tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49625787175987539302024-02-06T18:04:29.345-08:00The Music of LoveA Romantic Story about love in country Victoria
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A new "episode" (or half a chapter) is posted every week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-13194470158198666302017-07-22T19:02:00.000-07:002017-07-22T19:02:04.978-07:00Getting back into writing<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnsGu4XROBuc9vKkHBPyrWULrznNgQhiHZSWe7TLARvmpgln2OrcJzVmnm5Ef-gADz-3MYTQNYetn_C1_nIiqzkVkZWxfIgEdB_5mvRgEmh-PSW14MfAAwjpiMnTACzBo0GqM0w3YEb_G/s1600/Near+Alexandria%252C+Victoria%252C+by+Theo+Delgrosso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnsGu4XROBuc9vKkHBPyrWULrznNgQhiHZSWe7TLARvmpgln2OrcJzVmnm5Ef-gADz-3MYTQNYetn_C1_nIiqzkVkZWxfIgEdB_5mvRgEmh-PSW14MfAAwjpiMnTACzBo0GqM0w3YEb_G/s400/Near+Alexandria%252C+Victoria%252C+by+Theo+Delgrosso.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Alexandria, Victoria, by Theo Delgrosso <a href="https://www.artrecord.com/index.cfm/artist/11654-delgrosso-theo/medium/1-paintings/">Source</a></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
I haven't written anything about The Music of Love for a few years. Real life--work!--kept me too tired to write much. Or at any rate, too emotionally drained to create new stories and live the lives of my characters. But last week I retired, and already I feel my oomph growing. <br />
<br />
I'm busy finishing up another novel, but when I've completed that I will be getting back to writing The Music of Love, and I'll be posting a chapter every couple of weeks.<br />
<br />
Thanks for being so patient.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-47971344513854684782012-11-25T03:13:00.002-08:002012-11-25T03:28:26.312-08:00Chapter 4, part 2<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPfsLYSXZi9Bm5VkTXYG2VUCX1-tuVHBmvrKRLZF-IWfvbcGYoTQ2tEafWoshklwJ9HlHGcgT_CQlhDQBhfWavNyXrJIsqQxcIAgPWK-3nR199A_Z18RgupeboXbPi9syc7IJ196rDzLQ/s1600/Pilbara+Thunderstorm+by+Stephen+Williams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPfsLYSXZi9Bm5VkTXYG2VUCX1-tuVHBmvrKRLZF-IWfvbcGYoTQ2tEafWoshklwJ9HlHGcgT_CQlhDQBhfWavNyXrJIsqQxcIAgPWK-3nR199A_Z18RgupeboXbPi9syc7IJ196rDzLQ/s640/Pilbara+Thunderstorm+by+Stephen+Williams.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pilbara Thunderstorm ( <a href="http://swilliamsphotos.wordpress.com/">Stephen Williams</a> )</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Yes,”
he replied, not noticing her discomfort, “I inherited it from my grandfather.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It was
empty for so many years,” she said, “Talk in the town was that it had been tied
up in some dispute over the Will.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No,”
he explained, “What happened was that it was left to his grandchildren. He didn’t trust his children. He said they were useless and lazy and didn’t
want to work. But the problem was—well one
of them—was that none of us were living in Australia. My mother is French and we lived for a while
in the French countryside. But I’d heard
stories about this house and about Australia from my father and when— “ he
paused suddenly and looked away out across the tawny grasslands and the vibrant
shadows of the gum trees. “Anyway,” he
continued—and Lucy was sure he’d been about to say something else— “Here I am.” He pushed the salad around in his bowl and
once again she racked her brains for something to say that didn’t seem forward
or silly or boring. In the end it was he
who spoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I
expect you know who I am,” he said in a low voice. He lifted his head and their eyes met. His look was bruised, somehow, almost
defiant. She was taken aback. She noticed a faint streak of silver in the
soft black of his hair as it fell forward over his forehead. For a mad moment, she almost reached out to
smooth it away. Abruptly, she came to
her senses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well,”
she replied, a little breathlessly, “You told me your name when you introduced
yourself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes,”
he said slowly, “That’s true.” And again
there was a silence. He drank his beer
and rubbed his fingers up and down in the condensation left from the bottle on
the wooden table, “You see,” he said, “I – ” and at that moment the phone
rang. Lucy cursed the phone. But she felt she had to answer it. That was the way she’d been brought up. Her mother had always said, <i>you never know, it might be important</i>. But it hardly ever was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Excuse
me,” she said. It was Jennifer. <i>How
typical</i>, thought Lucy, frustrated. <i>Just when we were getting somewhere.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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“Luce,
old thing,” said Jenny in a cheerful tone, “Would you like to come round to
dinner tonight? I’ve asked the
Bletchleys and Susan and a few others over.
Nothing grand. Just homemade
pasta. Bring a bottle of wine if you
like.” For a moment Lucy hesitated. But then the thought of Sunday night alone in
the cottage with Adam up in the big house, lying in his sleeping bag in some
huge, empty room, the moonlight casting its cold beams across him as he lay
there, awake or asleep, and the memory of the unfortunate encounter with Shane
the night before decided her. She would
go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’d
love to come,” she told Jenny, “Seven o’clock?
See you then.” She went back
outside. Adam had finished his beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sorry
about that,” she said, “It was a friend inviting me to dinner.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well,”
he said, “I shall think of you as I sit on the verandah looking at the
view. I hope you have a pleasant
evening. Thank you so much for the
delicious lunch.” And almost bowing to her, like a character from Jane Austen
or Charlotte Brontë, she thought amusedly, he left swiftly and she saw his
tall, dark form walking with long, deliberate stride through the midday heat
back up the hill to the great house. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The
threatened thunderstorm did come. As
always, before the first rain fell, Lucy got a headache and her depression and
downheartedness, combined with the headache, encouraged her to take a
painkiller and have an afternoon nap.
When the rain came it was a relief.
She could hear it drumming on the tin roof of her little cottage and
could feel the immediate freshness as the heat and dust were washed out of the
air. As she lay on the bed in the half
dark of the summer thunderstorm, she thought back to the first day. She thought about the first time he had come
to visit and she had brought out the best tea-set and how he had looked at the
picture of her mother and left so abruptly.
What was it, she wondered, that had made him leave? <o:p></o:p></div>
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She had
felt, while they were sitting there so companionably, in the shade of the wisteria,
that he was about to tell her about his life, about why his name was Adam
Greyfallow, but he played under the stage name Montpellier, about who the woman
was who had accompanied him out the night before, about what had happened to
his beautiful bride. It was so typical
of Jennifer to ring at the wrong moment.
It was just the sort of thing she always did. She was very kind and she was very fond of her,
and Lucy supposed that she was one of her best friends. All the same, she rather wished that Jennifer
had postponed calling for another half hour.
But then she reminded herself of all the occasions over the last few
days when she had told herself to be sensible and not to assume that handsome,
gorgeous, ridiculously wealthy and gifted Adam Greyfallow would be the least
interested in a plain and rather ordinary school teacher from a country town
where nothing ever happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She
didn’t dress for dinner. The air was
cool again after the thunderstorm and the dust was laid on the roads. She loved the way in summer how these hot
days would end like this, with a quiet coolness after the rain and the sound of
the cockatoos shrieking at each other as they found their night time roosts in
the trees. She wasn’t especially looking
forward to dinner, but it was better than doing nothing, and she didn’t think
after all that had happened and all the emotions that had turmoiled within her,
that an evening alone was a good idea.
As she made small talk, ate Jennifer’s indifferent lasagne while
complimenting her on it, and listened to all the minor dramas that the people
around the table discussed with such enthusiasm and passion, the thought that
went through her head was always ‘what is he doing now?’ —to be immediately
followed by ‘don’t be such a goose, Lucinda Grady, he’s not interested in you
and never will be’.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Next >>>></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-54205140437578253052012-11-05T02:17:00.001-08:002012-11-25T03:14:26.078-08:00Chapter 4, part 1<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoraCuFm9WSDxm3jWoGAGgj4enthJoUMnkWUmihNtv06NxyONOzrC4u6-BoMkyjaKb-61sc_7XbRIVQy3qNNx24VVWjQ_GRCve8HQjm2IiYqxudWqBMSGabfVgj5urjVvjzBoz7-6diTbW/s1600/Gum+trees+lining+country+road.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoraCuFm9WSDxm3jWoGAGgj4enthJoUMnkWUmihNtv06NxyONOzrC4u6-BoMkyjaKb-61sc_7XbRIVQy3qNNx24VVWjQ_GRCve8HQjm2IiYqxudWqBMSGabfVgj5urjVvjzBoz7-6diTbW/s400/Gum+trees+lining+country+road.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite
the fact that Lucy had often thought that her life had been a disappointment to
her, she was normally a cheerful person.
But the encounter with Shane had depressed her a great deal and she
struggled for the rest of the week to be upbeat. It seemed to her that one of her favourite
activities on weekends—which were so precious to her—namely, going to the
Chinese restaurant, had been ruined.
Worse, it seemed to her that she had not yet really got over her love
for Shane, even as he had seemed, standing next to her table, bloated, older
and less attractive. She still felt in
her heart some sort of sorrow and affection for him. She knew full well that he had treated her
badly and she was quite sure that if she got involved with him again he would
do it all over again; he was just one of those people. So her feelings of regret and sadness were
absurd. But no matter how many times she
told herself this, she didn’t believe it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Adam
had not returned to Greyfallows by the end of the week. Lucy decided that the only way to keep
herself sane was to <i>do</i>
something. She decided to sort out the
cupboards in her house, mop the kitchen floor and perform other mindless tasks
that would keep her busy and help her to sleep from sheer tiredness. But while she was making her Saturday morning
cup of tea and scrambled eggs on toast she made the mistake of opening her
laptop to see what had happened in the world, and she saw, on the society pages
of <i>The Age</i> that Adam Montpellier had
squired the latest perfectly beautiful, perfectly groomed model representing
Galombiks, the Melbourne department store, to a ballet at The Arts Centre. There were photos of him and the model, whose
name was Jayne Beckwith; and the look he gave her as the camera caught the
moment was one of great affection and love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She
closed the laptop and pushed it to one side.
She stared out of the back window into her little garden. Up at the top of the hill the Greyfallows
mansion stood as it had done for eighty or ninety years and she thought to
herself how stupid she’d been to hope that there would be parties and that all
the glamour of the 1920s and 30s would return.
No doubt Adam Greyfallow would come back to Beauville, but with his
wife, the perfectly beautiful Jayne Beckwith.
And there might even been parties to which the glamorous and the
beautiful were invited. But <i>she</i> wouldn’t be invited. He certainly would not spare one look for
Lucinda Grady.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She
forced herself to eat the rest of her breakfast and finish her tea. Her mother had brought her up to be careful
with the cents. She used to say as if it
were her own original notion, ‘look after the pennies and the pounds will look
after themselves’, and smile triumphantly at Lucy as if she had produced a
profound new idea all by herself. Lucy
felt a sudden stab of sadness at the thought of her mother and thought again
how much she would like to just leave this town and everyone in it, to never
see Shane again, nor even her friend Jennifer, nor any of the children in her
class. To cut ties with all her history,
to start out afresh somewhere else where she wasn’t Lucinda Grady, the cast-off
of the most handsome man in town, or a not very good school teacher, but
Lucinda, someone glamorous and different from far away, someone who knew things,
who had been places.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Despite
her disappointment, she decided to tidy the house anyway and to do some work in
the garden. She thought she’d start on
the garden first, before it got too hot.
The weather report had said the temperature would reach the high
thirties and that there was a good chance of a summer thunderstorm. Putting on her floppy hat and an old flannel
shirt to stop getting burnt, she fetched the trowel and started work. She watered some of the plants in the tubs
and pots which were looking a bit droopy in the heat and then turned to digging
out the obstinate dandelions from between the red bricks of the little pathways. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As
always, the peaceful certainties of gardening helped her, and at the end of an
hour she was feeling somewhat better.
The garden was very pretty and she felt that by working on it she was
honouring the memory of her mother who had loved the trees and flowers and had made
it the beautiful place it was. She made
herself a cup of tea and sat on the bench in the pergola in the shade of the wisteria. She was halfway through the cup when she
heard the sound of a car. Although she
told herself repeatedly not to get up and not to go and look, she couldn’t stop
herself. From a corner of the house she
peeped around the honeysuckle and saw Adam Greyfallow’s lethal-looking Lamborghini
sweep up the road from Melbourne and turn into the entrance of Greyfallows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a
small sigh of satisfaction—which she immediately deplored—Lucy noticed that there
was no-one sitting beside him. Proud of
her self-discipline, she went back into the kitchen and started tidying the
house. She had no intention of calling
on him and no intention of making a fool of herself again. She remembered the song her mother often used
to sing to her, ‘a man is a two face’ and she thought, <i>maybe I’m better off the way I am.
It might not be thrilling but I do get some pleasure from my life, even
if it is lonely.</i> She made herself a
salad for lunch and was sitting on the bench under the wisteria eating it when
she heard a knock at the front door. She
put down her bowl and went inside to open the door. It was Adam.
He had dark lines under his eyes and a drawn face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hello,”
he said, “am I disturbing you?” His voice was low and husky; he sounded
indescribably weary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cursing
the blush which rose relentlessly to her cheeks, Lucinda said softly, “No, I
was just having lunch. Some salad. Would you like some?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Oh,”
he said, “I couldn’t put you out. I was
just going to have some bread and cheese and maybe a beer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’re
not putting me out,” she said, “Come in!”
She stood back and held the door open.
With a slight, self-deprecating smile, he produced from behind his back two
beers, frosted and chilled. She was
charmed by this evidence of foresight.
They sat together at each end of the bench underneath the arbour in the
scent of blue wisteria, ate their salad and drank their beer. Lucinda desperately wanted to say, “We didn’t
think you were coming back,” but she knew that would reveal too much. They sat in silence for a while, and it
seemed a peaceful and companionable quiet.
The magpies yodelled softly in the heat of the midday from the tall gum
trees, and insects hummed in the long grasses.
Lucy brushed her hair back from her warm face with one hand and tucked
it behind her ear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are
you well?” she asked eventually, “You look a little tired.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh,”
he replied, “I was up late last night and left Melbourne early this morning.” Seeming to force a smile, he said, “I expect
I shall sleep like a log tonight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Luckily,”
said Lucy, “It’s Sunday, so you’ll be able to sleep well at the Royal
Hotel. It’s Saturday night that it’s so
noisy. This is a country town and there
isn’t much to do and the farmers like to come in from the surrounding areas to
have a drink or two in the pub. They can
be a bit loud.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Well,”
he said, “As a matter of fact, I’m sleeping up at the house. It’s a bit primitive. But at least we’ve connected the pump to the
borehole and so now I have water. We
don’t have town water. The house had
never been connected because it was up on the hill and old Josiah Greyfallow
who built it … this would have been around the 1860’s … didn’t want to waste
money. So they had a windmill which was
replaced by a pump. Which is long
gone! Anyway, to cut a long story short
I decided to sleep at the house because at least it’s mine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Lucy felt
absurdly glad that he was sleeping in the house. Embarrassed at her silliness, she blurted
out, “Did you inherit it?” She immediately
felt how rude this was; after all, it was none of her business, but she couldn’t
unsay what had been said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/chapter-4-part-2.html">Next part >>>></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-64116352464740019082012-10-21T20:04:00.003-07:002012-10-21T20:05:37.591-07:00A real "Greyfallows"Not too many k's from where we live is this old mansion. It's called Mintaro. We didn't have it in mind for Greyfallows, because we didn't even know it was there! It's just been placed on the market after the death of its owner.<br />
<br />
Have a look at<a href="http://theage.domain.com.au/best-address-historic/restore-a-rundown-relic-to-its-former-glory-20121019-27ury.html"> the photos</a>--marble walls and ceilings, carvings, painted frescoes. How beautiful it is! It'll give you some idea of how we imagine "Greyfallows".<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-gBsUIG8irLdm8S4WxjkTQWudKxkTmV0SBQBTTLzHXVPIQ4PDBKxDKnURHembtw8qtpxKFeF6Ag1WCJxXWuMqvyyyqry6ZM1n7i10sM1qCQNn7sOY_a8GmGLsdfhk1Qhe2Ezv8UlukBda/s1600/Mintaro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-gBsUIG8irLdm8S4WxjkTQWudKxkTmV0SBQBTTLzHXVPIQ4PDBKxDKnURHembtw8qtpxKFeF6Ag1WCJxXWuMqvyyyqry6ZM1n7i10sM1qCQNn7sOY_a8GmGLsdfhk1Qhe2Ezv8UlukBda/s640/Mintaro.jpg" width="500" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-74031368647019694702012-10-20T15:24:00.002-07:002012-11-05T02:18:36.351-08:00Chapter 3, part 2<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EUe7OG0dS0qK0uhjhqPaA5lhIxvVtbhyUGEDhQqlUvWeHUi6AcJamcfd4mLLFs7kZngAcGZoc79OSeBTsPSaVdyvNV6ZBLryFZbPQQwu3tmJeMuNV0rtkFyoNjI0HZn5JQO634EVdzDD/s1600/Tang+dynasty+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EUe7OG0dS0qK0uhjhqPaA5lhIxvVtbhyUGEDhQqlUvWeHUi6AcJamcfd4mLLFs7kZngAcGZoc79OSeBTsPSaVdyvNV6ZBLryFZbPQQwu3tmJeMuNV0rtkFyoNjI0HZn5JQO634EVdzDD/s400/Tang+dynasty+horse.jpg" width="392" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Tang Dynasty Horse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<i>The Tang Horse</i> was one of three Chinese
restaurants in Beauville and was her favourite.
The paintings of misty Chinese mountains, the softly twanging music, the
spicy fragrances, all seemed exotic to her.
In the window was a reproduction of a green Tang dynasty horse and she
liked to imagine she was somewhere far more interesting than her home
town. As usual, she took a table facing
the street. That way she could pretend
she was in Paris, watching the passers-by, or some restaurant in Chinatown in
San Francisco. Anywhere rather than Beauville. She ordered, as she always did, sweet and
sour pork and green tea, and ate slowly, thinking all the time of good things,
of her little cottage and its garden, of her life as a teacher, which she
mostly loved and found deeply satisfying, and of her friends. Even Jennifer, who could be so annoying, she
knew, really cared about her and was always there for her when things were bad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
The
bell on the restaurant door tinkled and she looked up to see who had come
in. She felt the blood drain from her
face, and her stomach tighten into a knot.
It was Shane Campbell. He appeared
not to notice that she was there at first, and then, observing her, turned away
suddenly, his features twisted into an odd expression. Shane Campbell had been the great love of her
life. He had thick, curly brown hair,
golden brown eyes and his broad, muscular body bore testament to his obsession
with many different sports. He had been
captain of the school footy team. She
had been in love with him since she was fifteen. He was a bit older than the others in the
class, not because he'd been kept back, but because he'd started school later
than usual. This meant he was one of the
first to get his P plates and to get a car.
He had worked hard at the local auto-mechanic in a part time job and
saved enough to buy himself an old Holden Monaro sports car which he and his
mates did up in the back yard and drove up and down the streets of
Beauville. The car had a deep burble and
a huge engine and Shane was the envy of every male in the class and the adored
object of every female.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
She
never showed him how much she fancied him.
Because of her shyness, she remained aloof. She watched with wistful envy as he went
after each of the gorgeous girls in class – Emma Pratchett, Laura Simpson,
Chanelle Roberts, and the others who were all slim, with long, flowing hair and
perfectly proportioned faces, and seemed so confident and glamorous and clever,
and made little snide comments about her when she walked past. These were the sort of girls Shane Campbell
pursued. Lucy knew she didn't stand a
chance. She stayed in the background,
never speaking to him, never taking any notice of his bad-boy behaviour, or
pandering to his arrogant assumption that he was the most important human being
on earth. None of his relationships
seemed to last very long; perhaps three months as most. Then the girl was ditched and Shane would
walk with a little added swagger in his step into the classroom and start
looking around for a new conquest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
One day
after school he came up to Lucy, where she was waiting at the gate for one of
her friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Hey,”
he grinned charmingly, and held her eyes with a warm, confiding gaze. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Hello,
Shane,” she said expressionlessly, ignoring the powerfully muscled arm casually
draped over the gate she was leaning against.
She had no intention of being added to the list of trophies taken by the
bad boy of Beauville. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“I saw
you at the Rialto last Saturday. What
did you think of the movie?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“It was
<i>Casablanca</i>,” she muttered, “I've seen it a dozen times.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“I love
old movies too,” said Shane softly, his eyes travelling over her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Really?”
she said, feigning indifference, although her heart was beginning to pound a
little harder in her breast.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUoxVRjF3fMSbDx330r1Z-TlDdEE8bRwqlSrm7A0agllxzKZSTZwZZROvb7qsDKRr5orxkcr10dakYnPmGeQV-FuUyzNJU8PLLBbRGgIvFlU_IBxPkBG8aDNhvVsUFnL4ONcaHqDanU5yJ/s1600/Holden+HQ+Monaro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUoxVRjF3fMSbDx330r1Z-TlDdEE8bRwqlSrm7A0agllxzKZSTZwZZROvb7qsDKRr5orxkcr10dakYnPmGeQV-FuUyzNJU8PLLBbRGgIvFlU_IBxPkBG8aDNhvVsUFnL4ONcaHqDanU5yJ/s400/Holden+HQ+Monaro.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Holden Monaro HQ</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
“Yup. <i>Casablanca</i> is one of my favourite
films of all time. Hey, I've got some
jobs I need to take care of on Saturday arvo, how about you come along for the
ride and we can maybe take in a movie afterwards? Or whatever you'd like. Go for a Coke, anything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
So she
did. It was only much later that she
discovered he hadn't even been into the cinema that day and didn't know who
Humphrey Bogart was, in fact had never seen <i>Casablanca</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
He took
her in his wonderful old coupé to a footy game in the next town of
Mallaroo. She found the game pretty
boring, but he stood next to her the whole time, so close she could feel the
warmth of his body, and after the game made disparaging comments about both
teams and how much better he and his team would have played. By then Lucy's sense of reality had
diminished under his charms and she didn't see this for what it was – an
arrogant and rather pathetic attempt to big-note himself. She agreed with him and felt that this was
the happiest moment of her life. She was
with the hero of the town, handsome, sexy, intelligent and thoughtful. He even loved old movies for goodness'
sake! After the game he took her home in
the winter dark and she was half disappointed, half pleased, that he didn't try
anything with her but merely asked if she would like to come out with him next
weekend and perhaps hang out with him at lunch time at school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
The
crunch came on the fourth date. They had
gone through the early stages of kissing and petting but now he made it clear
he wanted to go all the way. Lucy was
old-fashioned. She believed that you
shouldn't have sex before marriage unless it was with someone you were sure was
the lifetime partner for you, and even then it somehow seemed wrong. She resisted his sweet talk, and then his
increasingly amorous and demanding advances.
She could see he was becoming angry, but also that he was a little
intrigued. Obviously none of the other
girls had held out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Do you
love me?” he whispered huskily, breathing into her ear. She nodded, unable to speak. “I love you very much,” he breathed, pulling
back to gaze into her face, his brown eyes warm and filled with sincerity. “Won't you do this for me,” he begged, “For
our love?” Still she refused, although
she was hesitating. He dropped his arms. He drove her to the cottage and turned his
face away when she wanted to give him a goodnight kiss. That Monday at school he pretended not to
know her when she joined him for lunch. This treatment continued all week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
On
Friday he said, “So would you like to come out tomorrow?” Grateful for any crumb, she accepted at
once. The next night they sat in the car
outside the takeaway diner. Shane said,
“I'm sorry I behaved so badly this week, but I really care for you and I was
hurt. Because you didn't want to prove
you loved me.” That night she lost her virginity to him. Their relationship lasted just as long as all
the others. But by then Lucy was
hopelessly in love with him. He dumped
her one Thursday lunchtime in front of all his friends and all the other girls
of the class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“You're
such a prissy, up-yourself bitch, Lucy,” he said offhandedly, his eyes
sparkling with malice. Foolishly, she
stammered, “But you said you loved me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Oh
come on, Lucy!” he countered, “You're so not my type! All those curls, those old-fashioned
dresses. You look like my auntie! And anyway I prefer my women hot in
bed.” His friends sniggered. “Seriously, you need to do something about
yourself. You wouldn't look so bad if
you did something about your hair and stuff.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Her
eyes brimming with tears, trying desperately and failing to hold them back,
Lucy stumbled away, as far as she could, to the other side of the playing
fields, her cheeks burning, her heart torn in two. She heard the word 'frigid' and a guffaw of
laughter from the boys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Shane
had made a point, after that, of flaunting his new girl in Lucy's face. He found someone in the neighbouring town to
go out with him. And later, when she
heard that this girl, Rosa, the daughter of an Italian family, was pregnant,
Lucy was saddened but not surprised. Shane
Campbell was married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-five, with three children,
no career, no progress in life, no qualifications, no hope. After his public humiliation of her she had
made a point of ignoring him whenever she saw him. She didn't have much, but she did have her
pride. She had told her mother about the
whole thing and her mother had produced the usual platitudes – men only want
one thing, you must hold out until you're married, why don't you find a nice
boy with career prospects, and so on.
But even though Lucy never went near Shane again, she still loved him
deep down. His appearance in <i>The Tang Horse</i> spoiled her evening for
her. Yet another reason to leave this dump, she thought, get far away from all
these people. At the same time, she felt
trapped. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
She
heard the scrape of a chair at the table behind her. The next minute Shane was standing next to
her table. He was alone. She wondered at that. She knew he had divorced, a messy divorce,
but he was still good looking and probably just as charming as ever. It surprised her that he was coming out to
eat alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“May I
join you?” he asked. There was a flash
of the old, warm charm, but his eyes were a little bloodshot, his shirt tighter
around his belly. Her eyes averted, she
shook her head, pushed her plate to one side, rose, and leaving fifteen dollars
at the cash register, left the restaurant, wondering if she would ever be able
to return. She was conscious of him
staring through the plate glass window at her retreating back, and she thought,
<i>this has to be one of the worst weeks ever</i>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/chapter-4-part-1.html">Next part >>></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-60005626533092202172012-10-14T01:33:00.002-07:002012-10-20T15:26:23.380-07:00Chapter 3, part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnl8KbSaNo8-yrvByIqZkKXrfXce59RJEutL4gT-uBr-IbjLh0Zel5W4sxiuUmoEiaEC97I5YEXQurBQb52r7WWu7narvRsTmGHDADvnk02ZIC1Pp66vg1d3CM0BFpyWxnaOr5yUe5GIH7/s1600/Near_Tumut_by_Chris_Huber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnl8KbSaNo8-yrvByIqZkKXrfXce59RJEutL4gT-uBr-IbjLh0Zel5W4sxiuUmoEiaEC97I5YEXQurBQb52r7WWu7narvRsTmGHDADvnk02ZIC1Pp66vg1d3CM0BFpyWxnaOr5yUe5GIH7/s1600/Near_Tumut_by_Chris_Huber.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Tumut, oil, by <a href="http://www.hubersfineartgallery.com/shop/chris-huber/oil/">Chris Huber</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
On
Monday morning she had hardly made her cup of tea in the staffroom before
Jennifer grabbed her arm and exclaimed excitedly, “Who do you think he is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“What
on earth do you mean?” retorted Lucy impatiently. She was in a bad mood and depressed, and
Jennifer's bounciness could be very irritating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Him!”
replied Jennifer, “Mr Handsome-who-sweeps-in-from-overseas-like-Lord-Muck and
starts tarting up a house everyone else thinks should be bulldozed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Well?”
said Lucy, feigning a lack of interest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Jennifer's
eyes glittered, “He's Adam Montpellier, the famous pianist!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Lucy
was staggered. She had heard Adam
Montpellier play, on the radio. She'd
seen him on TV, and never would she have recognised him as the man who she'd
met peering through the windows of her cottage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Why
does she call himself Montpellier if his real name is Greyfallow?” asked Lucy,
more to shut Jennifer up and distract
her than from any real desire to know. <i>I
suppose</i>, she thought to herself, <i>that's why he's left. He came here for peace and quiet and now that
he's been found out, he's going away again.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“Montpellier,”
said Jennifer, “Is his mother's name.
She was French, from some noble French family. Come with me!” She dragged Lucy off to her classroom and
showed her the result of Google searches she'd made on the computer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“What
made you think about it?” asked Lucy, still trying to process the news.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
“I <i>thought</i>
I recognised him,” said Jennifer, “He seemed familiar and I racked and racked
my brains,” (and Lucy knew just how much Jennifer could rack her brains),
“before I came to school this morning – it nearly made me late – and so I
started digging.” And she produced a
pile of printouts. Lucy read, astonished,
the news reports about Adam Greyfallow's life.
Everybody seemed to know him as Adam Montpellier and she wondered if
he'd been ashamed of the Greyfallow name or whether he had had a falling out
with his father. She wondered if it had
anything to do with the court case that had tied up the house for so long. There he was, stepping out of limousines onto
red carpets; there he was, taking a bow at the Albert Hall in London and
Carnegie Hall in New York. There he was,
in tuxedo, his hair an immaculate, gleaming black wing sweeping over his broad
forehead, his eyes a glint of sapphire in the flash of a camera, with a
gorgeous redhead on his arm. And then
there was the report of the terrible accident and the death of the lovely
model, and the news that Adam Montpellier had disappeared, distraught with
grief, three months before. There had
been reports of sightings from places as far apart as Buenos Aires in
Argentina, Dublin in Ireland and Calcutta in India – but none of them was verified.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Lucy
felt her heart go out to Adam. He must
have withdrawn from the world because of his terrible grief. But she felt her own heart break a little
too, because she knew that now she had to face up to the fact that he'd come
and gone, and that even if he ever came back, he could never love someone like her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
Lucy
was in a low mood for the rest of the day, thinking how someone interesting had
finally come to Beauville and then gone away for good. She tried hard not to snap at the children
during class, but somehow they seemed to sense that she was in trouble and
behaved much worse than usual. In the
end she had a shouting match with Tommy Morrison, the alpha male in her Year 8
class, and afterwards felt sickened and embarrassed by the whole thing. It was so unlike her. After she got home to her little cottage she
went and stood outside, looking up towards the great house and wondering if, in
fact, it ever would be a home again, with people, the laughter of children,
parties and music, lights shining from the tall windows at night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
She
went inside and decided that she had to do something to take her mind off the
mood she was in and the facts she faced.
She decided to turn out a cupboard and found that in the process of
cleaning, dusting, killing redbacks, and laying down new, fresh paper on the
shelves, she felt much better. When she
stood back and saw the freshly folded towels and linen she felt much calmer
inside. She decided, on the back of this
improved mood, to go out for dinner. She
could have done her own internet searches for the news of Adam Montpellier, but
she concluded that it was a bad thing for her to dwell on what would never be. With a sense of virtuous satisfaction, she showered and changed and drove into Beauville.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/chapter-3-part-2.html">Next installment >>>></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-15693177720022524292012-10-07T03:51:00.000-07:002012-10-14T01:38:09.783-07:00Chapter 2, part 2<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But he
smiled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well,
that would be lovely. And now, may I
offer you a cup of tea? We have the
luxury of electricity!” And he indicated
an orange cable that ran from a power post beyond the house to a makeshift
table constructed of some wooden crates where there was a kettle and a
mug. “We have water, too,” he said, “So
I can offer you some tea. It won't be
Spode, though!” And she saw on the crate
some cheap china mugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I
should be delighted,” she replied, echoing his phrase from the week before,
even though the mugs weren't the cleanest.
Lucy decided to accept his offer.
She felt, despite herself, happiness building inside her, because he
treated her like a friend. She told
herself not to be silly, because she wanted him to treat her like a lover, but
maybe that was unreachable, and maybe the best thing she could have was his
friendship. While the tea was drawing –
and this time it really was teabags in mugs – he took her along the balustraded
verandah and she pointed out the sights of the town to him.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYOdCZvDACJbSnZMiZ1_c19ErphyqSjBuQp7CwhDBawvSYgikvnuPJ1qDBI9BpQvaWrRkozARcKImL4Mmvv2bPsfpMDWnhhk77gEblZJNs-72fDWWxTuE4d-Ye1pAi2pO2cZZhmLaUUyy/s1600/The+Campaspe+River,+Kyneton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYOdCZvDACJbSnZMiZ1_c19ErphyqSjBuQp7CwhDBawvSYgikvnuPJ1qDBI9BpQvaWrRkozARcKImL4Mmvv2bPsfpMDWnhhk77gEblZJNs-72fDWWxTuE4d-Ye1pAi2pO2cZZhmLaUUyy/s640/The+Campaspe+River,+Kyneton.jpg" width="500" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Campaspe River by <a href="http://www.osheamurphy.com/tfl/gallery.php">T F Levick</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That's
where I went to school,” she said, “Beauville College. I teach there now. And that's where I broke my wrist when I fell
off my bicycle.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He
looked amusedly at her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Were
you a bit of a tomboy?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No,”
she replied thoughtfully, “But I was a bit of a loner and was always in a hurry
to get from one place to another.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What
do you teach?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Quite
a few things, actually. I trained to
teach English, but then we did Hamlet as a school play and I was roped in to do
that, so then they gave a few drama classes to teach and because I did some
music, now they've got me teaching the primary grades choir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What
music did you study?” he asked quietly, not looking at her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh,
you know. The sort of thing one does at
school,” – <i>where you have hopes</i> – “guitar and a bit of piano and
singing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Did
you consider studying music further?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No,”
replied Lucy, “to be a professional musician, you have to be the very
best. Second best isn't good
enough. And I wasn't even
second-best. But I do have a lot of
fun. The littlies enjoy singing so much,
and I'm good with them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes,”
he answered with a smile, but his thoughts obviously elsewhere, “I'm sure you
are.” <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Stop
prattling like a lovesick schoolgirl</i>, Lucy urged herself. There was an awkward silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Come
and look at the swimming pool,” he said, and carrying their mugs they set off
around the back of the house. Set in the
ground was an enormous swimming pool lined with mosaic. It was filled with gum tree leaves, strips of
bark and a thicket of fallen twigs and small branches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I
don't know,” he said, “Whether I'll have to pull the whole thing out and start
afresh or whether we can patch the cracks.
Come and look at this,” he said.
He held out his hand and helped her step down into the shallow end. She felt the warmth of his hand sent a thrill
up her arm. It was so strong and yet the
fingers were fine-boned, not delicate, but elegant. She had to search for the word, and elegant
summed them up perfectly. Yet they were
also very manly and strong. He had
cleared away a few of the leaves on the floor of the pool, and there, set into
the concrete was a mosaic pattern of a mermaid.
“I think,” he said, “The whole pool is probably decorated with these
1920 images. It would be wonderful to be
able to fix it and to have this 80 or 90 year old pool in use again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lucy
couldn't help wondering why he'd come to Beauville, because it looked to her as
though the inheritance of the house was more or less worthless – he would have
to spend as much on it again as it was worth, and probably (she thought back to
the ripped up floorboards) even more.
What was it that brought him here?
Why did he hole himself up in a small Australian country town far from
the bright lights of the world? She was
sure that someone like him – handsome, capable, and wealthy – would be the
darling of the cocktail party circuits and parties everywhere, from Hollywood
to Paris. And yet, here he was, being
nice to her, Lucy Grady, with freckles on her nose, and hair that no matter
what she did didn't look glamorous and soignée.
She was too scared to ask him in case it made him think, so she just
accepted it, but later that night as she lay in bed reading a cheap thriller
she thought about it and wondered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
next morning was a Saturday, which was, of all days in the week, Lucy's
favourite. She would treat herself to a
latte at the <i>Blue Velvet Café</i> on the High Street, and she would go and
browse through the second-hand bookshop and see if they had any books of the
authors she was fond of. If the day
wasn't too hot she would take a packet of sandwiches and walk along the river
listening to the currawongs and the magpies trilling in the gum trees.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But that Saturday was
ruined, because shortly after nine o'clock she saw Adam driving very fast in
his black Lamborghini down the driveway from the big house, and when he turned
out of the gate he headed, not towards Beauville, but in the direction of the
freeway that led to Melbourne. She
immediately felt that he had given the whole project up forever and that she
would never see him again. <i>Well of
course he's left</i><span style="font-size: small;">, she thought bitterly to herself. </span><i>She</i><span style="font-size: small;"> wanted to leave. And someone as glamorous and sophisticated as
Adam would never want to stay in such a dump.
Somehow coffee at the </span><i>Blue Velvet Café</i><span style="font-size: small;"> and a
morning spent browsing dusty books in an old bookshop lost all pleasure. She heard, later, from one of the builders
whom she knew because his kid brother was at the Beauville College, that Adam
had gone back to Melbourne and they didn't know when he would return.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/chapter-3-part-1.html">Next episode >>>></a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-8899351346776392752012-09-29T05:25:00.002-07:002012-10-07T03:52:11.353-07:00Chapter 2, part 1<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lucy
didn't see her new neighbour again till the next weekend. She was in the garden undertaking some
necessary gardening chores. She loved
gardening and she always felt that it connected her with her mother who had
also loved gardens and had created the pretty little area around the
cottage. It was a beautiful
old-fashioned garden full of roses, with wisteria covering a pergola and huge
European trees that made it a cool haven on the hot days of midsummer. She heard someone calling from the front of
the cottage, and getting up from the flowerbed where she had been kneeling, she
stretched her back and made her way round the side of the house to see who it
was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJ1BKCkI_wCdtQPzBLgRSelOBEXUDhHpitKKg_UaWb39M_CTwjNhochOYQ1znX9H82EpCukPV1mIWf9tYlB8_jmeN_C9rI61jPVR6ojE5TmLi9phAdqwjBmPaDfJVApTqd6TRyiTKmdo2/s1600/Yackandandah+Main+Street.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJ1BKCkI_wCdtQPzBLgRSelOBEXUDhHpitKKg_UaWb39M_CTwjNhochOYQ1znX9H82EpCukPV1mIWf9tYlB8_jmeN_C9rI61jPVR6ojE5TmLi9phAdqwjBmPaDfJVApTqd6TRyiTKmdo2/s1600/Yackandandah+Main+Street.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yackandandah High Street</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He was
leaning against the door, wearing clothes that looked much more Australian than
he had worn before – khaki shorts, a crumpled white open-necked shirt and
Blundstone boots. Even dressed like
this, he looked absolutely stunning. In
fact, he looked even more handsome than he had in his more formal clothes, if
that were possible. Lucy found herself
once again breathless and tongue-tied.
She flicked her eyes involuntarily over the powerful sinews in his brown
forearms, the muscles in his thighs and calves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I just
came to apologise,” he said, “For leaving you so abruptly last time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Not at
all,” she stammered. She noticed,
however, that he offered no explanation for his sudden departure. After he had taken his leave so abruptly on
the previous occasion, she had gone over to the piano to look at the photo of
her mother, puzzled, to see what it was that had made him behave as he
had. She took down the frame and examined
it carefully, and suddenly the full force of the fact that she was all alone in
the world had hit her and she had had a bit of a cry, but she was no closer to
understanding why he had departed in such an unfriendly way. There had been a few other things on the
piano, one or two magazines, a vase of flowers and a small box in which she
kept precious mementoes from her childhood.
She had racked her brains, trying to work out what it was that had
affected him so, yet she still had no idea.
She was tempted, now, to ask him, but felt shy, and was afraid of
driving him away again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How
are the renovations going?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“A
complete mess,” he replied, “Everything's higgledy-piggledy, the builders are
complaining, the council is complaining, and it looks as though nothing has
happened even though it's been a week since we began. But I haven't given up hope. Many of the timbers of the upstairs floors
are sound, the staircase, apart from a squeak or two, seems to be fine. In fact, it's rather a beautiful staircase, a
very elegant curve. I would say it's
from the Art Deco period, but it can't be because it was built before
that.” He turned to her, “Why don't you
come up and have a look?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I'd
love to,” she said, her heart quickening, “But first let me change – I won't be
a moment.” She was wearing a battered
straw hat, torn jeans and an old flannel shirt.
She couldn't know that it set her off to perfection, that her lovely
slimness and ripe curves were made all the more attractive by being displayed
in these informal clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“If you
must,” he smiled, “But really, it's rather dusty up there – I wouldn't wear
your glad rags!” He indicated his own
dusty shorts in a self-deprecating way.
She loved his accent. The way he
clipped his words neatly and cleanly made her shiver with pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They started
off up the hill. It was one of those
hot, still days you get in country Victoria in summer, where the leaves of the
gums hang motionless, and the air shimmers blue with heat. As they toiled up the slope to the mansion,
Lucy began to feel that this might not have been a good idea. She was convinced that she would start to
sweat like a pig and put him off. Then
she reminded herself that she stood no chance anyway, that the fact of the
matter was, Lucy Grady was never going to get married – not now, not in the
future. When they reached the great
house, she saw that the front door was propped open with bricks, there were
builders' trucks all around and the sound of banging and demolition was audible
from within the building. She turned
round to take in the view. The site for
the house had been carefully chosen. The
ground swept down to her little cottage in the valley and about a kilometre
beyond the cottage the town was visible, with its river winding through, an
inviting blue. There was a huge raised
terrace in front of the house, shaded by a roof of rusty tin sheets. On the edge of this verandah, there was a
railing made of stone, elegant and old-fashioned, like pictures she had seen of
the grand houses in Europe and England. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At
intervals along the edge of the verandah there were stone urns and she was
astonished to see petunias flowering richly in them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Surely,”
she asked, “These petunias cannot have survived all these years by themselves?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh
no,” he said, “I planted them. The urns
looked so forlorn without flowers in them.”
He added quietly, “I so love gardens.
With all my businesses, I have very little time for gardening, so
really,” he said ruefully, “It's a gesture rather than anything.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p>“Oh really?” she exclaimed,
“I love gardens too! You must come and
see the garden at the cottage because my mother spent a lot of time planting it
and I think it's very beautiful. You'd
love it!” Immediately she was
embarrassed, hearing the childish enthusiasm in her voice. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/chapter-2-part-2.html">Next episode >>></a></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-43371587604584106052012-09-21T18:09:00.000-07:002012-09-30T17:07:11.770-07:00Chapter 1, part 2<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Struggling
to keep her wits about her, she said,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I
didn't think it was even habitable,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, it
isn't,” he replied, “I'm living in the town for now. At the Royal Hotel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY9asFkvjJAHHO1mizKzeivXkaL9O_4ZxL7OowmtCiZQdUdn65scnc-zwgwwIPvnWlVsFTrRHTBXOKUvlLpA23J8LmdrsEvbmJK3OPfye4J66UpNvKk635TDZyzZ-fj4xwPQlmlFX574O/s1600/the-royal-hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY9asFkvjJAHHO1mizKzeivXkaL9O_4ZxL7OowmtCiZQdUdn65scnc-zwgwwIPvnWlVsFTrRHTBXOKUvlLpA23J8LmdrsEvbmJK3OPfye4J66UpNvKk635TDZyzZ-fj4xwPQlmlFX574O/s1600/the-royal-hotel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Royal Hotel </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lucy
felt an absurd urge to invite him to stay with her – after all, the cottage had once been part
of the great house's grounds, and anyway, it would be much more convenient for
him to oversee the work from here – but then felt foolish and ashamed. Had she learnt nothing? What was the point of fancying somebody so far beyond her, so
clearly unattainable? <i>Get over it</i>,
she told herself, <i>and face the facts:
you'll always be alone</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All the
same, “Would you like to come in and have some tea?” she asked, obedient as
always to her mother's lessons in good manners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh,
you live here?” he said, surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes,”
she said, “It used to be the gatehouse for the old mansion, but years ago it
was sold and I inherited it when my mother died last year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He
frowned. “I'm so sorry,” he said,
looking as if he meant it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Thank
you,” replied Lucy. She couldn't help
herself looking at his left hand for a wedding ring. There wasn't one. But this meant nothing. She was embarrassed at her behaviour. Just because there was a new man in town, she
didn't have to assume that he was available.
Just because she was so alone and lonely didn't mean he'd be interested
in her in the slightest. Maybe he had a
girlfriend. Of course he had a
girlfriend! After all, he was apparently
wealthy and well known, and possessed the sort of looks usually found in the
pages of one of the better men's fashion magazines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“By the
way, I'm Lucy Grady,” she said, as much to take her mind off his chin, now
almost imperceptibly darkened by five-o'-clock shadow, which she had a sudden,
wild urge to caress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Pleased
to meet you,” he smiled politely. “I should be delighted to have some tea.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because
he seemed to her like a squire or lord of the manor, and because she wanted to
impress (she admitted to herself with some self-disgust), she made him tea
using her mother's flowered Spode teapot and matching cups. If it had been anyone else, they would have
been given tea in a mug, with a teabag, but he seemed so grand … so upper class
… so different. She felt she had to
bring out the Sunday best. While the
kettle was boiling, she took the chance to race up the narrow wooden stairs to
her bedroom, and leaning towards the mottled old mirror, ran her hands through
her dark auburn hair which would insist on tangling itself about her shoulders
no matter how she attempted to tame it with clips and barrettes. Her pale cheeks were flushed enough, she
decided ruefully, flushing all the more at her utter foolishness. She slid some peach lip gloss over the curve
of her wide mouth – too wide, she always thought – and then hastily rubbed it
off and tried the colourless lip gloss instead.
Her hazel eyes gazed back hopefully at her and seeing the forlorn hope,
she snorted in derision. Lucy Grady, she
chastised herself, pull yourself together!
Remember your place, you are a silly school teacher in a one-horse town
with no hope of attracting this gorgeous man's attention, so stop making a fool
of yourself! And taking a tissue, she
savagely rubbed off the lip gloss, shook her head, sighed deeply and went down
the narrow stairs. He was standing at
the piano, the photo of her mother in his hand.
He glanced up at her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Do
forgive me,” and her carefully replaced the photo. “Was this your mother?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes,”
Lucy replied softly. She didn't realise
how sad she sounded. Adam raised his
eyes to hers and his look was so gentle and puzzled, the deep blue of his look
unfathomable, yet revealing an unexpected compassion, that she found herself
near to tears. She quickly poured the
tea, bending to hide her expression from him – for once glad of the mass of
dark auburn curls that swept forward to hide her face as she handed him the cup
and saucer. She felt if she met his gaze
once more, the intensity would scorch her.
Her hand trembled. He steadied
the cup with his own long brown fingers and his hand touched hers for a
moment. His touch was warm, vibrant, his
skin felt as though it had an electric life to it and she could feel the sinews
and muscles tense and alive beneath. She
put the cup down and pulled her hand back, feeling that her face was naked, and
that everything she felt was written there in capital letters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 14.15pt; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So
tell me,” she said, a little breathless, desperate to get the atmosphere back
to normality, “What exactly are you going to have to do to get the house
livable again?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He
turned away and looked through the small-paned window at her small garden and beyond
that, to the rolling parklands that led up to the mansion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
“Well,” he said, his voice now cool and businesslike, “Rather more than I had
thought initially. Already the builders
are shaking their heads. It looks as if
the floorboards will have to be pulled up and replaced, some of the roof
timbers, too. And of course all the
electrics are old fashioned. But the
structure is sound. It <i>is</i> a stone
house. It was built to last.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
struck her that someone who could afford to do this work must be immensely
rich. She envied him a little because
she had to survive on a modest income which didn't extend to luxuries. She suddenly noticed that he was staring at
her mother's photo again. Without
warning he put the cup down and stood up.
His face was grim. “I need to
go.” His voice was cold, distant. He strode towards the door. “Thank you for the tea.” And with that he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/09/chapter-2-part-1.html">Next Episode >>></a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-2238465372551660732012-09-16T02:27:00.000-07:002013-03-14T22:52:33.545-07:00Chapter 1, part 1<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Chapter 1</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
Greyfallows mansion had dominated the town of Beauville for over a
century. Built with gold money by a
prospector who struck it rich in the 1860s gold rush, Greyfallows had been the
grandest house in town ever since then, the seat of a dynastic family, and in
the 1920s, 30s and 40s, home to scandalous parties for the rich and famous, who
would turn up in vast Packards, DeSotos, Bentleys or Rolls Royces to dance the
night away, the men in tuxedos and snow white shirts, the women in expensive
glittering dresses of peacock colours, gloved and tiaraed, glamorous,
fashionable, beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
mansion had been empty now for thirty years.
As far as the town knew, old Mister Greyfallow had years ago disappeared
into a retirement home and died, and (so rumour had it) since then the estate
had been tied up in lawsuits between the heirs.
Now the great mansion was derelict, and the glamorous parties were just
memories. But sometimes, on a warm
summer evening when the cockatoos twittered overhead as they flew to their
night-time roosts, and the magpies argued in liquid temple-bell calls, Lucinda Grady fancied she
could hear the faint echoes of a wailing saxophone, of the jazzy rhythms of the
foxtrot and the waltz, and the muted chatter and laughter of happy party-goers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She
lived in the old gatekeeper's lodge of the mansion, called (what else?) Gate
Cottage. She was a school teacher in
Beauville's local high school yet she longed with all her heart to do something
completely different, to be somewhere else.
Beauville was the town she had grown up in, yet she felt trapped and
yearned for escape. She longed for
freedom from small-town gossip and narrowness, from small-town fuss about
mundane things, from the tedium of a place where nothing ever happened. Sometimes she felt she hated her home town.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Out of
town visitors admired it. They thought it a charming Australian country town,
with its tree-lined streets, pleasing wooden houses with roses trailing over
their picket fences; a town centre filled with historic wooden buildings; a
stone police station, court house and town hall; as well as a pretty park next to the river filled with
giant oaks and elms planted by the first settlers long ago. Yet to her, it seemed horribly dull and provincial. She longed for the bright lights, for Paris
and New York and London. That wasn't
going to happen now. Things had taken
place in her life that had made her lose her confidence, the get-up-and-go
she'd once had. She had resigned herself
to being a single woman, stuck in the dullness of an Australian country town,
far from anywhere exciting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She had
had a chance to leave, once, when she had met a man, a tourist from New York.
He'd been travelling round the country in a rented car, and had visited Beauville. He'd fallen in love with her and begged her
to return with him to New York. She had
wanted to go, how much she had yearned to leave. She had always regretted not following her
instinct – an instinct which had told her to go with him. Instead, she stayed. She had her own secret reason, a reason which
seemed more and more foolish as the years passed by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One
Monday morning just as she was getting ready to drive to work at the school she
saw some builders' vans and trucks go past Gate Cottage up towards the old
Greyfallows house. She didn't have time
to wonder what it was about, but that morning in the staffroom at school, her
best friend Jennifer Williams, asked,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Have
you heard the news about the old Greyfallows place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What
news?” asked Lucy, only half listening, trying not to spill tea from the
dreadful staff-room tea-pot which always dribbled on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The
new owner of Greyfallows, of course!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lucy
froze, the teapot in mid-air. “I saw
some trucks headed up that way,” she said, concealing her excitement, “What
have you heard?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well
it seems,” said Jennifer, “There's a new owner.
The grandson or great nephew of old man Elijah Greyfallow or something
like that. He has plans to move in, I
hear.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Good
luck to him,” said Lucy, adding offhandedly, “The place is a ruin,” as she
added a spoonful of sugar to her tea and stirring vigorously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well,”
said Jennifer, “The talk is that he's enormously rich and that he has
businesses overseas, something like that.
I think he's from London, or maybe New York. Can't remember. Oops, I must go, I'm late for class!” And
Jennifer had to race off before she could say any more. Lucy felt somehow disturbed and excited at
the same time by the thought of something happening, of a new neighbour, of
life once again filling the old house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She met
her new neighbour after school. As she
drove up to her cottage she saw a man peering through one of her front
windows. He straightened as he heard her
car and said, in an impeccable upper-class English accent,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hello,
there. Do excuse my rudeness. I'm Adam Greyfallow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh!”
She exclaimed stupidly, trying to still her beating heart, “Are you going to
live in that old wreck up on the hill?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: HI; mso-font-kerning: .5pt;">“Well, eventually,” he
replied, smiling. Lucy was finding it
hard to concentrate on what he said. She
had never seen anyone so extraordinarily handsome before. His hair was so dark it held electric-blue
lights like a raven's wing, and his eyes were pools of the deepest blue,
fringed with lashes sooty and shadowed.
As he straightened, she was startled by his height, and the breadth of
his shoulders, although the impeccably tailored navy blazer hung a little
loosely on him, suggesting that he might have lost weight recently, and there
were deep hollows beneath the angular cheekbones, the elegant curve of his jaw
too prominent. She couldn't help her eyes flicking down to the flat board of
his belly beneath the perfectly creased fawn pants, his waist as slim as a
dancer's. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: HI; mso-font-kerning: .5pt;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://the-music-of-love.blogspot.com.au/2012/09/chapter-1-part-2.html">Next episode >>></a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962578717598753930.post-21574388066730431372012-09-16T00:30:00.002-07:002012-09-16T00:50:36.277-07:00The Music of LoveThis is a love story my lady and I are writing together. We're aiming to publish half a chapter a week. It's the story of Lucinda Grady from Beauville, a country town in Victoria, and how (to her surprise) she finds love.<br />
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