Matthew thought, Like the trout. The man killed it and that was sad and cruel but the music made it beautiful. Without the music it would have been like Edward. He remembered releasing the yabbies into their comfortable cool water and the painful warmth of his choice. He could remember and he could imagine. Was that how choices were made?
‘Mr Werther,’ he said, ‘could I learn to play the violin?’
‘But certainly. I will teach you. Music is another country. The men who shot Edward can’t go there. Only people like you and me and Gran and Edward can live in that country.’
He handed the violin to Matthew who remembered his desolation at the finality of Edward’s death. Other ends had been no preparation for this grief, a grief that seemed to peel life from his body leaving his bones voiceless and songless.
The trout, like Edward, had no songs at its death. The voice, the music had come after, made by Mr Schubert to chase the shadows down the rafters of the classroom, pluck them from corners, strip and shrivel their grey skins until they became wafers of sorrow dissolved in the sound.
Not all people killed things.
Matthew felt the wood warm his hand. On hot days trees by the river felt like this. He tucked the violin under his chin, tilted the bow and drew it gently across the strings.
‘Yes, my little Schubertianer, tenderly. That is right, eh?’
‘With love,’ Matthew nodded. ‘Music grows with love. Like people.’
Acknowledgements
It is an honour and a pleasure to be published by Wakefield Press and my warmest thanks to Michael Bollen. My gratitude to Julia Beaven, for her many friendly emails and her sensitive and perceptive editorial suggestions, to Liz Nicholson for a lovely cover design and to Michael Deves for his punctilious typesetting. To Ayesha Aggarwal and Margot Lloyd thank you for your enthusiastic work in promotion.
Others contributed in different ways to the making of The Day They Shot Edward and I want to acknowledge my father who shared with me his vivid memories of growing up in Adelaide during World War I; my late husband with whom I always discussed my ideas and who gave me unstinting support and loving encouragement; and my daughters who read my work and are always full of enthusiastic responses.
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