theatre, the images of steps and stairs seemed to amuse Garry so
Virginia dug her elbow into his ribs and shot her most convincing look of displeasure at him.
This seemed to do the trick and he kissed her, before they sank back into the wall. He put his
arm around her shoulder. ‘The music’s louder than I thought it’d be, but it doesn’t have any
sort of beat to latch on to,’ he whispered. ‘Blow’d if I know how the bloke can dance to it at
all. It’s interesting though, with the lights, and how he moves with the music. Looks like he
knows what he’s doing.’
‘They’re not in costume yet,’ said Virginia quietly, suddenly realizing that she had
stated the obvious.
166
Garry leant down to whisper in her ear, and she caught a whiff of his pungent breath.
‘What’ll they be wearing, then?’
‘Leotards, probably,’ she replied and they continued watching from the shadows. He
took more interest in the part where the waterfall faded into the drawing, with the violins
getting louder and louder as they screeched away.
‘Cool,’ he whispered, as Christine emerged from the image. ‘What’s she going to be
wearing then?’
Virginia put a finger to his lips. She felt Gary’s hand slide under her top and over her
stomach to play with the elastic of her panties. She quivered involuntarily as they watched
the embrace on stage from their voyeuristic enclave.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, at the end of the scene. ‘I want to rip your clothes off right now.’
‘Do you now? That’d be nice, but not very appropriate. Wouldn’t mind a coffee
though,’ she replied, and they set off down the street at a brisk pace. As they walked, he said
the music was a bit slow, but he thought it might be OK anyway. Then he talked about David
and Virginia was surprised that he knew so much about him.
‘Maybe the bloke’s too distracted about his mother’s death, and the fire?’ he said.
When Virginia told him she hadn’t noticed, and asked why the fire would have anything to do
with it, Garry said: ‘Because it’s careless. He shouldn’t leave things lying around if he can’t
look after what’s his.’
The reaction came as a surprise, so she didn’t reply until she could change the subject.
The waitress and a group of women at one of the other tables smiled at Garry when they
walked in, clearly indicating that they knew him. ‘You’re so popular. Everyone knows you’
said Virginia as they sat down. ‘What do you think then? About The Margin?’
‘Well, I’m more interested in working with the guys from the band like I said I would.
The dancing’s good, though,’ he replied. If I was to take them both on, maybe I’d have a
chance to make more money, anyway. Like if one of them failed, the other one could be a
hit.’
‘Or they could both be hits.’
‘Sure. But the music’s got to be live and with a rhythm. The recorded stuff’s a turn
off.’
167
Virginia told him about the smaller ensemble. ‘But he can’t have a whole symphony
orchestra though. He’s got the money from his inheritance to pay for the rehearsals, but it’ll
take more than that to get the show to the stage.’
‘Right. That’s what they all say,’ said Garry. ‘I’d like to see more of it, like the girl
coming out of the picture as if she’s some kind of weird goddess. I really liked that.’
Virginia sipped her coffee, holding the cup in both hands, and looked at him with
raised eyebrows, over the rim. ‘So, you’re interested?’
‘Maybe. I’ll have to know more about it before I could say.’
168
Chapter 15
When the autumn sun dipped behind tallest trees on the other side of the valley, there was
still a good three quarters of an hour before dark. David stood by the door, looking up the
steep laneway that led to the street and the shops. He looked back and said, ‘I’ll just be five
minutes’. The flat had a wonderful northwesterly aspect from the kitchen, where Lucy
enjoyed the calm in the evening. Her view to the creek was punctuated by pine trees and the
hillside opposite rose steeply with a few cottages nestled on the slopes. She’d unpacked the
kitchen boxes first, so the room was a more homely space where she could enjoy her time.
The whole set up was extremely practical, with her office so close. She could work on the
animations at night, and then rehearse with the dancers during the day. She even enjoyed the
stairs, in a kind of a way. At first they posed a challenge, or even a barrier between work
above and home below, but this hadn’t turned out to be much of an impediment. If anything,
the fact that she could do stairs reasonably well had increased her confidence.
The gas hissed, bringing the kettle to the boil as the crystals, lilac curtains and odd
pieces of crockery beside the sink or on the dresser gave the room a familiar quality –
tranquil in the pink glow that followed twilight. She poured water for her bottle, and sat at the
table looking out with her cup of tea and a cigarette. Pat stretched. By the time David arrived
back the valley had taken on an almost mauve hue. ‘Like a painting, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘One of
the Heidelberg painters, like McCubbin, or Clara Southern.’
Pat ran excitedly from Lucy to David and back again a few times. Lucy smiled. ‘What
did you get?’ she said, opening the shopping bag to see what was for dinner. David opened a
beer and went to light the gas fire in the lounge room. It was a big room, in fact they all were,
but it still heated quickly. They reasoned that this was due to the place being well insulated
under the theatre, with nowhere for the heat to escape. Lucy had filled the spare room with
boxes and the furniture that she wasn’t using but even so her belongings took up most of the
space, to give it a cluttered, lived in appearance.
David sat at the table opposite her. ‘Having a cup of tea,’ he said.
‘Hmm, just felt like one.’
‘That’s good. Pretty good day too, don’t you think?’ Lucy agreed, and they talked
about the things that went well, the things that didn’t seem to fit, the things that had made
them laugh, and the things that should have been less complicated than they were.
‘Do you think Chris should have a body suit for the pas de deux?’ Lucy asked.
169
‘She could. But if she’s OK being nude on top, that would be stronger. Even a bit
confronting, like Roie was in real life. And I was wondering, what about a headdress?
Feathers, plumage that’d sway as she moved her head. Would that soften the starkness about
being topless?’
‘What a good idea. The movement would be great. She’d have to stand still for a
while though, so it doesn’t make the image on the screen move too soon. It’s Virginia I’m
worried about.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I don’t know if the show’s really for her. I’m not sure about this guy either.’
‘Isn’t that her business?’
‘Sure, but there’s something creepy about it.’
David placed his beer on the table. ‘Yeah. I know Pete wasn’t sure either, even though
it’s just a show. He wasn’t sure about the rock band – if they’re any good. All of a sudden this
guy’s got the theatre and the scenery. Now he’s picked up with Virginia.’
‘Virginia’s always hoping to find the right man.’
David drained his drink. ‘Sure. But you’re right. It is a bit creepy.’
‘But you can’t pay for things indefinitely, we do need the money?’
‘Guess so,’ said David, standing up to wrap his arms around Lucy from behind.
‘Enough creepy talk for tonight, I’ve got chicken doovers for dinner.’
‘I noticed.’ But I need a bath first. She wriggled round in his arms, and kissed him. ‘I
found my tea candles and incense today.’
‘Oh?
‘Well, maybe I’ll light some while you’re getting the dinner on, and then you can join
me, if you like.’
~
They lay together, snug on the sofa and warm by the gas fire, with the dishes still sitting on
the coffee table. David smelt the sweet scent of Lucy’s hair, while the television chirped, in a
far corner of his awareness.
‘I need another water bottle. ‘David shuffled free to get to his feet.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, gathering the dirty plates to take to the kitchen.
170
‘Why, thank you kind sir,’ she said when he returned with the bottle.
‘Oh. I spoke to Sally, by the way.’
‘Did you? That’s great.’ She sat up, and placed the bottle on her back.
‘Yeah. A few messages, and then she rang. Said it was better than just texting. She
was really interested in the show, and she’s going to call by in a few days She’ll be in
Melbourne visiting her mother.’
~~~
‘It’s nice,’ he said. ‘You’ve got an eye for it when it comes to decorating. That’s one
thing I can’t do.’
It was a timely comment that flushed Virginia with more than a modicum of pride.
‘Thank you,’ she said, clearing up some odds and ends. ‘It’s so nice to be appreciated. You’ve
had a lot of experience with doing up houses yourself though?’
‘I can build them, no problem, but I’m no good at the decorating.’
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks. I don’t drink.’
She wondered how she stumbled upon him, and almost remarked out loud about her
good fortune. It didn’t seem right that he was just wandering around fancy-free. She didn’t
have to wait long to hear his story, though. He just volunteered the information.
‘You see… I broke up with someone.’
‘That must’ve been hard?’
‘Well yeah. But she let me down bad. That’s the thing that stung me.’
‘So, when was that?’
‘Oh, a while ago now, but don’t worry. She can go to blazes for all I care.’
Virginia hugged him again, and stroked his hair. ‘It’s OK.’ He seemed distracted, like he was
in need of reassurance, so she kissed him. He reciprocated without delay, and ran his hands
over her body, resting on her backside, which he squeezed, pulling her closer to him. ‘And I
think you’re a knight in shining armour, to be so interested in the show.’
‘Well. Someone’s got to put up the money. And it’s not as if you can trust a musician
to do it. No offence, I mean.’
‘No. You’re right. Musicians are worse than dancers.’
171
‘Yeah, right,’ he replied, emphatically. ‘If this mister music’s any good you’d think
he’d have figured that out by now, instead of expecting everything to just fall into place for
him. It’s just as well I can take it on, ’cos I’ve got the money to invest. Not just for him,
mind, but for you, and the others. He’s the one who’s got to play by the rules though. I’m not
a bottomless pit. It’s just I know how to do things, how to use my money wisely.’
Virginia kissed him again, and then went to get a drink for herself. ‘Sure I can’t get
you anything? Water, juice?’
‘Oh. OK, some water.’
‘Just water? I’m sure David knows how to do the music though, and he’s got it pretty
well worked out.’
He sat in the armchair. ‘Well he’s got to understand how it works too. If the show’s
any good, it’s got to fit the market, like in the building industry. You can dream on till the
cows come home, but the plans’ve got to fit. Then there’s industry standards and permissions,
for instance. You can’t imagine you can go round building opera houses wherever you want,
’cos it just wouldn’t work.
It was a crude metaphor, but Virginia suspended her disbelief, and it all made sense.
The show had to rely on box office sales if it was ever going to work. In fact, it reminded her
of Roie and Goosey. ‘I can see what you mean,’ she said, sitting next to him on the chair. He
put his arm around her waist.
‘You’ve got the best flat tummy in town,’ he said.
‘Well, I work at it. Comes with the territory when you dance for a living. But anyway,
creativity’s important to the show too. Roie and Goosey were very creative, different, but
nonetheless creative. It’s just that the press and the police wouldn’t leave them alone.’
‘Exactly. I can’t stick my neck out just for arty stuff. I’d go bankrupt for a start –
throwing my money around where it wouldn’t return nothing.’
His logic held a strange appeal. It pointed to a future beyond the day-to-day struggle
to find the next gig. Maybe she’d be able to pick and choose desirable parts, rather than
grovelling to accept whatever her agent offered. She stroked the side of his face and bent
down to kiss him again. ‘I love dancing,’ she said, but it’s a hard way to make a living.’
‘Well, I don’t see why you can’t make a success of it, as long as you make the right
choices. Then things can change.’
172
She wasn’t quite sure what this change would entail, after all, she hadn’t known him
long, but the notion of financial freedom was enticing. Then she felt his hand slip underneath
her top.
~~~
It was still cold at ten. David kept his coat on, and savoured the smell of his coffee, as he read
his notes:
How blurred are the boundaries between the artist as a public and a private person?
He thought it through, reasoning with single-minded logic in order to justify his argument,
and concluding that it was all a matter of how a person played the cards they were dealt.
Goosens came to Australia in triumph as the great maestro, but left in disgrace because he
dallied with Roie. He deviated from the pathway that had been set for him and the police
pounced with the paparazzi snapping in sync – agents of an intolerant society, intent on
weeding out whatever was growing in the margin. If it’s not in the text, forget it.
He switched on the amplifier and searched on the bench for a CD: Kaleidoscope,
Opus 18. Simple, just pop it in the player and make up your own mind about the music. It
was the same with Roie’s images. Lucy could pop them up on the screen and there they were.
Projectors and technology were driving the show, allowing him to reflect on the story from
the past without having to stick his neck out at all. He thought how unlikely it’d be for the
police to come bursting in, with the press at their heels:
’Ello ’ello, then. What have we got here? Some sort of stage show eh? with
dancers and demons, and naked images. Quick, take some pictures, boys.
And we’ve got reason to believe you’re involved in a sexual relationship with
the wrong sort of person.
You’d better come to the station with us, sir. We’ve got a few questions.
David smiled, as the Keystone cops image flashed through his mind. He thought Sean
Connery and his other old film-star heroes would have simply declined, but Goossens didn’t.
He went with the police, even though he didn’t have to. He went because they asked him.
Maybe there would have been more drama and innuendo if he didn’t go, and they’d have
assumed he had something to hide?
173
He put on the CD. The first few bars of Kaleidoscope sounded awkward and
disjointed, so he scrolled down to the one he wanted, number eight, Good-night. The blueslike theme grabbed his attention, languid over the contrary motion chromaticism of the rich
orchestration. He turned up the volume and sipped his coffee, still thinking about Goossens’
downfall and wondering how different things would be now. How much the technologically
driven, consumer culture had shifted the focus of music and art, and sexuality. It certainly
affected the mechanics of it all. It would’ve taken a morning of ruling bar lines, writing in
clefs and key signatures before he’d have been able to write his first note, and then getting
the orchestra together to play it. Now all he had to do was enter whatever was wanted on a
computer, or put on a CD.
Technicians and financiers were running the show more and more, and it’d be more
likely for the police to come charging in because of debts or because he hadn’t paid the
insurance agent enough. Then the press would take an interest because he hadn’t taken out
enough advertising.
~
David jumped, splashing coffee over his hands.
‘Sorry,’ said Allara, not sure whether to stand back or to help him wipe his splattered
hands. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’
David laughed, and pulled out a handkerchief. ‘S’OK. I was just thinking about a few
things.’
‘Looked like you were on a different planet,’ she said.
‘No. Earth,’ he replied, and she laughed.
‘Hang on Allara. I’ll turn it down a bit.’
‘OK. Is that Goossens?’
‘Yes. It’s the last part of Kaleidoscope. My mother, Caroline, had the piano music.
Then he arranged it as a suite for orchestra, but this is the only bit I really want to use. I was
hoping you’d play it, but the trouble is it’s too short.’
Allara put her hands in her pockets, and stood motionless for a few moments,
listening. It was still chilly in the hall, even though the sun had hit the outside wall and was
174
slowly banishing the shadow from the staircase. ‘You mean you want the bass to play the
melody line?’
‘I can hear it on the bass. Particularly in the higher register.’
She smiled at him, suddenly flushed with a sense of joy, and she felt the urge to hug
him. He didn’t seem warm or responsive, holding his coffee to the side to avoid further
spillage.
‘Sorry. No one’s asked me to play a melody line with a band before. That’s great.’
‘I think it’ll go really well on bass. Just with piano accompaniment and percussion.
Go from there.’
‘Supercool,’ she said, arranging her case on the floor, ready to get her instrument out.
‘Is it for the dancers?’
‘Just one. Steven, as Goossens, I’m thinking. But I’ve been wondering how to do it.’
He told her about his original plan to write a theme and variations work, tracing the story of
Goossens in Australia. ‘So, he came in triumph, as the great cultural colossus. That’s the
opening. Then there’s the ensemble piece, reflecting on Australia at the time, you know, the
one with the waves, going into the jazz piece with the sax.’
‘Yeah, it’s great.’
‘Thanks. That’s where I needed more than just the theme and variations. This
Kaleidoscope theme’s what I wanted, but if there are five acts it’s just not long enough to
sustain the whole thing without adding more. So, after the jazz number there’s the central pas
de deux, and now act four, featuring bass. I’ve been reducing the orchestral chords for piano,
so we can try it when Michael arrives. What do you think?’ He scrolled back to track eight on
the CD, and turned up the volume again.
Allara listened to the opening theme, imagining how it’d sit on her bass. It wasn’t a
fast melody, and it had a kind of languid quality to it that grew out of the initial notes – open,
yet relaxed. When the orchestra entered it was with a descending chordal passage, loaded
with chromatic richness. It was as if the accompaniment was attempting to lull the mellow
melody into a soporific void, to deprive it of its consciousness, its life force, with bluesinflected contours in the midst of its yearning. The only punctuation came from percussion,
and the piece finished with a clear tone from the tubular bells. It was a warm and golden tune,
but it was also tinged with the darker shades of the intricate chromatic accompaniment. ‘It’s
short,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you make it longer?’
175
David sat down and so did she. He talked about Goossens dancing solo to the reorchestrated Good-night. ‘Funny name, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe. But it’s as though the accompaniment’s trying to drag the theme off to sleep.
Then again, maybe he’s just having a good night? It is two words.’
‘Good point, but I want to use it as an introspective, looking back, from later in his
life. When he’s been let down and abandoned.’
‘Well, there’s a lot going on then, and maybe it needs different interpretations? Like
the orchestra could play it, then the bass could do it, and then sax, or guitar, and it’d be
different each time. Like a different view of the same thing.’
David sat still for a moment, and then said, ‘what a brilliant idea. I was wondering
how to develop the solo. Lucy’s going to project news headlines about the scandal, with the
chorus coming on stage, reading papers, in a generally disapproving sort of way.’
‘Aww. So sad,’ said Allara. ‘Can’t he have a happy ending? Pweese, Mister
Pwesident?’
David laughed. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Haven’t quite worked out act five yet.’
~~~
The kitchen was a cold place before the sun reached the foot of the outside stairs. Lucy lay in
the lounge room, doing her exercises on the rug by the gas fire. Physio was at eleven, and
meditation group was before that, but she also wanted to study – to read and make notes,
rather than write anything particular. Then there was this Kaleidoscope act to choreograph,
with Goosey dancing his solo. At least the images would be easy if they just came from
newspaper clippings, but it was still going to be time-consuming.
She rolled over to do some leg raises, and decided not to go to meditation. She
thought about spending time studying angels, but then Roie came to mind. That was a bit
distracting; so she transferred her weight to her other elbow to work on her opposite leg. Roie
was no angel. Of course not. Nobody is. But Roie certainly wasn’t. With a tinge of remorse,
Lucy thought about her own position on the angel scale. That thought didn’t last long, so she
got to her feet to do some squats. Angels were messengers, and so was Roie, in one sense.
She delved into her subconscious and ventured into the astral plane to bring imagery into her
art. But, she was also a kinky occult bohemian sex queen. Lucy never thought of herself like
176
that, although she did cultivate a certain type of sex appeal when she used to go out dancing,
and picking up men. But that was just the way she coped with her insecurity, like her
counsellor had pointed out. Roie was much darker – very dark and macabre, in fact.
She reached for her stretch rubber material, to complete her workout with some
resistance exercises. Roie had the knowledge and the ability. She knew the Judeo-Christian
view about the origins of the adversary, or the light-bearer, whichever he was. And she knew
the psychology. But she was also the trance artist who worshipped Pan the trickster.
Lucy looked over her shoulder to check whether traces of sun had penetrated the
kitchen and noticed that David had done the dishes before he left. They were draining in the
rack. It was nice. He was working just up the stairs, but she was completely her own person,
in her downstairs domain. The thought that she must thank him for his tidiness crossed her
mind as she noticed the sun reflecting off the frost-sparkled bitumen in the driveway. Not
warm enough to venture out, but certainly time for breakfast, so she fetched a bowl of muesli
and returned to the warmth of the lounge room.
The men in the story were a mixed bunch though. They weren’t all tricksters, but they
weren’t necessarily heroes, destined to rescue the eternal damsel. They certainly weren’t
angels, either. Goosey was strong enough, or was he? Was he drawn towards Roie’s sex
parties through weakness – unable to resist the opportunity to live out his occult fantasies?
Lucy held her spoon in her hand for a moment, before concluding that it wasn’t just sex that
snared the maestro. He wasn’t the adversary and he wasn’t tricking either. It was more than
that.
‘Art and music combining to overcome the adversary,’ she said out loud, emphasising
her point with the help of her spoon. She took her bowl to the table and picked up a pen to
write the line down before she forgot it, finishing her breakfast as she continued jotting down
thoughts. Real life didn’t just happen in art, or music, or in trance, or some life beyond.
Roie’s maverick life-choices bent the rules in real time. Lucy shuddered at the thought. It
didn’t seem to bother David though. He found it interesting, reading about Roie and sex.
How she placed herself in the middle of events so others would do stuff to her. But then, her
preference was for homosexual men, and sometimes women. She let them tie her up and hurt
her. David read about it out loud, as if it was some kind of turn-on, even though Lucy didn’t
like it. It sounded too much like a masochistic power trip – choosing partners who did
177
whatever they wanted, but really she retained control of them. They could never reach her –
only hurt her.
It reminded Lucy too much of her own dark side – looking up to a father who she
could never please, and then discovering her own power. But she never chose men who were
her equal, who she respected. They threatened her too much. She remembered panicking
when she hopped out of one man’s bed to steal away, but discovered that he’d locked all the
doors from the inside. Trapped with the urge to run she searched for the strength to throw
something through the window.
Then there was Garry. He’d trapped her and now she was trying to break out of that
by reverting to the same means that Roie and Goosey tried. Like she’d written: art and music
combining to overcome the adversary. That’s probably still controlled, anyway? Didn’t work
for Roie and Goosey, not in Australia, did it. They needed to keep faith in each other; and
they didn’t. It all became sordid, with letters, photographs, police intervention, and
newspaper stories. They closed in on them, like watchdogs kept tethered until it was time to
enforce society’s rules. Garry did that too, except he’d seize upon her own insecurity so he
could mould her into his own image – his little Lucy. Princess Eversweet. Lucy wanted to
cry, but she couldn’t.
And David. What would he do, she wondered, fly away in his Colditz glider, or sail
boat, or stage show, or whatever? What were the chances of life beyond all this with him?
What future? He doesn’t even have a relationship with his own daughter. She glanced at the
clock, registering that it’d be too late for her to go to meditation group, even if she wanted to.
As she sat at the table, with her empty bowl beside her and half-page of notes, she
became aware of a warm patch on the back of her neck. Behind her, the filigree fabric of
freefalling motes played in a sunbeam that splashed in from the dewdrop cold. The light
caught the crystal that she’d set, with feathers, in the frame by the window, and the prism sent
small shards of spectral colours to random corners of the room. Some sprinkled into the
lounge room, and when Lucy shifted in her chair, she noticed a miniature rainbow appear at
the top of her writing paper.
~~~
178
There was still an hour before dusk, and from the top of the hill he could see the sun
descending to sink beyond the flat lands to the west. It was pleasantly warm when he left his
house, passed his burnt out shed site and headed across the paddock that rose up to the ruin.
He took the precaution of wearing his warm coat as he knew the evening chill would set in
with the pale glow of twilight.
It wasn’t a long walk, maybe half an hour until he reached the spot. The twisted
almonds and old mulberry tree marking the shape of what was once someone’s garden,
surrounding the piles of stone that used to be buildings. Some shapes were still clearly
recognizable – the square of corners, the remains of doorways, and fireplaces in each
building. David had identified them years ago by the artefacts he’d found around each:
kitchen, bedroom, and animal shed.
He walked around, briefly inspecting the site and noting the deterioration that had
taken place since his last visit, which was years ago, not long after Sylvia left with Sally. Not
a lot had changed, and the wall of the animal shed was still intact, the golden sun making him
squint as it struck the apex of the structure, almost as though it’d been precision built with
this celestial purpose in mind. He sat on a rock on the open hilltop, between the ruined
buildings.
It was a good afternoon to have taken off, to organize his boat. It could no longer stay.
Not after the fire. He felt uncomfortable leaving it unattended, so he hired a semi-trailer to
take it to the boatyard. That was one of the last things he needed to settle. The fire insurance
was sorted, so that was good. After all, he needed to replace all the basic machinery and
equipment before he could even live out there, so it was a relief to know there would be a
payout. Maybe enough to build a new shed, or, better still, pay someone else to put it up.
Then there was Caroline’s estate, but now her home was sold and all her things were gone, so
that was done.
David looked out from the hillside, contemplating his job, and The Margin. He gazed
at the farmland beyond the undulating slopes of the goldfields. He thought of his grandfather,
reciting the bard:
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.
179
He looked beyond the farm paddocks to the peak of Mount Franklin, focusing on the ancient
volcano. It was still sun-drenched, ablaze amidst the vastness of the plain.
He sat upright, staring; three things still uncertain, in the back of his mind: his job; the
final act of The Margin; and the peculiar arrival of this financial backer. His conscious mind
wandered, and he became aware of the evening star rising, but he didn’t concentrate on it,
allowing his gaze to find it’s own focus – something he couldn’t contrive. He allowed his
vision to take over till his gaze was directed back at him, as if the horizon had become a
mirror, subtly reflecting the waves and the changing colours of his twilight meditation. The
yellow rays gave way to orange, and then pink, before settling to a purple hue, and then to a
darker shade – tinged with deep blue. David stood up, knowing that he had to leave while
there was time for him to make his way home before pitch black engulfed the rugged hillside.
He knew what he needed to do.
180
Chapter 16
‘It’s a segue from the Goosey solo. Thunderous applause, then the chorus leaves. Lose the
newspapers, and street clothes. Leave Steven on stage sitting down – alone. OK?’ Lucy
looked at David.
‘Yeah,’ said David from his position behind the mixing desk. ‘I want to pick up the
pace after the slow introspective act.’ He brought up an ascending passage of short stabbing
phrases for the whole band, with an irregular rhythm that steadily increased in dynamic. ‘It
comes from the waves theme earlier.’ The cast listened, moving with the rhythm and nodding.
Again, the crescendo led to a roll on the crash cymbal, and a sax entry that dropped back to
the slower, four in the bar, walking jazz.
‘All righty,’ said Lucy. ‘Dancers enter stage left and right.’
‘Yeah,’ said David. ‘I want to create the impression of layers for the instruments and
for the dance, using themes from the previous acts, recognizable but reworked – to build the
Finale.’
The dancers moved to position, with Steven, as Goossens, adopting a Rodinesque
pose on a stool at rear stage right.
‘Um, we’ll work on that, Steven. Just sit there for the time being please. Now. Tina,
Virginia, Mandy, Rob; crossing from left to right at eight-bar intervals. Walk through it for
now please. David?’ The dancers listened to the recording, counting the clicks to cue their
entries. David watched Lucy, back in work mode. ‘Tina: one-two-three, one-two-three, onetwo, one-two, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two, one-two. Good. High kick as you cross
Rob.’
~
From the back of the hall it seemed like a mess, as if they hadn’t worked out what they were
doing yet. Garry watched Virginia, who seemed to be leaping from one side of the stage to
the other just any old how. And it was distracting when the dancers crossed. He knew she
could do more than that, and he wanted to see her in a solo role. Then he became aware of a
tall figure, slipping into a chair near him. Garry glanced up, noticing she was blond.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she whispered. ‘The door was open, so I let myself in.’
That’s fine,’ he replied. ‘So did I.’
181
~
‘What now?’ said Virginia, as the crash cymbal led straight back to the recording of
Kathleen’s sax solo.
‘David?’ said Lucy.
He cut the music and joined Lucy at the front of the stage. The dancers kept moving,
rolling around on the floor in the wash of red and gold light that Lucy had tinged with a few
blue gels. ‘This is your solo, Christine. Pardon the music, it’s just what I’d lifted from act
one, but when we get the band back this arvo it’ll be stronger. There’ll be electric guitar with
the sax, and a bit of distortion.’
‘Uh huh. No problem,’ said Christine. ‘It’s good to dance to, anyway.’
‘So. Roie reappears then?’ said Virginia. ‘And in your version they live happily ever
after, do they?’
She spoke emphatically, and it scuttled whatever thread of creative thought anyone
was holding. Strangely, most of the cast looked up, despite the lights, as if they were
expecting something to descend and deflect the spectre of naivety that the question had
raised. It dawned on David that it must have seemed puerile to bring Roie back after the
despair of Goossens’ solo.
Lucy looked hard at Virginia. Her tone brought disquiet. Then she looked at the
others. The long-legged showgirl was way out of order.
David broke the silence. ‘It’s all about life beyond, Virginia. Whether it’s through
Goossens’ music, Roie’s art, or their spiritual connection. It’s what can’t be controlled.’
Virginia began to shuffle, as if she was going to say something else. ‘But you’re right, in one
sense,’ he went on. ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean they’re going to live happily ever after.’
As the cast moved to left and right, Christine came to centre stage. ‘So is it another
pas de deux?’
‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘This is your solo, with the chorus still on stage. On the floor, with
legs, arms, and torso. OK David?’
‘Yes. Goossens notices you, of course, but I want more mayhem before your
triumphant apotheosis.’
182
~
‘Her what?’ Garry whispered, leaning towards the blond girl.
‘Something triumphant,’ she replied. ‘He talks like that sometimes.’ He leaned closer,
and she caught a whiff of his breath.
‘You know mister david, then. You must be a musician?’ he said.
‘No. A designer. You?’
‘I’m working on a rock show. Someone asked me to drop by and have a look at this
one too. It’s a bit slow though – for me, anyway. Do you design house interiors?’
‘No. Clothes.’
‘Oh, right. That’s interesting. Are you doing the costumes?’
‘No. Just visiting.’
‘Who?’
‘David. He’s my dad.’
~~~
Her appetite was fine. She ordered fish and David followed suit. Lucy needed to leave the
table because she had stomach pains that also affected her back. When she had gone Sally
said, ‘She’s a pretty heavy smoker.’
David agreed, but went on to describe how much her health had improved: ‘Specially
since she’s moved into the theatre and she’s been getting on with her exercise program. She’s
studying her Masters too.’ Nonetheless, he was worried. Lucy had been distracted lately, and
he knew it was more than her back that was troubling her. He hadn’t asked, busying himself
with the show instead.
‘What about your job then?’ asked Sally. ‘You’ve been teaching music ever since I
was little.’
‘True,’ he replied. ‘I have.’ He had a mouthful of beer as Sally tidied the last of her
salmon with the tip of her fork. ‘That’s the thing. I’ve been teaching for so long I’ve
accumulated enough sick leave and long service to last for months. But the other day I
decided to take a year off without pay, so I’m organizing that at the moment. I had carer’s
183
leave when I was sorting out your grandmother’s stuff and it’s a good time to put in for time
off at the end of the Semester.’
‘Can you afford that?’
‘I’ll manage. I’ve got some money put aside and I’m paying the cast with other
money. My inheritance basically, just for the rehearsals, anyway.’
‘But that can’t last forever. Nana didn’t exactly leave me very much.’
‘No. But she’s your grandmother, and it’s up to me to provide…’
‘I know,’ she interjected. ‘But you can’t pay for the whole production.’
‘No, I’m not. I just want to get it written, and rehearsed,’ he said picking up a potato
chip from his plate.
‘Sally sipped her beer. ‘Low carb,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like your guy much. Not at all,
in fact.’
‘What guy?’
‘The one who’s putting on the rock show.’
‘You met him?’
‘Yes. He was sitting at the back of the theatre.’ They both looked up as Lucy returned.
She was using her stick, and had a glass of champagne in her hand. Sally smiled. ‘How are
you feeling?’ she said.
Lucy sat down. ‘Fine. Some days are better than others. I think I might’ve overdone it
a bit.’ She asked Sally about her work, and they talked about the amount of time they both
spent sitting at computers, either detailing designs to be made in China or preparing
animations for the show.
‘I think I’d prefer to do your job,’ said Sally.
‘And sometimes I’m sure I’d prefer yours, particularly the steady income that goes
with it.’
‘Not so steady at the moment but I do love the concept of what you’re doing with
music, dance, and images. I want to see more of it?’ Lucy sipped her champagne and Sally
picked up her beer.
‘You can watch the rehearsals, but that’s all there is, so far.’
‘I’ve got to go to mum’s after lunch,’ replied Sally. She turned to face David, ‘But I
thought you were going to put it on?’
184
‘That’s the plan. Let’s go for the Sydney Opera House, then I can moor my boat out
the front.’
‘Dream on,’ said Lucy and they laughed.
‘Well, why not go for it, if that’s what you want,’ said Sally. ‘You might have to factor
in a few parking tickets for your boat though, if they have parking fines for yachts that is. But
I don’t think this guy’s that interested in backing it all the way.’
Lucy looked at Sally. ‘He was sitting at the back of the theatre,’ said David. Lucy
sipped her champagne.
‘Sorry, but I thought he was creepy,’ said Sally. ‘Very creepy.’ Lucy and David looked
at her as she told them about her conversation and her impression of the guy. ‘Like, he was so
into watching the individual dancers.’
‘Virginia?’ said Lucy.
‘Yes. I think so. One girl, anyway. He thought she should have a solo. But then he
liked your principal, too. Thing is, he was just watching the dancers. I don’t think he’s that
interested in the show, or the music.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Skinny. And his breath stank.’
‘Garry,’ said Lucy.
~~~
The cosy café was heated by a stove, simmering in the corner. It was quiet for a bright
winter’s day, and the girls conducted their conversation in hushed voices. When the waitress
spoke it seemed loud and abrupt: ‘Hello, what can I get you?’
‘Coffee for me,’ said Virginia, ‘and I’m going to have the soup.’
The waitress looked at Tina. ‘I’ll have a pot of tea, please and a toastie number three.’
Virginia laughed at the alliteration. ‘Tea and a toastie for Tina,’ she said. Then they
resumed their discussion, sotto voce. ‘You and me should both do it. It’s work, and besides,
it’d be fun.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t feel good about walking out on Lucy.’
185
‘Listen Tina, there won’t be a show. He’s going to take over the theatre for his rock
band and just wants dancers. That’s the way it is. He’s just hung on this long because he
wants me to ask Christine. It’s his stage gear that we’re using, after all.’
Tina shuffled in her chair, and took off her coat, just before the drinks arrived. ‘Tea
for you, and coffee for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and looked at Virginia. ‘You are well aware that he’s Lucy’s
ex.’
‘Yes. But she walked out on him, and let him down bad. I don’t see what possible
claim she can have. But of course, that’s why I can’t do Lucy’s show.’
‘And he’s married.’
‘But she doesn’t understand him. And he loves me. It’s incredible we’re so close. It
just happened. Now he’s giving you and me a great gig as soloists, dancing in a rock show.’
‘I’m not sure. He can’t take Lucy’s dance routines and expect them to fit,
meaningfully.’
‘Why does it have to be meaningful? Can’t it just be fun?’
Tina watched the waitress bringing the toastie and the soup. She sat upright in her
chair. ‘If there’s no connection between the acts, there’s nothing holding it all together.
Nothing but a whole lot of moves, with no tension behind it, and no build-up,’ she said, not
bothering to hush her voice. She thanked the waitress.
‘But he’s got the money to follow it through. It’ll be good.’ Virginia stared at her,
waiting to start her soup, but Tina picked up her fork and said, ‘that’s just it. It’s not all about
the money.’
~
Lucy sat tight. At least she felt tight in her back, throat, neck – everything. She wanted to lash
out, to scream, stamp her feet, although that would have hurt her back. Her councellor’s voice
came to mind, telling her not to engage with him. As if it were so simple. She boiled water
for a bottle and took an Endone for the first time that week. Pat barked, and then she heard
footsteps. She turned to face the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s only us,’ came the reply. ‘Is it OK if we come in?’ Both dancers declined the
offer of a warm drink, and sat at the table with glasses of water. The steam from the kettle
186
hissed into the otherwise indifferent atmosphere of the mid-day kitchen. It occurred to Mandy
that the room would be freezing in the mornings.
‘Are you warm enough?’ said Lucy, joining them at the table.
‘It’s OK,’ said Rob, rubbing Pat on the back.
‘It must be cold sometimes though,’ said Mandy.
‘Well, it’s all wrong really. This place is only here to fill in the space under the theatre
so there’s no choice about energy saving. It does warm up though.’ She looked at the view
from the window and then turned to look back into the lounge. ‘I like it actually, but now I
suppose I’ll have to move again.’
‘We heard,’ said Rob. ‘It’s so unfair.’
‘Ain’t it the truth. But it was only supposed to be temporary anyway. In between
fuckhead’s house and waiting for one of the units to become vacant. Feel free to have a look
around if you don’t mind the mess.’ Rob took the cue to go and Pat watched him as he stood
up. Then she rested her head back on her paws.
When they were alone Mandy leaned closer to Lucy and said, ‘Are you All righty?’
‘Sore, have been all day. But I‘ll be fine.’
‘I mean this guy. Your ex.’
Lucy sniffed. ‘He has a way of getting to me. As soon as I think I’m over him, he
finds another button to push, and… I react.’
Mandy moved closer, and put her arm around Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you’ve got to
walk away’ she said, aware that she was stating the obvious but also aware that it was one of
those things that someone needed to say.
‘I’ve done that before,’ croaked Lucy in a guttural voice that usually came as a
precursor to unbridled sobbing but she halted herself, sat upright again, and dried her eyes.
‘I’ll have to do it again then, won’t I.’
Pat scurried closer and Lucy put her hand on top of Mandy’s as a way to say thanks
for your concern and also to reassure her that she was really OK. When Rob came back into
the room they resumed their seats, with Pat at Lucy’s feet.
‘It’s quiet and cosy down here,’ he said. ‘You’d never know it was here.’
‘No. You wouldn’t, would you. So what’s happening in the world above?’
187
‘David’s still hard at it on the Finale. He wants to finish it. Christine and Steven are
there and so are the musicians. Don’t know about Tina and Virginia,’ said Rob. Then he
drained the last of the water from his glass.
‘Don’t know how he can still keep working on it seeing as he can’t afford to see it
through,’ said Mandy. ‘He’s still got ideas though. When we left he was going on about life
beyond, and L’oisseau de feu.’
~
‘Well, not exactly like The Firebird, but Roie and Goossens were all about art and
music reaching beyond the mundane, even if they did have to deal with a myopic society.’
‘Myopic is short sighted,’ said Megan.
‘Well, thank you miss alphabet drummer,’ said Michael, ‘but I knew that.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Allara.
‘And I’m not even sure what half the stuff he says means. But somehow it all comes
together. For the dance, anyway,’ said Steven.
After making sure the front door was locked, Lucy slipped into a seat at the back. It
was refreshing to see them laughing and joking, going on with the rehearsal as if everything
really was fine. They were still being paid so there was that, but nobody had taken the day
off, nobody in the band anyway. They were still looking to David for direction, or that’s what
it seemed like. Clearly, they were there to finish the act, as if they needed to know how it’d
end. Watching them brought the realization that she felt the same. It wouldn’t be right to
abandon The Margin. She smiled, drawn by the cast’s infectious enthusiasm. At least it had a
chance to end, even if it was only on the rehearsal stage.
She listened as David talked about odd aspects of the Goossens years – anecdotes, and
reminiscences that didn’t always connect or make sense: newspaper sellers riding on the
runner boards of trams; piano music; orchestral music; John Antill’s Corroboree; new music;
Stravinsky; and Billy Tea advertisements. Some bits evoked vivid or meaningful images, but
at other times the talk seemed vague and out of place. It wasn’t a soliloquy though. When
David introduced each topic the others joined in and spirited discussion followed. He wasn’t
giving them clear directions about the music or the dance, but inviting them to contribute
with memories, stories, jokes, sayings, sounds, theatrical and eccentric characters,
188
reminiscences about shows, theatres, Town Halls, Concert Halls, Bondi trams, Bundy Clocks,
and corner shops. Lucy listened to the ad hoc stream of consciousness; transforming
memories of lived experience to the realms of perceived experience. She concluded that
sometimes David was an inspired musical genius, and at other times a complete idiot.
Quite abruptly he told the orchestra to play from the start of Act five with the
irregular, stabbing rhythm that he’d played earlier for the ballet chorus, even though two of
the dancers were no longer present. The response from the remainder of the ensemble was
impressive, with musicians and dancers achieving a greater sense of ensemble than they’d
previously demonstrated.
When the cymbal crash consummated the crescendo, Michael’s uncluttered piano
chords created a harmonic space above the core of Allara’s bass and Megan’s brushes.
Kathleen’s sax purred into the texture with a soft, reedy tone from her lower register. Then
David entered with short, sharp notes, at first responding to the saxophone, but quickly
expanding to become riffs that led to a new theme.
It seemed familiar, reminiscent of one of the earlier Acts. Lucy couldn’t quite nail it
down but the electric guitar grabbed her immediately, as though she hadn’t realized what was
missing until now. It grew in strength and intensity to slash into the ambience. Piano, bass,
and drums responded appropriately, and sax bit back to answer the now fully-fledged phrases
from the slightly distorted guitar. The lead instruments parried as consequent and antecedent
yet at the same time, they bounced off each other. Line against line in contrapuntal concord
asserting an undeniably epic quality as a defiant anthem that simply proclaimed the sound of
its own emphatic statement.
Christine and Steven were marking their steps on stage, recognizing their mutual
purpose as Roie and Goosey meeting in spirit. Then Lucy noticed that the stage was still lit
the same as before instead of the gold wash, and the image that she’d intended. She resumed
her position in front of the stage to direct the dancers, realizing for the first time that
afternoon that she wasn’t using her stick.
~~~
‘But it’s work. None of us can knock it back,’ said Steven, stating the well-known
artists’ dilemma.
189
‘How do you know you’ve got a job though?’ replied Rob. Mandy pointed out that it
would be just like any show.
‘Guess you’d have to audition.’ All she’d heard so far was this Garry guy only seemed
interested in Christine and Tina, as well as Virginia, of course. And she had no idea if he even
needed a ballet chorus for ensemble pieces.
Tina and Christine came in from changing, crossing the Tarkett and flopping their
bags on the floor to sit with the others beside the mixing desk. ‘Are you guys going to try
out?’ said Tina. Her question met with a generally non-committal response.
‘We don’t even know anything about this show.’ said Steven.
‘Neither do I really,’ replied Tina. ‘Only what Virginia’s told me.’
‘I’m worried about her,’ said Mandy. ‘She’s always got high hopes that never work
out.’
‘I’m worried too,’ said Tina.
After a short silence Steven said, ‘So what’s Virginia said?’ Tina told them what she
knew. The music would be gutsy rock.
‘Like AC/DC?’ said Rob.
‘Probably. Or ‘Beat me with your Rhythm Stick,’ she said, and they laughed at the
crude misquote.
‘The masochistic musical,’ said Rob.
‘Virginia’s only talked about soloists and how blown away Garry was by Christine’s
entry.’
‘Why. Because I wasn’t wearing much?’
‘Maybe. But apparently he liked the way you came out of Roie’s image, although I
guess that was a nude too.’
‘But that’s Lucy’s work. He can’t just take it.’
‘No. But Virginia says he wants to use the concept. Make an image of you that comes
to life in the same way.’
Christine didn’t like the idea. Outside it was cold and blustery so she took her scarf
out of her bag and wrapped it round her neck. ‘If I’m coming out of my own image it’s silly.
I’d be emerging from myself, so I’d be portraying what I already am. It’s like there’s nothing
to it.’
‘What does Virginia think?’ asked Mandy.
190
‘She’s expecting to have a solo part. But I reckon it’d just be commercial dance
anyway.’
‘Well, I don’t think it’s for me,’ said Steven, standing up to head off.
‘Hang on,’ said Mandy, standing up too. ‘I’m going to see Lucy before I go. You guys
want to come?’
Christine got up to leave, but Tina remained seated. ‘Garry and Virginia are in the
café around the corner. If you’ve got time for a coffee?’
Well, like you said Steven, it is work,’ replied Christine.
~
Pat sat in front of Rob, and nudged his wrist with her nose. Mandy said her colleague was a
dog magnet but after enjoying a rub on the back of her neck Pat returned to her spot by her
mistress’ feet.
They drank coffee, and sat around the gas fire. It occurred to Steven that Lucy would
be able to repack her stuff in the same boxes. He remarked about the convenience of already
having a unit where she could move.
‘Sure,’ said Lucy. ‘But I feel so betrayed,’ and they sympathized. ‘Now Garry’ll go
on and on about the unit. He’s not the sort of person who lets go easily.’
Mandy tentatively raised the idea of selling one of the properties, to get enough
money to buy something that was all her own. ‘But I’ll still have to deal with fuckhead
though. He never sells anything that’s his.’
‘But they’re yours too, aren’t they?’
‘Get a lawyer,’ said Rob, and the others nodded in agreement.
‘It’s stupid,’ said Lucy, in reply. ‘I’m such a sucker. David says, “do this show,” and I
really thought he could bring it off. We’d all live happily ever after, but now he’s dropped it –
fallen, just like his precious Goosey. Maybe he should get a lawyer!’ Mandy sat next to Lucy
in the role of comforter, although she was taken aback by her attack on David.
‘I don’t think the fallen can return to grace by hiring a lawyer,’ said Steven. ‘But you
might need one to sort out these properties of yours.’
‘I guess I’ll have to.’
191
~~~
The pub had a fire going. Michael inspected it and announced that it was real wood, not a gas
imitation. Megan and Allara were already comfortably ensconced in armchairs. Kathleen
warmed her backside and David went to the bar. When he returned, it was with a bottle of
Shiraz and glasses for all. They drank to The Margin band then laughed and proceeded to
toast each incident that came to mind. Michael said how much he enjoyed Megan’s
percussion, a compliment that she seemed to take very seriously until Kathleen called out:
‘To Megan,’ and they laughed again.
‘What about you?’ said Michael, directing his question to David. They sat silently in
the lounge chairs – waiting. He sipped some wine and then talked about odd incidents, like
when Kathleen started playing in the wrong key but they kept going anyway, and the time
when he forgot to plug in his guitar and couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t work.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Allara, teasingly. ‘You were just the teeniest bit angry then weren’t
you?’
When he talked about the show itself there was a general hush. The clatter and voices
from the public bar interjected as accompaniment. ‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘I’m really pleased
with the way it came together. Thanks so much.’ Nobody noticed that Lucy was standing at
the bar until Kathleen looked up from her spot by the fire.
‘And to Lucy,’ she said, prompting them to turn around in unison. They raised their
glasses to toast her and then Michael put his on the table and started to clap. The others
followed suit.
David went over to her. ‘Good to see you. Are the others coming?’
‘No,’ she replied and told him that they’d left after visiting her earlier. ‘I had a bit of a
cry. But I’m feeling better now.’
He bought her a glass of champagne and Allara joined them to buy another bottle of
Shiraz. Then they sat down again. ‘What are your favourite incidents from the show?’ asked
Michael.
Lucy thought for a moment. ‘Mandy’s habit of dancing with her beanie on when she
was cold, so every morning it looked funny with wisps of her hair sticking out.’
‘Oh yeah. I noticed that,’ said Megan.
192
Allara returned with the new bottle and the others came closer to refill their glasses,
standing around the chairs in a semi-circle. ‘But even though the rehearsals went well, aren’t
you guys disappointed with what happened?’ said Kathleen.
‘It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it,’ said Lucy, but David pointed out that he was more
interested in what they had actually achieved.
‘The dance and the images are fantastic and I’m certainly not disappointed in the way
the music came together.’ Lucy nodded, agreeing with that much. He raised his glass slowly
and deliberately. The others did the same and stood silently for a few seconds, letting the
noise from the bar infiltrate. David’s phone sounded and they looked at him, about to laugh,
until Megan employed her percussionist’s timing to seize the moment.
‘To The Margin!’ she shouted and they laughed and drank until David cut in:
‘But. It’s not a trivial matter. What we have is a show that’s written, rehearsed, and
ready for production. Whenever we choose to do it.’ There was a general silence that was
broken by an alert from his phone. ‘It’s Sally,’ he said. ‘She wants to call in again tomorrow.
Hopes that Garry hasn’t stuffed things up.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Lucy, fully aware that Garry had stuffed it up for them, or for her,
anyway.
‘It is nice,’ said David. ‘She usually tells me that I’m the one who’s stuffed up.’
Allara sat on the couch with David and Lucy. ‘But this guy’s stuffed it up for all of us.
How can we have a show if he’s taken over?’ The rest of the band waited for a response.
‘It’s not all about the show,’ said Lucy.
David sighed, as if he was feeling the strain. ‘It’ll work out,’ he said.
‘I used to think that,’ replied Lucy. ‘But I’m tired of having to move again because of
him.’
Michael and Megan sat in armchairs, and Kathleen returned to the fireplace, deciding
that it needed poking. David put his arm around Lucy. ‘Yeah, that’s a drag, but I guess we’ll
just have to cope. Thing is, Garry’s got the money, but that’s all. He doesn’t own anyone. We
don’t owe him anything, and he doesn’t own The Margin. So give unto Caesar that which is
Caesar’s, and that’s all he’s got.’
193
Chapter 17
The route was familiar; even now the old road was now a freeway. Each exit sign brought
back memories of the towns along the way: David getting annoyed because the Diggers Rest
railway gates were closed; the valley of Gisborne; the oak trees lining the road out of
Woodend; winding through Kyneton, Malmsbury, and Taradale. The rest of them were no
more than signposts to the places she knew in childhood. David was always there – driving,
embroiled in some spontaneous outing. ‘Let’s go to Mount Macedon to see the snow,’ and off
they’d go leaving practical matters like going to work and doing the shopping to Sylvia. Half
the time she didn’t want to go anyway. He was hopeless. It was always about him – his plan,
his idea. And at night he was always out playing somewhere.
She left the highway at Foggarty’s Gap Road, climbing sharply to the top and on
through Muckleford to the house on the hill. She looked up from the road, aware of a warm
sensation that accompanied her sense of familiarity. He had always said it was home and in a
sense it felt like it was. She was simply going home. But this realization also came with an
overriding appreciation of difference. When she left the trees were smaller and the grass was
neatly cut. Now it was overgrown. And her horse was no longer there, just a few sheep in the
paddocks and they needed shearing.
Some of the trees in the driveway had died. That was sad. They felt like part of her
life and it was unexpectedly moving to see something she’d planted as a seedling had grown
in her absence and had now reached the end of its life. Even so, Sally knew she’d left her
childhood home of her own free will and now she was coming back to visit entirely on her
own terms.
When she reached the house she saw that most of the garden had died and there was
nothing but a blackened pile of rubbish where the shed used to be. She pulled in at the front,
half expecting her old dog to come running out to greet her and looked at the house. There
was no smoke coming from either chimney. Then she saw David on the verandah, by the
front door. He was walking towards her so she got out of the car and hugged him.
He didn’t say much, just a simple greeting and then stood beside her as she looked
around. The place had a lived in appearance, which was somehow alarming. Her memory
was of a new house with David working away to finish building things and working in the
garden. He never used to stand silently.
Eventually he said, ‘I’ve let it go a bit I’m afraid. It got a bit much for me.’
194
‘Well, you’ve certainly let the shed go,’ she replied and they went inside. ‘Ah. It looks
really nice, just like it used to,’ she said, walking over to inspect the papier-mâché model that
she’d made in primary school. He sat at the table by the gas fire where he’d been sorting out
the contents of some boxes.
‘I’ll just tidy this up and get the stove on. Will you be able to stay for lunch?’ She
came over and saw the piles of papers, drawings, schoolbooks and photographs – her work
from kindergarten.
‘I’ll stay for a bit,’ she said, so he left her to look through the boxes and lit the stove.
They talked about the past, which wasn’t as frightening as David had feared. He’d
expected more confrontation, blame and more of the old accusation about how he had stuffed
up everything and let them all down. Instead she talked a lot about her work, going into great
detail about how she’d made best use of her skills to become a successful designer, even
though she sometimes disagreed with the way her employers went about things.
David heated soup on the stove and put little bread rolls on the table. Then he sat
down. He talked about his own plans.
‘I think that’s good. It won’t do you any harm at all to get away and you’ve been
saying how much you miss the sea for as long as I can remember.’ She didn’t seem fazed by
the fate of The Margin, agreeing with David that it was great to have got the show up and
ready for production. ‘There’s no way that guy Garry could see it through, anyway. He hasn’t
got a clue about planning and producing a show, no matter how much money he’s got.’
When David talked about Lucy’s work she was full of admiration, ‘It’d take hours to
get those images right. I know about graphics. What about Lucy then? What’s she planning to
do?’
‘Well, I hope she’ll come too, naturally. It’ll never work otherwise.’
‘That’s good. I always thought it’d be good if you met someone.’
As they ate their soup, he considered the alternative. The prospect of falling short
again didn’t appeal.
~~~
As soon as she walked in to the theatre, Christine noticed the Tarkett. It had been turned over
so the surface was black. It was arranged in three pieces, like strips of carpet around a central
195
space where the guys from the band were setting up. Virginia was talking with one of them
but when she saw Christine she beckoned her to come over. ‘Christine, meet Shane. Shane’s
on keys but he’s also directing, like the concept of the show.’ He held out his hand.
‘Hi. You’re going to be directing from the piano?’
‘Yep. That’s the plan but Garry doesn’t think it’ll need a lot of direction. We’ll be
playing our set and he wants you to have the freedom to be creative. Stay and listen so you
can see what you think.’
Virginia took Christine’s arm and showed her around the set. ‘Tina and I are going to
be in cages, like 60s go-go dancers.’ Christine stood in the middle of the hall. It seemed to her
that the central orchestra pit, band area or whatever, was going to dominate the space.
‘You guy’s’ll be stuck on either side though. Isolated from each other rather than
working in concert?’
‘Sure, but it’s rock and roll. It’s not so deep. Just fun.’
‘Maybe,’ she replied, wondering about her own part in the fun. She imagined the band
pumping out rock beats, in fact the sound guy was setting up the drums as they talked. Even
that was loud. She could imagine caged dancers on either side frantically having fun, but
where did that leave her? ‘Did Steven audition?’ she asked.
‘I think so.’ Virginia continued explaining Garry’s rationale. ‘You see, this show’ll be
a financial success and we can all reap the benefits. That’s what Garry does, because he
understands how it works – what the punters want. Three dancers is all he needs.’ They
walked from one side of the stage to the other with the sound-check making it difficult to
talk. Virginia had to shout into Christine’s ear so she could outline what Garry had in mind.
She said a lot of the show would feature the band with the go-go girls dancing. ‘We’ll have
lamps on us changing colour and the backdrop’s going to be psychedelic – you know like the
old oil lamps. Garry’s found a place where you can download the images for free.’ She
explained that Christine would be centre stage for her solos, in front of the band, and they’d
be playing slower ballads with a white spot following her. Then there’d be routines with the
go-go dancers coming out of the cages to interact with the band, ‘like dance around them
while they’re playing and you’ll be out the front. So we’ll be able to dance together too, in
front of the band.’
Images of back-up singers flashed through Christine’s mind, like Tina Turner’s
Ikettes. ‘Why does he want me though,’ she said in a break between the crisp crack of snare
196
drum shots. ‘He doesn’t really need a soloist. Just a chorus of three would do if that’s all he
wants to pay?’ Virginia told her how impressed Garry was with her entry from Roie’s image
and that he wanted to capture something similar. ‘But how would that go without the
artworks?’
‘The dance’ll be the feature. You’ll be centre stage. And your entrance’ll be explosive
– with lights and effects.’
Christine smiled. Sure it was work and probably fun, but something seemed wrong.
This Garry person had it all worked out. It was easy enough to go along with it, but it didn’t
really allow her to do anything creative. Not without simply doing what Garry wanted.
Virginia continued. ‘Garry’s also getting a license to serve alcohol. He doesn’t drink,
but he reckons that’ll clinch it. He’ll have the band and the dancers and if he can sell drinks
every show’ll be a sellout.’
Then the guitar started. Chunky chords preceding single-note phrases. Blues-rock,
with bent notes that led nowhere except to another similar riff. All played at a level that
approached the threshold of pain. Shane came over and tried to speak to them both, or rather
yell into their ears. He ushered them outside to the top of the metal stairs where it was a little
easier to hear and told them the band was going to run through some of their material in the
afternoon. ‘It’d be great for you guys to stay so you can get an idea what we’re on about.’
‘Sure. Great,’ said Virginia, turning to see if Christine was agreeing.
‘How long will the sound check go on?’ she asked and Shane said it’d be a bit longer
before they could start.
‘There’s Tina,’ said Virginia. ‘She’s looking for us.’ She went back inside with the
keyboard player, leaving Christine at the top of the stairs.
~~~
There were more people than they expected at the café and they were happy to find a table.
‘You’re busy today,’ said Virginia.
‘Funny like that,’ replied the waitress. ‘It’s either quiet as or everyone comes at once.’
Virginia took off her coat and looked at the others, ‘I’m going to have a glass of
wine.’ The others agreed, deciding that they could afford to take time out if all they had to do
was check out the band.
197
Tina suggested sharing a bottle. Then they laughed and joked over their drinks, in
contrast to the other patrons who were all couples, engaged in more discreet conversation.
The midday sun streamed in, highlighting Tina’s hennaed hair and the fake fur, fringing her
long coat. It hung open at the front, revealing her sturdy but slender figure. ‘Will there be a
dance floor? Do you know?’ she asked but Virginia wasn’t sure. Christine thought it’d be too
distracting, if there was dancing in front of the stage.
‘But I don’t see how you can expect people to sit still when there’s a full on band
playing.’ Tina agreed.
Virginia suggested they could invite the audience to dance as a finale. ‘Like in Hair.’
‘But then there’d be all these guys trying to pick us up,’ said Tina.
‘So?’ replied Virginia.
‘And stomp all over our ankles,’ added Christine. ‘No thanks.’
The others agreed. ‘But most likely there’ll be so many hot chicks dancing anyway,
they won’t get near us,’ said Virginia, but the others were unsure. They ordered lunch, and
Tina poured more wine. ‘Gay guys are usually pretty good on the dance floor though,’ she
said.
‘Sure. Dirty dancing,’ said Virginia and Christine went on to question how they’d
know who was gay and who was pretending to be.
‘Pretending to be gay?’
‘Like they might be pretending, to give the impression they’re safe but really they’re
trying to pick up.’ Her straight hair and her purple top made her look a fraction sterner than
the others.
‘Well what’s the problem anyway?’ said Virginia. ‘I like dancing with guys as long as
they know what they’re doing.’
‘Even if all they want is to pick up?’ replied Christine as the waitress brought their
orders to the table.
‘Depends,’ said Virginia. ‘It’s more open spiritually if you don’t lock yourself away
with one guy. Make impossible promises – like for ever and ever. Garry says it’s more honest
to have multiple partners.’
‘Does he,’ replied Christine. ‘In that case I must be some kind of spiritual dork, ’cos
I’m not ready for that kind of honesty.’
198
Tina put her wine glass down and moved closer to the table. ‘I’m starving. We can go
find spiritual enlightenment later.’
Couples came and went, keeping the lunchtime tables ticking over. When Virginia got
up to leave she noticed a picture. Christine put on her jacket and joined her, staring at the
image. Tina stood up too, so Virginia was in the middle, her tight jeans accentuating her long
legs. ‘It’s the theatre back in the day. But look at that strange light.’
‘Spooky,’ said Christine.
‘What is it?’ said Tina, nudging in closer.
‘It’s a ghost,’ said Virginia.
‘Must be,’ said Christine. ‘All good theatres’ve got one. But it’s unusual to have a
photo of it.’
Virginia held out her phone to take a group photo with the picture in the background,
and they giggled as they squeezed into position.
~~~
Having the boxes was convenient but it felt like déjà vu when David went out buying packing
tape and marking pens. When he got back he said, ‘Why can’t you put the same things back
in the same boxes?’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Of course it doesn’t.’ He stood his ground to catch the cushion that she tossed in his
direction. Then he moved closer, holding her in his arms.
‘Doh,’ she said and they swayed to the pulsating thump of the rock band in rehearsal;
suspended in the no-man’s land of moving house. There was little point in complaining about
the task. No need to fuss or make it any more awkward than necessary. David noticed she
wasn’t wincing with pain and that sharing the packing seemed to actually bring them closer
together. He decided not to ask what happened to all the tape and markers that he’d bought a
few weeks ago. Nor to ask if she was OK and merely maintaining a brave face, even though
he suspected it was her resignation to accept the inevitable that suppressed her grumpiness.
She seemed to be thriving on the domestic work. When they stopped for a break she sat
outside on a chair under a tree, which she imagined had always been a place for theatre staff
to smoke.
199
David joined her with coffee. ‘It’s pretty easy seeing how you scrubbed everything
before you moved in,’ he said. She drew on her cigarette, clicked her tongue on her teeth and
raised her eyebrows in a gesture to affirm that he was stating the obvious.
‘I wish that bloody band’d shut up,’ she said.
‘Yeah, it’s annoying. But in a way it helps. Keeps the boxes moving along.’
She stubbed out her cigarette, and reached over to hold his hand. ‘But don’t you
mind? It’s like Garry emphasizing his point by having them rehearse even when I’m in the
middle of moving out.’
The thought had occurred to David but he didn’t want to dwell on it. Instead he said,
‘I was hoping Sally could get involved.’
She looked at him, still holding his hand. ‘Involved in what?’
‘Design,’ he replied. ‘I know you’ve done all the animations and graphics but I was
hoping she might’ve been interested in helping with costumes and the set.’
Lucy let go of his hand, wondering what he imagined Sally would want to do. As if
they would just click and start working together. ‘You mean The Margin?’ she said as she lit
another cigarette. I can imagine it’s hard, but shouldn’t you just let it go?’
‘Yeah. I guess you’re right. It’s time to move on. She really did like it though.’
Lucy smiled. It was wonderful that she had come back into his life. ‘It’s great that
Sally liked what she saw of The Margin and specially that she came to the house. Must be
your turn to visit her next.’
‘I was thinking about that.’ Suddenly the band stopped playing, and they realized that
they were yelling. The afternoon sun had begun its descent, sending diffused light through the
trees. They sat in silence, which David broke when he told her he was going to the Gippsland
Lakes for a few weeks. ‘See how it goes, and decide from there. I’ve still got a few things to
sort out. The insurance said they’d pay up for a new shed, and I want to go to Sydney too.
But I’m going to spend some time on the water.’ They went back in to finish packing. ‘I
thought you might come down and join me.’
Lucy wondered if that might involve sailing halfway around Australia with the
humpback whales but he pre-empted her query. ‘Just cruising.’
‘So you’re not planning to sail away just yet?’
~~~
200
The corner afforded a clear view of the theatre without much likelihood of being noticed.
Christine came to a halt. She felt like a spy, but reasoned that people entering a foyer always
did so single-mindedly – drawn inwards as if they were walking on a red carpet. She stood
still, watching Garry walking tall with Virginia on one side and Tina on the other. They were
laughing at something he’d said. Then Tina opened the door. He nodded almost imperceptibly
but took the handle from her, ushering both dancers inside. For a moment she thought he was
going to turn around. Maybe he could feel her gaze burning into his back or perhaps he’d
seen her reflection. She felt a slight chill, a moment of panic and inexplicably wanted to rush
over to join him. But he didn’t turn. Instead the door closed behind him and he was gone. She
felt faint, rocking slightly on her feet but standing fast and consciously willing herself to
avoid shuffling.
Then she saw David’s ute, emerging from the driveway. It was piled high with boxes,
carefully stacked to maximize the load, like a farmer loads hay bales. As soon as she saw him
another pang of panic stung her. Not an aftershock from her unexpected desire to follow
Garry into his theatre, but it was an equally intense feeling of instant empathy. The scenario
was simply unfair. Lucy had been done over. Used to reinforce the all-encompassing ego of
her overbearing ex. His way was the only way.
And then there was David. Driving away from it all. Not exactly a knight in shining
armour but loaded to the gunwales with Lucy’s belongings after being kicked out of his own
show. There was no place for him in Garry’s scheme of things. It was going to be a
commercial show and that was that – a calculated product with nothing further to interpret.
Imagination was unnecessary.
Christine watched as the ute bumped over the gutter. The load shuddered and for a
second she thought David was looking at her, but he was only checking for traffic. She
admired the rope work he’d used to secure the load, noting that he knew his knots and was
pretty good at securing things. Then she cleared her throat and continued walking, suddenly
self-conscious about standing on the corner. She didn’t stop at the theatre but headed straight
for the café with a newfound resolve. She belonged in The Margin, not in Garry’s rock show.
~~~
201
The track rose steeply from the creek to the road at the back of the theatre. Lucy looked up,
aware that she hadn’t attempted such a climb in ages and wondered how her calf muscles
would feel in the morning. There’d be consequences from doing the packing and then taking
Pat down to the valley. Her dog came running up, panting and they began the ascent together,
stopping abruptly at the top where the road began. It was Garry.
She stood still, in the shade of a pine tree. Pat stood still too as he came striding
towards them. Then he stopped at the café and went in – hadn’t even noticed them. Lucy took
the back path to the flat avoiding the road. ‘C’mon Pat,’ she said under her breath, shaken by
the near encounter as if he was deliberately thwarting her efforts to disengage. He was there
at every corner; at least he was in her mind – from his house, to his theatre and now she was
going back to one of the units that they jointly owned.
It made more sense to concentrate on what she’d achieved, like her mother used to
say, and to dislodge him from her thoughts. After all she’d just taken Pat for a lovely walk
without being the least bit worried about being knocked off her unsteady feet by the
enthusiastic dog. And she had slotted right back in to the workplace taking on The Margin as
if she’d never retired from theatre. Then she looked at the flat for the last time and said,
‘Bloody Garry,’ out loud. Pat scrambled into the car, in a space between boxes on the back
seat.
She started the car, still entrapped in the real estate she shared with Garry but not
entirely disempowered. ‘One thing at a time eh Pat,’ she said. Then she had to brake
suddenly at the street to allow Virginia to walk in front of them. They nodded briefly in
unavoidable acknowledgement but neither spoke. Lucy watched the long-legged dancer
walking towards the café as she drove away.
~
‘You seem to spend a lot of time in here,’ he said. Christine splashed coffee over the table and
her purple top, startled by his sudden appearance. He offered her a serviette as he wiped the
table. ‘Did I frighten you?’
‘Sorry. I’m so clumsy.’
202
Garry sat down. ‘The show’s great,’ he said and went on to describe the lighting and
computerized effects. Christine thought it sounded retro. As if he was trying to recreate
something from the Whisky a Go-go. He was certainly proud of his modern system though.
‘It runs itself. Once Shane’s programmed it you just push a button.’
Christine leant back. He had one elbow on the table with the other on his knee and his
body was inclined towards her. She rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, wanting
distance, and met his gaze. ‘But. Is it art?’
Garry held his position. His face bore down on her. ‘Oh. I see. You’re an artist. Well, I
want to talk to you about that.’ She caught a whiff of his sharp breath. He continued. ‘I’ve got
something special in mind for you. All you’ve got to do is be reasonable.’
‘We’ll see,’ she replied, resisting the urge to squirm in her chair. ‘But how did you get
into show biz?’
He went with her change of subject, talking about his frustrations as a construction
manager. ‘I’ve been working solidly though. Built up my money by making good
investments. So I’m using it to do good. This is the show that’ll give everyone a good time.
It’ll bring the crowds. I don’t mind if it’s not arty farty enough ’cos that’s not what everyone
wants.’
Christine sat calmly. She wasn’t sure which way to turn. He was callous but he oozed
confidence and that carried an infectious appeal. He alone could do the job, like a champion
gladiator upholding the Empire by gaining the admiration of the plebeian masses. He moved
closer so his face was directly in front of hers and reached out to put one hand on her wrist
and the other on her shoulder. ‘I want you to star Christine.’
She wriggled free from his touch, sat forward in the chair, rested her hands on the
arms and crossed her legs. Watching Virginia stride in.
‘What’s going on?’ said Virginia, resting her hands firmly on Garry’s shoulders. They
were both looking straight at Christine, who still sat upright with the poise of a principal
dancer.
‘I’m talking to Christine. I want her to come to rehearsal, even if the show’s not arty
enough for her.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Make it fun instead. Anyway. Everyone’s waiting for you.’
Garry got up to leave, putting his arm around Virginia’s waist. ‘Come on then.’
203
Christine sat back in her chair with her legs still crossed and glanced at the screwed
up serviettes, soaked with coffee. She levelled her eyes at Garry and Virginia, and spoke
calmly. ‘I don’t think so. Not today.’
Garry’s arm slithered free from Virginia’s waist. He clamped both his hands on the
back of the chair opposite directing his gaze down at Christine. He also spoke calmly, but
made no attempt to mask the threatening overtone in his voice. ‘Suit yourself if that’s what
you want. But it won’t do you no good.’
204
Chapter 18
She wondered who she could call. Who she could talk to. Garry? Hardly. He was impossible.
Whenever she replied to his messages he came back at her with sharp, stabbing statements.
I told you. It’s not a good time to sell.
When she went to an estate agent he wrote:
What do you need an agent for? They just rip you off.
Then, when she put the matter in the hands of a solicitor his emails became downright
threatening:
Don’t think for one moment that your lawyer’s going to intimidate me. You can pay his
bills till the cows come home but you’ll end up with nothing. I’ll see to that.
She sat in the kitchen wondering whether her counsellor could help, but was quickly
distracted by a crack in the wall that needed plastering. The counsellor would tell her not to
engage… again. Lucy knew she had to make her own decisions. She needed to decorate the
place but first it needed cleaning and scrubbing after the mess the bloody tenants had left. She
lit a cigarette, feeling angry with the agent. He should’ve looked after the properties better.
He just said, ‘don’t worry we’ll send our maintenance man over,’ and since then things had
started going missing. In any case when all was said and done she still needed to get Garry to
agree to sell. She drew on her cigarette, wondering what he’d say about her plan to sell the
other unit.
~~~
‘It’s OK. I’m going to start on the kitchen, then do the rest of the place. In fact the
whole unit needs some love.’
‘Great,’ said David, sensing that things might not be entirely OK.
Lucy leant against the kitchen bench. ‘I just wanted to hear your voice,’ she said.
‘How’s it going up there?’
‘Yeah, good,’ he replied and she listened as he talked, sometimes drawing on another
cigarette and glancing round at parts of the room that needed work. He spoke about the
enthusiasm Colin and Caroline’s other friends had shown for The Margin, suggesting
industry contacts who might want to promote it.
205
‘So you’re going to go ahead with it?’
‘I’m too close. Got to let go first. The venue hire office needs to know a heap of stuff.
Has it been produced before? If not it’s too high risk, so I need a producer with a good
reputation before I can even start. Someone with a good history of doing shows at similar
venues. And that’s not me.’
She could see the difficulties. ‘Of course, high cost equals high risk. But The Margin’s
your show. Can you actually let go?’
‘Yours too but we’ve got to if it’s going to work. Audiences don’t know me and they
won’t buy tickets if they don’t know what they’re in for.’ The conversation felt a bit one sided
but he kept talking regardless. ‘I’m working on it. Sally’s going to be here this arvo and
Colin’s got us a meeting with someone from Xeno.’
It was dawning on Lucy that she’d also become close to The Margin, partly because
of the work she’d put in but mainly because of the clarity of her own artistic vision. ‘Xeno
Dance Company?’ she said.
‘Yeah. They’ve got the name, if they like the show. Wouldn’t be safe as houses
though. They’d only help with getting the initial enquiry through the door.’
‘Maybe you need to make your own house safe?’ said Lucy, shifting the emphasis of
the conversation. She told him about her progress, the solicitor and Garry’s attitude. David
wanted to know if she had seen him. ‘Just emails,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to have coffee with
the girls later. I need to get out. Don’t worry. I’m just feeling a bit down. And then there’s the
maintenance man.’ She explained that his work was shoddy, and things had been
disappearing.
‘What things?’
‘The other day it was the garden hose and last night the lights didn’t work. Some
bugger had nicked all the fuses.’
~~~
‘That’s scary,’ said Sally. ‘But who knows, sometimes things aren’t quite what they
seem. It could be the handyman who pinched the hose, but the fuses could just be kids, for
instance.’
206
‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s the handyman giving himself extra work with the fuses. It’s
still creepy though.’ They walked down Macquarie Street, Caroline’s old stamping ground
from the Con. to the Quay.
Sally talked about her grandmother. ‘She was still a little girl at heart, when she used
to talk about Goossens guiding her. I remember her telling me about him standing beside her
at the piano, leaning down to tell her stuff and write notes on the music.’ They reached the
bottom of the hill, waking briskly along the walk to Bennelong Point.
‘Have you been here much?’ asked David.
‘Yes, a bit, but I haven’t seen a show here.’ They stood on the steps and paused while
David sent a text to Lucy.
‘Just want to see that she’s OK,’ he said.
Sally looked back at the Quay, and then they made their way to the foyer. David took
a few photos of Goossens’ Bronze bust, some from the front and others from all around as if
he was admiring a Grecian marble. ‘He’s certainly occupying pride of place,’ said Sally.
‘The bust is, but they never play his music here.’
‘Maybe it’s all about the building?’ They walked at a leisurely pace to their meeting in
the northern foyer.
The foyer itself made a great venue from the design perspective, apart from the
openness, which would make Lucy’s projections tricky. But the Concert Hall was always
booked and they’d never be able to use it. Sally watched the ferries rounding the point. She
remembered the first time she saw the Opera House, when they all went on a ride to Manly.
The sails were part of the landscape along with the Harbour Bridge and the skyscrapers, but it
was special because it was a house for opera – a treasure palace for magic. She sipped her
champagne and looked at David and Colin, standing at the foot of the steps. They seemed to
be getting on well. Colin used his arms expressively, not in an elaborate way but it was
possible to tell whether he was asking a question or emphasizing a point without actually
hearing what he was saying. Then a tall man, smartly dressed in black, approached and shook
hands. David gestured to her.
~
She heard the stranger say, ‘We definitely need to talk some more.’
207
‘Jackson this is Sally,’ said David. ‘She’s a designer.’ His handshake was gentle and
she almost expected him to speak in French, but he used the English equivalent.
‘So pleased to meet you.’ Then he went straight on with the conversation. ‘I love it.
Bringing Goossens back to his theatre but it’s early days.’ He asked Colin if he’d seen
David’s presentation. Colin nodded, and offered Jackson a glass of wine. He declined,
continuing the discussion. ‘I can see it and I can’t. It’s Xeno and it’s not. So it’s difficult. If
the company likes it as much as I do you’d need to bring some of your people here to present.
I imagine you, choreographer, animator and principals.’
David agreed, but pointed out that the score was semi-improvised.
‘That doesn’t matter. Live or recorded. As long as there’s something for the dancers to
use.’
Colin nodded. ‘Well that would certainly be possible. At this stage it’s not a huge risk
compared to overall costs.’
‘That’s right. We budget between 50 and 70K for small productions, depending which
theatre we use, ticket sales, and expenses. Just so we all know what we’re looking at.’ Colin
nodded again. Jackson turned to face Sally. ‘So it’s a wonderful concept but Xeno would
need reassurance before collaborating with people we don’t know.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, briefly looking at Jackson’s polished shoes. She regained her
composure and said ‘What would the next step be?’
‘A pencil booking’s still a long way away. Like I say, we need to talk more. Lunch
next week, perhaps?’ Sally and Colin both sipped their champagne.
~~~
‘No. It’s fine. I called the police, and they said they’d patrol the area. Since then nothing’s
happened. Haven’t heard from Garry either, but he’s probably away.’ She filled the kettle as
she spoke. ‘So when are you coming back?’
They talked for a good half-hour. Lucy sat with her hot water bottle. David asked
about the agent and the solicitor. She got the impression that he thought the sale was cut and
dried. Whenever she reiterated her concerns about Garry’s ability to flummox the most
straightforward plan he just said, ‘Le petit rien. It’ll come to nothing.’
208
She reminded him about the fire. ‘You can’t call that nothing,’ but he still seemed
unconcerned.
‘Of course it’s a drag. That was the first building I built there,’ but he pointed out that
if Garry did have a hand in it there was nothing for him to gain. The new shed was already
rising from the ashes. ‘If it’s for intimidation, what do you do? Run around with your tail
between your legs, or keep on going? Roie didn’t bow down to police harassment.’
‘What about the way he took The Margin?’ She said, but all David did was quote
Dylan:
With his bodyguards and his silver cane and every hair in place
He took whatever he wanted to and he laid it all to waste
But his bodyguards and his silver cane were no match for the Jack of Hearts.
Lucy didn’t know the song but it struck a chord and she laughed into the phone at David’s
singing. ‘So. OK. You’re going to keep your place, rebuild your shed, fix up your boat, take
The Margin to the Sydney Opera House and I suppose your old dog’s going to come back to
life too then.’
Now it was his turn to laugh. ‘It might be easier for the dog to come back to life than
take our show to SOH. So I guess we’ve both got to stick to our guns, whether it’s dealing
with Garry, or potential producers.’
She admired his plain, positive approach and then he sang again:
Outside the streets were filling up, the window was open wide
A gentle breeze was blowing, you could feel it from inside
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But how can you do all those things?
‘You’re right. I don’t know how to bring back the dog. But I think I’ll do the rest of
them one at a time.’ They talked about The Margin, David asking her opinion about the
various venues; the Drama Theatre, or the Studio. Lucy wanted to know more. When he
added up costs for venue rental and the share of ticket revenue as well as technical labour,
staging and equipment, front of house, box office, catering, electricity and other consumables
she immediately thought of the cheaper one.
‘So, the Studio sounds more reasonable?’
209
David spoke quickly, animated by the progress he had made. ‘ST’s only 300 seats,
though it might be safer. DT seats 500, and it’s more impressive, but it’s also more
mainstream, less experimental. Both would work.’ He talked about Colin’s ideas for funding
options to underwrite the production, and his own plans to pitch the show to Xeno with a
small group. ‘I’ve got enough to pay for that, but can’t put up for the whole thing.’ Lucy still
wanted to know more. The Margin had entered her life too.
‘What about your part?’
He told her about Jackson. ‘He’s Xeno’s production manager. But I’d still be the one
presenting the show, maybe musical director as well. Depends how they feel about
collaborating. Same with the choreography but you’d definitely keep control of the images
and projections.’
Lucy felt enthused, flushed by a warm current that was suddenly circulating. She
paused for a moment then whispered into the phone: ‘I like what you just said.’
~~~
‘Well, yeah. I’m sure there will be design aspects. See how we go with the
presentation.’ It was the kind of conversation that didn’t need an immediate answer. There
was plenty of time as the kilometres ticked over, taking them further south on the Pacific
highway. Sally had definite design ideas but she was content to mull them over in her mind.
She slipped David’s ute back to fourth gear in preparation for the sharp curve before the
bridge at Narooma and they’d passed the turn to Tilba before she said anything.
‘So who are you taking?’
David outlined his plan to take the whole band. ‘Get a Kombi and head on up.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Yes, Sally. But I’ll get them there somehow.’ He said he’d see what Lucy had to say.
‘We might be able to use Goosey’s Symphony No. 1 with the pas de deux.’ But I want to use
the Waves Music too for the initial encounter at the Cross, live with the band but just soloists,
not the whole ballet chorus.’
Taller trees towered over them as they wound down the bitumen to Eden. Sally
thought about the Kings Cross scene and the jazz but wondered how to do it without the
chorus. ‘We’re only presenting excerpts so we’ll need to set the scene at the presentation,’
210
said David. ‘Give them a taste. Particularly with the images and the music. Careful now. The
turn-off’s along here somewhere. On the left.’ Sally didn’t slow but kept her eye out for the
sign. She already had the indicator on when he pointed. ‘There it is.’
Gravel crunched under the wheels as they pulled in to the Twofold Bay motel. Sally
stood next to David, looking at the room. ‘This is nice.’ She tossed bags in the other bedroom
and said, ‘I’m going to go for a jog.’
David gazed over the boats at their moorings, serene in the pink glow of late evening.
He drove back into town to buy food and beers, half expecting to see his daughter running
along the road. When he got back he made himself comfortable and messaged Lucy to tell
her where they were.
Is that far from Bairnsdale?
He told her it wasn’t too bad and they’d get there in time for Sally to catch the train:
She’s going to visit her mother but she could stay by the river for a night.
Sounds lovely, and the boat’s on the river?
On the hard at the boatyard. Going to take a few days to get her ready to launch.
David also wanted Lucy to see if Christine and Stephen would be available for the
presentation. Then he enquired about Garry. Lucy replied:
Couldn’t care less. He’s out of it and now I’m working on The Margin simply because
I can. Could never do that with him. He’s got someone else now, anyway.
David started sorting pots and pans in the unfamiliar kitchen. Sally came back
puffing. He could see her breath.
‘It’s hilly round here. What’s cooking?’ He said he’d put the potatoes on first. ‘Good
idea,’ she replied.
He prepared chicken breasts, and chopped vegetables, still thinking about Lucy,
hoping she could leave Garry to spread his trickery elsewhere, and take her share of the
properties. In between the business of cooking, he messaged her. How about meeting me at
the river next week?
~~~
The scenery wasn’t much, it was more a matter of ticking off the towns along the way,
Traralgon, Rosedale, Sale and smaller ones. They formed a pattern. Lucy had figured it out
211
between Melbourne and Warragul. That leg of the trip took ages. Gradually she realized that a
sequence was developing with the numbers on the road signs setting the pace and the
distances defining the time between the towns.
Twenty-four kilometres to Stratford represented a smaller episode in the progression
yet it was no less significant. Her mind adjusted. At first her thoughts went back to Garry,
contemplating things he’d said and done. But as she drove on these memories diminished in
inverse proportion to her increased sense of anticipation. Twenty-four kilometres meant that
Garry was further behind her and David was closer.
Then she was on the Bairnsdale stretch and Garry wasn’t there any more. True, it was
a long way to drive. Her back was OK though but more importantly she’d done it. Running
towards something, not running away. She’d taken control and embarked on a course of her
own choosing, unsure what lay ahead but certain of what she’d left behind. She was at the
edge of the known world. She looked at Pat and said, ‘Bairnsdale. Time for a coffee, eh?’
~
‘I’ll stay for the launch,’ said Sally.
David nodded. ‘The more of us who stay for the libations, the better.’
‘What?’
He explained that Poseidon had to know who was entering his domain. ‘If he didn’t
know the ship’s name he’d say, “who the bloody hell’s that, sailing around over there”.’
‘Oh really. I never thought you were so superstitious.’
‘Don’t you think we all are about some things?’
Sally squeezed past to get another bag of things she had bought in town, to fit out the
bedrooms and the kitchen.
‘Berths and the galley,’ David said.
‘Well there’d be nothing but boxes of tools if I didn’t get some things,’ Sally replied.
~
The yard was deserted when Lucy pulled in. She left Pat in the car and walked over to the big
shed. There was nobody. Just boat stuff, machinery and a wooden plaque on the wall:
212
A fine sailboat is the product of accumulated wisdom. Things learned five thousand
years ago are reflected in every elegant curve and fastener. Most remarkably, she is
able to take the full frontal attack of the wind and turn it to her advantage.
She walked around calling ‘hello’ and ‘anybody there’ but the place seemed deserted so she
stood outside. There were boats of all sorts, some in sheds and others lined up neatly in the
open. She didn’t know where to start looking and needed a hot water bottle after the journey
so she went back to the car. ‘Don’t know where they are. Maybe we’ll get some hot water and
come back later?’ The dog shuffled excitedly on the back seat indicating that she’d be quite
happy to hop out and have a look around. Lucy was about to light a cigarette when she saw
Sally walking towards her.
‘Hello. Is that your dog?’ holding her hand at the top of the partially open window.
‘Yeah. How’s it been going?’ She thought Sally looked happy, noting that she was
smartly but comfortably dressed.
The younger woman pointed to an area beyond the boatshed. ‘David’s down there,’
she said as Pat stuck her muzzle through the top of the window to lick the newcomer’s hand.
‘I’m glad you’re still here,’ said Lucy.
‘Well, I had to do something about the inside of his little nest, so I’ve been decorating
while he’s had people doing rigging and fibreglassing. It’s nice.’
Lucy thanked her even though she felt she should have been the one doing the
nesting. She checked herself and smiled generously, realizing that Sally had gone out of her
way to help her father.
‘David’s scraping down some stuff, but right now I’m going back to the caravan park
just over there. See you later? They don’t mind dogs here so long as they’re on a leash, by the
way.’
Lucy walked in the direction indicated, with Pat pulling on her lead. When she turned
the corner of the building she stopped to look at the boat from a distance. It was pretty with
the mast up and shiny rigging glinting in the last of the afternoon sun. At David’s house it had
looked incomplete, like a shabby and neglected hulk. Now it shone with a newly polished
blue hull and freshly varnished woodwork. She walked closer, and shouted Ahoy!
‘No need to shout,’ he said coming out from under the stern. He greeted her, but was
reluctant to return her embrace. ‘Antifoul,’ he said, taking care not to wave his roller around.
213
‘It’s toxic stuff.’ So she lit a cigarette and walked around, too tired to ask, while he went on
with his job. ‘Want to finish before dark.’
The sea breeze tousled her hair whisking away any random thoughts along with her
cigarette smoke. She stubbed out her smoke. ‘Ready to launch the Colditz Cock then?’ she
said.
He put his tools down, wiped his hands and hugged her. ‘Been trying to think of a
name.’
~
They sat in their cabin at the caravan park, finishing their fish and chips, and going over
names, until the exercise became frivolous. The Margin was unanimously rejected but margin
related words kept coming up: The Edge and The End were rejected, as was Caroline. Sally
suggested Radio Caroline and this prompted a flurry of musical names: Rhapsody, Sonata,
Toccata, and Caprice. These were followed by a series of compound names involving the
wind: Wind Song, Wind Dancer, Free Wind, Wind Chime, and Ocean Spirit.
David poured more cider for them all. ‘Something from this world or perhaps from
beyond, like Stratos, or Galaxy,’ he said. Then the process deteriorated to brand names and
any old word that they could see around them: Olive Oil, Kelvinator, Dear Guests, and
Austar.
Lucy stood up to go outside but stopped at the sliding door to the balcony and said,
‘What about Shangri-La?’ Sally and David were silent as she left.
David screwed up the fish and chips paper then opened another bottle of cider.
‘Oh, OK,’ said Sally, as he filled her glass. They went out to join Lucy. ‘Actually,’
said Sally, ‘Shangri-La could work.’
‘But what’s the Shangri-La of the sea’ replied David and a new discussion started up
about significant legends of utopian myths. Eventually they came full circle and settled on
Lucy’s suggestion and raised their glasses: ‘To Shangri-La!’
~
214
The launch itself was uneventful. Sally stayed on board and lit incense. David walked with
the tractor, holding mooring lines. The boat floated off the working trailer and Lucy splashed
champagne over the bow. Pat sat watching. David chanted ‘I name this vessel Shangri-La,’
three times and coiled the bowline around the bollard to guide her into place alongside the
jetty. ‘Don’t tip the whole bottle away. We can drink it too,’ he shouted.
Without further ado Lucy and Pat stepped on board. After a few turns the engine
started and they cast off, waving to the tractor driver that all was well. ‘We’re going to The
Swanny for lunch. Back later,’ yelled David. Pat curled up in the cockpit, making herself
right at home. David stood at the tiller, Lucy sat on one of Sally’s soft cushions on the seat by
her dog, and Sally stood leaning on the companionway hatch. Sweet-smelling incense wafted
in the breeze.
‘You know incense was one of the prohibited items they confiscated from Goossens,’
said David.
‘Really?’
‘But there was other stuff too.’
‘Well, incense takes you away by the aroma,’ said Lucy. She charged their glasses and
proposed another toast. ‘To Shangri-La and all who sail in her.’
‘Fair winds,’ added David and they polished off the remainder of their offering to the
God of the sea as they sauntered down the river.
~~~
Sally waved from the Swan Reach pub. Then she sat down to wait for the Melbourne bus.
She watched David, Lucy, and the dog walking back to the boat. They looked at ease as if
something satisfying was underway. There was no urgency about it. Goosey and Roie
wouldn’t mind. Colin was in touch with Jackson. Lucy’s images were ready and so was
David’s music. Now it was over to Xeno.
She saw Shangri-La slip away from the jetty and the image of an ocean liner came
into her mind. She wanted to run down and throw streamers at them but that would have been
silly. Instead she imagined their voyage downstream, wondering if they might hoist a sail and
run to Metung or Lakes Entrance if the weather held. David said there might be a storm and
215
there were dark clouds building but Lucy seemed OK with it. There was no threat. If the
weather changed they’d deal with it.
216
217
218
Exegesis to The Margin
Chapter 1 – Art, Sexuality, and Society
1.1
Rosaleen Norton .............................................................................219
1.2
Sir Eugene Goossens in Australia ..................................................238
1.3
Scandal and Downfall ....................................................................247
Chapter 2 – The Context of Literature
2.1
Research Questions Underpinning The Margin .............................261
2.2
Surveying the Field of Response....................................................264
Chapter 3 – The Margin
3.1
Reanimating the Story of Norton and Goossens ............................278
3.2
Obstacles and Opposition...............................................................294
Chapter 4 – Conclusion
4.1
Point of Difference Between The Margin and Related Narratives 303
4.2
Armatures .......................................................................................308
Bibliography
.........................................................................................309
219
Chapter 1
Art, Sexuality and Society
1.1. Rosaleen Norton
Colonial sailors once forged a path from the wharf to claim Woolloomooloo Hill as a locale
for rest and recreation. Since then, the harbourside real estate of Elizabeth Bay and Potts
Point has done little to displace the hilltop territory that is King’s Cross. The Cross is a
junction where William Street, Victoria Street, and Darlinghurst Road converge amidst the
affluent suburbs of Potts Point, Elizabeth Bay, and Rushcutters Bay, and even today the
densely populated district shares a postcode with its neighbours. Actors, musicians, painters,
poets, prostitutes, intellectuals, and other urban city-dwellers made Kings Cross their home,
as did the bohemian artist Rosaleen Norton from the 1940s until her death in the late 1970s.
Norton was an artist of the grotesque. Bizarre and macabre themes in her writing and
paintings attracted attention when she was a student at East Sydney Technical College. Her
‘refusal to comply with the curriculum’ 1 also marked her as a non-conformist and her work
did not lead her to a career in mainstream art. She was a Kings Cross identity who had
become famous for her writing, drawings, paintings, and murals as well as for her
unconventional lifestyle.
Her paintings attracted the attention of the law, and in August 1951 police raided an
exhibition in Melbourne and seized four pictures, alleging that such works could ‘deprave
and corrupt the morals of those who saw them’.2 These charges were dismissed but police
attention continued. In 1953 two of her published drawings were ruled to be ‘obscene and an
offence to chastity and delicacy’.3
1
Richmond, Keith, Catalogue, The Occult: An Exhibition of material from the Monash
University Library Rare Book Collection June 4 – July 24 1998. Richard Overell, curator.
http://monash.edu/library/collections/exhibitions/occult/xocccat.html Web.
Jan. 12, 2013.
2
3
Richmond, 1998.
This ruling was made by Mr Solling S.M. on Feb. 5, 1953 in a series of court cases
concerning Norton and Greenlees’ collaborative book The Art of Rosaleen Norton, published
by Walter Glover. Sydney: 1951. Print.
220
Norton also contributed writings and artworks to books such as Kings Cross Calling
and Kings Cross Black Magic.4 Her interest in magic developed during the 1940s and she
became a proponent of ‘sex magic’.5 The press had labelled her ‘The Witch of Kings Cross’
and were prone to making sensational judgments. Sun Herald reporter Susan Borham quotes
‘veteran crime reporter’ ‘Bondi’ Bill Jenkins:
I reckon she was on the lowest rung of humanity. She was the epitome of depravity…
She exuded evil.6
This was a period when Prime Minister Robert Menzies led a government that was
intent on maintaining a conservative status quo. By the 1950s Menzies position was well
established. As Federal Attorney General he had tried to prevent the Jewish Communist and
anti-war activist Egon Kisch from entering Australia, and just before the start of World War II
he fought the waterside workers who refused to load pig iron being sold to Imperial Japan.
During his second term as Prime Minister he embraced McCarthyist attitudes and introduced
the Communist Party Dissolution Bill. Menzies dramatically secured asylum for Russian
defectors Vladamir and Evdoika Petrov, immediately before the 1954 election, and
subsequent to his reelection he precipitated a split in the Australian Labor Party. While many
Australians agreed with Menzies’ views and considered him to be the supreme Australian
statesman, political historian Judith Brett describes his modus operandi for maintaining
power as:
4
Richmond, 1998.
5
Johnson, Marguerite. “The Witching Hour: Sex Magic in 1950s Australia.” Susan Johnstone
Graf and Amy Hale, eds. Journal for the Academic Study of Magic: 5. Oxford: Mandrake,
2009. Pages. 234 – 287. Print. Johnson’s paper describes Alesteir Crowley’s ideas regarding
sex magic on pp. 238 – 243, before discussing Norton, Greenlees, and Goossens’
involvement, and analyzing Goossens’ letters to Norton and Greenlees.
6
Borham, Susan. “The Dark Secret of Eugene Goossens.” Sun-Herald. John Fairfax & sons.
Sydney, 3 Jan. 1993. Pages 12 – 13. Print. See also Jenkings, Bill. Barnao, Tony, and Lipson,
Norm. As Crime Goes By: The Life and Times of “Bondi” Bill Jenkings. Randwick: Ironbark
Press, 1992. Print.
221
Authoritarian despite his professed liberal beliefs. He kept the ALP from office for
seventeen years through a combination of unscrupulous opportunism, remarkable
good luck, and the gullibility of the Australian people.7
Menzies held harsh views on censorship, which he enforced as a measure of control.
Brett describes an insular perspective where ‘the margins of Australia were on the shores of
the continent’.8 Censorship of books that were regarded as seditious, and communist
literature, were prevented from circulating through the post. Banned books were treated as
prohibited imports, which fell under the jurisdiction of the Minister for Trade and Customs,
as I will discuss in Chapter 1.3.
During his second term as Prime Minister of Australia (1949 – 1966) Menzies
personally appointed the majority of members to The Commonwealth Arts Advisory Board,
mainly from those who held powerful and influential positions as art directors or teachers. 9
Although he had described modern art as ‘nothing but absurdity,’10 Menzies’ concept of a
national aesthetic encompassed the work of the musician Sir Eugene Goossens, whom he
regarded as a friend. By contrast, this benevolence did not extend to Norton and her cohort.
Norton, like many at The Cross, did not cower but continued to produce art and
maintained her belief in Pan, just as sex workers continued to entertain sailors, servicemen,
and local clients. The Kings Cross enclave presented an alternative to conformity with the
prevailing social values.
Norton’s art featured at various venues, including The Lincoln Inn, in Rowe Street,
where intellectuals and artists associated with the left-wing sub-culture of the Sydney Push 11
met to mingle and discuss ideas. Amongst the writers, P.R. Evans captured something of the
late 1940s atmosphere of bohemian Sydney:
7
Brett, Judith. Robert Menzies’ Forgotten People Sydney: Macmillan Australia, 1992. Page
2. Print.
8
Brett, 1992. Page 87.
9
Brett, 1992. Page 179.
10
Menzies, Robert. “A Reply to artist Norman McGeorge.” The Argus. Melbourne. May 3,
1937. Print.
11
Weblin, Mark. “The Lincoln Inn,” The Northern Line. No.2, April 2007. http://
setis.library.usyd.edu.au/anderson/contributors/weblin/tnl.html Web. Jan. 12, 2013.
222
There in the airless cellar dimly lit,
The Saints of esoteric culture sit:
Free verse, free art, free love, freethinking thrive… 12
Jane Gardiner expressed a tongue-in-cheek attitude towards the ‘free love’ portion of Evans’
description:
There was a young lady named Jane
Who not only now and again
But again and again and again and again
And again and again and again13
Mainstream society maintained a voyeuristic fascination with Kings Cross.14 Red,
blue and green signs advertising everything from strip clubs and cigarettes to Dunlop tyres
beckoned at the end of William Street, marking the western entrance to illicit territory.
Society looked inward to a district that flashed electricity, like a pinball machine, wedged
between Darlinghurst and middle-class suburbia.
12
Weblin. Page 8.
13
Weblin. Page 8.
14
Brewster, H.C. and Virginia Luther. King’s Cross Calling. Sydney: HC Brewster, 1945.
Print.
223
For those who did not visit this risqué world of non-conformity, unconventionality and sex,
magazines like The Australasian Post, People, Truth, Squire, and tabloid newspapers
including The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mirror, and The Sun readily provided salacious
stories. Australian society was eager to lap up text dished out by the sales driven media.
The press portrayed Norton as ‘the notorious, Pan-worshipping Witch of Kings Cross
… a person known to the police through two prosecutions for obscenity’.15 Newcastle
academic Marguerite Johnson believes this appraisal to be unfair, claiming that ‘Rosaleen
Norton is among the most misunderstood women of 20th Century Australasia’.16
Norton’s interest in the Western esoteric tradition grew from a long-time study of Carl
Jung’s writings, tempered by Eastern and Theosophical influences. Later she studied the
Kabbalah, and practiced ritual magic. Neville Drury has studied Norton’s life and work
extensively, and has identified four aspects to her magical practices:
a) Individual trance-magic episodes during which she sought to venture forth on the
‘astral planes’ in a state of mental dissociation induced by self- hypnosis. It was
while on these trance journeys that Norton claimed to encounter the ‘god-forms’
of the principal deities in her magical pantheon.
b) Sex magic activities with members of her magical coven, largely based on
practices derived from the magical writings of Aleister Crowley.
c) Ritual magic invocations and other ceremonial activities, which included
improvised elements from Kundalini Yoga, Left-Hand Path Tantra and voodoo.
Norton undertook these ritual activities as ‘High Priestess at the Altar of Pan’,
together with members of her inner magical circle.
d) Miscellaneous magical activities, including attempted ‘magical flights’ seeking to
simulate the ‘aerial’ journeys allegedly undertaken by medieval witches when they
‘rode’ to the Witches’ Sabbath, and also magical hexings and improvised ritual
magical workings using various drugs and mind-altering stimulants. 17
15
Jenkings, 2002.
16
Johnson, Marguerite. The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian
Media, archives/auchmuty library University of Newcastle, 2002. Print. This article can also
be accessed at http://uoncc.wordpress.com/2010/04/13/the-witch-of-kings-cross/ Web. Jan.
12, 2013.
17
Drury, Nevill. Rosaleen Norton’s Contribution to the Western Esoteric Tradition. Diss.
University of Newcastle, 2008. http://hdl.handle.net/1959.13/31438 Web. Oct. 29,
2009.Pages 247 – 248. In subsequent pages, Drury describes these practices in greater detail.
He also provides details of Norton’s relationship with Gavin Greenlees and with Eugene
Goossens.
224
Norton’s philosophy became ‘allied to a cosmology that was distinctly her own, but
which drew much from ancient mythology’.18 Her drawings often included symbols of her
own, some of which came to her in trance or in dreams. Individuation, published in The Art
of Rosaleen Norton,19 alludes to this mixture of influences, referring to the Jungian concept
of unification for mind, body and spirit, or unified self.20 The drawing also includes insects
and peculiar symbols and features the artist’s face on a winged creature with a serpentine
phallus and clawed feet.
Her art featured at the Kashmir café in McLeay Street, and the Apollyon café in
Darlinghurst Road. Both venues were supposedly meeting places for her coven, which the
press referred to as her ‘Devil’s Cult’. 21 Phyllis Curott, author of Witch Crafting: A Spiritual
18
Richmond, 1998.
19
Norton, Rosaleen and Greenlees, Gavin. The Art of Rosaleen Norton: With Poems by Gavin
Greenlees. Sydney: Walter Glover, 1952. Print. Page 269.
20
Johnson, 2009. Pages. 268 – 269.
21
The Sun. Sydney, Sept.29, 1955. Print.
225
Guide to Making Magic, defines a coven as a group of people with similar interests, who
meet as a ‘support group, a consciousness-raising group, and a psychic study centre’.22 Curott
points out that a coven is a place of safety that is private to those who belong to the circle.
Norton’s coven included the practice of ‘sex magic,’ which Curott describes as ‘an expression
of divine union … of Goddess and God. Significantly, sex magic is an aspect of Wiccan
practice that is conducted by consenting adults’.23
Norton’s involvement in occult ceremonies prompted accusations of sex orgies and
demoniac parties. The tabloid newspapers featured headlines such as ‘Black Masses in
Sydney,’24 irrespective of the inaccuracy of the copy. Australian society in the late 1940s was
more than 80% Christian, and ‘it is hardly surprising that in most media depictions of Norton
… she was portrayed as a renegade from mainstream society, as an anti-Christian Devil
worshipper, and as a practitioner of “black magic”’.25 Johnson points out that she became
‘society’s scapegoat, the witch on the outskirts of the community, a demon required to
reinforce family values and Christian morality’.26 Researcher and author Elaine Pagles
presents a similar proposition, albeit on a broader scale, arguing that the construction of Satan
himself is ‘a reflection of how we perceive ourselves, and how we see others’. 27 Pagles
quotes William Scott Green:
A society does not simply discover its others, it fabricates them, by selecting,
isolating, and emphasizing an aspect of another people’s life, and making it symbolize
their difference.28
22
Curot, Phyllis W. Witch Crafting: A Spiritual Guide to Making Magic. London: Thorsons,
2002. Print. Page 278.
23
Curot, 2002. Page 285.
24
The Sun. Sydney, Sept. 29 1955. Print.
25
Drury, 2008. Page 8.
26
Johnson, 2002. Page 1.
27
Pagles, Elaine, H. The Origins of Satan, London: Penguin, 1997. Page xix. Print.
28
Scott Green, William. “Otherness within: Towards a Theory of Difference in Rabbinic
Judais.” Neser & Friends, eds. To See Ourselves as Others See Us. Pages 46 – 49. Quoted in
Pagles, 1997. Page xix. Print.
226
Christian churches in 1950s Australia were not necessarily as obsessed with moral
decay as the Menzies government, the police, and the press. Academic David Hillier points
out that ‘Sermons and articles in the church press were, as always, much more likely to be on
devotional and ecclesiastical topics.’29 Any malaise in morals ‘could only be arrested or
reversed by a renewal of religious faith and an obedience to the law of God’.30
Norton was not concerned with mainstream attitudes towards social behaviour and
sexual conduct. She worshipped Pan and referred to herself as a trance artist. Transcendence
and out of body experience featured as recurring themes in both her art and her magical
practices. An article in the Sydney magazine Pertinent that focused on Norton’s psychic
abilities referred to this as ‘a vision of the boundless’.31 She recognized the Freudian notion
of the dream as a place of the uncanny, a beginning for all human beings. From an early age
she refused to deny extra-sensory experience and repudiated rules of repression, which she
later described as ‘senseless shibboleths’.32
Norton shared a house at 179 Brougham Street, Kings Cross with poet, Gavin
Greenlees. Johnson cites Arthur Rimbaud (1854 – 1891) and Comte de Lautremont (1846 –
1870) as Greenlees’ early influences.33 Both writers were considered precursors to the
surrealists and experimented with free verse to submit the self to a derangement of the
senses.34 Drury quotes Norton’s remarks, included in The Art of Rosaleen Norton: Surrealism
‘excited his [Greenlees’] imagination to such a degree that he became obsessed... Intuition
sensed mysterious, unknown realms and the possibility of evoking them...’35
Greenlees’ early poems were also published in Pertinent but both Johnson and Drury
consider it unlikely that Norton and he formed a partnership through this connection, as
29
Hilliard, David. “Church, Family, and Sexuality in Australia in the 1950’s.” Murphy, John,
and Smart, Judith, eds. The Forgotten Fifties. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1997.
Pages 143 – 144. Print.
30
Hillard, 1997. Page 144.
31
Pertinent. Sydney, June 1943. Print.
32
Norton. Rosaleen. “I was Born a Witch,” Australasian Post. Sydney, Jan. 3, 1957. Print.
33
Johnson, 2009. Page 245.
34
Johnson, 2009.
35
Norton, 1952, Page 6.
227
Greenlees was thirteen years her junior and still at school in Victoria. 36 Even so, the
connection was significant and Greenlees’ writing also alluded to altered states of
consciousness and a world beyond physical boundaries:
He is the castle of echoes,
And the walking mill, sideshow to attraction beyond sleep,
We created those dissolving, mobile corridors,
From the dream logged, archaic flesh,
Of giants no longer valid
- Gavin Greenlees 37
Nightmare, which was part of Norton’s 1943 exhibition at the bohemian Pakie’s Club,
Sydney, depicts a god-form arising from the body of a woman who is sleeping, or in a trance
state.38 It is a visual representation of astral projection and an esoteric world beyond the
commonplace. The significance of the beliefs, practices and visions informing Norton’s
paintings raises the question of the way viewers perceived her artworks. Were the drawings
linked with a truth that Norton was intending to convey, or were viewers free to form
individual responses to the transcendental nature of her imagery?
36
Norton, 1952. See also Drury, Nevill. Pan’s Daughter: The Strange World of Rosaleen
Norton. Melbourne: Harper Collins, 1998 Page 48. Print.
37
Norton, 1952. This excerpt from Greenlees poem accompanied The Angel of Twizzari in
The Art of Rosaleen Norton.
38
Drury, 2008. Nightmare is reproduced on p.27.
228
Poststructuralist philosopher Jacques Derrida maintains a suspicion of linkages
between representations and truth, regarding individual response as part of a system of
appreciation that is metaphorical rather than strictly formal. He argues that we might ‘be
tempted to analyze such content according to the classical concept of the senses. So it is we
speak happily of visual, auditory, and tactile metaphors…’39
His criticism of an appeal to sensory metaphors, which he calls the ‘classical concept
of the senses,’ argues against anchoring or locking down responses authoritatively. This
would constitute a method to authorize or legitimize responses as formalized truths. Further
to this Derrida argues that it would be sensible to find ‘a corresponding transcendental and
formal aesthetics of metaphors which would be the condition of possibility’.40 He denounces
the establishment of fixable meaning in favour of the proposition that individuals are able to
appreciate the aesthetics of metaphors through their own interpretative responses.
Informed critique is different. In his article in Aesthetics and Art, American
philosopher of art Monroe C. Beardsley claims: ‘If a commentator, or critic sets out to
evaluate or interpret an artwork, then they must be prepared to ‘point out clearly those
characteristics upon which its interpretable significance, or its aesthetic value depends.’ 41
Beardsley points out that ‘it is possible for aesthetic objects to resist critical analysis, and that
even if it were possible, the desirability of such reducing the work to critical analysis would
be dubious.’42
Many of Norton’s works evaded grounds for informed critique due to the
incomprehensible nature of her subject matter. Even so, conservative elements in society did
not believe that viewers should have the opportunity to form their own opinions or make their
own aesthetic judgments. The distinction between aesthetic considerations and the ethical
field of moral values became blurred, as a sense of moral panic accompanied the portrayal of
the unknown in her art. Her drawings and paintings were seen as undesirable presentations of
39
Derrida, Jacques. “The White Mythology. Metaphor in the Text of Philosophy.” Margins of
Philosophy. Trans. Alan Bass. Chicargo: Chicargo University Press, 1982. Page 26. Print.
40
Derrida, 1982. Page 26.
41
Beardsley, Monroe C. Aesthetics and Art: Problems in the Philosophy of Criticism. New
York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1958. Page 75. Print.
42
Beardsley, 1958. Page 75.
229
evil. A reviewer in Pertinent, identified as Paul, felt that society’s narrow-mindedness was
unfairly biased:
If I am to analyze this feeling quite honestly now, I find only one explanation: to the
impure all is impure. There is nothing disgusting about them, not even those which
depict horrible, terrifying, even repulsive ideas or images.43
Paul’s enlightened opinion was far from unanimous. In 1946 police raided Norton’s
exhibition at the Rowden White Library, University of Melbourne. She was charged
following complaints that her artworks were ‘lewd and disgusting’,44 depicting ‘stark
sensuality running riot’,45 and ‘as gross a shock to the average spectator as a witch’s orgy’.46
Norton found these remarks naïve and representative of an immature mentality. ‘Obscenity,
like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder,’ she declared, and went on to say, ‘this figleaf
morality expresses a very unhealthy attitude.’ 47
Police seized four of the works, alleging that they were decadent, obscene, and likely
to arouse unhealthy sexual appetites in those who saw them. Their case was accompanied by
‘considerable press coverage, most of which… dwelt on the extraordinary subject matter of…
[the] works, her bohemian lifestyle and occult interests.’48 Police claimed that Norton was
displaying works inspired by medieval demonology, but the defence attorney argued that the
obscene pictures could not be proven ‘likely to corrupt those whose minds were open to
immoral influences’.49 He argued that viewers could form their own opinions, and bring a
variety of interpretative responses to the works. In court, Norton was asked to explain one of
the paintings, Witches’ Sabbat50 (later reworked as Black Magic), describing the work as:
43
Pertinent. June, 1943. Drury (2008) identifies Paul as a science-fiction author Named
David R. Evans, p. 54.
44
Daily Telegraph. Sydney, Aug. 4, 1949. Print.
45
Daily Telegraph. Aug. 4, 1949.
46
Daily Telegraph. Aug. 4, 1949.
47
Daily Telegraph. Aug. 4, 1949.
48
Richmond, 1998.
49
Details of this trial were published in the Daily Telegraph, Sydney, Feb. 5, 1953, and The
Sun, Sydney, Feb. 5, 1953.
50
Drury, 2008. Witches’ Sabbat is reproduced on Page 26.
230
‘symbolic’ with the female figure, resembling the artist, being a magic
practitioner and the panther personifying the powers of darkness. The embrace
represents the initiation of the practitioner into the ‘infernal mysteries.’51
Censorship of Norton’s art was based on the assumption that meaning is inherent in
the artwork, and therefore fixed, or stable. Implicit in this assumption is the belief that the
reader or viewer is a passive receiver of the artwork’s meaning. This assumption contends
that images of sexual depravity would cause sexual depravity in the viewer. The reader or
viewer is cast as the victim of the artwork’s depraved, or immoral meanings. This view of the
relationship between art and its ‘readers’ was seriously challenged by the rise of a range of
theories that are now typically grouped under the heading ‘post-structuralist’.
In his book The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, Michel
Foucault employs the metaphor of the archaeologist who is inquiring into the production and
organization of Western knowledge. The archaeologist is the analyst, or the philosopher51
Drury, 1998. Page 40.
231
historian, which differs from the nineteenth century approach to codifying knowledge. This
earlier approach saw language as representational, and knowledge as organized around
surface realities that are visible and measurable. The post-structuralist ‘archaeologist’
investigates the supporting foundations that produce these so called knowledges. Foucault
terms these foundations ‘discourses.’ By excavating these discourses he exposes the
relationship between power, or authority, and institutionalized ‘knowledges’. These include
‘knowledges’ that govern aesthetic judgments and distinctions between ‘acceptable’ and
unacceptable’ art.52 In The History of Sexuality, Foucault discusses the role of the state in
controlling and shaping discourse, raising concerns about a state that demands ‘a world of
discourse divided between accepted discourse and excluded discourse’. 53 Such a relationship
between disciplinary powers and discourse would serve to deny the archaeologist the object
of the search, leaving only that which has already been revealed. There would be no scope for
imagination as it would be absurd to imagine something that has already been made known.
As mentioned previously, Derrida contests the notion of authorizing, legitimizing and
formalizing responses as truths. He argues that meaning cannot be fixed by locking down or
anchoring responses authoritatively, as was Menzies’ method when he strongly influenced
The Commonwealth Arts Advisory Board with the aim of establishing a national aesthetic.54
Roland Barthes also recognizes that there is more to artistic discourse than sharing already
defined understandings. In his essay From Work to Text55 he draws a distinction between
‘works’ as consumable, knowable, complete, and interpretable, and ‘texts’ that cannot be
incorporated into the already known. ‘Texts’ are excessive, blissful, opening onto the
unknown and uninterpretable. In The Pleasure of the Text, 56 Barthes uses the term
jouissance, which is distinct from and superior to pleasure. ‘Works’ invite pleasure, yet
52
Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. New York:
Vintage Books, 1994. Print.
53
Foucault Michel. The History of Sexuality: An Introduction, vol. 1. Trans. Robert Hurley.
London: Penguin, 1990. Page 100. Print.
54
Brett, 1992. Page 179.
55
Barthes, Roland. “From Work to Text.” Image, Music, Text. Trans. Heath. London:
Fontane, 1977. Print.
56
Barthes, Roland. The Pleasure of he Text. Trans. Miller. New York: Hill and Wang, 1975.
Print.
232
remain within a complacent comfort zone of reception and understanding, whereas ‘texts’
stimulate further production through their invitation to multiple, open meanings.
According to Barthes, texts of jouissance impose a sense of loss, or desire on the
reader or listener, challenging historical, cultural, and psychological certainties.57 Jouissance
describes the reader’s response as a response that goes beyond interpretation. This matches
Susan Sontag’s definition of the critic’s proper response to art, which she articulates in her
essay Against Interpretation. 58 Sontag uses words such as ‘transparence’ and ‘luminous’ to
describe art, and terms such as ‘energy,’ ‘sensuous capability’ and ‘sensuous immediacy’ to
argue in favour of the sensual appreciation of an artwork. She is highly critical of intellectual
substitutions for authentic response, claiming that modern art criticism is dominated by the
desire to translate the content of a work of art: ‘To interpret is to impoverish, to deplete the
world – in order to set up a shadow world of meanings.’59
These theorists provide us with a way of understanding the condemnation of Norton’s
art in terms of the difference between formal, institutionalized ‘interpretations,’ reliant upon
the imposition of pre-existing evaluative criteria, and aesthetic response, which is the
creative, open, and not bound by formal rules of judgment. The ‘reading’ method adopted by
the State, and the press, was the former.
I will discuss aesthetic response theory, as well as Sontag’s argument and its
significance to my thesis more thoroughly in Chapter 3. To return to Norton; although she
was acquitted of the obscenity charges that followed the seizure of her artworks from the
Melbourne exhibition, her maverick stance as an artist and her unconventional lifestyle
provided the press with a plentiful source of sensational copy. This ensnared her in a
construction of institutionalized judgment. People magazine featured her on the cover of a
1950 edition with the title Priestess of the Occult, 60 and her degraded reputation became
firmly established.
57
Barhes, 1975.
58
Sontag, Susan. “Against Interpretation.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays. London:
Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1967. Print.
59
Sontag, 1967.
60
Drury, 2008. The cover to this edition of People is reproduced on Page 27.
233
In 1952, police attention shifted from obscenity to vagrancy charges, as Norton and
Greenlees had no visible means of support. Publisher Walter Glover came to the rescue with
the offer to fund a collaborative book, and The Art of Rosaleen Norton was produced as a
deluxe edition. Again, police intervention led to obscenity charges and bowdlerization. The
Sunday Sun ran the headline Witches, Demons on Rampage in Weird Sydney Sex Book,61 and
similar sensationalism called for the book to be banned. This time, when Norton was asked to
explain her drawings in court, she referred to the psychological theories of Carl Jung and
Sigmund Freud, explaining that many of her artworks referred to the ‘fusion of the conscious
and subconscious mind’.62 The Judge ordered that several pages had to be smeared with black
censor’s ink before distribution of the book could proceed.63
61
Richmond, 1998.
62
The Daily Telegraph, and The Sun. Sydney, Feb. 5, 1953.
63
The Daily Telegraph, and The Sun. Feb. 5, 1953.
234
Norton expressed her views in the poem Odium Psychopathologicum, which was
published in the second edition of The Art of Rosaleen Norton.
Behold, my friends this empty space
That doth this volume thus disgrace,
The drawing that should fill its place
Hath vanished:
Banned and banished!
O Puritanic Harpies, rage!
Thy breed alone doth this disgrace,
That mirrored saw its own foul face:
With mind as empty as yon space,
Whose culture (O enlightened age!)
Is even as a missing page.
Enraged Caliban
(Whose knowledge is, to thy perdition,
Limited as this edition);
Snipping art, in art’s expression,
Secrets of thine own repression,
Howl thy malice! Ban –
Yet know, O ape of little sense
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense!’
- Rosaleen Norton64
~
Much has changed since the 1950s. Menzies’ vision for an Australian Academy of Art was
not fully realized, and The Commonwealth Arts Advisory Board was disbanded in 1972 when
the Whitlam government came to power.65 At this time individual artists were encouraged
through funding that became available through the establishment of The Australia Council,
which incorporated seven separate boards: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts; Dance:
Literature; Major Performing Arts; Music; Theatre; and Visual Arts. Despite this initiative,
64
Norton, Rosaleen and Greenlees, Gavin. The Art of Rosaleen Norton, 2nd Edition. Sydney:
Walter Glover, 1982. Print.
65
Barrett, Lindsay. The Prime Minister's Christmas Card: Blue Poles and the cultural
politics of the Whitlam Era. Sydney: Power Publications, The University of Sydney, 2001.
Print. See also Macdonnell, Justin. Arts, Minister?: Government Policy and the Arts. Sydney:
Currency Press, 1992. Page 78. Print.
235
social, political, and artistic changes since the 1970s have not guaranteed artists immunity
from marginalization. This begins to bring my first research question into focus:
If sexual conservatism, and conformity were the forces that succeeded in
marginalizing the creative, innovative, experimental artist and artistic
relationships in 1950s Sydney, what and who are the obstacles that threaten to
marginalize and separate the contemporary Australian artistic couple?
In Chapter 1.2 I will introduce the historical figure Sir Eugene Goossens, who had a
scandalous affair with Norton, and in Chapter 3 I will refer to fictional characters from The
Margin in order to address this question. At the present time it is significant to note that there
have been a number of instances of opposition to censorship in Australia. Key cases,
including the 1967 challenge to the Customs Act that overturned the ban on Gore Vidal’s
novel Myra Breckinridge, and widespread defiance of the 1969 censorship of Philip Roth’s
Portnoy’s Complaint, the last work of fiction to face an Australian court, demonstrate the
growth of dissatisfaction with censorship laws.
It was more difficult for artist Mike Brown to defend himself against obscenity
charges in 1966, drawing attention to an important difference between literature and visual
art. As with Norton, police officers arrested Brown, took his paintings and used them as
evidence. It was not a matter of covering offending sections with censor’s ink, Brown was
required to defend himself in court, but was unable to do so. He became the only Australian
artist to be successfully prosecuted for obscenity, even though his sentence of three months
hard labor was reduced to a $20 fine on later appeal. 66
Artistic depictions of sexuality continue to provoke moral outrage and calls for
censorship. A significant recent example is the public scandal and police attention that
photographer Bill Henson’s work attracted in 2008, in this case regarding the artist’s
representation of adolescents. Similar to Norton’s case, police seized photographs after the
media, a talkback radio program, voiced concerns that led to complaints.67 Prime Minister
Kevin Rudd’s attack on the artist’s credentials and ability reinforced the view that society can
legitimately censor art and intervene in its production and dissemination. His remarks
66
Haese, Richard. Permanent Revolution: Mike Brown and the Australian Avnt-Garde 1953 –
1997. Melbourne: The Miegunyah Press, 2012. Print. See also “A Brush With Rebellion.”
The Sydney Morning Herald, Nov. 12, 2011. Print.
67
Marr, David. The Henson Case. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2008. Print.
236
resonated with an observation from Sydney writer, academic and activist Wendy Bacon,
almost 40-years ago: ‘there is nothing more ridiculous than a politician sounding off saying
“how filthy” or “how degrading”.’ 68
The 2011 arrest of Archibald prizewinner Adam Cullen on firearms charges presented
a similar dilemma. Cullen was using the firearms as part of his creative work and was
detained by police when he was transporting them to a rural property. ‘All I was doing was
making art. I am very scared. I have never hurt anyone, ever,’ he said.69 In his defence,
Edmond Capon, who was then the director of the Art Gallery of NSW director, wrote:
He lives what some may see as a peripheral existence. That is often the role of the
artist; to experience the extremes in order to incisively observe the commonplace. 70
~
Norton’s occult beliefs and unconventional lifestyle represented the antithesis of conservative
values that middle class Australians aspired to maintain in the 1950s, ensuring that she lived
what some may see as a ‘peripheral existence’. Reference to demons, overt sexuality, and her
use of imagery that was considered incomprehensible attracted attention from the police. She
also pandered to attention from the press, ensuring her notoriety, and sometimes dressing up
in witch’s costume for the benefit of reporters and photographers.
In her lifetime, Norton’s work not only pushed the boundaries of acceptable sexuality,
but also challenged the Christian majority in Australian society. This pitted her against both
authority and public opinion. Today, much of her work is accessible. Copies of the second
edition of The Art of Rosaleen Norton, published two years after her death, can be readily
available for purchase. Many of her artworks have been published online, and the estate of
Walter Glover retains the rights to her works, to manage future publication.
68
Bacon, Wendy. “Sex and Censorship.” Lot’s Wife. Monash University, 1971. http://
www.takver.com/history/aia/aia00033.htm Web. Oct. 31, 2009.
69
Morgan, Joyce. “All I was doing was making art,” The Sydney Morning Herald, Oct. 22,
2011. Print.
70
Morgan, 2011.
237
Norton lived in Kings Cross until November 1979 when she was admitted to receive
palliative care at the Roman Catholic Sacred Heart Hospice adjacent to St Vincent’s Hospital,
Darlinghurst.
238
1.2. Sir Eugene Goossens in Australia
Unlike Rosaleen Norton, who was
marginalized as an artist and a person,
Goossens occupied a secure and prestigious
position within the world of music and in
society at large. His public image was the
complete antithesis of Norton’s. He lived at
Wahroonga on Sydney’s north shore with his
third wife, Marjorie, and daughters Sidonie
and Renée. Marjorie and Goossens were
married in America and she became active in
Sydney society as a welcome contributor to
local fashion and style. Between 1946 and
1956 Goossens played a significant role in
shaping the face of music in Australia. He was
a well-respected European composer, conductor, and music educator who was held in high
esteem amongst contemporary musicians on the world stage.
Goossens’ musical training began as a violinist before he was appointed assistant to
the orchestral and operatic conductor Sir Thomas Beecham. In the early 1920s he had
premiered Le Sacre du Printemps in England, directed Gonoud's Faust at Covent Garden,
The Carl Rosa Opera company, and Diaghilev's Ballet Russe. 71 He was the first to record the
music of Frederick Delius, and his circle of friends included Igor Stravinsky, Ralph Vaughn
Williams, and William Somerset Maugham.72
In 1923 Goossens took up a position in America, conducting an orchestra that George
Eastman had commissioned as a cultural counterpart to his Kodak Empire, and during the
war years he was principal conductor of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra. This period
provided the opportunity for him to nurture local composition, commission new works, and
to further his own development as a composer and conductor. He showcased orchestral pieces
71
Goossens, Eugene. Overtures and Beginnings: A Musical Autobiography. London:
Methuen, 1951. Page105. Print.
72
Goossens, 1951.
239
from the European repertoire and he also championed the music of contemporary American
composers including Aaron Copeland and Walter Piston at large arenas such as the
Hollywood Bowl. His work was very well received and he came to Australia with impeccable
references from both his European pedagogic background and his commercially driven work
in America. Eastman wrote:
I feel that it is fortunate that we have had him here to accomplish so much […]. I
believe his work has been so well done, that firm foundations are laid upon which it
may stand in permanence.73
The ABC invited Goossens to Australia in 1946, and he returned in 1947 as conductor
of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra and director of the NSW State Conservatorium of
Music.74 He claimed that he would make the Sydney Symphony Orchestra one of the six best
in the world75 and set about reshaping it. He also revitalized the NSW Conservatorium and
replaced staff that he considered to be sub-standard. He was a ‘cultural colossus’76 who
brought innovation and necessary change. Roger Covell states:
Goossens … looked towards much wider horizons in music than were available from
the imported English organists and pedagogues who have been entrusted with a good
deal of the task of education and administration of music in Australia. 77
During these years, students at the conservatorium included composers: Malcolm
Williamson and Raymond Hanson; conductors: Richard Bonnynge and George Humphries;
performers: Raymond Fisher, Leonnie Streadwick, Val Price, my mother Enid Strong, my
father John Keith Snowdon; and music educator David Tunley. Opera performances that
Goossens directed at the conservatorium pre-dated the first Sydney season of the National
73
Goossens, 1951. Page 317.
74
Sametz Phillip. Play On: 60 Years of Music Making with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.
Sydney: ABC Books, 1993. Print.
75
Rosen, Carole. The Goossens. A Musical Century. London: André Deutch, 1993. Page 273.
Print.
76
Blanks, Fred. “Goossens: Golden Age and Crucifixion.” The Sydney Morning Herald,
May 22, 1993. Page 46. Print.
77
Covell, Roger. Australia’s Music: Themes of a New Society. Sydney: Sun Paperbacks,
1974. Page 145. Print.
240
Opera of Australia in 1950. These encouraged young singers including Marjorie Conley and
Joan Sutherland. He also championed works by Australian composers, as he had in America.
Post-war Australia was hungry to develop a national cultural identity, and Goossens’
charter was to cultivate the growth of contemporary music. He also received bonuses
including £100 for every concert performance outside NSW, with a minimum of fifteen such
concerts a year. This provided a salary that was ‘around £8,000, which was more than the
Prime Minister, Ben Chifley, was getting'. 78 He had the charisma to push his agenda, and told
reporters:
Music should not be thought of as stuffily cultural […]. We cannot live forever on a
diet of Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach, just as we cannot always confine our reading to
Shakespeare and Dickens. 79
The ‘stuffily cultural’ climate that Goossens denounced stemmed from a conservative,
colonial outlook. Australian attitudes towards music still retained links to the nineteenth
century imperative to showcase grand choral and orchestral works at intercolonial exhibitions
and other official occasions.80 As an alternative, Goossens offered new insights into
contemporary opportunities. His appointment was ‘talk of the town,’81 and audiences
responded enthusiastically. Len Amadio, nephew of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra
principal flautist Neville Amadio, was a teenager at the time who vividly remembers the
experience of attending concerts during the Goossens years:
The buzz and the excitement was wonderful in the hall, the orchestra tuning up,
everyone waiting for Goossens to come on […]. I have never had the same feeling of
that excitement since.82
This sense of excitement and anticipation came with a fresh attitude towards
repertoire from a conductor who knew exactly what he wanted from the orchestra. My father,
78
Blanks, 1993. Page 46.
79
Buzacott, Martin. The Rite of Spring, 75 Years of ABC Music-Making. Sydney: ABC
Books, 2007. Page 199. Print.
80
Covell. 1974.
81
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 212.
82
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 252.
241
flautist John Keith Snowdon, was studying under Goossens at the time. He recalls the
approach that Goossens brought to the conservatorium:
The previous director of the Con. [NSW State Conservatorium of Music] was more of
an academic, a very reserved, rather remote figure – also very nervous when
conducting the orchestra. Goossens, on the other hand, came as quite a famous
conductor. He excelled in big works like The Rite of Spring, Heldenleben by
Strauss… and introduced more non-standard works like Pelleas & Mellisande by
Debussy. It seemed to me, and this is only an impression, that he was often bored and
superficial when conducting the classical [repertoire] at the Con.83
Goossens was particularly keen to encourage local compositions, including John Antill’s
Corroboree (1946). First performances invited audience response to a very different use of
orchestral tone colour, far removed from the conventional form of well-known sonata
structures.
Antill cast Corroboree as a unique work in seven sections, with a conceptual
construction revolving around imagined Australian aboriginal ceremonies. He employed a
sparse orchestral pallet in the opening to the first movement, Welcome Ceremony, to
introduce a dialogue of rhythm against rhythm, punctuated by tonal contributions from the
lowest register of the reeds. He combined orchestral and indigenous instruments, using bass
drum and trora sticks to create rhythmic background for the timbral contrast of the contra
bassoon’s first low note. Then he reinforced the overtly rhythmic nature of the music, adding
sharply articulated notes from the bass clarinet. The whole opening paragraph established a
sense of openness: a dialogue where the characters did not go out of their way to explain the
drama to come, so much as seduce the listener with each understated note.
This music did not present a metrical arrangement of either rhythm or pitch, and, in
contrast to repertoire that was most familiar to Australian concert-goers, there was no
opening theme for the audience to grasp. Instead, Corroboree whet the listener’s curiosity,
secured attention, and heightened the desire to discover what lay ahead. The monosyllabic
dialogue challenged listeners to ask how the music would develop. Would the introduction
led to new themes, action, violence, or would tension be resolved?
83
Snowdon, John Keith. Letter to John David Snowdon, May 2, 2009. Unpublished.
242
Goossens’ premiere of Corroboree was welcomed by individuals and by Australian
audiences at large. The performance ‘received an eight-minute ovation’84 that demonstrated
an immediate audience connection with the work, even though John Antill, the composer,
stated:
I hardly remember going to that concert. I do remember sitting there and hearing
something. And, to my astonishment, at the end, the Sydney people got up on their
feet, and gave me such a welcome [...] that it […] makes me feel humble still. It was a
success.85
While Rosaleen Norton was censored and demonized for her unconventional artwork,
Goossens’ was being rewarded with a standing ovation for championing Antill’s
contemporary ballet suite. The contrast between the excitement shown at the premiere of
Corroboree and the conservatism that judged Norton so harshly indicates that Australian
society was not entirely conventional. Some art experimental art forms were accepted. The
positive reaction to Corroboree raises the question: what triggered such a collective
response? Was the ovation homage to the composer and the conductor, was it driven by the
way the work affected each listener, or did the performance awaken a groundswell of new
musical awareness? Corroboree was not unprecedented, and as Musicologist Roger Covell
points out, its pathway had been smoothed by the efforts of the Jindyworobak movement,86
yet Goossens’ efforts, unlike Norton’s artworks, were clearly welcomed. When it came to
music, listeners like Amadio appreciated performances of new music for the excitement of
the experience, but this was also a time when Australian audiences were keen to embrace a
concerted national exploration of new cultural understandings, at least those that were
considered desirable. Covell points out that Antill’s reference to non-Christian Aboriginal
ceremonies was ‘a kind of longed-for “short cut” to cultural maturity and national identity.’87
Within a year of its Sydney premiere, Goossens had featured the ballet suite at concerts in
84
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 205.
85
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 205.
86
Covell, 1974. Chapter 4, “Jindiworobakism and more.”
87
Covell, 1974. Page 65.
243
London, Cincinnati, Holland, and Sweden,88 and later composers have recognized the
significance of these performances. Peter Sculthorpe points out: ‘for the first time, people in
the outside world knew that there was somebody in Australia writing music’,89 Vincent Plush
considers that the work represents ‘an event that had no precedence or peer, and one from
which no future Australian composer can escape’. 90 With the first performance of
Corroboree, Goossens had planted a seed that would establish roots to support the growth of
music in Australia for future generations, whereas Norton’s art was censored.
On the world stage, comparison between Corroboree and Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring was evident and palpable. Both works drew upon primeval themes of earthly ritual
and ceremony, without claiming any musicological authenticity, and both unleashed
orchestral forces to evoke a passionate and violent primordial tableau.
For Goossens, Corroboree’s driving rhythms and Stravinsky-like primitivism
provided an exciting find, as it was The Rite of Spring that had thrust him into greatness as a
conductor twenty-five years earlier. He described the circumstances of the London premiere
in his biography:
Just as I raised my stick to give the bassoon player his cue for the opening phrase [...]
Stravinsky, Diagalev, and Massine crept into their seats [...]. The last explosive chord
of ‘Danse Sacrale’ had barely erupted before the audience sprang to its collective feet
and gave an exhibition of hysterical enthusiasm, which put the fiercest demonstration
of the Parisians quite in the shade.91
Stravinsky agreed with this claim, and hailed the concert as ‘the greatest performance of the
work he had heard’;92 fine words that assured a formidable reputation, which accompanied
Goossens to Australia. The Australian premieres of both The Rite and Corroboree enjoyed a
more welcoming reception than Stravinsky did at the Paris premiere of The Rite of Spring. An
irate audience chased him from the theatre, in a reaction reminiscent of the Australian
reception of Norton’s art. Australians showed their enthusiasm for The Rite, embracing new
88
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 205.
89
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 207.
90
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 207.
91
Buzzacott, 2007. Pages 161 – 162.
92
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 204.
244
music at a local level, as well as their eagerness to broaden the horizons of national musical
identity by connecting with a wave of global awareness. Goossens provided stimulus to
encourage this.
These concerts heralded a series of premiere Australian performances that featured
works by Sibelius, Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Vaughn Williams, Bax, Bliss, Britten, Holst,
Moeran, Martinu, Stravinsky, Katchaturian, and Goossens' own compositions.93 Premiere
performances afforded both audiences and musicians a broader experience of the orchestral
repertoire, and the opportunity to respond to hitherto uncharted musical territory.
Goossens was aware of the need for a large-scale concert hall for Sydney as a centre
for culture and great performance. He chose a site on the foreshore at Bennelong Point, where
the Sydney Opera House now stands. In America Goossens had conducted at large venues
such as the Hollywood Bowl,94 and pianist Enid Strong, my mother, recalls that he was a
consummate showman:
He was a very stylish conductor. He had a habit of striding to the stage and
lifting his baton to conduct the first beat as he was climbing onto the dais.95
Archival footage shows Goossens directing his orchestra with sweeping gestures that
provided a visual stimulus and fostered audience appeal.96 In addition, music commentator
Neville Cardus described the authority that Goossens brought to the podium:
There were no tricks or appeals to non-musical susceptibilities… His manner is
serious, economical, but strong; the sweeping downbeat, which carries the baton
behind his back, is very impressive in its suggestion of command. He is absolutely
free of that consciousness of audience which marks the contemporary second rater.97
93
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 206.
94
Goossens, 1951. Page 264.
95
Strong, Enid. Letter to John David Snowdon, Aug. 21, 2007. Unpublished.
96
The Fall of the House: Eugene Goossens, dir. Geoff Burton, NSW, Kurrajong Films Pty
Ltd, in association with the Australian Film Commission, 2004. Burton includes archival
newsreel footage of Goossens conducting Tchaikovsky.
97
Cardus, Neville. In Rosen, 1993. Page 268.
245
Audiences could see the gesture and empathize with the effect of the music, but musicians
acknowledged the feeling of security that they experienced from his ‘authoritative
direction’.98
Goossens’ last composition was a large-scale oratorio, The Apocalypse. He had been
working on a setting of episodes from the book of Revelation for some time, and his sketches
had accompanied him through Europe and America before he completed the work in
Australia. The ABC was eager to support their maestro, allowing Goossens five months to
rehearse The Apocalypse. The oratorio involved:
... a core orchestra of ninety, various additional brass players, a recorder consort, the
Town Hall organ, five soloists, four hundred choir members and a variety of special
effects. It was an extraordinary occasion by any standards, lasting nearly two hours
with an overwhelming air of ceremony.99
There was only one Sydney performance, at the Town Hall in November 1954, and
Goossens was delighted with the audience response. He expressed this in a letter to Enid
Strong: ‘Yes, I too wish that you had been here for The Apocalypse for they were exciting
performances and had a wonderful reception from the audiences.’ 100
Critics did not unanimously agree with Goossens’ appraisal of audience reaction. The
Sydney Morning Herald critic Martin Long chose to discuss the composer’s decline in stature
on the world stage. He claimed that Goossens’ prominence as one of music’s ‘hard hitting
young revolutionaries’ was waning and his ‘final judgment might well be the premier of The
Apocalypse.’101 Buzacott questions whether local audiences had adequate opportunity for
critical appraisal: ‘was it actually any good? Superficially it wasn’t easy to tell, given that
only the bravest local critics would dare say anything unflattering based on only one hearing
of a great man’s intended life’s work’.102 But it wasn’t public judgment of the Apocalypse
98
Cardus, Neville. In Rosen, 1993. Page 269.
99
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 255.
100
Goossens, Eugene. Letter to Enid Strong, 5 Apr.1955. Unpublished. The Apocalypse was
also performed in London in 1955 and Goossens is referring to audience reaction at both the
Sydney and London performances.
101
Long, Martin, “Goossens and The Apocalypse.” The Sydney Morning Herald, Nov. 19,
1954. Print.
102
Buzzacott, 2007. Page 256.
246
that was responsible for the next, and unexpected, turning point in Goossens’ career; it was
the discovery of his sexual involvement with occult bohemian artist Rosaleen Norton.
247
1.3. Scandal and Downfall
Goossens’ work in Australia placed him in the position of a kind of cultural administrator
with a high level of official approval. His duties as a cultural organizer ensured that he was
always accountable for his actions, and his public role as creative musician left him open to
criticism as well as praise. In 1956 he undertook a series of international conducting
engagements and returned to Australia from London, after receiving the knighthood that he
had been awarded nine months earlier for his services to music. He had achieved a
formidable reputation as a composer, conductor, musician and educator but his high-profile
musical career ended when Customs Officers detained him at Mascot airport on March 9th
1956.
The Sydney press covered the event with sensational reportage:
The Sun and The Daily Mirror had large teams of reporters and photographers poised
to pounce on the unsuspecting virtuoso. 103
Customs officers had received information that he was attempting to import
prohibited items, which contravened Section 233(1) of the Customs Act, 1901- 1954. This
provided a maximum penalty of £100 to ‘any person who unlawfully conveys or has in his
possession any smuggled goods or prohibited imports or exports’.104 Goossens voluntarily
attended a police interview where he was confronted with evidence that exposed him to a
charge of ‘scandalous conduct’.105 He pleaded guilty to the Customs charge of ‘importing
prohibited publications’106 and within a few days he was asked to resign from his position as
conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra and Head of the NSW Conservatorium of
Music.
103
Lipson, Norm, and Barano, Tony. As Crime Goes By – The Life and Times of “Bondi” Bill
Jenkings. Sydney: Ironbark Press, 1992. Print.
104
Rosen, 1993. Page 353. Chapter 24 of Rosen’s biography, The fall of a Titan, gives a
thorough account of events and I will refer to this text, citing other texts that may include
further details or discrepancies. Burton (2004) dramatizes the events.
105
Salter, David, Sir Eugene Goossens Sex, Magic, and the Maestro. Rewind, ABC Australia,
September 5, 2004, transcript: http://www.abc.net.au/tv/rewind/txt/s1189084.htm Web. Jan.
14, 2013. Comments from Chester Porter QC.
106
Rosen, 1993. Page 357.
248
The prohibited items consisted of 1700 articles that were considered pornographic.
These included, photographs, prints, books, film, plus some rubber masks and sticks of
incense.107 The seizure of these things brought about Goossens’ downfall and the ensuing
scandal exposed the interest in erotica and the occult that he secretly shared with Rosaleen
Norton, known as Roie, and her partner Gavin Greenlees.
~
Goossens first contacted Norton in 1952, after reading The Art of Rosaleen Norton at a
colleague’s house.108 As previously mentioned, the risqué book was published by Walter
Glover as a business opportunity for Norton and Gavin Greenlees, who were facing vagrancy
charges. It featured Norton’s occult drawings and Greenlees’ poems. After the Sydney Sun
published an article with the title 'Witches, demons on rampage in weird Sydney sex book,'109
and called for the publication to be banned, the Postmaster-General’s Department judged The
Art of Rosaleen Norton obscene, and prohibited distribution through the mail. Then, the State
police charged Glover with publishing and selling an obscene book. This was followed by a
customs ban, which made The Art of Rosaleen Norton the only Australian art book to suffer
such a prohibition – an attempt to outlaw the edition of the magazine Art in Australia (1930),
which featured Norman Lindsay’s art, having failed. Despite this, Glover was not prohibited
from selling the book outright; all he had to do was black out the offending pictures to fulfill
legal requirements, so that distribution could continue.
Goossens had a long-time interest in the occult and had a collection of books and
artefacts. He was interested in symbolism and the unconscious – how the unconscious affects
the artist and the creative process. Norton’s interest was more than academic. She believed in
Pan and practiced rituals as part of her life. Her interest began with a study of Jungian
archetypes before developing her interest in mysticism, referring to herself as a trance-artist,
107
Rosen, 1993. Page 350. See also Slater, David. Sir Eugene Goossens Sex, Magic, and the
Maestro. Rewind, ABC Australia, Sept. 5, 2004, transcript: http://www.abc.net.au/tv/rewind/
txt/s1189084.htm Web. Jan 14, 2013. See transcript of Michelle Arrow’s commentary.
108
109
The Fall of the House, 2004. See also Richmond, 1998.
The Sunday Sun. “Witches, Demons on Rampage in Weird Sydney Sex Book.” 1952.
Quoted in Johnson, 2002.
249
and sometimes making ends meet by telling fortunes and reading tarot cards as well as selling
artworks.
Norton and Greenlees offered something that Goossens required. He found the contact
interesting and refreshing, an antidote to the petty bourgeois society in Sydney at the time.110
Biographers have suggested equally believable motivations for his affair, such as: it was a
response to a mid-life crisis for the fifty-five year old; relationship problems that he was
having with his wife; he was researching his current major composition, The Apocalypse; as a
diversion from his work; and because he found her fascinating. 111 Norton’s and Greenlees’
interest in sex magic, which involved performing sexual acts as a ritualized, ceremonial,
occult practice, certainly allowed Goossens to step away from the everyday life of the
Conservatorium and the ABC to a place where he could take part in sexual intimacy.
Norton’s sexuality was unconventional. In his article “Rosaleen Norton’s Kings
Cross Coven,” Drury quotes ‘a close friend of hers’ as stating ‘she loved sex in all its various
forms’.112 At the time of Norton’s 1949 exhibition at Melbourne University, Professor Oeser,
Head of the Department of Psychology, contacted her. She consented to be interviewed by
L.J. Murphy from the psychology department, mainly regarding her magical and artistic
processes.113 She also spoke frankly about her sexuality. Murphy noted that Norton’s sex life
had been continuous since the age of 17 and at the age of 23 she became more interested in
homosexual males, stating that ‘she still prefers S.I. [sexual intercourse] with male
homosexuals because she can take a more active role’. 114 Murphy’s notes continue:
After about three months of male homosexuals she likes a period of female
homosexuals (manual and oral manipulation). With both male and female
homosexuals there has been a considerable amount of masochistic and sadistic
practices. She likes very much to be tied up, beaten, then have S.I. when her partner
hurts her by forcing her back against the pole to which she is tied.
110
Goossens, Renée. Belonging: A Memoir. Sydney: ABC Books, 2003. Print.
111
Burton, 2004.
112
Drury, Neville, “Rosaleen Nornon’t Kings Cross Coven”, 2012, http://
www.nevilldrury.com/nevill-drury-articles-rosaleen-norton Web. Jan 14, 2013.
113
Drury, 2008. Appendix A. Glover obtained the document from Mrs Raphael-Oeser, who
sent a transcript to Walter Glover in 1982.
114
Drury, 2008.
250
Sadism: ‘I enjoy very much beating men with a strap and then having S.I. I
think all-in-all my most complete pleasure is through the active role I can
play.’ [Norton]
Also [there has] been a considerable amount of fellatio; the main pleasure there is in
giving the man pleasure. I feel this is in part the basis of her lesbian role too – giving
pleasure to the partner, stroking and being stroked, kissing and being kissed, but all
the time taking the dominant role. She did say that during lesbian S.I. she often felt
that she would like to have a penis of her own to insert into the woman. She was
probed very considerably on just how she felt during sexual stimulation, but she could
not reply to this for she said she does not remember anything at all except body
pleasure – just does not think: tenseness, a building up, a relief of tension, and no
thinking at all.115
Greenlees’ relationship with Norton was certainly not based on casual sex. Rosen
describes him as ‘her homosexual lover,’116 but Drury describes the relationship more fully.
They travelled to Melbourne together in 1949 and shared a house in Kings Cross on their
return. Norton was 13 years Greenlees’ senior and was protective of him. Drury quotes
Norton’s sister, Cecily Boothman: ‘she encouraged his poetry, provided him with warmth and
friendship, and often offered him a degree of emotional security that he did not receive from
his own family, especially his father’. 117 Norton and he shared the house at 179 Brougham
Street and, as well as collaborating on artistic and occult projects, they supported one another
through periods of police, press, and courtroom attention.118
Norton and Greenlees welcomed Goossens, irrespective of the huge differences in
their social standing. They shared an intimate correspondence, some of which fell into the
hands of the Vice Squad. Police transcribed eleven letters from Goossens to Norton.119 They
115
Drury, 2008.
116
Rosen, 1993. Page 340.
117
Drury, 2008. Page 30.
118
On pages 41 - 52, Drury (2008) describes Greenlees diagnosis as a schitzophrenic and
admitted to Callum Park Hospital, where he died in 1983, four years to the day after Norton’s
death. During this time, Norton visited regularly.
119
Johnson, 2009. Page 264.
251
described magical, astral experiences as part of sex magic, sometimes when Goossens and
Norton were not physically together. Four refer to Greenlees. Three are signed in Goossens’
magical name, ‘Djinn,’ and five specifically mention the need for discretion – ‘anonymity is
still best. Destroy all this’.120 Norton did not destroy the letters, but hid them. His attention
and artistic status impressed her as a person and as an artist, and the letters validated their
bond.
The sequence of events that led to Goossens being charged began with the theft of
photographs in June 1955.121 Francis Honer and Raymond Ager stolen negatives and prints.
One featured Norton naked, bound by her hands and feet, being whipped by Greenlees, who
was dressed in ceremonial garb. The situation is in keeping with Norton’s description of one
of her preferred sexual activities, although in court Norton insisted that they were partaking
in a ‘sexual ritual dedicated to Pan,’ indicating that they were accustomed to practicing forms
of sex magic.122 Other photographs implicated Goossens. Honer and Ager unsuccessfully
attempted to sell them. Instead, the editor of the Sun handed the pair, along with the
photographs, over to the Vice Squad. Bert Trevernar was the detective in charge of the case:
Some of the photos, there was nothing wrong with them, but others, well were, huh,
weren’t the sort of thing that nice people looked at,123
Trevernar launched a raid on Norton and Greenlees’ Brougham Street house, allowing Sun
crime reporter Joe Morris to accompany them.
We discovered Goossens’ involvement, and were about to arrest, uh, to get a warrant,
when he went to England. When we went to search the place, Roie had gone – tipped
off, most likely.124
120
Salter, 2004. See transcript of letter, quoted as part of Arrow’s commentary.
121
Rosen, 1993. Page 365.
122
Drury, 2008. Pages 267 – 269. Drury also argues that Honer and Ager were members of
Norton’s coven and did not break in to take the photographs.
123
The Fall of the House, 2004. Trevenar recalled the investigation a year before his death, in
an interview filmed by Burton.
124
The Fall of the House, 2004.
252
Morris found Goossens’ letters tucked behind a sofa, paving the way for the police to prepare
a case to charge Goossens with scandalous conduct, ‘a nasty offence… He could have been
looking at a gaol sentence of some years if convicted’.125
Trevernar struck a deal with Morris, so he could make use of the newspaper’s contacts
in London to keep tabs on Goossens. In return, Morris was to have an exclusive story. Morris
let Trevernar know when Goossens was due to arrive back at Mascot and, in turn, Trevernar
alerted senior customs officer Nat Craig.126 The customs search revealed Goossens’ bag of
contraband items, but detective Trevernar was more concerned with securing a conviction for
the scandalous conduct charge. He needed to get Goossens to accompany him to CIB
headquarters. In NSW State jurisdiction, Trevernar could confront Goossens with the
photographs and letters to formally connect him to Norton and Greenlees.
Had Goossens remained in the custody of customs, refused to answer further
questions, and sought advice, matters could have ended with the fine. Instead he volunteered
to accompany Trevernar to police headquarters where he answered questions candidly and
honestly. Trevernar stated:
He surprised me the way he, errr, threw his heart on the table and told me all about his
association with Greenlees and Norton.
Sex-rituals, weird things I’d call them – and fortunately I’m not a weirdo. He
did, what he did, was weird.127
Goossens left CIB headquarters after a total 7 hours questioning, first by customs and
then by the police. He spoke to the waiting press explaining that he had done nothing to
warrant police charges.128 Perhaps not realizing the gravity of the situation, he decided to
walk to the railway station to take public transport home. When he arrived, he found the press
waiting outside the house – a position they occupied for the next six weeks. Marjorie was
away. According to Rosen she had become uncomfortable with her husband’s reading
material, and had gone to a convent in Geneva, where she decided to convert to
125
Salter, 2004. Comments from Chester Porter QC.
126
Rosen, 1993. Page 365.
127Rosen,
1993. In addition to the interview filmed by Burton, Slater, 2004, goes into greater
detail about the graphic extent of Goossens’ statement, including a description of an oral sexritual.
128
Rosen, 1993. Page 251.
253
Catholicism.129 When reporters knocked at the door it was left to Goossens’ daughter Sidonia,
known as Donie, to explain that her father had nothing to say. When Donie and her husband
left to perform in Melbourne, Goossens was left alone, disillusioned by the lack of support he
received from friends and colleagues. It took his employers, Charles Moses, his friend and
director of the ABC, and the education minister Robert J. Heffron, three days to decide his
fate. Resignation was expected.
The tabloid press took the opportunity ‘to keep public interest at boiling point,’130 and
on March 11 the Sunday Telegraph ran the headline ‘Big Names in Devil Rite Probe,’
reporting that the police had been investigating eminent North Shore residents and that ‘they
are expected to make shock disclosures soon’. 131 Vice Squad enquiries had been underway
for six months and a report was being prepared for the Commissioner of Police, C. J.
Delaney, although Goossens’ association with Norton and Greenlees had yet to become
public knowledge. The Sunday Telegraph report marked the beginning of a new phase of
tabloid conjecture. On March 17 Truth claimed that ‘people of culture, wealth, education and
social standing have utterly debased themselves in orgiastic ritual gatherings’.132 The press
had widened the scope of perceived misdoing, establishing social parameters by linking
upright citizens to moral degradation, with the implication that this type of behaviour was
more usually associated with less eminent members of society. Truth continued to agitate. On
March 12, the paper published a statement claiming that ‘Participants in Black Mass sex
orgies in Sydney ha[d] been blackmailed over their activities’.133 The allegation now
established a divide between gullible wealthy cult members and those who would exploit
them.
The series of events resonate with concerns that Foucault raised in The History of
Sexuality concerning a state that demands ‘a world of discourse divided between accepted
discourse and excluded discourse.’134 Foucault stressed the role of the state in manipulating
129
Rosen, 1993. Page 252.
130
Rosen, 1993. Page 353.
131
Rosen, 1993. Page 352.
132
Rosen, 1993. Page 353.
133
Rosen, 1993. Page 354.
134
Foucault, 1990. Page 100.
254
and shaping sexuality through its control of discourses. Goossens’ private letters provided the
press with a cache of scandalous items that represented Foucault’s ‘excluded discourse’.
Norton’s artistic discourse, including her paintings and her book The Art of Rosaleen Norton,
were also forcibly excluded from the mainstream discourse of what was morally acceptable;
but Goossens’ artistic discourse had been hitherto accepted. He became ‘tainted,’ as it were,
by his involvement with Norton. As an artist, and as a man, he became inscribed with the
excluded discourse of pornography, which provoked the disciplinary discourse of moral
judgment.
The practice of repressing, vilifying and silencing deviant sexual behaviour was
widely accepted by 1950s Australian society, and the tabloid press was happy to reinforce the
official position.135 Historian Graham Willett points out that the social, political and cultural
mobilization of the early years of the Cold War consolidated homophobic attitudes.136 He
stresses that this was a ‘mobilization that emphasized, among other things, the family and its
sex/gender roles’.137 The imperative to uphold moral standards sat alongside this position.
Selfishness, materialism, objectionable and pernicious books and magazines, horror comics,
Continental and foreign films, the rising divorce rate, the reported increase in prenuptial and
ex-nuptial pregnancies, and sex crimes were cited as evidence of moral decay in the
1950s.138
In Goossens’ case, his public station and his position as a teacher were completely at
odds with the nature of the charges he faced. A teacher who was considered to be a ‘weirdo’
was feared. It was considered that unhealthy personal attitudes towards sexuality could be
spread through contact with him:
135
Hall, Sandra, Tabloid Man: The Life and times of Ezra Norton. Sydney: Harper Collins
Publishers, 2008. Hall’s biography of tabloid newspaper proprietor Ezra Norton (no relation
to Rosaleen), who ran Truth and The Mirror, includes details of the Goossens and Norton
scandal in Chapter 1, Nortonmania.
136
Willett, Graham. “The Darkest Decade: Homophobia in 1950s Australia.” Murphy, John,
and Smart, Judith, eds, The Forgotten Fifties, Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. 1997.
Page 120. Print.
137
Willett, 1997. Page 120.
138
Hilliard, 1997. Page 143.
255
Goossens [was] mobbed by schoolboys after a 1951 concert at the Town Hall… the
conductor’s contact with young people was a key factor in ending his career after the
pornography incident.139
On March 13 the waiting press watched as customs officers came to the Wahroonga
house to serve a summons. Goossens was remanded to appear in court on March 21. To the
chagrin of commissioner Delaney and detective Trevernar’s team, the case to prosecute
Goossens for ‘scandalous conduct’ had been abandoned. Attorney General R.R. Downing had
instructed Delaney to take no further action, as evidence did not disclose a criminal offence.
Premier Joseph Cahill clarified this position, stating that Goossens had been tried under a
federal Act and that no further action would be taken under Crown Law.140
Goossens was unwell at the time of the trial. He was convicted in absentia and fined
£100. In his defence Moses spoke of the tremendous musical contribution Goossens had
made to Australia, and said it was ‘impossible’ to associate him with pornography.141
Goossens’ Defence Council, Jack Shand QC,142 agreed, describing Goossens as a man who
inhabited a high aesthetic plane. He drew attention to the large number of photographs in
Goossens’ possession suggesting that there were far too many for one person. He followed
this with a claim that Goossens had been threatened and forced to bring in the items for
others and that Goossens would reveal all the details to police when it was possible for him to
do so.143
The revelation never occurred. Goossens’ resignation was expected and he reluctantly
complied. When condemnation from Labor Member of Parliament Mr E.J. Ward sought to
have Goossens stripped of his knighthood, the Sydney Morning Herald responded on March
12 with an article that described the profound sadness that most people in NSW would
experience when reading of Goossens’ resignation:
139
Blanks, 1993.
140
Rosen, 1993. Page 357.
141
Rosen, 1993. Page 356.
142
Jack Shand was also Defence Council when police had judged The Art of Rosaleen Norton
to be obscene in 1952. Media tycoon Frank Packer had taken a personal interest in the case,
and had paid the legal expenses of her publisher, see Drury, 1989. Page 34.
143
Rosen, 1993. Pages 356 – 357.
256
The end of his career is pitiful beyond measure, yet it will be some consolation to him
to know that, long after the nature of his offence has been forgotten, he will be
remembered as the man who recreated the Sydney Symphony Orchestra and, with
the help of the ABC, brought great music to millions for the first time in Australia. 144
Norton was widely considered to have brought about Goossens’ corruption through
his association with her. The press reinforced this opinion, periodically revisiting the story
and portraying Norton as an instrument of corruption. Johnson points out that this continued
into the 1990s.145 In a 1999 Sydney Morning Herald article, “The Strange case of Sir Eugene
and the Witch,” David Salter continues this tradition, exploiting the contrasting social status
of the great man and ‘the witch’. In her article The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton
and the Australian Media, Johnson argues that ‘Salter merges the woman and her
environment; Rosaleen personifies the sleazy, contaminated world of the Cross – a
macrocosm evoked in the microcosm of her abode’.146
The exact size of Norton’s coven is difficult to assess. In "Rosaleen Norton's Kings
Cross Coven,” Drury quotes Norton’s sister, Cecily, who states that the coven was both small
and informal.147 He points out that it would have been impossible for the Brougham Street
meetings to be large due to the size of available space. Cecily claimed that Norton didn’t
have a coven so much as a ‘group of occult friends,’148 and Drury identifies several
members.149 Other names put forward, including Charles Moses, and ABC manager Hack
Finlay, remain nothing but ‘malicious rumours’.150
Norton gave varying replies to questions about the size of her coven, from thousands
to ‘at least 200’.151 Drury suggests: ‘If Norton had begun to think of herself at this time as the
head of all witchcraft covens in Australia the larger numbers may be approximately
144
Rosen, 1993. Page 360.
145
Johnson, 2002. Page 6.
146
Johnson, 2002. Page 6. See also, Salter, David, “The Strange case of Sir Eugene and the
Witch,” Sydney Morning Herald, (‘Good Weekend’), Sydney, July 3, 1999.
147
Drury, 2012. Page 3.
148
Drury, 2012. Page 3.
149
Drury, 2012. Page 3.
150
Drury, 2012. Page 3.
151
Drury, 2012. Page 2.
257
correct.’152 Rosen considers that the confusion about the size and nature of occult activity is
due to an increase in its popularity:
Since the performances of The Apocalypse, interest in the occult had become far more
widespread amongst the fashionable circles of Sydney’s prominent citizens. A little
indulgence in Pantheism with sexual overtones made a welcome contrast to
barbequed ribs on the North Shore or cocktails in Katoomba… For the majority of
participants, the ritual worship of Pan had provided sexual excitement that was both
exotic and illicit. But for Eugene it was something much more, a search for the
mystical truth that was the fount of artistic inspiration and enlightenment.153
Participants were reticent to admit to socially unacceptable behaviour, and Goossens was
unique in not concealing his involvement with Norton and Greenlees. Norton was often on
the guest list to attend his Town Hall concerts.154
Drury refers to artistic collaboration between the three on an operatic setting of Edgar
Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. ‘Greenlees would write the libretto, Norton
would paint the backdrops, and Goossens would compose the music.’155 Rosen suggests that
this collaboration was exploring ‘the darker recesses of occult experience’ to enhance the
artistic process.156
~
In the article Goossens: Golden Age and Crucifixion, Fred Blanks refers to six theories that
have been proposed to explain Goossens’ involvement. These suggest he was ‘set up’ for
political reasons; because of professional rivalry; that a right-wing Catholic faction of the
ABC was out to get him; and that Norton was blackmailing him.157 Goossens was also of
152
Drury, 2012. Page 2.
153
Rosen, 1993. Pages 365 – 366.
154
Rosen, 1993. Page 341.
155
Drury, 2008. Page 270.
156
Rosen, 1993. Page 341. Interestingly, Rosen states that when he died, sketches for The
Fall of the House of Usher were found among is papers but as a ballet, not an opera.
157
Blanks, 1993.
258
Belgian extraction, and this earned him the additional label of ‘reffo’.158 An outsider, who
was not to be trusted, he had made enemies by the way he restructured positions at the
conservatorium and in the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. 159 His daughter Renée believed that
he was a British agent who was bringing in secret material for ASIO,160 but neither Goossens
nor his counsel Jack Shand ever revealed details of the threats that they had both alleged.
Norton was accused of betraying Goossens by keeping the letters, contrary to his
instructions to destroy them.161 Drury believes that the betrayal was the other way around,
arguing that the letters clearly state the extent of Goossens’ willing involvement in both the
magical and sexual activity.162 The claim that Goossens was used to bring prohibited matter
into Australia as a result of ‘persistent menaces’ was ‘ingenuous and misleading, and
represented a clear attempt to shift the blame for Goossens’ downfall to Norton and her occult
coven.’163 Norton continued to live in Kings Cross. Richmond states:
Finding it impossible to rid herself of the image of “Witch” she accepted the
inevitable, and played on it, posing for photographs in caricature “witches’ garb,” and
selling interviews spiced with unlikely and often tongue-in-cheek claims to a
breathless press. She died on December 5, 1979, at the age of sixty-two, having spent
the last few years of her life as a semi-recluse.164
Goossens left Australia under the pseudonym E. Grey. He lived in England where he
was accepted back by the BBC. Although he undertook work conducting, touring, and
recording he had no permanent orchestra and never made a full comeback. Musician Charles
158
Goossens, Renée, 2003. ‘Reffo.’ A derogatory term for a refugee who has settled in
Australia.
159
Sametz, Phillip. Play On: 60 years of Music making with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.
Sydney: ABC Books, 1993. Pages 174 – 177. Print.
160
Rosen, 1993. Page 364.
161
This is the view put forward by my mother, Enid Strong, and her cohort of conservatorium
students during the Goossens years.
162
Drury, 2008. Page 41. See also Johnson, 2009. Pages 264 – 278 for a detailed analysis of
the letters.
163
Drury, 2008. Page 41.
164
Richmond, 1998.
259
Wilson, who met Goossens during these years states that this is because he had been ‘out of
sight and earshot of English concert goers for over thirty years,’165 and Rosen suggests that
the musical establishment no longer considered him to be in the front rank of conductors.166
Marjorie stayed with him until 1957 and Pamela Main, a pianist from Adelaide, joined him as
housekeeper and companion. Former students Charles Mackerras, Richard Bonynge and Joan
Sutherland, Raymond Fisher, and Malcolm Williamson found Goossens an older and
‘broken’ man when they visited.167 He died in 1962 at Saint Johns’ Hospital, England, at the
age of sixty-nine, leaving all his possessions to Pamela Main.
~
Sydney composer Drew Crawford, who wrote the opera Eugene and Roie (2004), considers
that Australian society, the authorities, and the press were responsible for destroying
Goossens as a human being.168 He believes that Norton was important to Goossens although
in 1950s Australia it was hard for him to realize this and to trust her:
The real tragedy is the fact that he could never reconcile that part of his life with the
things that gave him status and position… That was his undoing.169
Enid Strong states that she was affected by Goossens’ death, not by the scandal.170 Renée
Goossens found that it took years to understand the personal significance of her father’s
downfall:
165
Wilson, Charles, “The Later Career of Eugene Goossens: The English Years,” Quadrant,
October, 1987. Print.
166
Rosen, 1993. Page 372.
167
Rosen, 1993. Page 374.
168
Burton, 2004.
169
Maral, 2004.
170
Strong, Enid. Letter to John David Snowdon, Aug. 21, 2007. Unpublished.
260
Nobody told me much, in those days. I went away to boarding school. It wasn’t until
much later that I felt such shame, guilt, and anger, that I wasn’t there… with my
father.’171
Goossens was aware of the conservative sexual attitudes in 1950s Australia. He knew
that his involvement with Norton, Greenlees and the occult would not be accepted and that
their liaison needed to remain discreet. Although he appeared naïve by accompanying the
police to answer questions without seeking legal advice, scrutiny from the tabloid press, the
court case, and the possible threat of a gaol term were enough to make him flee the country,
where he remained ‘a non person for the next six years.’172
In her article Looking for Eugene The University of Sydney’s paper News and Events,
Louise Maral refers to the role that Crawford has given to society in his opera:
Crawford by no means underplays the role of the institutions and public in the
destruction of Goossens' career. In fact it was ‘the idea that Australia could turn on its
own’ that first drew him to the story four years ago – and the Australian public is a
significant character-like presence in the work.173
This ‘character-like presence’ in Crawford’s opera represents Australian society in the 1950s.
In Chapter 2.1 I will discuss the significance of this presence to characters in The Margin,
both in the 1950s and in contemporary times, with reference to my research questions.
171
The Fall of the House, 2004. Burton interview with Renée Goossens.
172
Rosen, 1993. p. 359.
173
Maral, Louise. “Looking for Eugene.” News and Events. University of Sydney, Feb. 27,
2004, http://www.usyd.edu.au/news/84.html?newsstoryid=1699 Web. Jan. 27, 2013.
261
Chapter 2
The Context of Literature
2.1. Research Questions Underpinning The Margin
As the previous chapter showed, Norton and Goossens’ deviant sexual activity was not
tolerated by the multi-headed mass of mainstream 1950s Australian society. The couple was
judged by the prevailing powers of conservatism and conformity and attention from the
police and the press assured an end to their liaison. The ensuing scandal also ended
Goossens’ illustrious career.
By comparison, aberrant sexuality does not feature in the narrative of David and
Lucy’s relationship. Their antagonist is a personally motivated individual who is far removed
from a moral judge with a sexual conscience. He is a boorish, unfaithful chauvinist whose
activities are unethical, material, and possibly even criminal. This antagonist, Garry,
heightens fundamental differences between the ethos of the artist, and that of the consumerist
entrepreneur, confounding the complex relationship between art, the artist, and society.
Historical parallels that underpin The Margin are familial. My character David brings
the story of Norton and Goossens into the present via his mother, Caroline, and through his
passionate interest and research, which verges on obsession. Like myself, David has inherited
his lifelong awareness of Goossens’ work and the circumstances surrounding his demise
through Caroline’s recollections and stories from her heyday. Caroline, like my mother, was a
prodigy of Goossens, and Jack, like my own father, was an orchestral player. The significance
of this historical awareness intensifies through David’s relationship, and artistic collaboration
with Lucy. Not only are Goossens and Norton dramatized as characters, but their lives are
also transformed into the portrayal of intimacy between David and Lucy, as they develop
their homage production. This introduces my first research question:
How, through a fictionalized history, can I dramatize an aesthetic experience of
sharing the territory that I refer to as the margin – a creative, artistic territory that is
separate from, and not able to be assimilated by a consumerist and commodifying
approach to art?
I have addressed this question by writing about music and dance, and by describing
some of Norton’s artworks through the eyes of my characters. Written description is different
to listening to music, watching dance, or viewing art and I have approached my commentary
262
in three ways: by describing our sensory response to music and art; by describing music and
art as it is being experienced; and by describing the act of actually writing, arranging, or
choreographing music or dance.
These descriptions of art and music culminate with the portrayal of Lucy and David’s
production. At times I use third-person omniscient voice to describe events as they are
actually happening. At other times the narrative employs third-person limited voice to
articulate the action from a singular perspective, and sometimes I also use third-person
multiple to access thought processes that are taking place more than one character’s mind.
My writing also utilizes stream of consciousness, internal thought and dialogue, as the
fictional composer, choreographer, musicians and dancers engage with the compositional and
rehearsal processes.
In the course of writing The Margin I have become fascinated with the issue of the
artist verses the consumerist and this has provided a starting point, for my second research
question:
If sexual conservatism, and conformity were the forces that succeeded in
marginalizing the creative, innovative, experimental artist and artistic
relationships in 1950s Sydney, what and who are the obstacles that threaten to
marginalize and separate the contemporary Australian artistic couple?
I have addressed this question by subjecting my characters to experiences and scenarios that
require action, and then determining the effects of their responses. Once my characters have
become established as actors, their stage is not bounded or hemmed in by history or reality.
My aim has been to create The Margin as an investigation of possibility rather than accuracy.
My character Garry, for example, is not a contemporary parallel to the forces that
ostracized Norton and Goossens, but his actions do create obstacles for Lucy and David. His
Iago-like qualities drive his sexual jealousy to the point where his desire to dominate shifts
from a personal threat to Lucy and David’s relationship to the theatrical realm, where he
attempts to thwart their production.
I will discuss this aspect of my characterization in Chapter 3, particularly in relation
to the question:
… what and who are the obstacles that threaten to marginalize and separate the
contemporary Australian artistic couple?
263
In Chapter 3 I will discuss theoretical arguments that underpin my writing and focus
on further examples from the novel in order to address my questions. For the next section of
this chapter I will introduce non-fiction articles and historical writings about Goossens and
Norton. I will also refer to other contemporary Australian titles that are concerned with music
and writing fiction that is based on fact.
264
2.2. Surveying the Field of Response
Prior to the scandal becoming public, Goossens and Norton were both well known to the
Australian public although the media presented their individual public images completely
differently. Since then feature articles, biography, academic papers, a doctoral dissertation, a
novel, two plays, an opera, two documentary films, books about Norton’s esoteric world, and
memoir have been written. I will begin this section by discussing non-fiction works.
Non-fiction and Critical Literature
Shortly after Goossens arrival in Australia the Daily Telegraph labelled him ‘A
Confident Prophet’.174 The same newspaper reported that Norton’s artworks were ‘lewd and
disgusting’.175 When news of their relationship broke, newspaper articles continued to report
the event, often referring to Goossens’ illicit involvement with Norton. This continued to the
1990s with articles situating Norton as the instigator of Goossens’ downfall. Susan Borham
quotes Bill Jenkings in her feature article ‘The Dark Secret of Eugene Goossens’176
Veteran crime reporter Bill Jenkings revealed that the infamous Rosaleen Norton –
the celebrated “witch of Kings Cross” – played a key role in the dramatic downfall of
the eminent Sir Eugene.177
Academic Marguerite Johnson cites David Salter’s article, ‘The Strange case of Sir Eugene
and the Witch,’ 178 as an example of investigative journalism that had ‘not progressed beyond
the style of the 50s’.179
174
The Daily Telegraph, Aug. 2, 1947. Print.
175
The Daily Telegraph, Aug. 4, 1949. Print.
176
Borham, Susan, “The Dark Secret of Eugene Goossens.’ The Sun Herald. Sydney, Jan. 3,
1993. Print.
177
Borham, 1993.
178
Salter, David, “The Strange Case of Sir Eugene and the Witch.” Sydney Morning Herald.
(Good Weekend). Sydney, July 3, 1999. Print.
179
Johnson, Marguerite. The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian
Media. archives/auchmuty library University of Newcastle, 2002. Print.
265
In 1999 Salter would have his readership believe that the ruination of a man was the
direct result of his relationship with a woman. 180
Other articles have reported events in a more balanced way, such as one by long-time Sydney
Morning Herald music critic Fred Blanks. In his 1993 article ‘Goossens: Golden Age and
Crucifixion,’ Blanks not only reports the details of the affair but also refers to the contributing
factor of conservative 1950s attitudes in shaping society’s lack of tolerance. 181
Personally, I have found issues of bias and perspective fascinating since reading
Thucydides The History of the Peleponnesian War when I was at school. The ancient Greek
historian felt he was in a good position to write a first hand account, from an unbiased
perspective. He carefully ordered events with the aim of writing a history that was not
disturbed by ‘the compositions of the chroniclers that are attractive at truth’s expense’. 182
Whether or not this is entirely possible is a matter of conjecture but as far as reports of
Goossens’ and Norton’s story are concerned it is fortunate that so much has been written, as
the literature continues to inform my investigation.
Martin Long, who was a music critic for the Sydney Morning Herald during the
Goossens years, suggested that although Goossens was a composer who was once ‘prominent
among the hard hitting revolutionaries,’183 by the time he arrived in Australia ‘his celebrity as
a conductor… has perhaps tended to “type” him as an executant and to obscure his reputation
as a creative musician’. 184 In his 1993 history of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, Phillip
Sametz recognizes Goossens’ talent in selecting the best players to form a greatly improved
orchestra.185 Martin Buzzacott’s book on the same topic, published 14 years, later provides
180
Johnson, 2002.
181
Blanks, Fred. “Goossens: Golden Age and Crucifixion.” The Sydney Morning Herald May
22, 1993. Print.
182
Thucydides. The History of the Peleponnesian War. New York: Barnes & Noble, 2006.
Page 18. Print.
183
Long, Martin. “Goossens and The Apocalypse.” The Sydney Morning Herald Nov. 19,
1954. Print.
184
185
Long, 1954.
Sametz, Phillip. Play On: 60 years of Music making with the SSO. Sydney: ABC Books,
1993. Print.
266
further insight, describing the musical climate before and after the Goossens years, as well as
giving a balanced account of his musical contribution and the events that led to his leaving.186
Goossens’ memoir Overtures and Beginners, A Musical Autobiography, which was
published in 1951, adopts a positive approach to describing his work when he was in
America,187 but Belonging: A Memoir, that his daughter Renée published in 2003, is written
from a different viewpoint.188 Belonging is no less balanced in its style, but it is written from
the perspective of an author who was young at the time she moved to Australia with her
father, sister and stepmother, having left her mother in America.
Tabloid articles about Norton have tended to exploit sensational aspects of her occult
practices. In 1955 Australasian Post published the article ‘Devil Worship Here,’189 and in
1957 the same publication described Norton herself as an ‘eccentric, decadent, exhibitionist,
crank, genius, witch’. 190 Regardless of the lack of attention to accuracy in these articles, each
has provided scholars with insight and information that has led to more thorough research.
In her biography of the Goossens’ family, The Goossens: A Musical Century, Carol
Rosen has provided a comprehensive account of the years Eugene Goossens spent in
Australia.191 I have referred to Rosen extensively, rather than flitting between similar
accounts, and I also mention other literature, including scholarly articles by Nevill Drury and
Marguerite Johnson that provide further insight and varying perspectives on events. Drury’s
work is particularly insightful, as more information has come to light since his book Pan’s
Daughter: The Strange World of Rosaleen Norton was first published in 1988. 192 Pan’s
Daughter contained much of the groundwork for his doctoral dissertation, Rosaleen Norton’s
186
Buzacott, Martin. The Rite of Spring, 75 Years of ABC Music-Making. Sydney: ABC
Books, 2007. Print.
187
Goossens, Eugene. Overtures and Beginnings: A Musical Autobiography. London:
Methuen, 1951. Print.
188
Goossens, Renée. Belonging: A Memoir. Sydney: ABC Books, 2003. Print.
189
Thompson, D.L. “Devil Worship Here.” Australasian Post, Oct. 2, 1957. Print.
190
Norton, Rosaleen. “I was Born a Witch.” Australasian Post, Sydney, Jan. 3, 1957. Print.
191
Rosen, Carole. The Goossens: A Musical Century. London: Andre Deutsch, 1993. Print.
192
Drury, Nevill Pan’s Daughter: The Strange World of Rosaleen Norton. Melbourne: Harper
Collins, 1998. Print.
267
Contribution to the Western Esoteric Tradition,193 which is a thoroughly researched,
definitive document. Since then, Drury has published several articles, most recently
“Rosaleen Norton’s Kings Cross Coven,”194 and the book Dark Spirits: The Magical Art of
Rosaleen Norton and Austin Osman Spare,195 which analyses the similarity between Norton’s
work and that of British artist Austin Osman Spare (1886 – 1956).
Johnson’s paper ‘The Witching Hour: Sex Magic in 1950s Australia’ 196 devotes a
section to an analysis of eleven letters that Goossens’ wrote to Norton.197 Publication of
material contained in the letters was strongly opposed by Goossens’ beneficiary Pamela
Main,198 but Johnson points out that these letters are now in the public domain. She achieves
two things by including details in her article. First, the letters provide information concerning
the magical practices that Goossens and Norton shared, which fills in pieces of the story for
other researchers. Second, the letters conclusively lay to rest the myth that Goossens was not
complicit in willingly sharing his occult practices with Norton.
In The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian Media, Johnson
refutes the notion perpetuated by the media that Norton was responsible for leading Goossens
astray.199 The article analyses the role of the press in maintaining Norton’s persona as a
‘wicked witch,’200 even though ‘it was he [Goossens] who contacted Norton to arrange a
193
Drury, Nevill. Rosaleen Norton’s Contribution to the Western Esoteric Tradition. Diss.
University of Newcastle, 2008. http://hdl.handle.net/1959.13/31438 Web. Oct. 29, 2009.
194
Drury, Nevill. “Rosaleen Nornon’t Kings Cross Coven”, 2012. http://
www.nevilldrury.com/nevill-drury-articles-rosaleen-norton Web. Jan. 14, 2013.
195
Drury, Nevill. Dark Spirits: The Magical Art of Rosaleen Norton and Austin Osman
Spare. Brisbane: Salamander and Sons, 2012. Print.
196
Johnson Marguerite, “The Witching Hour: Sex Magic in 1950s Australia.” Susan
Johnstone Graf and Amy Hale. Eds. Journal for the Academic Study of Magic: 5. Oxford:
Mandrake, 2009. Print.
197
Johnson, 2009. Pages 264 – 280.
198
Fickling, David. “Australia Revisits the Trials of a Conductor.” The Guardian, 30 Oct.
2003. Print.
199
Johnson, Marguerite. The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian
Media, archives/auchmuty library University of Newcastle, 2002. Print.
200
Johnson, 2002.
268
meeting’.201 Referring to Salter’s article ‘The Strange Case of Sir Eugene and the Witch,’ 202
Johnson argues that ‘investigative journalism in this instance may have been better served by
a series of questions relating to arcane legislation, police corruption, widespread, bigoted
conservatism and the journalists themselves in furnishing an explanation of Goossens’ public
humiliation’.203
There have been two documentaries about Norton and Goossens, which have been
presented as dramatized non-fiction. One of these was produced by David Salter for ABC
television: Sir Eugene Goossens: Sex, Magic, and the Maestro.204 As with Salter’s Sydney
Morning Herald article, ‘The Strange Case of Sir Eugene and the Witch,’205 the documentary
is mainly concerned with Goossens’ demise due to his relationship with ‘the notorious
Rosaleen Norton, the “witch of Kings Cross,” who mixed sex with magic in a potent
brew’.206 Nonetheless, the documentary is excellently researched by Leslie Holden, and new
material is presented by academic Michelle Arrow in a compelling series of interviews,
which are accompanied by relevant archival footage.
Geoff Burton’s 2004 dramatized documentary The Fall of the House207 is equally
captivating. Historical detail is well researched, and the film aims to put to rest the myths and
conspiracy theories that have been perpetuated by what Burton describes as ‘the Goossens’
storytelling industry’.208 Burton believes that the police were out to get Goossens for
201
Johnson, 2002.
202
Salter, 1999.
203
Johnson, 2002. Page 7.
204
Salter, David. “Sir Eugene Goossens Sex, Magic, and the Maestro.” Rewind, ABC
Australia, 5 Sept. 2004, transcript: http://www.abc.net.au/tv/rewind/txt/s1189084.htm Web.
Jan. 14, 2013.
205
Salter, 1999.
206
Salter, 2004.
207
The Fall of the House: Eugene Goossens, dir. Geoff Burton. Kurrajong Films Pty Ltd, in
association with the Australian Film Commission, 2004. Film.
208
Maddox, Garry. “Phantom of the Opera House Demystified.” Sydney Morning Herald, 24
June 2004. Print.
269
committing an unnatural sex act, which was a crime in those days, and that the rest of it was
‘a bit of a sideshow’.209
Dramatizations
Besides non-fiction and academic articles several writers have approached the Goossens and
Norton story by creating dramatized works that refer to fact. The Margin shares common
ground with these works as it employs fact to inform a fictional narrative.
The 1982 play titled Rosaleen – The Wicked Witch of the Cross 210 was based on the
relationship between Norton and her partner Gavin Greenlees. This production was written
by Barry Lowe and directed by Roddie Thomas. Drury states that the play ‘was not acclaimed
as a critical success. However it did attempt to portray Norton sympathetically as “a victim of
an era in which her lifestyle had no hope of being understood”.’ 211 Louis Nowra and Mandy
Sayers’ play The Devil is a Woman (2003)212 was written as a documentary-drama that retells
events surrounding the scandal. Johnson points out that research for the script came from
primary source material including ‘extracts from diaries, letters, poems, fiction, and nonfiction,’213 to create a drama that was factually based.
Inez Baranay’s novel Pagan (1990) 214 was also thoroughly researched. The story
revolves around the scandal and the conjecture surrounding Goossens’ arrest. As with the
other titles mentioned, Baranay’s novel opposes the parochial and puritanical nature of 1950s
Australian society by exposing the vindictive manner that Australians directed towards
difference, which was seen as a threat. The Margin shares this viewpointP
209
Maddox ,2004.
210
Lowe, Barry. Rosaleen – The Wicked Witch of the Cross. Unpublished script.
211
Drury, 1998. Page 51. See also Campaign. Sydney. January 1983 Pages 50-51, and
February 1983. Page 40.
212
Nowra, Louis, and Sayer, Mandy. The Devil is a Woman. Unpublished script.
The play premiered Nov. 1, 2003 at the Aussie Rules Club, Kings Cross.
213
Johnson, 2009. Page 236. Johnson also mentions two other plays about Norton and
Goossens, Timothy Daly’s Complicity (1998), and Jocelyn McKinnon, director, The Witch of
the Cross (1983).
214
Baranay, Inez. Pagan. Sydney: Collins Imprint, 1990. Print.
270
Even though each of the above titles approaches the story in a different way, the idea
that society’s intolerance was responsible for creating and maintaining the scandal is
common. In Pagan, Baranay alters the names of her main characters, but the plays and The
Margin feature Goossens and Norton as real characters. Composer Drew Crawford casts
Norton and Goossens as central characters in his 2004 opera Eugene and Roie, 215 which also
takes the view that society’s unnecessary intervention was myopic. Crawford portrays
Goossens as a ‘real person with all his flaws and achievements, [and] he’s much more
interesting than someone you put on a pedestal’.216
Crawford’s opera involved collaborative research between librettist/director Anthony
Frusin, historian Tom Seer, and designer Dorotka Sapinska.217 Eugene and Roie could almost
be a realization of David and Lucy’s production in The Margin, if not for the significant point
that my novel concerns a fictional production that is informed by life-history and memoir,
situated a generation after the actual events occurred. My intention is to contribute a ‘living’
history to existing literature through devising narrative strategies for embedding the historical
event, in all its multi-sided complexity, in a fictionalized contemporary story.
Fictional Histories
Although I introduce Goossens and Norton as historical figures The Margin is not a
chronicle of events. Instead, the narrative comments on history through fiction. The Prologue
is set to resemble a newspaper layout and I have used phrases from contemporary reports to
provide background to my story. This language displays the sensational style that was
commonly used to highlight the difference in status between Norton and Goossens, but the
passage is not intended to be historically accurate. Even though the police had been
investigating Norton and Goossens for some time, their relationship had not been made
215
Crawford, Drew. Eugene and Roie: Music Theatre Composition. Diss. University of
Sydney, 2004.
216
Maral, Louise. “Looking for Eugene.” News and Events. University of Sydney, Feb. 2004,
http://www.usyd.edu.au/news/84.html?newsstoryid=1699 Web. 27 Jan. 27, 2013.
217
Maral, 2004. See also Dorotka Elzbieta Sapinska. Design Portfolio. http://
dorotkasapinska.com/archive/design-history/20-tvcs/the-story-of-eugene-roie Web. Feb. 4,
2013.
271
public at the time of the trial. I have pieced together details retrospectively in order to cut to
the chase and present the backstory succinctly.
My character Caroline is loosely based on my mother’s life history but, in itself, this
would not fuel the fiction sufficiently. The real Caroline led an interesting life, but this
essentially involved playing the piano for many hours each day. I have embellished events,
and included stories from other people. Similarly, The Margin is not a chronicle of David’s
memories. Both characters needed to agitate more actively in order to drive the fictional
narrative.
Kate Grenville employed a similar process of transforming personal, generational
history into fiction in her 2005 novel The Secret River:218
One of my ancestors gave me the basis for certain details in the early life of William
Thornhill, and other characters share some qualities with historical figures. All the
people within these pages, however, are works of fiction.219
Grenville could find no mention of the Aboriginal people at the scene of the story. She
explained this omission in a talk at Sydney University (2005).220 ‘A silence can mean nothing
happened – or something did, and no-one wants to write it down’. Grenville blends fact and
fiction to dramatize a scenario that reveals the truth about attitudes towards Aboriginal people
in colonial Australia.
My project was to try to get an understanding of the Aboriginal-white interaction on
the frontier. My responsibility was to look at the relics and use my imagination, and
the glue of empathy, to put the story together.221
Peter Carey also acknowledges the significance of history as the basis for his setting
of his 2002 novel True History of the Kelly Gang,222 although this history is not specific to
218
Grenville, Kate. The Secret River. Melbourne: The Text Publishing Company, 2005. Print.
219
Grenville, 2005. Acknowledgements.
220
Maral, Louise. “Making History Real Through Fiction – A Talk by Kate Grenville.” News
and Events. University of Sydney, 19 Sept. 2005. Web. http://www.usyd.edu.au/news/
84.html?newsstoryid=1699 Feb. 8, 2003.
221
222
Maral, 2005.
Carey, Peter. True History of the Kelly Gang. St Lucia: University of Queesland Press,
1988. Print.
272
Carey’s own familial lineage. Carey situates his book in a context that enables him to retell
the Ned Kelly story in the guise of authentic history, although his dialogue and description of
events is conjecture rather than fact. Take the following, for example, purporting to be
Kelly’s authentic first-person account:
Come back I cried but she did not turn her head held high she seemed a girl no longer
but a stranger cruel & proud. I squatted on the dry summer grass for that moment
when she would relent. I glimpsed her pretty white ankles as she climbed through
McBean’s barbed wire fence then she disappeared into the scrub and when Kate drove
the spring cart round from behind a stand of wattles your mother were in it and I
called out her name but it were caught on the wind and blown back in my throat.223
The account is written as though it was a factual reminiscence, however Kelly’s lover and
daughter are fictional characters, and the passage is pure conjecture. Carey’s reference to
these characters and his use of inner dialogue provides imaginative and emotional insight and
gives Kelly more dimension than a strictly factual life history could achieve.
In The Margin, I have aimed towards a similar achievement but my novel is not only
concerned with history. I have also set out to dramatize an aesthetic experience of shared
[artistic] territory. The bulk of my book is written from a third-person perspective in order to
describe this intangible experience. Carey’s Ned Kelly can express himself in the first-person
but my characters would have more difficulty. Had I determined to set the story from the
perspective of one artist or musician this would have been possible, but my narrative would
become overbearing, and a tad indulgent, if multiple characters were contributing first person
narration simultaneously. I decided to avoid this and describe the music, art, dance, and
projected images from the point of view of the listener or viewer rather than the artists, in
order to articulate their inner thoughts and ideas from within the act of creative performance.
In her 1985 novel Lines of Flight,224 Marion Campbell effectively achieves a
symbiosis between first-person and third-person voice, but her narration is cast through one
person. Her character Rita is an Australian living in Paris who is searching for her identity as
an artist who is trying to maintain personal integrity whilst entangled in the roles that have
been traditionally ascribed to her as a woman. Campbell refers to art as alchemy and reflects
on the artist’s desire to resist corruption of the artistic process that occurs when the curator’s
223
Carey, 1988. Page 328.
224
Campbell, Marion. Lines of Flight. Freemantle: Freemantle Arts Centre Press, 1985. Print.
273
voice is allowed to order the meaning of artworks. Campbell questions the value of producing
art for the sake of an authoritative, interpretative commentary:
Why then does she arouse the sleeping reasons from the margins to give causal links
to casual scenes?225
American author Cheryl Strayed addresses deeply personal issues in her novel Torch
(2007),226 this time referring to details that stem from her real life. In the preface to the
second edition Strayed articulates her reason for expressing life history as fiction:
[Fiction] allowed me to tell the only story I could at the time, one that exceeded the
bounds of my own particular grief – a grief that was so enormous I couldn’t hold it
alone. I needed to cast it into other bodies, other minds, and also to pay those other
people their due… I put the story of my family’s sorrow on a larger, mostly believable
stage so I could make sense of how any of us had managed to come out the other side.
In doing so, my allegiance wasn’t accuracy. It was emotional truth.227
By casting the story into ‘other bodies, other minds’ Strayed found that she could expand her
options, generating further creative development by crossing the boundaries of factual
history. Her approach is similar to the method I have employed in writing The Margin.
History or memoir can provide detail, and also insight, but the act of recreating things as they
actually were is an inward-looking process. It is akin to ticking boxes in a checklist to make
certain that nothing is omitted or incorrectly labelled. If Grenville stuck to this method she
would only have been able to recreate the silence that had masked the truth that was at the
core of her quest. She could achieve her aim more effectively by using history as a starting
point to generate a folio that comprises outwardly expanding possibilities. In The Margin,
Lucy and David’s production grows from a blend of historical details and artistically
informed possibilities.
My aim has been to dramatize shared aesthetic experience and in order to achieve this
I have developed the production through shared fictional dialogue that develops throughout
the novel. I have incorporating a personal perspective, albeit fictionalized, via my unique
225
Campbell, 1985.
226
Strayed, Cheryl. Torch. New York: Mariner Books, rpt 2007. Print.
227
Strayed, 2005. Preface.
274
familial and musical connection with the story of Goossens through my parents’ lifelong
recollections of their student years.
Musical Narratives
In her memoir Piano Lessons 228 (2009) Anna Goldsworthy sets out to describe a different sort
of ‘emotional truth’ to Strayed’s. Piano lessons is the story of the relationship that existed
between Goldsworthy and her piano teacher, a lady named Mrs Sivan. In the book,
Goldsworthy refers extensively to the music she encountered during the years she spent as
one of Mrs Sivan’s talented adolescent students. When she is recounting her experiences as a
student, Goldsworthy highlights music as the main focus of her memoir. Music itself has
become a character, and each chapter describes the different qualities of each composer as the
teacher introduces them. The memoir does more than simply recount events because of the
intimate attention given to music. The Margin also places music at the core of the story,
beginning with the young Caroline’s meeting with Goossens, and the musical awakening that
this inspired. Later in the book, description shifts from commentary about piano and
orchestral compositions to commentary about Lucy and David’s show during the period of its
composition and rehearsal.
In fiction, music is often employed as a powerful metaphor, adding depth and
dimension. It is important to know what sort of music characters appreciate or play. Whether
this is part of ritual in their lives, church music, marching band music, classical music,
meditative or culturally specific music, our characters would be two dimensional and lacking
credibility if they did not have some sort of music in as part of their background. Music can
also highlight differences. Franz Kafka refers to music in part 3 of The Metamorphosis 229
(1925), when the sound of his sister’s violin draws Gregor, transformed as the beetle, from
his bedroom. It is particularly poignant because not everybody reacts to the music in the same
way and even though the lodgers admit that she is very skilled on her instrument, they seem
irritated by the actual music. Gregor’s response is emotional and imaginative. It is an
aesthetic response. The sound of the violin touches him, awakening his humanity, despite his
transformation. This is ironic because he is a beetle, yet the human lodgers are callous and
228
Goldsworthy, Anna. Piano Lessons. Melbourne: Black Inc. 2011. Print.
229
Kafka, Franz. Metamorphosis. Ringwood: Penguin Books Australia, 1972. Print.
275
their response is superficial, dry, and, in fact, quite unresponsive. My character Garry
demonstrates a similarly superficial response to music. There is nothing wrong with his
desire to provide financial backing for a rock band, but as the production develops his less
than noble motivation becomes transparent. It is not simply a dance band, he wants to
manipulate his cast, make sexual advances, and destroy the creativity that Lucy, David, and
their cast had established. He is using music to destroy.
Janet Turner Hospital develops music and the musician as a theme, or an actual
character, in her 2007 novel Orpheus Lost.230 Turner Hospital’s Orpheus is a fine violinist
named Mishka, who is also an oud player. He embodies cultural diversity in a climate of
suspicion, directed by a military regime that incarcerates those who are perceived as a threat.
He is an outsider due to his dual Jewish and Arab heritage and, like the original Orpheus, he
possesses sublime musical ability. Turner Hospital draws his diverse musical heritage to
represent difference, the violin representing western musical traditions and the oud
representing Arab cultures. The military regime, like controlling elements in 1950s Australian
society, has charged itself with the task of protecting the culture that they consider desirable.
The military is unresponsive, insensitive, and destructive when it comes to the diversity that
Mishka demonstrates through his music, just as Australian society was intolerant of
Goossens’ and Norton’s relationship, and art, because their deviant sexuality was
unacceptable. In Orpheus Lost, Turner Hospital’s character Susan is drawn to intervene, again
through the aesthetic response that first drew her to Mishka’s music. In The Margin, it is not
until a generation later that Lucy and David take up the challenge to liberate Goossens and
Norton with a production that is initially informed by their music and art, but includes their
sexualities as inseparable from their aesthetic sensibilities.
Music also features as a theme of Tim Winton’s 2002 novel Dirt Music231 and again,
the musician is cast as an outsider. Winton’s character has already experienced tragic loss in
his life with the death of the other musicians in his band, who were also his family. Winton
refers to blues and rock music, and in later sections of the book this style changes to classical
compositions, indicating change and transition in both life and musical style. The music was
230
Turner Hospital, Janet. Orpheo Lost. Melbourne: Harper Collins, 2007. Print.
231
Winton, Tim. Dirt Music. Sydney: Picador, 2001. Print.
276
released on a CD as a kind of soundtrack to the to accompany the narrative. 232 In the early
stages of the novel, Winton describes a loosely improvised version of the song ‘Goodnight
Irene’ and towards the end of the book he describes his lead character’s desire to produce a
music entirely of his own, on a makeshift single string that he stretches from a tree. The
different styles and the diversity of the music match the various stages of the lead character’s
journey, sometimes reflecting on incidents from the past, and at other times looking towards
the unknown. Other characters in Dirt Music rarely discuss music, only referring to it
incidentally, such as in the account of a sexual encounter with the singer from the band in the
car yard next to the pub as a dance is in progress. Winton’s use of music highlights his main
character’s aesthetic calling to create, although this is a desperate imperative in nonresponsive world. This differs from The Margin because Lucy and David retain hope for their
production, in spite of the obstacles they face.
~
Regardless of similarities between the use of music in these titles and in The Margin, this
remains the main point of difference. The Margin refers to music that has already been
written and performed, and a musical production that is completely fictional. I will discuss
my writing process, particularly with regard to my second research question in Chapter 3.3:
How, through a fictionalized history, can I dramatize an aesthetic experience of
sharing the territory that I refer to as the margin?
One further point to mention at this stage regards similarities and differences between
different artforms. Music, literature, and art each contain unique qualities, yet when writing
about these qualities there is also common ground. In his collection of short stories that share
musical themes, Violin Lessons (2012), 233 Arnold Zable refers to the transcendental nature of
both literature and music:
A poem is like music. It says more than the words that appear on the paper. 234
232
Oceans, Lucky, and Winton, Tim, Dirt Music Soundtrack, ABC 328802, 2002, CD.
233
Zable, Arnold. Violin Lessons. Melbourne: The Text Publishing Company, 2012. Print.
234
Zable, 2012. “The Partisan’s Song” Page 124.
277
~
The following chapter of this exegesis addresses my research questions first focusing on The
Margin as fictionalized history through Lucy and David’s contemporary reworking of Norton
and Goossens’ story. I discuss creative decisions that I have made in setting up and writing
the narrative and analyse the way we experience the different artforms of literature, art,
music, and dance, referring to aesthetics, interpretation, and mechanical reproduction. The
second section of Chapter 3 refers to characters from the novel in order to consider the
relevance of historical research to the present day. For example, unlike Norton and
Goossens,’ Lucy and David’s relationship was not scandalous. Neither is Garry representative
of the complex forces of conservatism that judged Norton and Goossens. He does manipulate
Lucy, and attempt to undermine Lucy and David’s production however, and his attitudes pose
significant obstacles that are designed to marginalize and separate the artistic couple.
278
Chapter 3
The Margin
3.1. Reanimating the Story of Norton and Goossens
From the start of The Margin I have drawn upon recollections of historical events as a basis
for the plot. It is largely autobiographical, as many of these recollections are my own. My
parents did study under Goossens. They moved to England for the sake of my father’s career
and I did travel to Australia by sea with my mother in the 1960s.
Caroline’s character is based upon my mother, who was very generous in sharing
details from her student years. Goossens did approach her and ask, ‘do you like music?’ as I
quote on page 2, and he did take an interest in guiding her career. I introduce David at a time
when Caroline’s career is over. He is accompanying his mother to the ship, and this part of
the story is also based on my memories.
Reworking historical recollections as fiction is by no means a unique objective. In her
novel The Secret River 235 (2005) Kate Grenville’s aim was to ’try to get an understanding of
the Aboriginal-white interaction on the frontier,’236 which was not recorded in history books.
Grenville states that her mother had told her stories of their ancestor who settled on the
Hawkesbury River in the 1800s, and she wrote the novel as a way to determine the type of
contact her ancestor had with the aboriginal people. In the preface to Torch (2007),237 Cheryl
Strayed asserts that fiction ‘gave me license to seek’.238 Strayed then explains the
significance of memoir and personal proximity to her story: ‘Torch was broiling in my bones.
It was the story of my life and yet I made everything up. I created characters, I felt the people
who I knew and loved in every word I wrote.’ 239
235
Maral, Louise. “Making History real Through Fiction – A Talk by Kate Grenville.” News
and Events. University of Sydney, Sept. 19, 2005, http://www.usyd.edu.au/news/84.html?
newsstoryid=1699 Web. Feb. 8, 2013. See also Grenville, Kate. The Secret River. Melbourne:
The Text Publishing Company, 2005. Print.
236
Maral, 2005.
237
Strayed, Cheryl, Torch. New York: Mariner Books, rpt 2007. Print.
238
Strayed, 2007. Preface.
239
Strayed, 2007.
279
The Margin shares common ground with these novels, rewriting both history and
memoir, yet remaining free from obligation to chronicle what actually happened. For
example, it would not have been entirely possible for the character David to comprehend the
entirety of his mother’s loss at the time they left England, as he is only eleven. Caroline’s
sense of loss, which has manifest as failure, underpins the structure of the book: just as
Goossens came to Australia as a cultural giant, and left in disgrace, Caroline went to England
at the peak of her success but she is returning in failure, her career and her marriage having
ended. She is an outsider in England as an Australian, a musician and a woman alone with a
young child. David is also marginalized as the son of Australian musicians in England, then
as an English migrant in Australia. His sense of place and of belonging is distorted, and he
has to come to terms with his own loss, leaving his father and all things familiar. His
awareness of his mother’s situation is still shrouded in mystery. David’s journey in The
Margin begins with the chasm that widens when the ship pulls away from the wharf, on page
8.
The distinction between fact and fiction is deliberately blurred in The Margin.
Although David and Caroline’s shipboard experiences are based on personal recollection that
do not attempt to recreate things exactly as they were. David’s experiences are at best greatly
exaggerated. On pages 10 – 11 he accidentally observes intimacy between a steward and a
passenger. This is an invented incident, which I have introduced to illustrate the young
David’s awkwardness at stumbling upon a sexual encounter. He is not doing anything wrong,
but feels as though he is. His innocence collides with desire and arousal, brought on through
his proximity to illicit intimacy. He decides to run away, which becomes a pattern of
behaviour that manifests in his later life. His relationships have not succeeded; he is
estranged from his daughter; and he is frustrated in his career as a musician. He establishes
self-imposed obstacles that marginalize him from his own potential. He runs away.
David is at sea, leaving his childhood life, and unsure of his future, and it is here that
he develops the ethos for his idiosyncratic artistic lifestyle. He cuts himself off from the
mainstream by escaping to the cinema, but his affinity with David Niven, Sean Connery, and
The Colditz Story is a fictional element that I have included to introduce David’s imaginary
mentors. On page 10, David stands confidently on the flying bridge in the face of a storm,
and on pages 11 – 12 he sees the potential for a new musical voice to emerge from the
runaway piano. These are also based on recollected incidents at sea, but in real life the
280
unfortunate instrument did not roll from one side of the stage to the other as described. David
observes the incident, but this time he does not run away. He wants to see the piano break
free.
Caroline’s story also begins with fact. Goossens did introduce my mother to exciting
music that was new to her. He also led her on to the stage for her first Town Hall performance
of Tchaikovsky’s B-flat Major Piano Concerto, 240 but these memories would not be sufficient
to drive the plot. I have borrowed from incidents and experiences of others, and embellished
these to dramatize my history and push the narrative further. In reality, my mother’s memoir
would mainly involve her playing the piano, and teaching music, and this would produce an
entirely different book. David was not alive during Caroline’s heyday as a performer and his
knowledge of these years comes from recollections that she has shared with him. His own
musical ability lies somewhat dormant, largely unrecognized by his mother, even though he
does share the aesthetic of music with her. He has the ability to appreciate, perform and write
music.
When I dramatize, represent or otherwise evoke the quality of aesthetic experience in
my writing, I am taking Kant’s theory of beauty, or aesthetic judgement, into consideration.241
In his Critique of Pure Reason, Kant asserts that beauty is the quality in music that we can
appreciate.242 Music does not communicate as a written language, and neither does it inform
our senses to formalize what we experience as truth.243 Instead we have the ability to
experience the beauty in music and it is this quality that cannot be reduced or commodified.
Norton and Goossens believed that they could share and enhance their creativity through
occult practices and ritual sex, which is a different experience to the appreciation of the
beautiful in music. David does not attempt to emulate their approach. His collaborative
240
Tchaikovsky. “Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor, Op 23”. Complete Works, vol. 28.
Boca Raton, Florida: Calmus, 1965. Print.
241
Kant Immanuel, Critique of Pure Reason. Trans. Norman Kemp Smith. London:
Macmillan, 2003. Print. See also Osborne, Harold. “Kant’s Critique of Judgment.” Aesthetics
and Art Theory: A Historical Introduction, Chapter VII. New York: Dutton, 1970. Print.
242
Hanslick, Eduard. “The Beautiful in Music: Hanslick’s Animism.” The Journal of
Musicology, Volume X, No. 3, Summer 1992. Berkeley: University of California Press. Print.
243
See also Derrida 1982. In Chapter 2, page 26 of this paper, I refer to Derrida’s argument
for an aesthetics of metaphors, which present the condition of possibility, rather than produce
a fixed meaning.
281
production is concerned with the art and music that Norton and Goossens actually produced,
and his show develops around these existing works, incorporating David’s own music, Lucy’s
choreography and the use of projected images. Caroline and his father Jack have informed
David’s project through their reminiscences.
In the first part of The Margin I often employ employ a third-person omniscient voice
in order to describe quasi-historical events. Although there is a risk of telling more than
showing by using an ‘all-knowing’ voice exclusively, I have used this point of view to create
a setting and background. My characters can then emerge from the historical location to
develop the fiction further, using their own voices. For example, in the second part of the
book Norton and Goossens use third-person multiple point of view in their dialogue at the
Brougham Street house, beginning on page 67. Before this dialogue can take place, I describe
the people, places, and events that have made the encounter possible, using an omniscient
perspective. This provides background for Norton and Goossens to share a more intimate
meeting at the house and establish the intimacy that they develop.
Meetings between Norton and Goossens are also dramatizations of actual events, but
once again I have embellished written accounts. Norton and her group used to meet at the
Kashmir coffee shop, but I have found no evidence of Goossens visiting the café. Norton was
a practitioner of Left-hand Path magic, 244 which included the practice of sex magic, and
Goossens was also interested in this practice.
In the second section of the book, on pages 80 – 82, I have written a fictional account
of a ritual, and my description implies that the participants indulged in group sex. I have used
third-person limited voice, when Goossens is describing what he sees, and third-person
omniscient perspective to illustrate an overview of the ceremony. I decided to dramatize this
episode because it would be remiss of me to overlook the ritual, and sexual activity, which
Norton and Goossens shared. My intention was not to dwell on the topic, or sensationalize
this aspect of their relationship, but felt that it was necessary to describe the disregard that
Norton and Goossens showed for sexual conservatism.
Norton and Goossens believed that they could connect beyond the physical plane, and
that this was a way to enhance their art. This is particularly significant because David and
Lucy’s production alludes to the ritual significance of Norton’s images. For example, Stephen
244
Drury, 2008. See page 11, and also Chapter 3. Aleister Crowley and the Magic of the LeftHand Path. Pages 127 – 214.
282
and Christine’s encounter, in the roles of Goossens and Norton, on page 163, represents a
reunion from beyond the grave, allowing the historical couple to continue their relationship
without interference from a judgmental society.
~
David and Lucy’s fictional relationship contrasts with Norton’s and Goossens’ because it is
not driven by deviant sexual desires. They share common ground with their historical
counterparts as they seek to achieve a level of creativity that cannot be controlled or
manipulated by the fictional character Garry, even though he is a different sort of antagonist
than the moralistic society that opposed Norton and Goossens. Garry is a selfish, controlling
individual, who exploits whatever he can to get his own way. The artistic freedom that Lucy
and David seek, through their collaboration, resonates with issues that have been prowling in
the background of their personal lives. They have both been marginalized, Lucy through the
loss and unrequited relationships that she had with her mother, father, with men that she has
allowed into her life, and now through her injury and inability to dance. In her life with David
she is regaining fulfilment in her work as a choreographer and visual artist, through improved
health, her study, and her escape from entanglement with Garry. David aims to resolve
episodes in his own life that stem from his parents’ unfulfilled musical careers, and his
previous failures as a lover, and a parent. He is aiming to achieve this by producing the
homage production with Lucy.
The connection between Norton and Goossens and the contemporary couple is
reflected both in the drama on stage, and the drama offstage. In the passage on page 167, the
dancers portraying Norton and Goossens unite in a passionate embrace, consummating their
triumph beyond the limitations that were imposed on them during their lifetime.
After Caroline’s death, at the end of the second section of the book, I include little
reference to historical events. David is forging ahead with the show, and Lucy is inspired to
collaborate. She regains her confidence as an animator and a choreographer, returns to study,
starts an exercise regime, and begins to take control of her back injury. Her relationship with
David has progressed to incorporate a deeper level of intimacy and trust, and Garry does not
feature in her life as much.
283
In the third section of The Margin, the show reaches the rehearsal stage. Until this
point, the story has oscillated between the professional and private lives of three couples, set
in a time-frame from the 1950s to the present day: Goossens and Rosaleen; Caroline and
Jack, who is David’s father; and David and Lucy. Jack did not receive support from his father
in his artistic career, and at an early age Lucy suffered the loss of her mother. Caroline did
receive family support and artistic encouragement from Goossens, but when she fell in love
with Jack and moved to England, her career ground to a halt. Despite his past failures, David
has hopes for his relationship with Lucy, although Garry is still lurking in the background.
Apart from the scene on pages 22 – 24, when he visits Lucy and then returns to spend the
night, Garry does not engage in dialogue. In other encounters he expresses himself by text
message, or email in a first-person voice, even though this voice is framed in the context of
the third-person narrator. David is aware of Garry’s presence but does not believe that he
poses a tangible threat.
David’s fascination with the story of Norton and Goossens has come from his intimate
knowledge of both the music and the events, imbibed from his mother. He also wants to
encourage Lucy to bring about positive change in her life. Goossens, Norton, Lucy and
himself all live in what I have called the margin – a creative, artistic territory that is separate
from, and not able to be assimilated by, a consumerist and commodifying approach to art.
Garry’s perspective is different. On page 22 he visits Lucy and at first appears as a
confident, somewhat insensitive working class person who is having an extramarital affair.
His attitude towards Lucy’s injury lacks insight and compassion and he moves to the topic of
his wealth and his co-workers’ incompetence before discussing the state of affairs with the
properties he owns with Lucy. He also mentions that he is considering managing a band. It is
not until later that his real attitude emerges. He believes his co-workers are incompetent
because he needs to be in charge. He controls Lucy in a consumer driven trap, involving
properties that she is not able to sell, revealing that his lack of empathy with her injury is
indicative of his consumerist attitude to womens’ bodies. He fancies dancers, including
Virginia – who he also tempts with promises of wealth and security – and Christine. On page
184 he introduces himself to Sally with the pick-up line about houses and design, until he
discovers that she is David’s daughter. His attitude to music is unclear, but unlike David his
interest in the band appears to be based on financial rather than artistic merits.
284
~
David’s approach to creating the show is innovative. He combines his own music with
Goossens’ orchestral compositions. Lucy is making innovative use of technology to project
Norton’s images onto a screen, the white Tarkett dance floor, and the dancer’s bodies. They
are both working to bring the music and images from the 1950s into the present time.
Technological aspects of the production are intrinsic to the contemporary reworking of the
story. Lucy and David are not attempting to recreate a performance from the 1950s. In
Goossens’ time the Postmaster-General’s Department was responsible for the ABC
orchestra’s technical requirements. Goossens made use of what was available, as Sydney
Morning Herald critic Martin Long describes:
P.M.G. technicians have devised a special series of amplifiers, filters, and echo
chambers to enable Mr Stewart Harvey’s basso to resound with apocalyptic effect in
the passage, ‘I am Alpha and Omega’245
Lucy and David have the use of a rehearsal space and state of the art equipment, enabling
them to incorporate the latest technology as an integral part of the creative process.
Walter Benjamin recognized the significance of changes in the interaction between
technology and art 1936 essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,”246
… technical reproduction had reached a standard that not only permitted it to
reproduce all transmitted works of art and thus to cause the most profound change in
their impact upon the public; it also had captured a place of its own among the
artistic processes. 247
Benjamin’s point refers to the effects of a shift in perception, following technological
advancements in film and photography. He recognizes that this has led to changes in the way
we see visual works of art. Lucy and David’s production does not use present day technology
to create a trompe-l'œil but to make an artistic statement by projecting Norton’s images onto
245
Long, Martin. “Goossens and The Apocalypse.” The Sydney Morning Herald Nov. 19,
1954. Print.
246
Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” The
Nineteenth Century Visual Culture Reader. Eds Scwartz, Vanessa R. and Przyblyski, Jeanene,
M. Chapter 10. New York: Routledge, 2004. Print.
247
Benjamin, 2004. I.
285
the dancer’s bodies. On page 165, Lucy directs the on stage embrace between Christine and
Stephen: ‘It’s a fully charged meeting between Goosey and Roie. It’s very erotic’. There is no
attempt to portray the actual image as three-dimensional. Lucy’s dancers emerge from the
projected backdrop and this is essential to her choreography. The scene is central to the
fictionalized history because the collaboration between music, dance, and projected image
combine to dramatize, represent, and evoke a shared aesthetic experience.
When Garry takes control of the rehearsal space with a show that he is financing, he
makes different use of technology in order to maximize profit by minimizing cast numbers,
obtaining pre-existing images, and bypassing the need for a musical director, choreographer
or visual artist. Benjamin places this type of attitude at the destructive end of mechanical
reproduction where contemplation ‘is now one for itself. Its self-alienation has reached such a
degree that it can experience its own destruction as aesthetic pleasure of the first order.’248
Garry’s approach does not consider art as a self-rewarding activity so much as a means to
fulfil his utilitarian aspirations. He has a limited appreciation of music, dance or art and he
does not comprehend the cultural transformation that Lucy and David are attempting by
presenting a contemporary reading of the Norton and Goossens story. Benjamin would
emphasise the importance of aesthetic experience in overcoming Garry’s self-absorbed
corruption of art.
Garry shows complete disregard and incomprehension towards Lucy and David’s
assumption that their show has a specific aesthetic value. He also denies audiences the
opportunity to appreciate any new aesthetic experience that the production could offer. In the
1960s, American literary theorist Stanley Fish posited the phenomenological question: what
happens in readers’ minds when they are reading? Fish came to the conclusion that meaning is
ultimately with the reader, not inherent in the text. I consider the same to be true for the
listener and the viewer, even though the ‘meaning’ might not be explicit. It is through David
and Lucy’s preparation of their show that I animate Fish’s conclusions about aesthetic
reception.
Reception aesthetics were also the focus of German theorists Hans Robert Jauss, and
Wolfgang Iser. Jauss saw literature as a process of production and reception, with readers as a
kind of ‘narratee.’ Iser went a stage further, proposing that readers can establish the
248
Benjamin, 2004. Epilogue.
286
underlying assumptions of a work for themselves and assemble the subject matter into a
system of order. He argued that ‘aesthetic response is therefore to be analysed in terms of a
dialectic relationship between text, reader, and their interaction’.249 In his essay ‘Rhetoric,’
Fish acknowledges Iser and Jauss for ‘shifting the emphasis from text to its reception, [to]
open up the act of interpretation to the infinite variability of contextual circumstance.’250
When it comes to music, listeners experience the sounds directly, thereby bypassing
the whole process of hermeneutic intervention. German sociologist Theodore Adorno
contends that music can reach beyond language that sets out to explain something, taking the
listener beyond what is known, to glimpse the absolute. 251 He acknowledges that this is not
an accidental occurrence, as the language of music comes from a conscious act, which
incorporates an innate capability to direct us towards the very heart of things – although when
we reach this point, whatever is revealed will not form itself in to an organized system of
meaning.
The language of music is quite different from the language of intentionality […]. It is
the human attempt, doomed as ever, to name the Name, not communicate
meanings.252
In The Margin (in the passage beginning on page 159), I describe the way Lucy and the
dancers are immediately drawn to the slow movement from Goossens’ Symphony No. 1.253
The music attracts Lucy. She comes inside to listen and soon finds that ‘her understanding
evaporated, and her reward was simply to smile’.
~
249
Iser, Wolfgang. The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response. Baltimore: John
Hopkins University Press, 1978. Page ix. Print.
250
Fish, Stanley. “Rhetoric.” The Stanley Fish Reader. Ed. H. Aram Veeser. Oxford:
Blackwell Publishers, 1999. Page 141. Print.
251 Adorno,
Theodore. “Music and Language.” Quasi una Fantasia: Essays on Modern Music
Trans. Livingstone. London: VERSO, 1956. Print.
252 Adorno,
253
1956.
Goossens, Eugene. Orchestral Works. Symphony No. 1, Op. 58, 1940, Andante espressivo
me con moto. West Australian Symphony Orchestra. Cond. Vernon Handley. ABC Classics
476 7632, 1996. CD.
287
Writing about music and art is very different to actually listening to a piece of music or
viewing an artwork, however, commentary about music and art are crucial to writing the The
Margin. I have approached this in three ways:
•
By describing sensory response to music and art;
•
Describing music and art as it is being played, written, performed, painted, animated,
or viewed;
•
Writing about art by describing the act of actually writing, arranging, or
choreographing music or dance.
The first lines of Chapter 1, I describe Caroline’s reaction to Goossens’ direct question
‘do you like music?’ stating that his voice was enough to resonate within her ‘like the
vibration that came from the ‘cello’s deeper register’. This illustration concerns the way that
our initial responses come from the senses, particularly for Caroline, who was very sensitive
to music. Goossens’ question inspires her, inviting her to look forward rather than restricting
her outlook. His teaching method does not confine music to the quantifiable. Susan Sontag
argues that reducing art to something measurable ‘takes the sensory experience of the work of
art for granted, and proceeds from there.’254
Sontag contends that since Ancient Greek times, theories of art have been based on
the understanding that ‘art was a mimesis, imitation of reality’.255 She continues: ‘It is at this
point that the peculiar question of the value of art arose. For the mimetic theory, by its own
terms, challenges art to justify itself.’256
Challenging the notion of art as mimesis contests Plato’s proposal that ‘the value of
art is dubious,’257 and rejects ideologically charged definitions that have followed ever since.
Hermeneutic intervention based on the analysis of content assumes an opposite position to
254
Sontag, Susan. “Against Interpretation.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays.
London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1967. Page 13. Print.
255
Sontag, 1967. Page 4.
256
Sontag, 1967. Page 4.
257
Sontag, 1967. Page 4.
288
encouraging a sensory experience of art. Sontag argues that now our task should be to
‘recover our senses. We must learn to see more, to hear more, to feel more’.258 This is the
perspective that I adopt in The Margin to address my first research question, and I begin this
by dramatizing Caroline’s experiences as Goossens’ student.
Caroline’s artistic awakening begins on page 3, with Ravel’s piano solo Jeau d’eau.259
Goossens says, ‘let the sounds come out, rather than trying to confine them’. The
impressionist perspective is new to Caroline and the experience suddenly broadens her
musical horizons, contrasting with the well-known repertoire that had hitherto been on offer
to her in 1950s Australia. Goossens is responsible for evoking Caroline’s aesthetic experience
by inspiring an increased artistic awareness. David inherits a share of this aesthetic, as he has
an acute awareness of the insights that Caroline received from Goossens, through hearing
about the experience for much of his life.
The second method that I employ to evoke music and art is describing music and art
as it is being played, written, performed, painted, animated, or viewed and locating these
performances and receptions in a particular place. In Chapter 1.1 I discussed Foucault’s
metaphor of the archaeologist, from The Order of Things.260 I employ the metaphor on page
26 of the novel. David wakes with the recollection of a dream about an archaeologist looking
for something that he knows is buried under the surface, but has yet to actually locate what he
is looking for. On pages 30 – 31 when David visits Kings Cross to research, I have placed
him in the context of Foucault’s postmodern ‘archaeologist,’ exploring metaphorical
foundations to uncover whatever discourses lie beneath visible and measurable surface
realities. David begins his exploration at Woolloomooloo, where he first arrived in Sydney,
introducing personal reminiscences that I write in third-person limited voice. He also engages
with Lucy by text message, which switches to a third-person multiple point-of-view. When he
walks around The Cross he muses about the environment, from the convict built stairs, to the
terraces that were saved by the Green Bans in the 1970s; the remnants of old garden
structures, the waterfall amidst the apartment buildings, the El Alamein Fountain, the Metro
258
Sontag, 1967. Page 14.
259
Ravel, Maurice. Jeux d’eau. New York: G. Sshirmer, 1907. Print.
260
Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. New
York: Vintage Books, 1994. Print.
289
theatre, the quarried vaults below Victoria street, the place where Norton’s house once stood,
and eventually the underground railway. His walk connects the past with the present, linking
historical remnants that remain with contemporary additions and modifications.
The Kings Cross situates historical aspects of the story that can be developed as
fiction. On page 31 – 32 this combines with David’s encounter with the singer at the El
Alamein Fountain, which brings him to the realization that the elements of his quest are
interconnected. Her song not only unfolds ‘as an accompaniment to a living tableau,’ for
David it also connects people from the past with the present as he is also sharing an aesthetic
experience with the singer, and subtly defining his idea for the show. Like Foucault’s
archaeologist, David is aware that the show exists. It is up to him to uncover it. Throughout
the passage I have used third-person limited voice, mixing musical terms and descriptions as
metaphors to illustrate the evocative effect of the song.
When David returns from Kings Cross, he listens to Caroline playing. On page 33, I
combine a description of Chopin’s Waltz in F minor, opus 70, number 2261, with a visual
image of a yacht sailing. My aim is to establish a setting, time, and a place, as well as the
actual tone quality of the music, in this case from the piano’s middle register. I have matched
the rhythm of the music with the inflexion of the words in my text. I have also juxtaposed this
description with the sailing theme, to reinforce David’s affinity with the sea. While he is
listening to his mother playing, he is gazing out to sea, transported and imagining actually
being on the boat. He is, however, in the next room, separate and removed from a direct
experience of either playing the music or sailing. I have introduced these elements to
establish extra-musical connections that develop important threads. David’s focus on the boat
while listening to Caroline’s playing translates Chopin’s music from one domain to another.
He has just returned from Kings Cross and contemplates the piano music while focusing on
an extra musical source, transferring form and content that will ultimately manifest in his
collaborative homage production.
Sometimes I use an omniscient perspective when my characters are listening to or
viewing works of music or art, as when Caroline and her mother go to the premiere of
261
Chopin, Frederick, Complete Works for the Piano volume 1: Waltz in F minor, opus 70,
number 2. New York: Schirmer, 1894. Print.
290
Antill’s Corroboree,262 on pages 52 – 55. I chose to place Caroline at the concert in the
setting of the Sydney Town Hall, and then describe the music directly from the score. This
involved looking at the entries for the different instruments, mixing this description with the
dynamic instructions and imagining the orchestral tone colour before writing.
At other times it has been important to go inside my characters’ heads, looking for
internal dialogue that can describe their reactions to art or music. It is still necessary to
describe the actual work that they are experiencing, and in these instances I have combined
an omniscient perspective with third-person multiple voice. When Norton shows Goossens
her drawing The Queen of Air and Darkness,263 on pages 69 – 70, both need to comment in
my dramatization of the shared experience. Norton is holding the artwork for Goossens
whilst they are standing in the room, engaging in dialogue, yet the actual description of the
drawing comes from a voice that is looking over the whole scene.
Similarly, in the passage from page 126 – 128, Lucy and David refer to Norton’s
paintings The Adversary, and Lucifer.264 I have combined the description of the artwork with
conversation about Lucy’s study, theological discussion regarding Lucifer as a fallen angel,
and the concept of conflict in heaven. The paintings are crucial to the plot, as Lucy creates
her animations for the show from Norton’s images, sharing artistic territory with her. The
discussion is also significant because it alludes to Garry’s attempts to marginalize and
separate Lucy and David. Whereas Norton was marginalized by the ignorance she faced from
a controlling society it is a controlling individual that has marginalized Lucy.
The third method that I employ to write about music and art is describing the act of
actually writing, or arranging music, as well as dance, and Lucy’s animations. David begins
his dramatization of Norton’s story on page 39, using teddy bears as puppets, and
improvising an interactive text with Lucy. Later that night, on pages 42 – 43, he formalizes
his research by taking notes. These notes begin the process of writing the show, but it is not
until much later that rehearsals actually begin.
262 Antill,
John. Corroboree: Complete Orchestral Score. Boosey and Hawkes, Sydney, 1956.
Print.
263
Norton, Rosaleen and Greenlees, Gavin. The Art of Rosaleen Norton: With Poems by
Gavin Greenlees. Sydney: Walter Glover, rpt 1982. Print. The Queen of Air and Darkness,
Black Magic
264
Norton, 1982. The Adversary, and Lucifer
291
On pages 115 – 116, David develops his Wave Music idea, describing the swells and
waves in a third-person limited voice as he is watching them. Unlike Corroboree, or Norton’s
paintings, this music does not exist as a score. The concept of rising and falling patterns that
mimic the action of swells, and cymbal crashes, representing waves smashing against rocks
made perfect sense. The idea was primarily influenced by various pieces of music that I have
studied and played, but the description is my own. In subsequent drafts I revised my first
efforts considerably, as they seemed naïve. I kept refining details, often after considering
guitar studies by the Brazilian composer Heitor Villa Lobos,265 or the Cuban, Leo Brouwer.266
Sharing the ideas of other musicians allowed me to include more subtle rhythmic and
melodic episodes to situate my first draft in a broader musical context. This enabled me to
critically reflect upon and refine my description of David’s composition and incorporate the
ideas into my fictionalized history. Similarly, the idea of the segue into jazz, which represents
the shift from Goossens’ classical music world to that of 1950s Kings Cross, seemed naïve,
and I considered the way other composers had managed this, particularly Jacques Loussier,267
and Claude Bolling.268 Bolling’s Concerto for Classic Guitar and Jazz Trio (1978) was a
particular influence because it features passages for the classical guitar that segue into swing
jazz.
When writing about Goossens’ music I refer directly to the score, as I had with
Antill’s Corroboree. Then I use a third-person limited perspective to describe David’s method
of arranging the music for the show. This allowed me to expand the creative possibilities for
the imagined production, involving more that just David’s musical ideas. For example, the
second movement to Goossens’ Symphony no. 1 provides scope to describe the music by
265
Villa Lobos, Heitor, Douze Etudes Pour Guitare. Paris: Eshig, 1953. Print. The VillaLobos studies include chordal and arpeggio pieces written for the guitar. I have drawn from
several passages and musical ideas.
266
Brouwer, Leo. Etudes Simple no., 1 – 10, Paris: Eshig, 1972. Print. Also Danza
Characteristica. London:Schott, 1957. Print. And Cuban Landscape With Rain, SaintNicolas: Doberman, 1984. Print. Brouwer’s approach makes consistent reference to Cuban
folk tunes and rhythms.
267
Jacques Loussier is a French pianist and composer. He is well known for interpreting
many of JS Bach’s works for jazz trio.
268
Bolling, Claude, Concerto for Classic Guitar and Jazz Piano. Miami Beach: Shattinger
International Music, 1978. Print.
292
referring to the score, and the recording. On pages 97 – 98 this description is combined with
the concept of projecting Norton’s images. The combination inspires David to devise the pas
de deux, which becomes a feature of the production.
As David and Lucy’s stage production takes shape, the narrative changes to a thirdperson multiple point-of-view, allowing the characters to develop and debate their ideas. My
aim is to present action that is happening in real time, as when Lucy is actually directing. On
page 164 her voice is direct:
All righty,’ said Lucy, which took everyone by surprise. ‘I’ll just get this up.’ David
faded the music, changing to the opening of the second movement – solo bass
clarinet, leading to the strings, introducing the luscious harmonies of the exposition.
An image of a staircase appeared on the screen, becoming brighter as the projector
warmed up. ‘So. There are going to be images of Kings Cross on the screen as you
enter, Steven.
At other times, the direction is no less direct, but it is important for other voices to participate
in the dialogue. When David is discussing the drum part with Megan, on page 165, it is a
collaboration that comes from a multiple perspective:
‘It looks easy enough, but what’s with all these cymbals?’
‘That’s the thing. The first time through it’s guitar alone, and I
want you to use the metalwork – cymbals, bits of the stand, . . . ’
‘It’s not strict then?’
‘No.’
The musicians and the dancers interject their own voices, and contribute to the
production, the action on stage, and the action offstage. When I found the piano music to
Kaleidoscope I wanted to use it, but it was not a substantial enough work to sustain the action
required for the show. The recording of the complete orchestral music of Goossens was
particularly helpful, as were the cover notes by conductor Vernon Handley. 269 This recording
included an orchestral arrangement of Kaleidoscope, which opened up new possibilities.
David’s arrangement on page 176 – 177 incorporates input from the bass player, Allara. Her
idea of reworking it into a theme and variations piece by setting the Good-night theme for
269
Goossens, Eugene, Orchestral Works, Sydney Symphony Orchestra, Melbourne
Symphony Orchestra, West Australian Symphony Orchestra, conductor Vernon Handley,
ABC Classics 476 7632, 1996, CD. Handley recorded Goossens’ complete orchestral works
at concerts between 1993 and 1996. The recordings include well-researched program notes.
293
different instruments, generates the opportunity for the band to develop the musical
arrangement. Again, this is a dramatization of a shared aesthetic experience in performance.
The final discussion about the show takes place on pages 208 – 209, when David,
Colin, and Sally meet with Jackson from Xeno Dance Company in the foyer of the Sydney
Opera House. There is no description of music, dance, or art at all. Before it is possible to
consider the possibility of taking the show to the first stages of pre-production it is necessary
for David to engage with the professional company, which has a credible reputation and a
proven record of success. He must assure Xeno that The Margin can retain artistic integrity
and still succeed in the unforgiving environment of professional theatre. My intention is to
engage readers with the meeting, rather than presenting further details of the show.
Lucy and David have not fallen foul of an intolerant establishment, as Norton and
Goossens did. They are no longer affected by Garry’s selfish challenges and they have
interest from the Xeno Company as well as support from Colin and Caroline’s peers. The
prospect of bringing The Margin to production, and succeeding as a couple, are matters for
them to determine.
294
3.2. Obstacles and Opposition
One of the main creative decisions that I have made in writing The Margin is to devise a
contemporary stage production, through my characters Lucy and David. Their intention is not
to recreate the historical couple of Eugene Goossens and Rosaleen Norton as they actually
were, and neither is their production entirely directed towards a corrective revision of events
in 1950s Australia: it is a personal and artistic homage that combines Goossens’ music with
David’s own compositions, and Norton’s artworks with Lucy’s projections and animations.
Much of the historical research for the show comes first hand, from David’s family
connections, but Lucy and David also have their own backstory. Each has developed patterns
of behaviour that continue to influence their lives. Nonetheless, their attitudes towards sex
and art are not affected by the same social milieu that surrounded Norton and Goossens.
Their antagonist does not carry the same status and widespread support. Instead he is a
controlling, selfish individual who interferes in their personal lives and intends to incorporate
Lucy’s cast, and her idea of projected images, into the rock production that he is financing.
David approaches the Goossens story in two ways. He takes the opportunity to gather
first hand information from his mother about Goossens’ celebrated contribution to music in
Australia, as a composer, conductor and educator. He also researches Norton’s life, visiting
Kings Cross to try to establish a sense of place that connects to the present day. Caroline does
not share David’s interest in Norton as she still adheres to the commonly held view that
Goossens’ association with her led to his undoing. She exemplifies this myopic view on page
26, and this passage resonates with the first part of my research question concerning
conformism and sexual conservatism as forces that succeeded in marginalizing the creative
artist in 1950s Australia. Norton’s art was directed to a specific audience and her work was
incomprehensible to many in mainstream society. As I have previously demonstrated, this
lack of understanding led to censorship.
Norton and Goosssens believed that art could be inspired by insights gained during
magic rituals.270 Although society did not tolerate their private relationship, Norton and
Goossens’ sexual involvement intensifies Lucy and David’s interest rather than negates it,
270
Rosen, Carole. The Goossens: A Musical Century. London: Andre Deutsch, 1993. Page
341. Print. As an example of a magically inspired collaboration, Rosen refers to a planned
setting of Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher, as an opera. Goossens was to write the music,
Greenlees the libretto and Norton the set design and other artwork.
295
awakening in them the notion that artists can overcome externally imposed limitations. Lucy
and David’s approach differs, as they do not set out to achieve artistic inspiration through
magic. Instead they aim to bring Norton and Goossens back together through a representation
of their union in a stage production.
Goossens abrupt ostracism brought closure to his work in Australia. He was judged
harshly and ousted from the esteemed position he occupied. The police hounded Norton as
well as censoring her art. Lucy and David do not face opposition from a narrow-minded
society, their personal lives are not the subject of police and press scrutiny and they are not
charged with either producing art that might corrupt, or with engaging in deviant sexual
practices. In these ways, their story does not parallel that of Norton and Goossens. The
obstacles they face are different.
The Margin only presents an episode when Lucy and David have come together as a
couple, and have undertaken their creative, artistic collaboration. They face personal and
artistic opposition from Garry, and uncertainty regarding their credibility when it comes to
finally bringing their production to the stage. There is no guarantee that the show will
succeed, or that their relationship will thrive. At the end of the book they are together on a
small yacht but both characters display more trepidation than dedication. Other factors in
their lives have led them to this state of flux.
The extent of influences from the past on Lucy’s and David’s identities is significant.
For example, David not only shares an affinity with the creativity and artistic insight that his
mother demonstrated, he has also inherited a deep awareness of the social and physical
marginalization that she encountered. Many of his attitudes stem from this aspect of his
upbringing. He shares musical ability with his mother and father and he has also experienced
loss in his life.
When Caroline was growing up, she felt she should conceal qualities that stood out as
different. On page 1 the narrative describes her method of masking the fact that she had
perfect pitch. It was her secret that she found too difficult to describe, and she did not want
her ability to be exploited, therefore she devised imaginary scenarios to conceal the faculty.
The security gained by internalizing this aspect of her artistic identity also had a reverse side
evident in Caroline’s irrational fear of difference in others. Also on page 1, she felt compelled
to run away from Billy because of his disability, not because he posed a real threat.
296
Caroline’s first meeting with Goossens brought her inner artistic awareness to the
surface. There was nowhere to hide because she had been found out. She discovered she
could connect with similarly minded artistic personalities and her career developed from
there. During this period Caroline enjoyed significant family support. Her parents provided
for her and encouraged her, although on page 3 her father reveals his lack of insight into how
she came to have such talent. His attitude represents the conservative ideal of Australian
family life in the 1950s. It was not important for him to understand music or art so much as
for him to provide unconditional encouragement. This support continued when she left to
marry Jack.
Jack did not enjoy family support in his chosen career. On page 46 Caroline explains
that he gained admission to the conservatorium as a repatriation student. Jack had been
conscripted to serve in WWII and his worldly experience and forthright manner contrasts
with that of Caroline’s friend Colin, who had led a more sheltered life. When she fell in love
with Jack she willingly followed him to Perth and then England, even though her sexual
awakening and subsequent marriage marked the end of her career as a performer. Again,
Caroline internalized her feelings, recounting episodes in the reminiscences that she later
shared with David.
David’s empathy for his mother’s personal and artistic loss occurs through his
proximity to her. During the sea voyage from England to Australia he develops his own
strategies for internalizing issues. Outwardly he identifies with celluloid heroes, and the story
of escape from Colditz castle fires his imagination, but he is also aware of his loss in leaving
his father and his home. On page 10 he scans his short wave radio in search of the familiar
voice of the BBC Home Service.
David’s inherits his interest in Norton and Goossens via his parents, although this has
sat dormant since his arrival in Australia. He is a successful music teacher but he has chosen
to live in a remote area, forging an identity as a self-sufficient recluse with an active
imagination and an enquiring mind. He is also frustrated as a musician, lover and parent, and
he has chosen to live away from the mainstream. He is not leading the glamorous life of an
esteemed musician, yet he is equally motivated by a high and personally idiosyncratic artistic
mission, as were Goossens and both his parents, a generation ago. He considers this
conundrum on page 124, having already reasoned on page 108 that he was compelled to write
The Margin. It is a personal matter that he is struggling to bring to fulfilment.
297
Lucy has also experienced loss, particularly as a child, with the death of her mother,
and later with the realization that it would be impossible for her to live up to her father’s
expectations, as she saw them. She rebels. When she is not permitted to take ballet lessons
she dances to the music of Swan Lake, 271 behind closed doors.
As an adult her career as a dancer is also fraught with issues as she has a back injury.
Dance is important to her and she is struggling with the realization that she must shift from
working as a performer to a choreographer. As in her childhood interpretation of
Tchaikovsky’s ballet, dance is her personal response to loss.
Lucy grew up to realize that she could please men, if not her father, and exerted
sexual energy in short-term affairs. Her relationship with Garry is more complex. His visit, at
the end of Chapter 3, appears to be fine and above board. He has returned from working out
of town, and he is visiting his mistress. Even though he is married he does not appear to be
particularly sinister so much as immoral.
~
By the end the first section of The Margin I have introduced the main characters. Throughout
section 2, the narrative sits in an awkward balance while I develop the characterization. We
know little of Garry’s past but the other characters have inherited attributes and qualities,
which underlie their actions. Garry lurks behind the scenes, manipulating people and events
to suit his own ends, and Lucy is aware of this. Nonetheless she is reluctant to leave him, and
continues to maintain the properties. She is complicit in what emerges as an adversarial
relationship. This parallels one of the main themes in Norton’s artworks that portray Lucifer
as the adversary. Lucy uncovers and explores this connection in discussion with David in the
passage from page 128 – 130, reading from his notes: ‘The rebel embarks on a quest for
secret knowledge where the greatest reward becomes the eternal adventure of the search
itself.’ Lucy’s behaviour is not dissimilar and her relationship with David bears the hallmarks
of a rebellious response to Garry and his family’s European holiday.
271
Tchaikovsky, Peter, Illych. Swan Lake. Boston Symphony Orchestra. Conductor Seiji
Ozawa. Deutsche Grammophon. B000001GYA. CD. Significantly, the plot to swan Lake
involves magic, deception, trickery and tragedy.
298
Garry’s main concern is to retain Lucy as his mistress, with the quasi-autonomous
task of maintaining the real estate that he controls. Lucy’s rebellion leads him to switch
tactics, capitalizing on his interest in managing a rock band, by allowing Lucy and David
access to the rehearsal space and then proceeding to usurp their show.
~
Garry’s view of art is utilitarian. His rock show does not rely on an aesthetic response
in order to stimulate a sensual appreciation of art. That is not to say that rock music must
fulfil a specific series of aesthetic requirements before it can be appreciated. Dance music can
speak directly to our senses through the immediacy of its beat, inviting an intuitive response.
The difference between Garry’s rock show and Lucy and David’s production is more
complex.
On page 175 David considers the unlikelihood of the police and the press bursting in
to arrest him for having a relationship with ‘the wrong sort of person’. This comes at a time
when Garry is not just lurking in the background; his controlling manner is menacing to Lucy
and David’s private lives and also to their artistic endeavours. On pages 173 – 175 Garry
explains his position to Virginia, offering her security and seducing her with the promise of a
better life. His logic is limiting as it assumes Virginia will find this option fulfilling, even
though she has little part in its design. Garry also outlines his opinion of David and Lucy’s
show. He regards music and art as items for consumption, reducing aesthetic qualities to
something he can understand and control.
Wolfgang Iser points out that it would be ‘absurd to imagine something with which one
is already confronted,’272 arguing that literary discourse can also contain images that lie
beyond the meaning stated on the printed page. Iser regards this as ‘a basic condition of
communication.’273 This is a notion of discourse that Garry would scorn. For him there is
272
Iser, Wolfgang. The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response. Baltimore: John
Hopkins University Press, 1978. Page 9. Print.
273
Iser, 1978.
299
only one discourse, and it is his, to reverse-paraphrase Derrida;274 likewise, in Garry there is
no quality in music that requires a response beyond the common affirmation.
German theoretician Gabriele Schwab develops Iser’s hypothesis, arguing that the text
acts as a ‘kind of cultural broker whose main role consists in intervening in the empirical
world’.275 She asks how we are to determine the significance of this intertextual impact,
considering Iser’s insistent question ‘Why do human beings need fictions?’276 Schwab
answers: ‘fictions become our uncanny doubles, reflecting to us something we otherwise
cannot perceive’. 277
The cultural and psychological significance of art escapes Garry. He sees his rock show
as a commodity, exploiting art to make money and controlling the lives of the artists along
the way. Lucy and David aim to create an enriched appreciation of events surrounding the
Norton and Goossens story. They want to add to existing understandings, not to justify
predetermined views that are ruled by box office takings. Iser argues that in order to do this:
…the reader must read against his own prejudices, but the readiness to do so can only
be brought about by making the critic’s perspective responsible for withholding from
the reader that which he wants to know.278
Garry’s attempt to stifle Lucy and David’s show by evicting them from the theatre and
poaching the cast does not negate their artistic mission. His consumerist approach to art only
succeeds in placing personal and practical barriers in their way.
274
Derrida, Jacques. Monolingualism of the Other: Or, The Prosthesis of Origin. Trans.
Patrick Mensah. Palo Alto: Stanford University press, 1998. Print. Derrida’s statement is, ‘I
have but one language – yet that language is not mine’. He is referring to his identity as an
Algerian Jew, living in France, where he is obliged to use the French language, not his own. I
am using the comparison to highlight the difference in Garry’s attitude. He is the one
controlling things.
275
Schwab, Gabriella. “If only I were not obliged to manifest: Wolfgang Iser's Aesthetics of
Negativity.” Ed. Jean-Paul Riquelme. Spec. issue of New Literary History on Wolfgang Iser
31.1 (Winter 2000): 73-89. Print.
276
Schwab, 2000.
277
Schwab, 2000.
278
Schwab, 2000. Page 8.
300
My characters Virginia and Christine exemplify different positions regarding the issue
of the consumerist producer versus the artist. Both dancers are in need of work, as they
discuss on pages 191 – 192. Virginia believes that Garry’s show will be fun, and a financial
success. She approaches the other dancers and tries to recruit the ones that Garry favours. Her
hope is for emotional and financial security, which Garry has offered her, as part of his
seduction technique. On page 170 he offers her a leading role in his show and she finds the
prospect attractive, regardless of the fact that she is being called on to betray Lucy and divide
the cast of Lucy and David’s show.
Christine is Lucy’s principal female dancer. She is an artist, and Garry wants her for
his show. On pages 203 – 205 she is standing on a corner watching Garry escorting Virginia
and Tina into the theatre. She is expected to take her place at the rehearsal, but her conscience
takes over, dictating that she should stand firm and retain her artistic integrity rather than
accept the superficiality of Garry’s production as well as the likelihood of his sexual
advances. Christine decides that this would lead to artistic dissatisfaction rather than
fulfilment and she does not go in. Instead she goes to the café where Garry confronts her and
threatens her with ruin if she does not comply. If he cannot commodify art he will destroy it.
As discussed in Chapter 3.1, in his essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction,” Walter Benjamin refers to the debasement of art by those who would
‘experience its own destruction as aesthetic pleasure of the first order.’279 The destruction that
he is referring to, in his is neo-Marxist critique, comes from the logic and processes of
capitalist mass production. Garry is a capitalist entrepreneur who considers a work of art to
be pleasurable because it conforms to already known expectations. To reinforce the
distinction made by Barthes, that I referred to on page 232,280 a ‘work’ can stimulate already
experienced responses, but ‘text’ exceeds the already known and is therefore experienced as
blissful, or as jouissance – an indescribable, or indecipherable pitch of response.
To apply Barthes terms to The Margin, Garry’s proposed production is ‘work’ rather
than ‘text,’ whereas David and Lucy are attempting to create a ‘text’. Pleasure derived from
279
Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” The
Nineteenth Century Visual Culture Reader. Eds. Scwartz, Vanessa R. and Przyblyski, Jeanene,
M. Chapter 10, New York: Routledge, 2004. Epilogue. Print.
280
Barthes, Roland. The Pleasure of he Text. Trans. Miller. New York: Hill and Wang, 1975.
Print.
301
‘work,’ which is a known quantity arising from the application of tested formulae, can be
converted into cash, and that is Garry’s modus operandi. This contrasts with the very
different imperative that is driving David and Lucy to produce their homage production.
~
The latter pages of The Margin involve David’s efforts to promote the production. When the
rehearsal phase of production is nearing completion, it is the distribution process that
becomes an obstacle. Lucy and David have written and rehearsed the show but Garry’s
financial takeover cannot be ignored. David sets out to pitch the show into the arena of
professional production with support from Colin and in collaboration with the fictional Xeno
dance company, at the Sydney Opera House.
Italian literary scholar Franco Moretti281 makes use of two metaphors to describe the
interplay between the processes of creative production and distribution: the tree, and the
wave. The tree describes the potential for organic growth ‘from unity to diversity,’282 as it
develops from a seed to form a diverse array of branches and foliage. ‘The wave is the
opposite: it observes uniformity engulfing an initial diversity.’ 283 Moretti suggests that
cultural history consists of both trees and waves. Trees nurture the growth of creative ideas,
which are driven by the imperative to produce new text rather than by a desire to replicate
pre-determined processes. Waves provide the means to deliver the same ideas to global
audiences by engulfing, or incorporating ‘the branches of local tradition’284 along the way.
In the passage from pages 176 – 178, David is listening to the theme of Goossens’
Good-night, when Allara, the bass player, surprises him. He has the ‘seed’ of a creative idea,
but he is searching for a way to grow this idea so that it forms a substantial piece of music.
Allara suggests, ‘why don’t you make it longer?’ and proposes repeating the same melody,
arranged for different instruments, with a different accompaniment for each repetition. The
original melody that accompanied David’s idea repeats itself in a surge of organic growth that
281
Moretti, Franco. “Conjectures on World Literature.” New Left Review 1, 2000. Print.
282
Moretti, 2000.
283
Moretti, 2000.
284
Moretti, 2000.
302
drives the show forward.
On page 195 he reacts to Garry’s actions by stating: ‘Garry’s got the money, but that’s
all. He doesn’t own anyone. We don’t owe him anything, and he doesn’t own The Margin. So
give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and that’s all he’s got.’ David takes the show to
Sydney with the aim of launching the production on a wave that will take it beyond the
obstacles that so far thwarted it. His intention is for Lucy and himself to avoid Garry’s
skullduggery and finally surmount the dictatorial dogma that destroyed Norton and Goossens.
303
Chapter 4:
Conclusion
4.1. Points of Difference between The Margin and Related Narratives.
The articles, histories, dramas, novels and memoirs reviewed in Chapter 2.2 share the
common theme of exposing the myopic nature of 1950s Australian society. Because this
aspect of the Goossens-Norton story has been covered so thoroughly, I have not dwelt on it in
The Margin. Similarly, existing literature is in agreement regarding the sequence of events in
their story, and my own research does not differ. In The Fall of the House (2004), for
example, Burton interviews Richard Bonynge and asks for his impression of the Goossens
years. Bonynge’s response is identical in style and language to my mother’s, and other
students’ from the sane cohort. These accounts are also matched by histories including Rosen
(1993), Sametz (1993), and Buzacott (2007), and I have used these references as a basis to
corroborate my own investigation.
My family connection underlies the personal perspective on events that I revisit in
The Margin, through my 1950s character Caroline, and my contemporary character David.
The Margin therefore complements existing literature because the language, attitude,
perspective and detail varies considerably between accounts that have been written at
different times. Johnson (2002), for example, claims that Norton is among ‘the most
misunderstood women in 20th Century Australasia,’ 285 yet as late as the 1990s the tabloid
press still portrayed her as ‘the epitome of evil,’286 and the woman who was responsible for
the downfall of a great man.287 I have followed Johnson’s argument regarding Rosaleen
Norton, as my family history has no direct connection to her, and I have relied on
contemporary research in order to inform my fictional account. Recent research has
uncovered more factual detail, debunking some of the conspiracy theories that have
previously clouded issues that are, in fact, cut and dried. Drury points this out in his 2013
285
Johnson, Marguerite. The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian
Media, archives/auchmuty library University of Newcastle, 2002. Print.
286
Borham, Susan. “The Dark Secret of Eugene Goossens.” Sun-Herald [Sydney] Jan. 3,
1993. Print.
287
Salter, David. “The Strange case of Sir Eugene and the Witch.” Sydney Morning Herald:
Good Weekend July 3, 1999. Print.
304
paper Rosaleen Norton’s King’s Cross Coven, and since then he has published new
material.288
Inez Baranay’s 1990 novel Pagan 289 is a dramatized version of the story that is closest
in form to The Margin. Baranay also challenges the narrow, authoritarian attitudes of the
society that she portrays. In her acknowledgements she includes non-fiction writers,
musicians, researchers, administrators, and police officers who were Norton and Goossens’
contemporaries, compiling a formidable database to inform her fiction.
The storyline of Pagan is similar in some respects to The Margin. It features a
fictional music student named Nora, a devotee of a great conductor, Eduard Von Kronen, who
represents Goossens. This similarity is not remarkable. Others writers including Drew
Crawford, composer of the opera Eugene and Roie (2004),290 and Burton, director of the
documentary The Fall of the House: Eugene Goossens (2004)291 have also recognized
Goossens’ impact on music in Australia, and the significant impression that he made on
young musicians at the NSW State Conservatorium of Music. This was certainly true for both
my mother and my father. The major point of difference between The Margin and Baranay’s
Pagan comes from my personal and subjective connection with the story, which my family
has passed on to me more intimately. This separates The Margin from historical or other
fictional works that focus on the public arena of the concert hall or the private world of occult
ritual as a basis for their research.
A further comparison between Pagan and The Margin concerns the treatment of the
individual as an outsider. In the Chapter entitled ‘Migrations Nora,’292 Baranay’s character
Nora is sent out of the classroom in her early days of primary school for ‘reading books under
the desk in class time.’ 293 Nora is bored, and when her mother Magda comes to the school,
288
Drury, Nevill. Dark Spirits: The Magical Art of Rosaleen Norton and Austin Osman
Spare. Brisbane: Salamander and Sons, 2012. Print.
289
Baranay, Inez. Pagan.Sydney: Collins Imprint, 1990. Print.
290
Crawford, Drew. Eugene and Roie: Music Theatre Composition. Diss. University of
Sydney, 2004.
291
The Fall of the House: Eugene Goossens, dir., Geoff Burton. Kurrajong Films Pty Ltd, in
association with the Australian Film Commission, 2004. Film.
292
Baranay. 1990.
293
Baranay, 1990. Page 31.
305
the mother and daughter are called ‘pushy foreigners’ 294 behind their backs. Unlike Nora,
David considers that his life is fraught with failures, as was Caroline’s, his father’s, and also
Goossens’ at the time of his demise. A centering point in my narrative is David’s retreat to
live a reclusive lifestyle. The slowly emerging consequences of his decision to reanimate the
Norton and Goossens story radiate out from this outsider position. David is a generation
removed from events, and his initial understanding of events is retrospective. It is something
that went on in his parents’ youth. His contemporary reanimation of the story in collaboration
with Lucy takes a different, forward looking perspective, with the aim of bringing Norton and
Goossens to the present time through theatre.
Another point of difference between David and characters from other titles is that he
is actually composing the music for his homage production during the course of the novel.
These compositions are intrinsic to the story, driving the plot as David works through the
process, from research, to ideas, sketches, reworkings of Goossens’ music, arrangements for
the band, and rehearsal with the dancers. Similarly, Lucy brings Norton’s artworks into the
contemporary frame, giving them a character-like quality that develops with the show
through projections, animations, and choreography that places dancers in the images before
emerging like butterflies from a chrysalis.
The method of using music, art and dance as part of a show that develops during the
course of the novel addresses my first research question: how through a fictionalized history
can I dramatize an aesthetic experience of sharing the territory that I refer to as the margin?
Other aspects of the story, such as Caroline’s recollections, Garry’s attempts to thwart the
show, the dancers’ financial dilemma, and the theme of art versus commodification, all have a
bearing on the actual show. This is also a significant point of difference between The Margin
and other titles that employ music as central to the narrative, such as Arnold Zable’s Violin
Lessons (12012),295 and Anna Goldsworthy’s Piano Lessons (2011). 296
Zable’s short stories are each situated around a particular aspect of music, but each is
self-sufficient. There is no link, or sense of organic development from one story to the next.
Goldsworthy’s memoir presents an inspired account of the transference of musical skills from
294
Baranay, 1990. Page 32.
295
Zable, Arnold. Violin Lessons. Melbourne: The Text Publishing Company, 2012. Print.
296
Goldsworthy, Anna. Piano Lessons. Melbourne: Black Inc. 2011. Print.
306
an exceptional teacher to a talented student. Piano Lessons traces the student’s maturation,
with music as a central presence. Goldsworthy reflects on the pedagogical process, setting
this against extra-musical events from the teacher’s background and the student’s life. It is an
inspired memoir, but unlike The Margin, it does not set out to develop a fictional production.
The character Garry is unique to literature about Norton and Goossens. He is an
entirely fictional antagonist who represents a contemporary, consumerist approach to art. He
regards creativity as a commodity, and sets out to transform elements of The Margin into a
production that he can understand, control, and profit from. This approach addresses part of
my second research question: what and who are the obstacles that threaten to marginalize the
contemporary Australian artistic couple?
In order for David and Lucy to overcome this and other obstacles, they need to
possess sufficient creative skills. I have referred to several episodes in David’s life to explain
how he has the ability to write music, and how he makes use of his skills. These incidents are
drawn from episodes of my own life that I have fictionalised. On page 32 David is a passive
listener. He is in the next room when Caroline is playing a Chopin waltz, but he is acutely
aware of the music, and can even tell what key it is in. Later, on pages 86 – 87, David is
working with a class of young students. He encourages them to ask questions. When the
discussion stagnates, he draws from a colourful incident when his father appeared on the
same program as Jimi Hendrix, in order to drive the discussion forward.
I have documented a further mode of musical expression through descriptions of
David’s compositional process, first on pages 115 – 117, when he is writing his Wave Music,
and later in rehearsal for the show, with his treatment of Goossens’ Symphony no. 1 on page
165, for example. Ultimately David combines his music with Goossens’ in the finale on
pages 190 – 191.
The use of diverse elements of musical compositions such as the Chopin waltz,
Hendrix performance, Goossens’ symphony, and fictional compositions is a feature of The
Margin that has more in common with fiction writers than it does memoir. Tim Winton makes
use of both classical and blues themes as a soundtrack to his novel Dirt Music,297 for
example.
297
Winton, Tim. Dirt Music. Sydney: Picador, 2001. Print. See also: Oceans, Lucky, and
Winton, Tim. Dirt Music Soundtrack. ABC 328802, 2002, CD.
307
In the final section of my exegesis I will discuss the way I have structured The Margin
in order to address my research questions.
308
4.2. Armatures
Writing The Margin has engaged me as a traveller who is journeying between art, music,
artists and musicians from 1950s Australia to the present day. By exploring the past I have
endeavoured to make connections to the present; leaving my own footprints in the wake of
the tracks that I have followed. In this way, tracing the past affects the future, creating an
enlarged and enriched perspective on the world, not simply a retrospective understanding and
justification. I have covered ground that is common to artists across time periods, by crossing
terrain that I refer to as the margin – that creative, artistic territory that is separate from, and
not able to be assimilated by a consumerist and commodifying approach to art. After all, this
‘ground’ is the place from where, and towards where, my work is directed.
The thesis forms the structure of my investigation, as does the scaffolding supporting
David’s buried ideas on page 25. I am an engaged traveller, but like Foucault’s archaeologist,
I am also an excavator and a builder to the foundations of knowledge. The novel and the
exegesis combine as armatures to support the substance of my work; enabling me to
dramatize, through a fictionalized history, the aesthetic experience of sharing the territory that
is The Margin.
309
Bibliography
ABC. Sydney Symphony Orchestra: Youth Concert Series. Sydney, March 31, 1948. Concert
Program. Print.
– – –. NSW Finalists in the Concert Competition Concert, Sydney, June 8, 1950. Concert
Program. Print.
– – –. Commonwealth Finalists in the Concerto & Vocal Competition Concert, Sydney, July
5, 1950. Concert Program. Print.
Adorno, Theodore. “Music and Language.” Quasi una Fantasia: Essays on Modern Music
Trans. Livingstone. London: VERSO, 1956. Print.
Albeniz, Isaac. Asturias (Leyenda) Op. 47. Buenos Aires: Ricordi American, 1956. Print.
Antill, John. Corroboree: Complete Orchestral Score. Sydney: Boosey and Hawkes, 1956.
Print.
Ashmere, Emma, Dorothy. Blood and Bone. Afterword: Australian Historical Fictions and
Other White Readings. Diss., LaTrobe University, Bundoora, 2006. Print.
Ashton, Cedric. Memoirs: Mostly Musical. Newport Beach: Cedric Ashton, 2000. Print.
Bacon, Wendy. “Sex and Censorship.” Lot’s Wife. Monash University, 1971. http://
www.takver.com/history/aia/aia00033.htm Web. Oct. 31, 2009.
Baranay, Inez. Pagan.Sydney: Collins Imprint, 1990. Print.
Barthes, Roland. “From Work to Text.” Image, Music, Text. Trans. Heath. London: Fontane,
1977. Print.
– – –. “Musca Practica.” Image, Music, Text. Trans. Heath. London: Fontane, 1977. Print.
– – –. The Pleasure of the Text. Trans. Miller. New York: Hill and Wang, 1975. Print.
Barrett, Lindsay. The Prime Minister's Christmas Card: Blue Poles and the cultural politics
of the Whitlam Era. Sydney: Power Publications, The University of Sydney, 2001. Print.
Beardsley, Monroe C. Aesthetics and Art: Problems in the Philosophy of Criticism. New
York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1958. Print.
Beckwith, Megan, & Snowdon, John, David. Alchemy: Music, Dance, and Projected Images,
Bendigo: Capital Theatre, June, 16, 2010. DVD.
310
Bennett, Roy. Music Dictionary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Print.
Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” The Nineteenth
Century Visual Culture Reader. Eds. Scwartz, Vanessa R. and Przyblyski, Jeanene, M.
Chapter 10, New York: Routledge, 2004. Print.
Bolling, Claude. Concerto for Classic Guitar and Jazz Piano. Miami Beach: Shattinger
International Music, 1978. Print.
Borham, Susan. “The Dark Secret of Eugene Goossens.” Sun-Herald [Sydney] Jan. 3, 1993.
Print.
Boxall, Michael. Solar Electricity handbook: A Simple, Practical Guide to Solar Electricity,
Ryton on Dunsmore: Greenstream Publishing, 2011. Print.
Blanks, Fred. “Goossens: Golden Age and Crucifixion.” The Sydney Morning Herald May
22, 1993. Print.
Brett, Judith. Robert Menzies’ Forgotten People. Sydney: Macmillan Australia, 1992. Print.
Brewster, H.C. and Virginia Luther. King’s Cross Calling. Sydney: HC Brewster, 1945. Print.
Brothwell, Don, ed. Beyond Aesthetics: Investigations into the nature of Visual Art, London:
Thames and Hudson, 1976. Print.
Brouwer, Leo. Danza Characteristica. London: Schott, 1957. Print.
– – –. Etudes Simple nos 1 – 10. Paris: Editions Max Eshig, 1972. Print.
– – –. Cuban Landscape With Rain. Saint-Nicolas: Doberman, 1984. Print.
Busoni, Ferruccio. Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue (BWV 903). Leipzig: Breitkopf and Hartel,
1915. Print.
Butler, Judith, and Joan W. Scott, eds. Feminists Theorize the Political. London: Routledge,
1992. Print.
Buzacott, Martin. The Rite of Spring, 75 Years of ABC Music-Making. Sydney: ABC Books,
2007. Print.
Cage, John. “Forerunners of Modern Music.” Silence, Lectures and Writings. Somerset:
Hillman Printers,1980. Print.
Callaway, Frank, and David Tunley. Australian Composition in the Twentieth Century.
Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1978. Print.
311
Campaign. Sydney, January 1983. Print.
Campaign. Sydney. February 1983. Print.
Campbell, Marion. Lines of Flight. Freemantle: Freemantle Arts centre Press, 1985. Print.
Carey, Peter. Oscar & Lucinda. St Lucia: University of Queesland Press, 1988. Print.
Carey, Peter. True History of the Kelly Gang. St Lucia: University of Queesland Press, 1988.
Print.
Carter, Paul. Dark Writing. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2009. Print.
Chopin, Frederick. Complete Works for the Piano volume 1: Waltz in F minor, opus 70,
number 2. New York: Schirmer, 1894. Print.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “Kubla Khan: or A Vision in a Dream.” The Mentor Book of Major
British Poets. Ed. Williams, Oscar. New York: Mentor, 1963. Print.
Courtney, Bryce. Matthew Flinders’ Cat. Melbourne: Penguin, 2002. Print.
Covell, Roger. Australia’s Music: Themes of a New Society. Sydney: Sun paperbacks, 1974.
Print.
Curot, Phyllis W. Witch Crafting: A Spiritual Guide to Making Magic. London: Thorsons,
2002. Print.
Crawford, Drew. Eugene and Roie: Music Theatre Composition. Diss. University of Sydney,
2004.
Dawn, Beth, and Victor, Carell. Gentle Genius: A Life of John Antill. Sydney: Akron Press,
1987. Print.
Debussy, Claude. “Monsieur Croche the Dilettante hater.” Three Classics in the Aesthetic of
Music. Trans. B. N. Langton Davies New York: Dover, 1962. Print.
Derrida, Jacques. Monolingualism of the Other: Or, The Prosthesis of Origin. Trans. Patrick
Mensah. Palo Alto: Stanford University press, 1998. Print.
– – –. Of Grammatology. Trans. Spivak. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1998.
Print.
– – –. “The White Mythology. Metaphor in the Text of Philosophy.” Margins of Philosophy.
Trans. Alan Bass. Chicargo: Chicargo University Press, 1982. Print.
312
Dransfield, Michael. “Minstrel.” www.poetrylibrary.edu.au>Poets>Dransfield,Michael Web.
Feb. 19, 2013.
Drinkwater, John. The Outline of Literature. London: George Newness, 1950. Print.
Drury, Nevill Pan’s Daughter: The Strange World of Rosaleen Norton. Melbourne: Harper
Collins, 1998. Print.
– – –. Rosaleen Norton’s Contribution to the Western Esoteric Tradition. Diss. University of
Newcastle, 2008. http://hdl.handle.net/1959.13/31438 Web. Oct. 29, 2009.
– – –. “Rosaleen Norton’s Kings Cross Coven,” 2012. http://www.nevilldrury.com/nevilldrury-articles-rosaleen-norton Web. Jan. 14, 2013.
– – –. Dark Spirits: The Magical Art of Rosaleen Norton and Austin Osman Spare. Brisbane:
Salamander and Sons, 2012. Print.
Dunbar-Hall, Peter, and Gibson, Chris. Deadly Sounds Deadly Places. Sydney: University of
NSW Press, 2004. Print.
Dylan, Bob. “Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts.” Bob Dylan Lyrics: 1962 – 2000. New
York: Simon & Schuster, 2004. Print.
Eliot, T. S. T.S. Eliot, Collected Poems 1909 – 1962. London: Faber and Faber, 1970. Print.
Fickling, David. “Australia Revisits the Trials of a Conductor.” The Guardian, 30 Oct. 2003.
Print.
Fish, Stanley. “Rhetoric.” The Stanley Fish Reader. Ed. H. Aram Veeser. Oxford: Blackwell
Publishers, 1999. Print.
Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. New York:
Vintage Books, 1994. Print.
– – –. The History of Sexuality: An Introduction, vol. 1. Trans. Robert Hurley. London:
Penguin, 1990. Print.
Fra Anjelico. The Annunciation. c 1443. Convent of San Marco, Florence.
Gillett, Sue. "Oscar and Lucinda: Shattering History’s Self-reflection." Patrick Fuery, ed.
Representation, Discourse and Desire: Contemporary Australian Culture and Critical
Theory. Melbourne: Longman Cheshire, 1994. Print.
Gilmore, Jonathon. “Censorship, Autonomy, and Artistic Form.” Art History, Aesthetics,
Visual Studies. Holley, Michael Ann & Moxey, Keith, eds. Dalton, Massachussets: Studley
Press, 2002. Print.
313
Giotto. Annunciation to St Anne. c 1306. Capella Scovengi, Padova.
Glover, R. I Have Only One Language: It’s Derrida.’ http://english.chass.ncsu.edu/jouvert/
v4i2/glover.htm Web. Oct. 23, 2009.
Goldsworthy, Anna. Piano Lessons. Melbourne: Black Inc., 2011. Print.
Goldsworthy, Kerryn. “North of the Moonlight Sonata.” “Counterpoint.” “A Patron of the
Arts.” “Teach Me to Dance.” “Dear John.” North of the Moonlight Sonata. Melbourne:
McPhee, Gribble Publishers,1989. Print.
Goossens, Eugene. Kaleidoscope, Op. 18. London: J. & W. Chester, 1918. Print.
– – –. Letter to Enid Strong. Apr. 5, 1955. Unpublished.
– – –. Orchestral Works. Symphony No. 1, Op. 58, 1940, Andante espressivo me con moto.
West Australian Symphony Orchestra. Cond. Vernon Handley. ABC Classics 476 7632, 1996.
CD.
– – –. Overtures and Beginnings: A Musical Autobiography. London: Methuen, 1951. Print.
– – –. The Apocalypse: Oratorio for Mixed Voices and Orchestra. Vocal Score. London:
Boosey and Hawkes, 1953. Print.
Goossens, Renée. Belonging: A Memoir. Sydney: ABC Books, 2003. Print.
Grenville, Kate. The Secret River. Melbourne: The Text Publishing Company, 2005. Print.
Griffiths, Paul. A Concise History of Modern Music From Debussy to Boulez. London:
Thames and Hudson, 1980. Print.
Hair. Original Australian Production. Producer Harry M. Millar. Kings Cross: Metro Theatre.
June 4, 1969. Stage Production.
Haese, Richard. Permanent Revolution: Mike Brown and the Australian Avnt-Garde 1953 –
1997. Melbourne: The Miegunyah Press, 2012. Print.
Harman, Alec, and Mellers, Wilfrid. Man and His Music. London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1980.
Print.
Hall, Sandra. Tabloid Man: The Life and Times of Ezra Norton. Sydney: Harper Collins
Publishers, 2008. Print.
314
Hanslick, Eduard. “The Beautiful in Music: Hanslick’s Animism.” The Journal of
Musicology, Volume X, No. 3, Summer 1992. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992.
Print.
Hawkins, Richard. Creeks and Harbours of the Gippsland Lakes and Eastern Gippsland.
Metung: In Depth Publications, 2000. Print.
Hawthorne, Jeremy. A Concise Glossary of Contemporary Literary Terms. London: Hodder
Education, 1998. Print.
Heller, Eric. Kafka. London: Fontana Modern Masters, 1974. Print.
Hilliard, David. “Church, Family, and Sexuality in Australia in the 1950’s.” Murphy, John,
and Smart, Judith, eds. The Forgotten Fifties. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1997.
Print.
Hopkins, Geralrd, Manley. “God’s Grandeur,” The World’s Contracted Thus: Major Poetry
from Chauser to Plath. Eds, J.A. and J.K. McKenzie. Richmond: Heinemann Educational
Australia. 1976. Print.
Hubble, Anna. The Strange Case of Eugene Goossens and Other tales From The Sydney
Opera House. Sydney: Collins, 1988. Print.
Ian Drury and the Blockheads, Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick. Stiff Records, 1978. EP.
Iser, Wolfgang. The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response. Baltimore: John
Hopkins University Press, 1978. Print.
– – –. Prospecting: From Reader Response to Literary Anthropology. Baltimore: John
Hopkins University Press, 1989. Print.
Johnson, Marguerite. The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian Media,
archives/auchmuty library University of Newcastle, 2002. Print.
Johnson, Marguerite. The Witch of Kings Cross: Rosaleen Norton and the Australian Media,
http://uoncc.wordpress.com/2010/04/13/the-witch-of-kings-cross/ Web. Jan. 12, 2013.
– – –. “The Witching Hour: Sex Magic in 1950s Australia.” Susan Johnstone Graf and Amy
Hale. Eds. Journal for the Academic Study of Magic: 5. Oxford: Mandrake, 2009. Print.
Jones, Gail. Sixty Lights. Sydney: Harvell Press, 2004. Print.
Jung, Carl, Gustav. The Essential Jung: Selected Writings. Storr, Anthony, ed. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1983. Print.
Kafka, Franz. Metamorphosis. Ringwood: Penguin Books Australia, 1972. Print.
315
– – –. The Castle. Ringwood: Penguin Books, 1982. Print.
– – –. The Trial Ringwood: Penguin Books Australia, 1972. Print.
Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason. Trans. Norman Kemp Smith. London: Macmillan,
1961. Print.
Kristeva, Julia. Desire in language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. Roudiez, ed.
New York: Columbia University Press, 1980. Print.
– – –. “Parallax: Julia Kristeva 1966 – 96.” Aesthetics, Politics, Ethics. Issue 8, 1988. Print.
– – –. Revolution in Poetic Language. Trans. Margaret Waller. New York: Columbia
University Press, 1984. Print.
Leonardo Da Vinci, Annunciation. 1472. Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
Levertof, Denise. “A Tree Telling of Orpheus.” Relearning the Alphabet. New York: New
Directions, 1970. Print.
Long, Martin. “Goossens and The Apocalypse.” The Sydney Morning Herald 19 Nov. 1954.
Print.
Lotto, Lorenzo. Annunciation. c 1535. Comune di Ricante, Ricante.
Lipson, Norm, and Barano, Tony. As Crime Goes By – The Life and Times of “Bondi” Bill
Jenkings. Sydney: Ironbark Press, 1992. Print.
Lucas, Alan. Cruising the NSW Coast. Crows Nest: Alan Lucas Cruising Guides, 2004. Print.
– – –. Cruising the Coral Coast. Crows Nest: Alan Lucas Cruising Guides, 2004. Print.
Luhrman, Tanya, M. Persuasions of the Witches Craft: Ritual Magic in Contemporary
England. Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1991. Print.
Macdonald, Ann-Marie. Fall on Your Knees. Sydney: Random House, 1997. Print.
Macdonnell, Justin. Arts, Minister?: Government Policy and the Arts. Sydney: Currency
Press, 1992. Print.
Maddox, Garry. “Phantom of the Opera House Demystified.” Sydney Morning Herald, 24
June 2004. Print.
Maral, Louise. “Looking for Eugene.” News and Events. University of Sydney, 27 Feb. 2004,
http://www.usyd.edu.au/news/84.html?newsstoryid=1699 Web. Jan. 27, 2013.
316
– – – “Making History Real Through Fiction – A Talk by Kate Grenville.” News and Events.
University of Sydney, 19 Sept. 2005, http://www.usyd.edu.au/news/84.html?
newsstoryid=1699 Web. Feb. 8, 2013.
Marr, David. The Henson Case. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2008. Print.
McCubbin, Frederick. A Winter Evening. 1897. National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne.
Menzies, Robert. “A Reply to artist Norman McGeorge.” The Argus [Melbourne] May 3,
1937. Print.
Miller, Alex. Autumn Laing. Melbourne: Allen and Unwin, 2012. Print.
Modjesca, Drusilla. Stravinsky’s Lunch. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1999. Print.
Moore, Nicole. “An Indecent Obsession.” Memento: News from the National Archive.
September 2005 www.naa.gov.au/publications Web. Feb. 13, 2013.
Moretti, Franco. “Conjectures on World Literature.” New Left Review 1, 2000. Print.
Morgan, Joyce. “All I was doing was making art,” The Sydney Morning Herald, 22 Oct.
2011. Print.
Munch, Edvard. The Scream. 1893. National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design, Oslo,
Munch Museum.
Murphy, John, and Smart, Judith. eds, The Forgotten Fifties. Melbourne: Melbourne
University Press, 1997. Print.
Norton, Rosaleen. “I was Born a Witch.” Australasian Post, Sydney, 3 Jan. 1957. Print.
– – –. and Greenlees, Gavin. The Art of Rosaleen Norton: With Poems by Gavin Greenlees.
Sydney: Walter Glover, 1952, rpt,1982. Print.
Nowra, Louis, and Sayer, Mandy. The Devil is a Woman. Premier performance, Kings Cross:
Aussie Rules Club. Nov. 1, 2003. Unpublished script.
Oceans, Lucky, and Winton, Tim. Dirt Music Soundtrack. ABC 328802, 2002, CD.
Osborne, Harold. Aesthetics and Art Theory. An Historical Introduction. New York: Dutton,
1970. Print.
Patterson A.B. Clancy of the Overflow. Sydney: Harper Collins, 1989. Print.
317
Payne, M. Reading Knowledge: An Introduction to Barthes, Foucault and Althuser, Oxford:
Blackwell Publishers, 1997. Print.
Pagles, Elaine, H. The Origins of Satan, London: Penguin, 1997. Print.
Pertinent, Sydney, June 1943.
Perry, Gaylene Veronica. Water’s Edge. Diss. Deakin University, 2001. Print.
Phillips. J. “Derrida and deconstruction” http://courses.nus.edu.sg/course/elljwp/
deconstruction.htm Web. Oct. 23, 2009.
Poe, Edgar, Allen. “The Fall of the House of Usher.” The Complete Stories of Edgar Allen
Poe. New York: Doubleday, 1984. Print.
Power, Liza. “A Brush With Rebellion.” The Sydney Morning Herald. 12 Nov. 2011. Print.
Ravel, Maurice. Jeux d’eau. New York: G. Shirmer, 1907. Print.
Richmond, Keith, Catalogue, The Occult: An Exhibition of material from the Monash
University Library Rare Book Collection 4 June - 24 July 1998. Richard Overell, curator.
http://monash.edu/library/collections/exhibitions/occult/xocccat.html Web. Jan. 12, 2013.
Rosen, Carole. The Goossens: A Musical Century. London: Andre Deutsch, 1993. Print.
Roth, Philip. Portnoy’s Complaint. New York: Vintage International Edition, 1994. Print.
Sachs, Curt. The Wellsprings of Music. Michigan: Da Capo, 1977. Print.
Salter, David. “The Strange case of Sir Eugene and the Witch.” Sydney Morning Herald:
Good Weekend 3 July 1999. Print.
– – – “Sir Eugene Goossens Sex, Magic, and the Maestro.” Rewind, ABC Australia, 5 Sept.
2004, transcript: http://www.abc.net.au/tv/rewind/txt/s1189084.htm Web. Jan. 14, 2013.
Salzman, Eric. Twentieth-Century Music: An Introduction. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1974.
Print.
Sametz, Phillip. Play On: 60 years of Music making with the SSO. Sydney: ABC Books,
1993. Print.
Sapinska, Dorotka Elzbieta. Design Portfolio. http://dorotkasapinska.com/archive/designhistory/20-tvcs/the-story-of-eugene-roie Web. Feb. 4, 2013.
318
Schwab, Gabriella. “If only I were not obliged to manifest: Wolfgang Iser's Aesthetics of
Negativity.” Ed. Jean-Paul Riquelme. Spec. issue of New Literary History on Wolfgang Iser
31.1 (Winter 2000): 73-89. Print.
Scott, Cyril. Muisc: Its Secret Influence Throughout the Ages. Whitefish, Montana:
Kessinger Publishing. 2003. Print.
Scott Green, William. “Otherness within: Towards a Theory of Difference in Rabbinic
Judais.” Neser & Friends. Eds. To See Ourselves as Others See Us.
Slessor, Kenneth, and Reilly, Virgil. “Darlinghurst Nights,” Kenneth Slessor: Poetry and
Artwork. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1988. Print.
Snowdon, John, David. “Obituary: Enid Mary Thew.” The Southern Courier [Sydney]. Oct.
16, 2013. Print.
Snowdon, John, Keith, Letter to John David Snowdon, May. 2, 2009. Unpublished.
Sontag, Susan. “Against Interpretation.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays. London:
Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1967. Print.
– – –. “On Style.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays. London: Eyre and Spottiswoode,
1967. Print.
Sounds Australian 2: “Australian Classical Music.” Sydney: Australian Music Centre, 1991.
Print.
Sousa, John Philip. The Liberty Bell March. Cincinnati: John Church Company. 1893. Print.
Southern, Clara. Evensong. C 1900 – 1914. National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne.
Stravinsky, Igor. The Firebird Suite. Edwardsville: Serenissima Music, 2009. Print.
Stravinsky, Igor. The Rite of Spring. London: Boosey and Hawkes, 1967. Print.
Strayed, Cheryl. Torch. New York: Mariner Books, rpt 2007. Print.
Strong, Brian. “Enid Strong. Gifted Performer Became a Passionate Teacher.” The Sydney
Morning Herald. Dec. 3, 2012. Print.
Strong, Enid. Letter to John David Snowdon, Aug. 21, 2007. Unpublished.
Tchaikovsky, Peter, Illyich. Complete Works, vol. 28. Boca Raton, Florida: Calmus, 1965.
Print.
319
Tchaikovsky, Peter, Illych. Swan Lake. Boston Symphony Orchestra. Conductor Seiji Ozawa.
Deutsche Grammophon. B000001GYA. CD.
Thucydides. The History of the Peleponnesian War. New York: Barnes & Noble, 2006. Page
18. Print.
Turner, Joseph Mallord William. The Shipwreck. 1805. Tate Gallery, London.
Turner Hospital, Janet. “Happy Diwalii.” Dislocations. St Lucia: University of Queensland
Press, 1987. Print.
– – –. Orpheus Lost. New York: W.W Norton and Company, 2007. Print.
– – –, The Last Magician. New York: W.W Norton and Company, 2003. Print.
The Fall of the House: Eugene Goossens, dir. Geoff Burton. Kurrajong Films Pty Ltd, in
association with the Australian Film Commission, 2004. Film.
The Goossens Fanfares. The Cincinatti Symphony. http://www.cincinnatisymphony.org/
AboutUs/GoossensFanfares.asp Web. Apr. 19, 2009.
The Holy Bible, The British and Foreign Bible Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1963. Print.
The Council of the Municipality of Randwick, Randwick, A Social History. Sydney: New
South Wales University Press, 1985. Print.
The Daily Telegraph. Sydney. Aug. 2, 1949. Print.
– – –. Aug. 4, 1949. Print.
– – –. Feb. 5, 1953. Print.
– – –. Sept. 22, 1955. Print.
The Sun. Sydney, Sept. 26, 1955. Print.
– – –. Feb. 5, 1955. Print
– – –. Sept. 29, 1955. Print.
Thucydides. The History of the Peleponnesian War. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2006.
Print.
Turner Hospital, Janet. Orpheus Lost. Melbourne: Harper Collins, 2007. Print.
320
Vidal, Gore. Myra Breckinridge. Melbourne: Penguin Twentieth Century Classics, 1997.
Print.
Weblin, Mark. “The Lincoln Inn,” The Northern Line. No.2, April 2007. http://
setis.library.usyd.edu.au/anderson/contributors/weblin/tnl.html Web. Jan. 12, 2013.
Willett, Graham. “The Darkest Decade: Homophobia in 1950s Australia.” Murphy, John, and
Smart, Judith, eds, The Forgotten Fifties, Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. 1997.
Print.
Wilson, Charles. “The Later Career of Eugene Goossens: The English Years.” Quadrant.
October, 1987. Print.
Winton, Tim. Minimum of Two. Sydney: Picador, 2003. Print.
– – –. Dirt Music. Sydney: Picador, 2001. Print.
– – –. The Drifting. Sydney: Picador, 2004. Print.
Wolfe, Sue. Painted Women. Melbourne: Allen and Unwin, 1990. Print.
– – –. Leaning Towards Infinity. Melbourne: Random House, 1996. Print.
Zable, Arnold. Violin Lessons. Melbourne: The Text Publishing Company, 2012. Print.