elite of local society.
Yes, a man could make something of himself if he worked hard. But work didnât come naturally to any man. She would have to be the one to make it happen. She would have to make him understand that there were no second prizes in this game, and that there were a thousand others wanting the same thing. She would have to be his teacher and his mentor, his cook and mother, his conscience, his guilt, his fear â she would have to be his everything, and he would have to understand that there could be no one else. He would have to follow her without question. He would have to be obedient. Love was secondary. That would follow later when he realised what sheâd done for him.
But they werenât there yet. A Zac could become an Erwin and an Erwin could become a Zac. The only thing that separated them (apart from talent) was work. Hours and hours of work, every day, up to and including the day he was playing at the Royal Albert Hall, crowds lined up halfway across London for a ticket. Half of Australia had had piano lessons. So what? Her own mum had taught her for seven years. But not enough to be good, and certainly not the best. Lessons were one thing, but willpower was another. She couldâve been good too, if her mother had asked, indeed demanded, more from her. âGo play outside, dear, go feed the chooks.â That was the path to mediocrity. That was what she had to avoid. And she had to avoid people who would persuade her to make that compromise.
There were plenty of obstacles in front of them. Perhaps the biggest was money. The few pounds she got for teaching didnât go far. Sheâd tried selling some of Joâs old tools, and a few pieces of farm machinery: enough to keep them going for a few months. And now, as the cash was running out, she was eyeing off Joâs motherâs jewellery, his books and prints and anything else that could be salvaged. Another year perhaps. And then what? The rest of their land, the house? She wasnât too proud to rent. Maybe they could move to Adelaide, to be closer to the Con, the concert halls and non-Fritz Âcivilisation.
Something always came up. One thing was certain though, if Erwin was to be the best, theyâd need to go elsewhere â America, England, Germany. The sooner the better. There was a whole world beyond her, OâGorman and even Reg Carter. The history of music smelt of kransky and cabbage soup â gum trees didnât figure.
Madge looked at the timer. Ten more minutes. Zac picked something from his nose and wiped it on his jumper.
âZac,â she scolded.
âCan I go home yet?â
âNo. Now concentrate. This phrase.â She pointed to the notes as she sang them. Half an hour later they were still there. âWhereâs your mother?â Madge asked.
âShopping.â
âI have to pick up my son.â
Zac stared at her. He put a single finger on the keys and attempted âThe Ash Groveâ.
âNo,â she said, stopping him. âI have to go.â
A few minutes later she was sitting in the truck, revving the engine and tuning the radio to the Brahmsâ Requiem . She put her hand out of the window and attempted to extend the aerial but it was rusted in place. She looked across at Zac, sitting on the porch with his music across his knees, and said, âDonât move. Wait for your mother.â
âWhenâs she coming?â
âYou tell me.â
She let out her clutch and the truck reversed up the driveway. She turned onto Godâs Hill Road, changed gear and set off towards Nuriootpa. As she changed through the gears the clutch felt tight. No more pushing her foot to the floor.
God bless you, Mr Lindsay, she thought.
And she hadnât had to do a thing. There he was the previous morning, standing on her porch, pointing to her truck as it sparkled in the sun. âThere you go, Madge, as promised.â
âMr
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