Dissonance by Stephen Orr

was there, Madge might’ve gone back into the Con and objected. She might’ve denounced charity and insisted on paying. But she wasn’t there, and distance, she realised, gave her some perspective. Reg Carter was a man she could’ve married. He could see talent, and he encouraged it. Reg Carter was Provident. He would do what Jo had failed to do: make her son great.
    Erwin headed up the hill towards North Terrace. He walked the length of Rundle and Hindley Streets and then checked into the Royal Admiral Hotel. As he did every Friday night, he ate a meal of fried hake and mashed potato in his room, took off his clothes and slept naked.
    At six am the next morning he was woken by an alarm. He got dressed, returned his key and walked to the railway station. Then he bought a ticket and waited for the Nuriootpa train.
    Saturday morning.
    It took Zac six months to learn his first piece, and that was right hand only. During that time he didn’t smile, grin, grimace, speak or even answer Madge’s questions. He just sat there and looked at the notes and eventually (with Madge holding his small, bony hand) played a two-bar phrase with no connection, spirit or sense that it was even music.
    â€˜Some take longer than others,’ Madge explained to his mum. ‘But if he sticks at it, he’ll get there.’
    She chose not to mention how her son could play Mozart’s Turkish Rondo with both hands after six months’ lessons. How Zac might be better off waiting another twelve months or taking up an idiot-proof instrument like the trumpet. No, Zac’s money was as good as anyone’s – if Zac’s mum wanted him to play the piano, then he would play the piano. Perhaps one day he’d make a good rehearsal pianist or lead sing-alongs at the Angaston Aged Care. Perhaps he’d accompany the liedertafel or teach other second-rate children to play second-rate piano.
    She plucked out the melody to Foster’s Camptown Races and then said, ‘See, it’s the same bit, just repeated. Now, you try.’ He almost made it to the doo-dah but then stopped and looked at her.
    â€˜What is it?’ she asked.
    â€˜Is that fast enough?’
    â€˜Don’t worry about that. Just get the notes right. Come on, let’s try again.’
    As she listened she thanked God for her own son’s talent. She could remember the first time she’d found him playing the melody to a nursery rhyme. He was two. She rushed up and hugged him and encouraged him to keep going. She sang him more songs and he played them all, even working out the accidentals and chords. Despite this she put off lessons until he was four. Father O’Gorman came to their house to hear him and insisted there was no point until the finger muscles were strong enough. ‘And anyway, a three-year-old can’t make sense of all them dots.’
    In the meantime, Erwin continued picking out tunes: radio jingles, pieces she played him, popular songs, anything. ‘It’s an instinct,’ Jo said, standing outside one day, ­listening through the window before she closed it. ‘Keep it up, Shot-a-tee,’ he called, knocking on the glass.
    Madge knew this was a chance that couldn’t be squandered. If Erwin was good, really good, then they could leave their worries behind. If he worked hard, and she made ­sacrifices, then they could work their way up into a whole new world. No more Jo. No more miserable Fritzes. No more struggling to pay bills, driving Dodge trucks or teaching the children of people who crushed grapes with their feet.
    Erwin could amount to something. He wouldn’t have to rely on inheriting the Hergert shop. He could have a home in North Adelaide (no, she needed to be more ambitious, London, Berlin) and she could live in it and run it for him – choosing new wallpaper, tiles, hiring and firing maids and cooks and planning Schubertiades that would be attended be the