Free Dissonance by Stephen Orr Page B

interrupted. ‘He loves that job. He’ll end up runnin’ the place.’
    â€˜He wanted to run the shop, but that was out of the ­question,’ Shirley explained.
    â€˜Mum had to sell it,’ Erwin said. ‘To get money for us … for lessons.’
    â€˜Or to keep it away from us.’
    Erwin searched, but her smile was gone. ‘No …?’
    Surely she sold it for my lessons, he thought. That’s what she said. Where else would the money come from?
    â€˜I was lonely for years after your dad died,’ Shirley said. ‘Until I met Fred. We were married last year.’
    â€˜That’s good,’ Erwin managed. ‘It’s all worked out, eh?’
    â€˜It has.’
    â€˜I gotta go. Say hello to Declan for me.’
    â€˜Wait.’
    â€˜I’m missing maths. They’ll call a roll.’
    â€˜Come back soon then. Come back and see him.’
    He stood. ‘Thanks. It’s been good. See you later, Fred.’
    â€˜Nice to meet you, Erwin. Don’t listen to that old …’ But he trailed off.
    Shirley saw him to the door and kissed him and pressed his hand in hers. ‘Promise you’ll come back,’ she said. ‘We won’t say a word, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
    â€˜Thanks, Shirley.’
    He kissed her on the cheek and started down the garden path. He wanted to cry. Here was the house, the garden, the people, the jobs and the thousands of little things that could’ve, and should’ve, been his. Here was his past, but also his future. But he had to go. He was late for school and he would have to explain that.
    Just as he turned out of the gate he stopped to face another boy. He was almost a man, square and strong and padded on the chest, his face unshaved and his cheeks as red as glazed cherries. The boy smiled. ‘I know who you are,’ he said.
    Meanwhile, Madge had caught the train to town. As lunch was ending at Nuriootpa School, she was waiting at the main office of the conservatorium.
    â€˜Any word?’ she asked the secretary, who sat filing cards in a metal box.
    â€˜He said he’d come as soon as his lesson’s finished.’
    Watch your tone, Madge wanted to say. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Erwin Hergert’s mother.
    Reg Carter came up behind her. ‘Mrs Hergert?’
    â€˜Madge,’ she insisted, turning and smiling, offering him her hand. Instead of taking it he asked, ‘How have you been?’
    â€˜So-so.’ She rubbed her hip, resisting the temptation to describe her rheumy knees and swollen feet.
    â€˜Erwin’s flying along,’ Reg said. ‘It’s good you can get him to practise.’
    â€˜It’s not that difficult,’ Madge replied. ‘I can’t keep him away from the damn thing.’
    â€˜Excellent.’ Then he stopped, and looked at her as if to say, So?
    â€˜You wouldn’t have ten minutes?’ she asked.
    â€˜I have a lesson.’
    â€˜Five then. I’ve come all the way from Nuri.’
    He smiled. ‘Fine. Mozart’s not going anywhere, is he?’
    He led her down the dark hallway. ‘I hope this isn’t about the money?’
    â€˜No,’ she replied. ‘Although I intend repaying it.’
    â€˜One day, perhaps,’ he whispered, opening his office door for her. ‘I haven’t seen you since the Christmas concert,’ he continued, moving scores from a leather seat for her to sit down.
    â€˜No,’ she replied, hoping he wouldn’t pursue it.
    â€˜That was a strange night,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes …’
    Strange. A dozen kids dressed up in black and white, a small crowd of parents in suits and summer dresses and ceiling fans clunking in the green room as Reg distributed the programs. Madge took hers and quickly looked at the order. ‘Excuse me, Mr Carter,’ she said, following him around the room,