The Lost Love Song

by Minnie Darke

  But as Tony had said – who cared? At rehearsals, the musicians found that all their old songs were still inside their keyboard-playing, guitar-strumming fingers, just waiting to be let out again. Red had forgotten how satisfying it was to play music with other people, picking up on cues, intuiting where to go next, expanding, compressing, and sometimes making mistakes the audience would never detect.

  In the middle of an instrumental track named ‘The Guillotine’, after a surf break down the coast, the guitarists cleared a space in the music – just the way they used to – for a big, rolling swell of a keyboard solo. Red gave it everything, closing his eyes while his fingers found their way over the crests and troughs of the music. When it came to an end, he saw that a woman at the bar was still watching him, her legs crossed and her foot jiggling a little. She held a drink – maybe it was a gin and tonic – in her hand.

  She was small, with the kind of light-coloured hair where the grey didn’t show all that much, and her face was somewhat drawn. Even so, there was something about her gaze and her posture that rekindled in Red a memory of a much younger woman. At the end of the set, he stepped down off the stage and went over to her.

  ‘I feel like we might have met before,’ he said, hoping that didn’t sound like a dodgy pick-up line.

  ‘We did,’ said Belinda Clare, ‘but it was a very long time ago.’

  The December day Lucie Doran and Elijah Tripp found out they were pregnant, they were on the road from Boston to Quebec City in a minivan with the rest of the Curious Lovers. They stopped somewhere in Vermont, and while everyone went off for a pee, Lucie went to a drugstore.

  When they piled themselves back into the van, Lucie slipped the white stick with its two bright blue lines into Elijah’s hand and his eyes went big with excitement and fear, and the two of them rode north for a while in silence, Lucie leaning into Elijah as much as their seatbelts would allow, both of them contemplating a future that was suddenly as wide open and ordinarily miraculous as everything they could see through the front windscreen.

  After a time, when just about everybody but Lucie, Elijah and the driver seemed to be dozing, Lucie whispered, ‘If it’s a girl, I want to call her Tango.’

  What a surprise: a hippie noun name, Elijah thought. ‘And if it’s a boy?’

  ‘Banjo,’ she said, with a smile Elijah found hard to define.

  The van drove on, the road reeled by under its wheels, and Elijah laid a hand on Lucie’s belly. Please God, he silently prayed. Please God, oh please, let it be a girl.

  Bene Romero walked out of Heathrow, having just put his seventeen-year-old daughter on a plane to Vancouver, via Toronto, where he was trusting that she would be adequately supervised by two adults whom he had never met before: the parents of the cocky little cellist who had stolen Beatrix’s heart. Although this would be the first time that Bene and Beatrix would be apart for Christmas, Beatrix had all but sprinted through the international departure gate; there had been no backwards glance.

  Bene strode through the car park, his hands involuntarily clenching and unclenching, the veins in his neck popping. When Juanita – Beatrix’s ‘euphemism’ – had announced that she was coming along to the airport, Bene had taken her insistence at face value and assumed she’d wanted to say goodbye to Beatrix. Now, though, he was starting to understand that Juanita had known he might need some supervision himself. She held out her hands for his car keys.

  ‘You are way too hepped up to drive,’ she said. ‘Come on. I’m taking you out for some fun.’

  Bene didn’t want to have any fun. He wanted to go home and nurse his stress and his feelings of abandonment in private, but he relinquished his car keys without argument and sat morosely in the passenger seat while Juanita drove them to Camden Town. It was a place he hadn’t been for a number of years, even though it wasn’t that far from where he lived. His mood improved a little once he had a kebab and a mojito on board, and then a little more as he and Juanita strolled the record stores of Camden Market, flipping through bins of old vinyl and settling big, marshmallowy headphones over their ears to sample some new tunes.

  Passing a store that specialised in indie folk and pop, a drift of melody curled through the air, into his ear and down into a vault where it unlocked memories of a late night in a Singapore bar, the smoky taste of whisky, and the beckoning notes of a love song that had drawn him up to a piano on a balcony. He stopped to listen.

  ‘What?’ Juanita asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bene said, because the song he was hearing – ‘For Real’ by Lucie Doran and the Curious Lovers – reminded him of something.

  With a tickle of guilt, Bene thought of the black leather notebook he’d half rescued, half purloined from the top of a piano in Singapore. He remembered the ginger-haired pianist, and the way he’d inked in the final bars of the song as a note of appreciation. Posting the book back to the address on the inside cover was one of those many, many things that had never quite made it off his desultory ‘yeah, I’ll do that one day’ list and onto his serious, official ‘to do’ list. He promised himself that when he got home that day, he’d search out the book, and at the very least put it in an annoyingly obvious spot. The pianist, if she even still lived at that address, would be surprised to receive it after all this time . . . but it was better late than never.

  Something happened, though, that wiped the newly made resolution clean out of his mind and filled the next two weeks with quite unexpected delights – and, indeed, changed the course of Bene Romero’s life. It was this: Juanita smiled at him – the fine silver ring she wore through her septum piercing glittering in the multicoloured lights from the record store window – and slipped one slender arm through the crook of his.

  In the Value Village charity store in East Hastings Street, Vancouver, the distinctive smell of second-hand clothes shared the airspace with tunes from an optimistic, purchase-friendly compilation. Bargain hunters hummed as they expertly flicked through racks of winter coats and holiday sweaters, while backpackers traded their winter woollies for swimsuits in readiness for their next destination, and children sat down on the floor with torn books open on their laps, or rummaged through bins full of Barbies with matted or home-styled hair. Not far from the bookshelves, an old leather suitcase lay open on a table. It was packed, end to end, with sheet music. There were books full of tunes for the recorder, anthologies of popular classics and songbooks for Oklahoma! and South Pacific, My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music. Squeezed in amongst them was a black leather manuscript book with a bright red ribbon for a placeholder. It sat there, unregarded. But maybe one day somebody would pick it up and leaf through its pages. Maybe they would carry it to the counter and exchange it for the princely sum of fifty cents. Maybe the lost love song it contained would yet be found, all over again.

  The bright January sun speared through the windscreen of Arie Johnson’s blue Renault as Evie Greenlees steered it around a sweeping bend in a highway leading out of the city of Melbourne. In the passenger seat, Arie used his teeth to open a packet of jelly babies. He ate a yellow one before picking out two red ones and laying them in Evie’s waiting palm.

  Evie had been in Melbourne for the past week, having flown in from Hobart to help pack up the house at Tavistock Row. Just yesterday – by the side of the FOR SALE sign, with its big, diagonal SOLD sticker – she’d held Arie’s hand, and squeezed tightly, while a team of piano removal specialists had taken the Steinway out of the house in several pieces and loaded it into a van hired by the Conservatorium of Music, where the instrument was to live out its life. Two days from now, Arie and Evie would drive the Renault onto the Bass Strait ferry, and once back in Hobart begin the search for a place of their own.

  There was something to be done first, though, and it was necessary.

  ‘What if she doesn’t like me?’ Evie asked.

  ‘She’ll like you,’ Arie said. ‘Everyone likes you. My family have told me that if I blow it with you, they’re keeping you
and getting rid of me.’

  ‘But what if I bruise the apricots?’

  ‘You won’t bruise the apricots. You’ll be much too scared to do that.’

  ‘I’ve never made jam before. I don’t know the first thing about making jam. What if I do something wrong?’

  ‘Belinda won’t let you. I can promise you that.’

  ‘But what if she doesn’t like me?’

  Arie smiled; he wasn’t worried in the least. Belinda, too, appeared to have turned some kind of corner.

  There was half a heartbeat of silence on the stereo, and then some familiar opening chords came sweet and loud from the speakers. It seemed to Arie that there was no more perfect song for the way he felt right now – achingly, stupidly, in love with the woman beside him, but aware that his feelings for her flowed through riverbeds that may never have been so deep if Diana Clare hadn’t carved them out first. He glanced over at Evie, and she shot him back a smile of pure present tense.

  They were driving out of town under a big blue sky full of white, fluffy clouds.

  And this was their song.

  EVIE GREENLEES’ THREE poems, ‘Dandelion Clocks’, ‘Turning’ and ‘Fire’ (p. 303), were written by the accomplished poet Young Dawkins. Young was a central figure in the New Hampshire beat revival movement, where he helped found the Jazzmouth Poetry Festival, and published his debut collection The Lilac Thief, before moving to Scotland and becoming a regular on the Scottish performance poetry scene. He was the 2011 Scottish Slam Champion and proudly represented Scotland that year at the Poetry Slam World Cup in Paris. He now lives in Hobart, Tasmania. A regular contributor to the Griffith Review, he continues to amass slam poetry and storytelling titles. Knowing that only a real poet could pull off Evie’s artistry, I asked Young for help. I am indebted to him for his talent, wisdom and willingness to jump on board with crazy ideas. You can find out more at https://youngdawkins.net, and if you want to know what his wife has to say about him, you can read her blog at https://dorkymum.com.

  Music inspired and nourished the writing of The Lost Love Song. Each of the major characters had their own ‘theme song’ to help me imagine them, and many scenes of the book feature specific songs. More indirectly, the tunes that were on high rotation on my stereo during the writing process have lent something of their emotional tone to the story. If you’re curious about what I was hearing and imagining, here’s a list:

  Arie’s theme: ‘Unsent Love Letters’, by Elena Kats-Chernin, performed by Tamara-Anna Cislowska

  Diana’s theme: ‘Piano Concerto No. 2 in G minor’, by Prokofiev, performed by Yuja Wang and the Berliner Philharmoniker

  Evie’s theme: ‘Fantasia on Greensleeves’, by Ralph Vaughan Williams (arranged by Ralph Greaves), performed by the Vienna State Orchestra

  Belinda’s theme: ‘Northern Lights’, by Ola Gjeilo, performed by the Elektra Women’s Choir

  Bene’s theme: ‘Für Elise’, by Beethoven, performed by the European Jazz Trio

  Beatrix’s theme: ‘Fantasy for Solo Flute’, by Friedrich Kuhlau, performed by Elisabeth Wentland

  Felix’s theme: ‘Whole Lotta Love vs. Beethoven 5th Symphony’, performed by 2Cellos

  Tom’s theme: ‘Paris Texas’, by Ry Cooder

  Elijah’s theme: ‘Idle Jig Set’, by the East Pointers

  Lucie’s theme: ‘Home’, by the Small Glories

  Red’s theme: ‘Albatross’, by Fleetwood Mac

  In her chamber music performance in Singapore, Diana joins with other musicians to play the following pieces: ‘Butterflying’, by Elena Kats-Chernin; ‘Piano Trio in D minor’, by Fanny Mendelssohn; ‘Piano Trio in G minor’, by Clara Schumann

  The soundtrack to the chapter titled ‘Hold’ is: ‘4'33"’, by John Cage

  At Richard and Lenka’s New Year’s Eve party, the background music is: Café Del Mar Ibiza Vol. 3

  The song playing when Felix and Beatrix board the Star Flyer is: ‘Party Rock Anthem’, by LFMAO

  At music camp, Beatrix’s woodwind group plays: ‘Scherzo for Mixed Woodwind Choir’, by Vaibhav Mohanty

  The 1980s throwback electronica Arie hears on the Spotify playlist at the Sonder office is: ‘Banana Clip’, by Miguel

  The Amy Winehouse CD that Evie listens to in the Tavistock Row Airbnb is: Back to Black

  The over-played pop song that Arie and Evie hear while standing on the riverbank is: ‘The Shape of You’, by Ed Sheeran

  The first song on Evie’s ‘very long’ playlist for the car ride to Heidi’s wedding is: ‘Budapest’, by George Ezra

  Minnie’s playlist:

  ‘Spiegel im Spiegel’, written by Arvo Pärt, performed by Sally Maer and Sally Whitwell

  ‘La Valse d’Amelie’ (piano version), by Yann Tiersen

  ‘Nulla in Mundo Pax Sincera’, by Vivaldi, performed by Jane Edwards, choir, Geoffrey Lancaster, Gerald Keuneman, orchestra and Ricky Edwards

  ‘Winter’ from The Four Seasons, by Vivaldi, performed by Yo-Yo Ma

  ‘Something Pocket-sized’, by Lucy Wise and the B’Gollies

  ‘Most Beautiful’, by Frente

  ‘Anthem’, written by Leonard Cohen, performed by Perla Batalia and Julie Christensen

  ‘I Know You by Heart’, by Eva Cassidy

  ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’, traditional, performed by Lucy Wainwright-Roche

  ‘Fragile’, by Sting

  ‘Linger’, by the Cranberries

  ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’, written by George Harrison, performed by Sally Cooper

  ‘Never Let Me Go’, by Florence and the Machine

  ‘Elastic Heart’, by Sia

  ‘Lost Boy’, by Ruth B

  ‘Yellow Rose’, by Sophie Koh

  ‘My Little River’, by Jess Ribero

  FOR GIVING ME technical terms for vague feelings, and patiently applying her fierce intelligence to the task of untangling my woolly notions about music, I thank my dear friend, the clarinet-playing, music-writing, sock-knitting, garden-growing, cake-baking, yarn-spinning, Essendon-supporting Clare Ramsden. Musical help also came from composer Maria Grenfell and concert pianist Shan Deng, although any and all mistakes are entirely my own. The crew at Neon Jungle (Jonny and Seb in particular) provided me with a window into the world of computer coding and website design, and I confess to stealing their office’s purple lighting scheme. I apologise to Sonder Digital Marketing in Brisbane for what must look like the theft of their business name. What can I say, except that this is a case of ‘great minds think alike’? My dear friend Rabbit-Hearted Girl has been developing my taste in music since my early twenties, though I can only ever hope to be half as cool as she is. For advice on Prince Edward Island, I thank the poet Richard Lemm, and for telling me about the Mandela Effect I am grateful to Billie-Jo Brezhnev of the Kazakhstan Cowgirls (you can search for their alternative Australian national anthem on YouTube). For advice on aviation, I am grateful to Chris Godfrey. Jam-making wisdom came from the kitchen goddess Lou-Lou Angel.

  The team behind this book includes Gaby Naher of Left Bank Literary, Beverley Cousins, Catherine Hill, Claire Gatzen, Lou Ryan, Talie Gottlieb and Radhiah Chowdhury of Penguin Random House in Australia, Dan Lazar of Writers House, Hilary Teeman of Crown Publishing, Francesca Best and Sally Williamson of Transworld, Maria Runge of Goldmann, and Camilla Ferrier and Jemma McDonagh of the Marsh Agency. I am so thankful for the energy and expertise of these consummate professionals, and also for their warm collegiality.

  As ever, I am grateful for my best and most beloved reader, Freda Fairbairn, the creative brilliance of universalgenie Jean Hunter, the trail-blazing magnificence of Sugar B. Wolf, the lovingly pedantic genius of the Picky Pen, the treasured friendship of Pierre Trenchant, and the steadfast support of Lagertha Fraser. I thank Wallace Beery, who taught me that music is medicine, and Marie Bonnily, who patiently organised all the almost-but-not-entirely-wasted music lessons of my childhood.

  At home, I am blessed to have the love of Alaska Fox, Dash Haw
kins, Tiki Brown, the Noo and the Bean. To the incomparable Jack McWaters: you are no sort of dancer, my love, but you nevertheless rock my world.

  © Karen Brown

  In a parallel universe, Minnie Darke is a concert cellist, but in this one – alas – she plays no musical instruments at all. While she studied violin and piano as a child, the only real proficiency she gained was in the art of keeping her music teachers chatting. She was raised on Pink Floyd, Deep Purple, King Crimson and Loudon Wainwright III; the soundtrack to her first kiss was Dire Straits’ ‘Money for Nothing’; Christmas carols reduce her to tears. She whistles rather well and sings along to everything from Queen to the East Pointers, Sia to the Small Glories, Lucy Wainwright Roche to Florence and the Machine, Eva Cassidy to the Stone Roses, the Spooky Men’s Chorale to the Carpenters. Her debut novel was the internationally acclaimed Star-crossed. She lives in Tasmania with her family, and there is always music.

  (Warning: some questions contain spoilers!)

  Early in the book, Arie’s expectations about his future are shattered. Did you see this coming? When it happened, how did you feel?

  What did you make of the relationship between Arie and Belinda? Does Belinda have unreasonable expectations of Arie, or does he have unreasonable expectations of himself?

  While Diana expresses herself through music, Evie expresses herself through a different art form altogether. Did you enjoy her poems?

  Is Evie right to leave Melbourne without telling Arie where she’s going? Or is that a mistake?

  The interludes, in The Lost Love Song, tell of a range of different types of love, including the love between a father and his teenage daughter, first love, love between brothers, and love on the cusp of a lifetime commitment. Which of the interlude sections meant the most to you?