The Sisters' Song

by Louise Allan

  My mouth gaped. ‘I can’t take that,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You need your money. I’ll just wear one of your frocks.’

  Her face changed and she looked stern. ‘Dear Ida, you can’t possibly go to the Princess Theatre in a dress from last century. Here, take it.’ She shook the fistful of notes at me.

  ‘No. You need it.’

  Turning, she bent and placed the box on the small mahogany table behind her, before straightening again. She caught my hand and thrust the notes into my palm. Then she pressed my fingers around them. ‘Ida, you might never get another chance to do something like this. Take the money and enjoy. Nothing would please me more.’ She wrapped her hand over mine and it felt warm. ‘Just don’t tell your mother.’

  When I looked up, she was grinning.

  I bought a dress of blue chiffon. On the night of the concert, I hitched my nylons to my girdle and slipped on a petticoat. I brushed my hair and pinned the side to hold it. Then I stepped into the dress. It felt weightless and tissue thin and seemed to float around me. I felt transformed, as if I was a princess. When I stood in front of the dresser and surveyed myself in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognise the wide-eyed stranger who stared back at me. I finally understood how Nora felt when she wore Grandma’s frocks.

  The Godfrey-Smiths were already waiting in the foyer when I walked down the stairs. Mr Godfrey-Smith inhaled and let out a whistle. ‘Wow, Ida!’

  ‘You look lovely,’ said Dr Godfrey-Smith.

  I lowered my eyes and felt myself blush, and as we drove down the hill towards the lights of the city, all I could think was, How can someone like me, Ida Parker from Tinsdale, be going to a grand concert to listen to a real, live opera singer? It was the highlight of my nineteen years.

  We walked through the glass doors at the entrance to the theatre, over the parquetry floor, and through the crowd of shining gowns, thick furs and dinner suits. The carpet on the stairs was thick and soft under my feet, and a circular recess at the landing held a huge vase of blue gladioli and purple hydrangeas. At the top of the staircase, I peered out over the balustrade at the pearly lights that hung over the milling heads below.

  Then we entered the theatre through thick wooden doors and took our seats in the front row of the Dress Circle. Inside, it smelt of wood and carpet and paint. The curtains hung thick and heavy over the stage. Above us arched a dome of pressed tin, painted blue with gold leaves. Around me, everyone was chatting and smiling as if they attended grand concerts every week.

  Then the lights dimmed and the audience hushed. I could feel excitement in the air, as if something magical was about to happen.

  The curtains parted and the audience applauded. I sat forward. A black grand piano stood alone on the stage, its lacquer reflecting the lights like a mirror. Then Dorothea Schwarzkopf glided on. She wore a long silver dress that looked as if it was made of liquid and had been poured over her. It rippled as she moved, and her matching gloves glinted in the lights. Her skin was as pale and delicate as the white of a soft-boiled egg. Her hair was blonde and parted on the side and fanned out to a mass of yellow curls. It looked like bottled sunlight. Her eyelashes were thick and dark, and her eyebrows appeared to have been drawn on over her eyes.

  I thought she looked beautiful.

  She moved to the centre of the stage, bowed low and waited.

  The accompanist began to play—long slow notes. Dorothea inhaled, and I waited for her voice to come. I couldn’t hear it at first, and if someone had asked me when the note started, I couldn’t have answered, because it had no beginning. It was as if it came from nothing. A long, thin line of a note, which grew and kept growing, and became louder, slowly, slowly, until it opened into a clear, unimpeded sound.

  Ombra mai fu

  Her voice made its way through the shadows of the theatre.

  Di vegetabile

  She stood beside the piano, her silver hands reaching out towards us.

  Care ed amabile

  A part of me began to stir, a part of me that had been asleep, that had perhaps never been awake before and had been waiting for her to wake it up and breathe life into it.

  She sang the slow, sad notes and my thoughts drifted to my father. I could feel him beside me in the theatre and I could hear him, singing in my memory. She was singing my father’s song. Dorothea’s eyes found mine, and I knew she understood. She knew. She wasn’t just singing for herself, but for me as well.

  Her voice rose. It crept up, up, to the final note of the song.

  Soave più.

  She held it there, long and hanging, until it diminished into silence. Then she lowered a gloved hand and stood without moving, her other hand still out, still reaching. Towards me.

  The audience began to clap, and Dorothea placed a hand on her breast, as if surprised they would clap for her. But I didn’t move. She had sung my father’s song. Her voice had reached into my mind and found a memory I didn’t know I had, and given it life.

  All evening she sang to us, one song after the other. At times, her voice was rolling and strong, like a giant wave, rising and carrying us with her on its crest. Other times, it was high and trilling, as light and lacy as birdsong in trees. All night, she showered us with her crystal sound, taking us with her everywhere she went.

  When her final song ended, I clapped so long my palms were stinging. Some people stood and others called out, ‘Bravo. Bravo!’, and Dorothea had to keep returning to the stage and bowing, each time with a hand humbly upon her breast.

  I knew I’d just witnessed perfection. She’d taken me to a place I hadn’t known existed until that night. And I knew I’d never be the same again.

  When the concert was over and I was walking down the stairs, I spotted a familiar shape in front of me.

  ‘Nora!’ I cried.

  I pressed my way through the crowd towards her. ‘Excuse me…Excuse me,’ I said as I pushed my way down the stairs, nearly tripping over my frock. I felt the glares as I elbowed my way past, but I had to reach her. ‘Nora…Nora.’

  At the bottom of the stairs, I could still see her—a full head taller than every other woman in the foyer, her blonde hair swept up in a roll, a few stray curls escaping down her neck. She was carried by the crowd towards the doors, and I kept calling to her. ‘Nora…Nora.’ Then she disappeared outside.

  ‘Excuse me…Excuse me.’ I kept pushing forward until I reached the doorway. I stepped out onto the footpath, now slicked with rain. I glanced up and down the street, but there was no sign of her. Rising to my tiptoes, I still couldn’t see her. I stepped off the footpath and into a puddle in the gutter. I crossed the street to the other side of the road, where the crowd had thinned. I glanced all around, but she wasn’t there.

  She’d gone.

  I waited for the Godfrey-Smiths and, with my head down, I followed them back to the car. It had been two years since I’d last seen Nora and she would be seventeen now. I’d missed her.

  As we drove off, Dr Godfrey-Smith asked me what I thought of the concert. I was about to respond when, through the window and the raindrops, I saw her again. She wore a red satin dress, and was walking with an older lady whom I didn’t recognise. I wound down the window and the cold, wet air swept in.

  ‘Ida…Ida…’ Dr Godfrey-Smith was calling, but I kept winding the window. The breeze whipped about my ears as I squeezed my head out and looked back.

  ‘Nora,’ I called.

  But all I could see was a line of parked cars, and the lights shining in the wet road.

  Later that night, I lay in bed and thought of her. At least she was safe, and I could tell Mum and Grandma. And she was here, in Launceston. Then I thought of the concert and I knew Nora, too, would have been swept away by the magic of the night.

  With that thought, I rolled over and let sleep lay its quiet breath over me.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Oh, Grandma, I wish you could have heard her. I’ve never heard or seen anything like it before.’

  S
he smiled and patted my hand.

  ‘And Nora was there, too.’

  Grandma’s hand stilled and she appeared to hold her breath as she looked at me.

  ‘I tried to reach her and talk to her, but she disappeared too quickly.’

  She nodded and gave my hand one last pat. ‘I’m glad you got to hear Miss Schwarzkopf sing.’

  About six months after the concert, I’d returned from walking the girls to school and was leafing through a copy of The Examiner when an article caught my eye.

  MONDAY, 10TH MAY, 1937

  LAUNCESTON COMPETITIONS

  Praise For The ‘Exceptional Talent’

  The Competitions Association has been praised for the exceptional talent on display at the musical and literary competitions at Launceston. Musical adjudicator, Mr Max Curnow, yesterday said it was the fifth time he had adjudicated at Launceston and noted the talent was always of such high quality it belied the fact Tasmania was an island state of sparse population.

  ‘I very much look forward to returning to Launceston each year,’ he said. ‘It is a highlight of my adjudicating calendar.’

  Sacred Solo

  The judge awarded first place in the Sacred Solo to Miss Hazel Clutterback for her rendition of ‘The Lord is Mindful of His Children’ (Felix Mendelssohn), and second place to Miss Nora Parker who sang ‘A Slumber Song of the Madonna’ (Samuel Barber).

  He commended both singers, awarding the winner by only one point. He said that both Misses Clutterback and Parker had sung with sincerity and musical skill but without making the song doleful, something to which sacred song can fall prey.

  Nora Parker. It was Nora! She had come second. She was singing!

  I found the scissors and carefully cut out the piece, keeping it to show Grandma and Mum. After that, each day I searched for more news from the Competitions. A few days’ later, my heart raced as I read:

  THURSDAY, 13TH MAY, 1937

  LAUNCESTON MUSICAL AND ELOCUTION COMPETITIONS

  German Lieder

  The adjudicator, Mr M. Curnow, announced Miss Nora Parker as the winner. He said that in lieder the poem and the music were equally important, and that Miss Parker’s performance of ‘Gretchen Am Spinnrade’ (Franz Schubert) was most intelligently done. It was an ambitious choice and she had interpreted the mood of the piece well.

  Song by Female Composer

  The adjudicator awarded Miss Nora Parker first place for ‘Liebesfrühling’ (Clara Schumann). He commented on Miss Parker’s attractive voice and said she had once again given an artistic performance. He awarded her 92 marks, the highest score in the vocal section at the competitions so far.

  Grand Champion Solo

  The last section of the Competitions will be held Saturday night, 15th May, with six contestants vying for the women’s prize and five for the men’s. The winner of the women’s grand champion solo will receive £10 and the second placegetter £2. The winner of the men’s will receive £15 and the second placegetter £5.

  The lucrative prizes, made possible by a donation from the State Government, have attracted entrants from the mainland.

  The programme will be as follows:

  Women’s operatic aria: Misses Betty Quinn; Emmie Bennett; Ruby O’Bryan; Nora Parker; Hazel Clutterback; and Enid Hay.

  Men’s operatic aria: Messrs. Clement Barry; Kenneth Murray; Albert O’Toole; Mervyn Findlay; Bernard Singline.

  Dr Godfrey-Smith granted me the night off to go and watch. I prepared the girls’ dinner early, then headed out. Although it was only May, the evenings were already cold, and I rugged up in a woollen coat and hat. I set off down High Street, past the new maternity hospital. Then I cut through the greenery and colour of the City Park, towards the Albert Hall. As I neared, I began to feel a bit queasy in my stomach—What if Nora didn’t want me there? I stopped by the rotunda and considered turning back. But then I looked at the grand hall ahead of me and thought, No, I want to see her. She’s my sister and I don’t want to miss this night.

  I walked up the steps, through the arched door and into the foyer. I paid a shilling for my ticket, then I stepped into the Great Hall. It was huge, and I felt my heart race and my palms moisten. A wood-panelled ceiling arched overhead like the upside-down hull of a ship, and a gold mezzanine balcony ran around three sides of the hall in a curved ‘U’. Row upon row of chairs had been set out on the floor, right to the back of the hall. Most of them were already taken, and my mouth became drier and my palms even more sweaty at the thought of Nora singing in front of so many people.

  I walked down the aisle, searching for a vacant chair. I’d nearly reached the back of the hall when I spotted one, but as I was about to sidle in, further back, just inside the door, I glimpsed a familiar hat. It was adorned with flowers, and the owner’s head was lowered. The seat beside her was empty.

  My step picked up as I headed towards her. I slid along the row, bumping knees and bags and programmes in my haste. When I sat down next to her, she glanced up.

  ‘Oh!’ said Grandma, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I read about it in the paper,’ I said. ‘How did you know?’

  She hesitated. ‘I read it in the paper, too.’

  The lady next to her leant forward.

  ‘Ida, this is a dear friend of mine, Mrs Barrett.’

  I nodded and we exchanged courtesies, but there was something familiar about her that I couldn’t place. Maybe she knew the Godfrey-Smiths?

  I turned my attention to the stage as the first contestant was announced. Her name was Betty Quinn. She walked on in a gemcoloured gown and sang a song from Carmen. She stood rigidly in front of the gold pipes of the organ and sang well, but I was fidgety and not really concentrating because I couldn’t stop thinking about Nora, behind the stage somewhere, waiting to come on.

  While the other contestants performed, I kept glancing at Mrs Barrett’s profile out of the corner of my eye, trying to remember where I’d seen her before. Barrett? The name wasn’t familiar.

  Finally, it was Nora’s turn and we sat straighter in our seats. I held my breath as she walked onto the stage and stood in the centre. Her shoulders were back, and her arms and hands looked relaxed at her sides. Her hair was coiled up and shone gold in the light, a few stray curls in front of her ears. She wore the same red satin dress she’d worn the night I’d seen her at the Schwarzkopf concert. It hugged her body right up to her shoulders, which were exposed. She didn’t look nervous at all but confident, as if she was in the exact place she was meant to be.

  She nodded towards the accompanist, who began to play, then she lifted her chin and gazed directly out at the audience.

  O mio babbino caro

  I took Grandma’s hand. Nora’s voice had changed so much I wouldn’t have recognised it. It sounded richer, thicker and more polished, and she sang with an Italian accent, not an Australian one.

  Mi piace, è bello, bello.

  Vo’andare in Porta Rossa

  A comperar l’anello!

  Her voice grew even more in volume and strength as she sang the next few lines. Her hands rose in front of her, her fingers outstretched as if she was pleading. I felt her plea and it made me want to cry. I swallowed and closed my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the tears. They squeezed out between my lashes and dripped down my cheeks.

  Sì, sì, ci voglio andare!

  E se l’amassi indarno,

  Andrei sul Ponte Vecchio,

  Ma per buttarmi in Arno!

  For it wasn’t just her singing that was making me cry, it was everything: her struggle, Grandma’s struggle, our struggle. Yet, here she was in this beautiful hall, singing for us all.

  Mi struggo e mi tormento,

  O Dio, vorrei morir!

  Babbo, pietà, pietà!

  Babbo, pietà, pietà!

  The final note was a fluttering wisp of sound that trailed off into nothingness. She bowed but I couldn’t clap—I didn’t want to move and break the spell. I wanted the sound to stay in m
y head, in the air, in the hall. She’d taken me to another, more beautiful, world. There was nothing I’d heard before that matched it, not even Dorothea Schwarzkopf. I turned to Grandma, and both she and Mrs Barrett were dabbing at their eyes with their hankies.

  Then I realised where I’d seen Mrs Barrett before—with Nora on the night of Dorothea Schwarzkopf’s concert at the Princess Theatre.

  At the end of the night, the Minister for the Arts invited the adjudicator, Mr Curnow, to announce the winners.

  Mr Curnow cleared his throat, then swivelled so he faced the minister. ‘I note with surprise that the Government used to give fifty pound towards these Musical and Elocutionary Competitions,’ he said, ‘but this year decided to halve that sum and contributed only twenty-five pound.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Twenty-five pound is a paltry sum, especially when you compare it to the large grants made by Government to sporting enterprises. Art is an essential part of people’s lives, as it lifts persons from the humdrum groove of existence, and Government should realise that music and the arts play an important role in the welfare of the people.’

  He waited, still eyeing the minister. The audience shifted and rustled, and a few people clapped politely. Mr Curnow exhaled, then turned his attention to the audience.

  ‘Moving on to the main event,’ he said. ‘The awards. I will announce the winner of the women’s grand champion solo and then the men’s. I was most impressed with the display of talent tonight…’

  He went on to describe what he was seeking in the contestants—quality of voice, intonation, artistry. He then announced the winner of third place, Miss Enid Hay of Hobart. Second was Miss Hazel Clutterback of Launceston, both of whom he thought gave well rendered performances and showed potential.

  ‘In announcing the winner,’ he said, ‘I believe I’ve discovered a remarkably good voice, one of exceptional quality and vitality, yet with almost perfect control and intonation. In fact, I’ve rarely seen better on the professional stage. So, without further ado, I announce that the winner of the women’s grand champion solo is…Miss Nora Parker.’