Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  Nonsense! Love did not sustain marriage. Witness the success of so many arranged weddings. Rather, marriage sustained love. Much overrated, this business of romantic love.

  With yanks and jerks and clunks, Echuca Charlene was tied up at the east end of the wharf. Samantha picked up her bag and disembarked. Reginald was right. Somehow the summer heat was muted by the river and the trees along the shore.

  She stepped in under the wharf and started west along the dusty little path beneath the gargantuan lacework of struts and beams. It could not be called cool under here today, but it was cooler. To her right, half a dozen boys had drawn a circle in the only level bit of dirt under the wharf and were intensely into a game of marbles. Idle stevedores lounged at the river’s edge, smoking.

  Again Samantha was the only female in this gloomy underworld. Well, that would be no more. Her next job would not give her cause to come down here. Her next job, if she could find one at all, would stuff her into some close little room all day. She suddenly realized what a wonderful job hers had been, taking her out and about and challenging her daily.

  With river traffic at a near-standstill, no businessmen prowled these nether regions. Yet a man in a white shirt was approaching, and he looked businesslike. The man stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Samantha.

  Samantha’s legs ceased moving. Her hand released her bag and let it drop into the dirt. She stared at the man, gaping, frozen in place and time.

  Cole Sloan.

  Chapter Seven

  A Paid Engagement

  Freu—de scho—ner Got—ter-fun-ken,

  Got—ter-fun—ken!

  The choir ceased singing as, in frenzied crescendo, the orchestra and the conservatorium’s vast organ thundered wildly to the conclusion of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

  The audience responded with enthusiastic applause. They stood. They cheered. They applauded furiously as the conductor bowed, then the choir director, then a man in the front row of the first violins. The organist, Herr Kugelberg, took a bow. Chris Yorke at the piano and Elizabeth Mapes with her violin bowed along with the rest of the orchestra. Most wondrous of all, Linnet Connolly, ex-maid, present student, bowed along with the rest of the University of Adelaide choir.

  Never had Linnet experienced a moment like this. Over six hundred chairs crowded the conservatorium floor, and every one had been filled for this concert. Lining the back and side walls were at least a hundred more music enthusiasts who had paid for standing room only. All those people…

  Never before had Linnet heard the rich glory of a full orchestra. Never had she sung in such a large choir, and every other voice in it belonged to a professional musician. The heady thrill of it all filled her with overflowing joy.

  The choir filed off the stage and melted into the general swarm of musicians and fans. Linnet more or less took steps in place, shoved about by the milling crowd. She had nowhere to go and did not know what to do. The evening had just ended, hours before she wanted it to.

  Chris. If she could find Chris, she could at least share her ebullience. Though he was a veteran of many such concerts, the look on his face this evening told her the excitement had not in the least dulled for him.

  But Linnet was one of the shorter persons in this vast hall. She could see nothing but formal coats and waistcoats, mostly at shoulder level. She returned her choir robe to its hook in the dressing room and joined the general flow out the side door. Cool night air hit her face and reminded her how hot and stuffy the conservatorium was. Did they ever hold concerts in the open air on summer evenings like these? They ought to.

  “There she is!” Three young men were pointing at her as they approached. They looked vaguely familiar, though she could not remember meeting any of them. She paused.

  The leader, a rather rakish fellow with his hair parted down the middle, took her hand and kissed the knuckles. How forward! “Miss Connolly, we had a bet going, the three of us. Those two bet that you weren’t really a university student; that you were using it as a clever dodge to cadge money in the pubs. I wagered you were the dinkum article. When we spotted you in the choir tonight, I won my bet! Come celebrate with us.”

  “What…?”

  Another piped up, “The Commercial Hotel. Remember? You sang there last week.”

  “Oh. Of course.” These were the rowdies who had teased and jeered; whom the barman had threatened to eject. They seemed decent sorts here, though. Her first impression, obviously, had been an inaccurate one.

  The leader purred, “We spotted the lovely tresses right off. You stand out in any crowd, Miss Connolly, even a crowd of identical choir robes.” He reached out impetuously and touched her hair. No doubt some strand had fallen out of place and he was fixing it.

  For lack of knowing what else to do, she let herself be led away out across the lawn toward North Terrace. They were probably headed for a pub, these young men’s normal habitat, but Linnet was becoming rather accustomed to pubs. She sang in them once or twice a week. Although she had scarce a farthing to her name at the moment, at least her tuition bill had been paid before the deadline. Singing on street corners did not bring her nearly as many donations. Still, she probably ought to curtail her pub activities now that the debt was paid, and limit herself to street concerts.

  These young men, laughing and joking, were full of life and good spirits. Obviously the audience had been quite as buoyed up as the performers. The fact that she had contributed to the pleasure of so many people tickled her immensely.

  “Linnet!” Chris’s voice called.

  She wheeled and pushed past the young man bringing up the rear.

  Chris came flying across the lawn, wearing his silk top hat and satin-lined opera cape. The cape fluttered and flowed out behind him, casting fascinating shadows from the distant streetlights. He jogged to a halt and seized her arm. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve been looking all over for her. The vice chancellor wants her at a post-concert soiree and sent me out to find her. Come, Linnet. We mustn’t keep Dr. Barlow waiting.”

  “Here, now!” the leader protested. “She’s with us.”

  “Ah yes!” Chris raised a finger. “Commercial Hotel, a week ago Saturday. Gentlemen, I appreciate your interest in her musical talents, but the school takes precedence. The vice chancellor’s word is law. She is a student, you know. G’night.”

  He hurried her off across the lawn toward the conservatorium. Behind her, Linnet heard the three arguing. One of them complained bitterly about sitting through all that noise for nothing. They were starting to follow, but Chris slipped in among a loose cluster of concert patrons. The young men stopped, still arguing. She glanced at Chris’s face. He was livid.

  He rushed her through the side door into the choir dressing room and shoved her up against a wall. “Cork! You were raised in Cork, right? Big seaport full of sailors, right? So why, Linnet Connolly, can you not recognize prurient rascals when you meet them?”

  “They recognized me, Chris! Sure ’n they singled me out because they remembered me. One of them even made a wa—” She stopped and frowned. “Why be ye so angry?”

  The huge dark Greek eyes studied her for the longest moment. “You really don’t realize what they were up to, do you?”

  “Up to? Me sole intention was to have a cup of tea with them and talk awhile. The night has been so exciting and I fain would have it end.”

  “It’s not your intentions I’m worried about. It’s theirs. The night would have been exciting, all right. Linnet, they were on the prowl. They were going to—” He stopped. He shook his head. Suddenly he laughed, and it was a welcome change in his demeanor. “Sweet country mouse! Very well, Linnet, I’ll leave it at this: You never—I repeat, never—mix socially with your audience. Not under any circumstance, no matter how much adulation they shower upon you. Its, uh—unprofessional in concert music circles, and is simply not done. All right?”

  “’Tis clear I’ve much to learn about this matter of music. What to do and nae do.”


  “Especially the ‘nae do’ part.” He stepped back and took her hand. “So you don’t want the night to end. I agree. Elizabeth says the strings are celebrating over at Westons’. We pianists shall crash their party. After all, pianos have strings.”

  She let herself be escorted out into the cool night. “’Tis hardly like a violin, the piano. In fact, ’tis why ye urged me to take both violin and piano lessons. Piano to train the eye, ye said, for ye can see the notes on a keyboard, and the violin to train the ear. What, then, might the piano be if it nae be strings?”

  “Percussion, of all things. Can you envision a noble piano keeping company with a common snare drum? No, Irish rose, the piano is a world unto its own. One per orchestra, and essential to every rehearsal. It can play the notes of any other instrument except certain drums, and usually those of several at once. An aristocrat, the piano. And you, my dear, must learn to associate comfortably with aristocracy.” And he led her off into the night.

  Chris. Were she to write to her sisters—something she must do soon—how could she explain a man like Chris? Helper. Encourager. Mentor. Free spirit, certainly. Apparently Elizabeth’s companion, perhaps even her suitor. Or were they simply friends? No matter how much Linnet watched them together, she could never tell. But then, Linnet was not an expert at reading signs of that sort.

  Chris declared the strings party dull and escorted both Linnet and Elizabeth to Herr Kugelberg’s house over in East Terrace. Quite as dull. They eventually ended up at Miss Hack’s, where they sat around past midnight eating sweet ices and listening to Caruso on a gramophone.

  ****

  The magnificence of Beethoven’s Ninth behind her, Linnet tackled her studies with renewed fervor. She practiced Vaccai daily for the fun of it. She spent half an hour every day on the violin only because Chris wanted her to, and Elizabeth was her teacher. She failed her examination in Latin.

  It was the piano she loved most. As she struggled to master Czerny, she thought fondly of Sister Bertrand. That dear and portly old nun would have been a wonderful concert pianist, for she loved the instrument as much as Chris did. Sister Bertrand had, in religious parlance, walked the second mile, providing Linnet with music instruction far beyond that which the school offered.

  A small but welcome check from Samantha arrived on Monday morning. In its accompanying letter, Sam described the heat in Echuca as oppressive and asked how it was in Adelaide. She said she was about to embark on a riverboat trip to the outback mission her employer was building. Linnet glanced at the calendar and at the date on the letter. If Sam were staying at this mission for a few days, she would be there now.

  The check would put food in her mouth for a week, but where would she get the rent for this tiny garret room? And tuition would be coming again soon. How she hated this hand-to-mouth existence! She had been foolish to give up that job at the professor’s—foolish, indeed, to consider university airs in the first place. She ought to quit this nonsense to which she was never born, and return to being what she was—a domestic. She perched her hat on her head and sallied forth to buy groceries.

  She detoured to the bank in Rundle Street to cash her check. The greengrocer would be open for several hours yet. Almost on a whim she crossed North Terrace into the university. She could practice for an hour or so and still get the shopping done. She made her way to the lower-level practice room.

  Music of all degrees of proficiency leaked out of the tight doors of these little rooms. Each cubicle contained a semi-tuned piano, chairs, and music stands. Beginners set their violins to caterwauling. Beginning voice students did their caterwauling unaided by instruments. And here and there along the way, someone really good was playing, making one want to linger and listen.

  Every room was in use. She walked out the other end. She might sit in the stairwell and wait a few minutes. Perhaps someone was nearly finished. She paused, listened, then hastened upstairs to the first floor. This room on the end must be a professor’s. Either he himself was playing or he was giving a lesson to an advanced pianist, for the music was beautiful. Tchaikovsky, she was fairly certain. She held her ear near the door and listened, rapt at what a piano can achieve.

  The end.

  Herr Kugelberg’s voice: “Vell. Inaccurate fingering. Ven vill you learn? The phrasing vas poor. Your tempo fluctuated. The whole piece lacks sensitiffity. It’s the best you’f ever played it.”

  “Thank you so much, Herr Doctor,” came Chris’s voice.

  “I am not a doctor, und you vill cease calling me that chust because you are angry vith my criticism. Ve vill take up again tomorrow, ya?”

  “Tomorrow, ya.”

  “I expect marked improofment. So practice, already. Und, Yorke—”

  “What?”

  “Pay less attention to the ladies, like the Connolly girl, and more to your work. You are not working enuff. You vould be much better.”

  “G’day, Herr non-doctor.” Chris came charging out the door. He spotted Linnet and his face instantly transformed from ferocious to delight. “Just the person I need to see!” He wrapped a long arm across her shoulders and took off down the hall. “How much money do you have?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got you booked into a concert appearance, but we have to rent a particular gown.”

  “Uh—wait, Chris.” She stopped. “Miss Hack heard about me, uh, singing engagements, and she said dinnae do it. She avers that singing in public houses is demeaning to me art, and I must cease immediately.”

  “Guli Hack! And I’m sure she’s ready to pay your bills for you, too. Never mind Miss Hack. This is not a pub. It’s the concert hall in South Terrace by Veale Gardens.” He gripped her shoulders, and his eyes absolutely shone. “This one’s real, Linn! A paid engagement!”

  “Oh, no! Sure’n Miss Hack will say I be nae ready for that yet!”

  “Not singing, Linn. Dual pianos. You and me. The main attraction is some bloke from Liverpool who specializes in Bach. We’re the opening act. We’re paid two pounds apiece!”

  “Ye cannae be serious!” She certainly wasn’t ready for that, either!

  “I’ve chosen the music. Some of it you already know, and you can handle the rest with no trouble. You’ll play second piano and I’ll provide the embellishments. You’ll be wonderful!”

  He pulled her aside into the concert chamber. “This demonstration will be a bit rough, what with the pianos on opposite sides of the room. You can’t hear as well. But you’ll be amazed. Go sit there,” and he waved a finger toward the far concert grand.

  He seated himself at the other. He seemed a mile away across the chamber. “The Czerny Etudes you were assigned last week, from the top.”

  So uncertain was she that her fingers shook. She played the opening bars and tried to listen to what was happening across the room. She was halfway through the piece when she heard his playing depart from the notes she knew. While she held a rest, his fingers were glissading down the keyboard. As she took the arpeggio up the scale he was coming down. This was new! She had always enjoyed piano four hands, but this was infinitely more exciting! She was sorry when it ended.

  Rental of the gown cost twelve shillings three with cleaning, fitting, and all. An extra ten shillings rented the hall itself for a few hours in order, Chris said, to get the feel of the place. In this dress rehearsal she made many mistakes.

  When the big night arrived, she was so excited she broke into a cold sweat from three in the afternoon on. She could not eat. She donned the gown and Chris declared her ravishingly beautiful. He wore an amazing crushed-velvet formal suit she’d never seen before. He looked quite dashing.

  They arrived early and rolled the two pianos into place, belly to belly. They warmed up. Then they waited in the wings, waiting, waiting, waiting. The buzz out in the audience grew from silence to a dull roar. Linnet quelled the urge to peek out at the house. Chris had warned her in advance about the non-professionalism of that.

  The stage lights ca
me up. The roar dropped to a rumble. The toastmaster stepped out, his front bright and his back black, to welcome all. Linnet knew he spoke Chris’s name and hers, but she could not for the life of her remember him doing it. Chris’s hand in hers, they stepped from darkness into brilliance. She felt herself squinting.

  Chris had told her over and over to ignore the house and play for her own pleasure. She had no choice. She saw no faces, heard only a few stray coughs and clearings of the throat. All she could see were brilliant footlights. Chris smiled at her as they took their places. He could afford to be relaxed like that. This was nothing new for him. He struck his chords, and they were off.

  She only panicked twice in the execution of their repertoire, and on both occasions managed to recover in time and carry on. They completed their program. Enthusiastic applause rose, but the announcer, or whoever he was, stepped out unexpectedly before they could take their bow. Linnet felt cheated. She wanted the applause. She wanted her bow! Then the announcer’s words struck cold terror in her heart.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have received word that Herr Hoffman is unavoidably delayed. Please bear with us, and this incomparable duet, Yorke and Connolly, will entertain you.” He bowed as he backed away from the pianos and disappeared in the wings.

  No! This incomparable duet had just exhausted their whole repertoire. Linnet knew not a note the audience had not already heard tonight. She could not entertain that coughing, shuffling houseful of music fans. Fear as cold as the wind off the North Sea froze her in place.

  Chris was standing beside her. “What a wonderful chance for us all!” he said. How could he say that? “In these final moments before Mr. Hoffman’s appearance, I wish to seize the opportunity to introduce you to the world’s next great concert soprano. My partner Linnet Connolly here is trained, as are all great voices, in the classical style. But her personal style ranges far beyond the usual program sopranos present.”

  Sopranos? No, Chris! Linnet thought briefly of that horrid moment when he dragged her in for her first pub concert. This was a thousand times more horrid!