One More Song

by Nicki Edwards

  ‘Will she be okay for the concert?’ Mick asked.

  Eddie smiled. ‘What do you think?’

  He chuckled. ‘Can’t say I see your nan wanting to miss out on that.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. She’s been looking forward to it for months. It’s all she talks about.’

  The cast of Les Miserables was coming to Yallambah to perform a one-night charity concert in the second week of January. The proceeds would help the community rebuild after being ravaged by a bushfire twelve months earlier. Daisy and her friend Christine Jennings, a former opera singer, were the main organisers.

  ‘You thought about putting your grandparents into a home yet?’ Mick asked.

  Eddie clenched her hands into fists. ‘They’d rather die than go into a nursing home.’ She was tired of this conversation. A conversation that had been doing the rounds of the local ladies since Daisy’s fall.

  ‘They’ve had a good innings,’ Mick went on. ‘Might be easier for you if they got round-the-clock nursing care.’

  ‘It’s not about me,’ she said. ‘Besides, they do have nursing care. Me!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know, but you can’t be out there all the time. You saw what happened when Daisy had the fall. You were at work. Can’t have been easy for Frank.’

  Eddie reined in her exasperation. Agreed, it had been awful for her grandad. He’d waited for an hour with Daisy, who was in agonising pain, before the ambulance arrived. Eddie was at work, and the first she knew about it was when she arrived home to find a dark empty house and two famished pooches. She’d panicked and called everyone she could think of, finally tracking down her grandparents in the hospital in Wodonga. The nurse on the other end of the phone informed her that her grandmother was out of surgery and recovering well. Eddie hadn’t known whether to be relieved or annoyed and she broke every speed limit that night, making it to the hospital in record time.

  ‘You’re doing a great job, love,’ said Mick, ‘but it’s hard work on your own. I know your grandad helps but –’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re coping fine,’ Eddie said.

  She really didn’t want to discuss this now. Better to bury her head in the sand for a little longer. Besides, she had bigger issues to worry about. Like explaining to her nan that there wasn’t going to be any wedding in the near future.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Mick. ‘So what can I do for you today then?’

  She was grateful for the change in subject. ‘I popped in to confirm the details for Wednesday.’

  He scratched his head. ‘What’s happ’nin’ Wens-dy?’

  She laughed. ‘Good one, Mick. Pull the other one, it plays “Hark, the Herald”. Wednesday. You know. Christmas Day. Community dinner at night. Santa riding in on the back of the fire truck handing out presents to all the kids. Ring any bells?’

  Mick smacked the side of his head with an open palm and dread flooded her. ‘You got my email, right?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, Eddie, love, I forgot to get back to you. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it anymore.’

  She gripped her car keys and purse so hard her knuckles went white. ‘No!’ she wailed. ‘But you told me you could. You said you were looking forward to it.’

  Mick pulled off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the tail of his untucked shirt. ‘Yeah, I know, but me missus then told me we’re going to Wangaratta this year to have Christmas Day with the kids. I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘But it’s too late to get someone else.’

  ‘I could make a few calls for ya. See if anyone can help you out.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound promising.’

  ‘Sorry, love.’

  Eddie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Don’t worry about it. The kids will still get their presents. I’ll play Santa myself if I have to.’

  Mick looked at her sceptically. ‘You’ll need more than a beard to pull that off.’

  Eddie rubbed her flat stomach. ‘I’ll eat lots of Christmas cake.’

  Cake!

  ‘Crap. Crap. CRAP! The cake.’ It was probably cooking in the car right now. Eddie dashed for the door.

  ‘Merry Christmas, love,’ Mick shouted after her.

  Yeah, Merry Christmas indeed.

  How could she be so stupid? She should have picked up the cake last. The temperature in the car would be hotter than an oven and she hadn’t parked in the shade.

  This was all Jarrod’s bloody fault.

  She yanked open the passenger-side door and was greeted with a sickly sweet smell. The cardboard box was soggy. Eddie prised open the lid and almost cried. The icing had melted everywhere and the cake was soft and spongy when she pressed it with one finger. She slammed the lid. It might be salvageable but she doubted it. Looked like it would have to be supermarket-bought pav, berries and cream instead. Although knowing today’s luck, the local IGA had probably sold out of pavlovas.

  What else could possibly go wrong? She started the engine and crunched the gears as she headed around the corner to see Christine Jennings. Once she’d made sure all the arrangements for the choir were in order, she’d go home and deal with her hurting heart.

  *

  ‘Harrison Baxter, look at you.’ Christine Jennings greeted Harry with a massive smile and enveloped him in a warm hug when she answered the door to his knock. ‘Come in, come in out of the heat. It’s so good to see you again.’

  ‘You make it sound as if it’s been forever,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been years. I might be getting on, but there is nothing wrong with my memory. Six or seven years since I saw you last. At least.’

  ‘Really? It’s been that long?’

  Although Harry came home for fleeting visits, Christine was right – he hadn’t seen her for a long time. But had it been six years? He looked at her. She’d aged, but still carried herself like she was about to walk out on stage to the applause of a sell-out audience. ‘Once a performer, always a performer’, she’d told him more than once.

  He followed her slow progress down the narrow hallway into the kitchen at the back of her house. Classical music played softly in the background, barely audible above the death rattle of an ancient air conditioner. Christine reached up and turned off the machine and it ground to a noisy halt. Harry doubted whether it would start up again.

  ‘Sorry about that. I rarely use it but it’s been a stinker today,’ she said. ‘How’s life treating you in Sydney? I went up and watched you perform in The Lion King, you know.’

  ‘Did you? You should have let me know you were there,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been any trouble. On the contrary, it would have been nice to see a familiar face. If I’d known you were coming I could have met you afterwards for a coffee.’

  ‘Next time,’ Christine said. ‘So are you still enjoying the show? I remember what it was like. Night after night playing the same role. Gets a bit tedious.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Yeah, it can feel like that. I’m definitely ready for this break before we start again in Melbourne.’

  ‘You’ll be looking forward to being closer to home. You can visit more often.’

  ‘I guess,’ he replied.

  He didn’t want to tell Christine the truth: that he only came home to keep peace with his mum. He hadn’t been home for a Christmas in years, but the timing of the break between shows gave him no valid excuse to stay away.

  Last time Harry was home there’d been a huge blow up – it was the first time he could remember his father actually yelling – and Harry had left early after only staying one night. Jim had berated him for being, among other things, too big for his own boots as well as for not taking responsibility for the things that should be important to him. Like the farm. They hadn’t spoken since. Was it any wonder Harry wasn’t in a rush to get home?

  When he’d left town for good as a starry-eyed eighteen-year-old, he’d had big dreams, big plans and bigger stars in his eyes. His mum had given her blessing
, but Harry still recalled, as vividly as if it were yesterday, the way his father had derided him when he’d sung to him at home one day.

  He’d been about fourteen or fifteen at the time and home from school for the holidays. His father hadn’t come down to Geelong to see him perform as Gaston in the school production of Beauty and the Beast, claiming he was too busy on the farm, so Harry decided he’d bring the performance to his father. There he stood in the middle of the kitchen, wearing the costume he’d borrowed from the drama department, desperate to prove to his father that singing wasn’t just important to him, it was his life.

  When he’d finished, Jim barely managed more than a single clap. ‘Very pretty, but don’t be surprised if no one asks you to sing the National Anthem down at the footy club,’ he’d sniffed, before walking out of the kitchen.

  The words had cut deep, haunting Harry for a long time. From that day a serious fissure developed between father and son that showed no signs of healing.

  ‘I’m looking forward to the concert,’ Harry said. It was what Christine would expect him to say. His mum had talked him into it and he’d only agreed to please her.

  Christine beamed and reached over to give his arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I still can’t believe you arranged a charity concert of Les Miserables in such a short amount of time. You must be doing something right.’

  ‘The director’s parents lost their property in the Black Saturday fires. When I told him what happened up here last summer he was more than keen to do something to help.’

  ‘How awful for him. Thank God we learned something from Black Saturday or we might have lost lives here too. Please thank him.’ She squeezed his arm tighter this time. ‘And thank you.’

  Harry smiled. ‘Glad I could help.’

  ‘When’s opening night in Melbourne?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Fourth of March.’

  ‘How long do they expect the season to run?’

  ‘At least twelve months.’

  ‘And after that? Where do you go?’

  ‘Depends on lots of factors,’ he replied.

  ‘Overseas?’

  ‘I hope so. That’s the plan. My dream is Broadway, or West End.’

  Christine smiled. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, let me tell you. I promise you’ll miss Australia. There’s nothing like coming home to ground you. Especially when you can live in a place as amazing as this. Being overseas is only good for short periods of time.’

  ‘Time will tell.’ He felt claustrophobic every time he took the Tourist Drive turn-off on the highway towards Yallambah.

  Christine flicked the button on the kettle. ‘Can you believe it? From rock star to rising musical theatre superstar in a few years. I’m so proud of you.’

  Harry dipped his head at the compliment. ‘I was hardly a rock star.’

  ‘You sang in that band for two years.’

  Harry laughed. ‘That band was made up of a few local guys and we sang in the pub when they couldn’t find anyone else. We didn’t even have a proper name.’ He was embarrassed they’d flippantly called themselves ‘The Rams’ once and it had stuck.

  Christine prided herself on discovering Harry’s ‘gift’, as she called it. She’d been at the pub one night when the power had gone out. The Rams were about to pack up and go home early when one of the guys convinced Harry to sing. He ended up performing without a microphone for over an hour, with only his acoustic guitar for accompaniment. The crowd had gone ballistic, shouting for more. Christine was the most vocal of the lot of them.

  The next day she’d contacted the coordinator of Beechworth’s Opera in the Alps, who also happened to be one of her best friends from her former opera days. The two women rocked up on his doorstep out at Thornhill and demanded he sing for them. A week later he was in Melbourne auditioning for an opera company he’d never heard of, and a month later he was living in a share flat in St Kilda, having won an opera-singing scholarship. It had been a whirlwind ride and he’d barely had time to stop and reflect on it.

  The following year he was nominated as a candidate for the Victorian Opera Student of the Year and, although he didn’t win, he drew the attention of a director who was looking for undiscovered talent for her production of Dogfight. Harry sang for her and impressed her so much that he was offered a role at the audition. Five years later, after performing in Dogfight, then Rent, then The Lion King, an opportunity came up for him to play the coveted role of Marius in Les Miserables.

  It had been a ten-year dream journey. And although people tried to compare him to a young Hugh Jackman, Harry brushed aside any comparisons other than they were both tall, Aussie singers.

  ‘Still single?’ Christine asked.

  He nodded. ‘Yep, and I’m not looking. I’ve got plenty of time until I have to settle down.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to have you back. Your mum will be thrilled. Are you hanging around after Christmas until the concert?’

  ‘No. I’m only here for the week between Christmas and New Year, then I’ll fly back up to Sydney. I need to pack up all my stuff and get organised for the move to Melbourne. I won’t be back here until the night before the concert.’

  ‘I’m sure your mum will love having you around.’

  Christine took out two mugs from an overhead cupboard without asking whether he wanted a cuppa. Harry didn’t have the heart to refuse.

  ‘How’s your dad doing these days?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied cautiously. He really had no idea how his father was, which, on reflection, probably meant he was a bad son.

  ‘Good. That’s good,’ Christine said. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please.’

  Christine busied herself opening teabags and pouring the water into two mugs. She handed him one then slid a piece of paper across the bench towards him.

  ‘Have you seen these yet? They’ve come up well, I think. We’ll do a letterbox drop after Christmas here and in the nearby towns and I’ve already put up posters in all the shops. It’s going to be sold out, I’m sure. Especially if we can pick up some of the Opera in the Alps crowd.’ The Opera in the Alps event was held in Beechworth at the end of January.

  Harry picked up the glossy flyer and examined it closely. His own face smiled back at him – although in his makeup, costume and dark curly wig it was hard to tell it was him.

  ‘I’m amazed at your energy,’ he said, after they’d discussed all the details for the concert.

  Christine shook her head. ‘I’ve had lots of help. Daisy Campbell and Helen Moore have been incredible. Now all we need is perfect weather and patrons with deep pockets and the concert will be a huge success. A win for the cast and the community.’

  ‘True.’ He checked his watch and stood regretfully. ‘Thanks for the cuppa, Christine, but I should get going. Mum will be watching the clock.’

  ‘When were you home last?’

  ‘It’s been a while. I was home briefly for the Labour Day long weekend in March.’ Very briefly.

  ‘Did your parents get up to Sydney to see you perform?’

  He shoved down his disappointment. ‘No. Dad was supposedly sick with the flu so they cancelled. Mum says they’ll try to come to opening night in Melbourne. I’ve got front row seats at the concert for them so hopefully they’ll both come to that.’ He shrugged. ‘But you know what Dad’s like. He’ll probably change his mind and come up with an excuse not to be there.’

  Christine gave him a weak smile. ‘Let’s hope they’re both well enough to make it.’

  The doorbell rang and Harry didn’t have a chance to ask Christine what she meant. His parents weren’t getting any younger, but they were fit and healthy. His father told everyone the good country air gave him the constitution of an ox. Other than the recent flu he hadn’t been sick a day in his life, as far as Harry remembered.

  He took his cup over to the sink and rinsed it. The doorbell rang again.

  ‘That’ll be Edwina.’ Christine got up slowly fro
m the table and pulled a face. ‘Unfortunately she’s not going to be pleased when I tell her my news.’

  Christine led the way back up the hall. At the front door, she reached up, gave him a kiss on the cheek and promptly blushed.

  Harry stifled a smile. If he wasn’t mistaken, Christine had an old lady crush on him.

  ‘It was good to see you, Harry. I’m so glad you popped in. You saved me a phone call. If I don’t see you before the concert, good luck.’

  ‘My pleasure, and thanks.’

  When Christine opened the door, Harry’s breath caught in the back of his throat. The woman standing there was willowy tall and slim, yet with enough womanly curves to cause a man – him at least – to take another look. Her long brown hair was pulled into a simple high ponytail giving her a youthful appearance. A faint smattering of freckles covered her nose and her full lips were pink, the same colour as the tinge in her cheeks. The eyes that met his were the colour of the ocean on a stormy day. He glanced at them again and blinked in surprise. They had the telltale red-rimmed look of someone who’d recently been crying. He wondered what, or who, had upset her.

  He swallowed. He realised he was staring, but it was difficult not to.

  ‘Hello, Edwina,’ Christine greeted her warmly. She turned to Harry and caught his arm. ‘Do you know Edwina Campbell?’

  ‘No. I don’t think we’ve ever met.’ He put on his best smile and held out his hand. ‘Harry Baxter.’

  Edwina smiled politely in return and shook his hand. First he noted how warm her fingers were, then he noticed there was no sign of a wedding band or engagement ring.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I know who you are. The opera singer. Nice to meet you at last. I remember hearing you sing in that band at the pub years ago. You were okay, as I remember.’

  Of all the things about him, why did she have to remember that? He groaned and pulled a face. ‘I’m pretty sure we were terrible.’

  ‘Okay, you were terrible,’ she agreed.

  They both laughed.

  ‘Harry’s home for Christmas,’ Christine explained. ‘Then he’ll be back for the charity concert.’