Wakefield Press
Born in Adelaide, Wendy Scarfe graduated from Melbourne University and later trained as a secondary school teacher. For over four decades she has written poetry and novels in her own right, revealing her interest in history, political conflicts and social injustice. Her non-fiction works were written with her late husband, Allan Scarfe. Writing in Australian Literary Studies, Dr Katherine Bode commented that Wendy is ‘an important and innovative contemporary author’ whose books offer a ‘difference’.Wendy lives in Warrnambool. She has three daughters, a son and four grandchildren.
Wakefield Press
16 Rose Street
Mile End
South Australia 5031
www.wakefieldpress.com.au
First published 2018
This edition published 2018
Copyright © Wendy Scarfe, 2018
All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from
any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research,
criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act,
no part may be reproduced without written permission.
Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.
Cover designed by Liz Nicholson, designBITE
Edited by Julia Beaven, Wakefield Press
Ebook conversion by Clinton Ellicott, Wakefield Press
ISBN 978 1 74305 528 1
Wakefield Press thanks Coriole Vineyards for their continued support.
To the memory of my loved husband, Allan,
and with gratitude to my daughters, Vidya, Nalini and Mim
for their love, support and encouragement.
Prologue
The car drew up at the cemetery gates. Dressed in full evening dress a young man stepped out, violin case in hand. He stood waiting, listening intently to the creamy cadences of a magpie’s song and moving his lips as if identifying the notes on a scale. An elderly man carefully lifted a sheaf of red roses from the back seat and came to his side.
‘Maybe you should not have come here tonight, Matthew …’
The young man shook his head. ‘Oh no, Mr Werther. Tonight it is right to remember. At times I have come here as a traveller who has walked long distances but is still reluctant to arrive. But not tonight.’
Together they entered the cemetery, turning into the first aisle and halting before a small granite gravestone at the end of the row, a humble memorial dwarfed by surrounding marble pillars and statuesque angels. Matthew placed his violin case on the grass mound while his friend arranged the roses against the headstone and glanced at his watch.
‘You mustn’t stay too long.’
Lost in thought, Matthew only nodded. The magpie still warbled. A soft breeze stirred the rose petals, and a butterfly caught on a warm air current dipped and fluted across his vision. A pinch between finger and thumb would destroy it. He had the power. Its fragility saddened him. As a child he had not understood finality. Sometimes it frightened him but always it was a surprise. In his idyllic childhood world nothing had destroyed the intensity of the moment. Remote as snippets of fancy he recalled those hot days when he dozed on grass crisped by the sun. His certainty that while he slept time stood still. That beneath their leafy canopy birds also slept, tiny ants froze in their military stance, in the stillness of the river nothing moved.
Had surprise ceased that tragic night? Or did his understanding as a man mark that moment as his step into awareness. Maybe guilt, now fuelled by his adult sense of injustice and beauty wasted, demanded a time before and a time after the event.
He took a folded white handkerchief from his pocket, stooped and carefully cleaned the inscription.
‘Do you recall, Mr Werther, how Gran said that since we only have one life we are bound by lack of experience and practice to make a mess of it? She said we are merely actors in our time and on our stage rehearsing for others a life they will not understand. I know I played a role in Edward’s death but did I rehearse it for others or for myself?’
Mr Werther touched his arm. ‘Gran’s words were not meant for you, my young friend. The guilt has gone on too long. You were a child. Children cannot understand these things. Now Mendelssohn’s Concerto is waiting for you and you must forget.’
‘How can I forget? Maybe on this special night my audience will hear the sadness in great music.’
‘Yes, Matthew, maybe they will, but there is also exaltation and exquisite beauty. Now take your violin.’ He picked it up and handed it to his young friend.
‘I wonder,’ Matthew said, as they made their return to the car, ‘if Edward cared for music. I never asked him. Children know so little about those they love.’
Matthew lay on his stomach on the bank. He felt the tug on his finger, prickling along his hand and up his arm. He tightened his forefinger under the thrust of string and lifted it fractionally above the water. It slid clear. Slowly, slowly with inching patience he drew it towards him.
The hunter in him was shrewd, the boy fighting impatience. Resisting the urge to leap up, yank the string and flick the creature on the bank fuelled his excitement. He saw himself in this excess of energy gambling on success or failure with one rushed and careless gesture. He wouldn’t do it. He willed himself to wait.
It was still there. He could feel the tug that told him it was there. The line joined them. They should be friends. He grinned at the thought. The line tugged again, gently like a persistent knock demanding his attention, his action.
He waited. With his free hand he separated some dry grass from a clump and drew it across his hand. Low down, against the mud of the bank, secret, dangerous, his hand held the bait.
He rested and felt the line tauten.
It was still there, testing him. He pulled slightly, the weight remained steady. He inched it towards him. He could imagine this delicate knowledgeable creature with its shiny purple claws, tender antennae, and tiny watchful eyes. It would be clutching the sodden maggot. Matthew enticed some more, breath held, hand strong. It wasn’t necessary
