and defiantly familiar, a homey, low-security prison rather than the cosy sanctuary of former times. The piano stood in the centre of the room, the lid shut most of the time these days. One wall had been fitted with shelving for his books and music, another displayed his favorite butterflies, a third was covered in photographs which, from the verandah, were reduced to glaring, metallic rectangles. But he knew them, every one, documenting as they did his composer’s life: the infant with his mother, the prodigy at the piano, the prodigy with his teachers, the prodigy receiving prizes; a stretch of time to the wedding photographs, another stretch to middle age and then a rush of pictures: the composer with soloists, the composer with conductors, the composer with the leaders of the world’s music, the composer at the piano, at his desk, with his daughter, the composer intense, worldly and at ease. He sighed, his life spread across a wall, silent pictures in black uniform frames and perhaps no more to add. He shifted his gaze, some prospects were too awful to contemplate, and looked to his desk, still neat, always neat, with two piles of paper, one of notes, the other of manuscript, and although it was impossible to see from out here, he knew about the frayed and yellowed edges, knew too, the bitter smell of paper ageing in stacks. And in front of the desk the two chairs, his, a large, expensive, leather model bought by Juliet years ago, and adjacent to it a smaller one, Anna’s chair. It used to be that he would enter this room and know a sense of well-being, but now there was only dread, and memories to feed the malignancy of failure.
He turned away and walked to the gate, a large man with a slight stoop who had always imagined himself as smaller than he was, consequently, he never allowed enough space when he moved among people and was forever knocking into them. While in others this behaviour might have been judged as careless, even rude, in Duncan’s case it was seen as endearing, an instance of the absent-minded genius of commonplace belief. Indeed, in almost every respect, he was the sort of man people wanted to like. He was considered to have presence; it was not simply his size, nor that he was pleasant-looking in a bearish sort of way; there was, as well, his manner of speaking, a wine-dark baritone stripped of any geographical influence, and his ability to make every listener feel as if he had deliberately selected them for his attention. Women, in particular, liked him and he responded to their appreciation with grace and willingness, a common characteristic among those who know they are held in high esteem. Juliet Bayle had always found him attractive and would still, even after all these years, feel a jolt should he touch her. But attractive or not, his genius had always been her first concern, and genius, so she believed, had to be sequestered from worldly intrusions; years ago, therefore, when Anna was still a toddler, she had decided not to bother him about sex. Duncan, however, knew differently, the body and the genius needed each other, sex primed him, tuned him up, and he made sure there was plenty of it. Each of his partners, misguided as was his own wife in the belief that genius was above the grunt and sweat of bodily pleasure, assumed she was the exception in an otherwise celibate life. He might have confessed to the truth if any of these women inquired, but they never did. His current partners, both of them former pupils, never asked anything, just wanted to make him happy, and were very good at it too. But these days even sex failed to revive him, nothing seemed to help. And it infuriated him, because Anna would return, in her own time of course, unaware and unashamed of the havoc she had caused, and if he had lost several productive years, she would insist it was not her fault. He could already hear her, ‘It’s not my fault, Duncan, you’re the famous composer, not me; it’s up to you how and when you work.’
She had been no older than fourteen when first she called him Duncan, and he had welcomed it. It occurred around the time she had lost interest in the cello, a mysterious loss of affection given she had chosen the cello at so young an age. But whatever her motivation he had been pleased. She was demonstrating a real aptitude for composition, and concentration on any one instrument, no matter how brilliantly played, could only be restrictive. Although he was curious, had asked about the cello, why she had given it up. He remembered her response clearly, the slow lifting of her head, the black eyes staring. ‘Duncan,’ she said finally, ‘why bother asking, you always wanted it to happen.’ It was said so sadly, but in the use of his first name and the fact she knew he had never been happy about the cello, he thought it a mature response.
It was not, as later events would prove; her behaviour which had long been erratic became much worse. But at the time he had been pleased; it had allowed him to shift their relationship from a father-daughter dynamic, which given the singular focus of his artist’s life had never been easy, to one defined by their shared love of music. Not that theirs had ever been a typical father-daughter interaction. Their best times had always been spent together in the music room, and while he had made an attempt at the usual fatherly tasks, the reading before bedtime, attendance at family picnics, parent-teacher nights, he had found none of these particularly enjoyable, and neither, he decided, had she. It may have been different if she had not been so musical, but she was, from the very beginning. ‘A prodigy for a prodigy,’ people used to say. ‘Like father like daughter.’
First it had been the piano, a skinny toddler perched on telephone books stretching to the keys, then the cello, and finally, much to his pleasure, composition. From early childhood she had wanted to help him, would prefer this above all else, and even when she became so difficult, she would still return to her old self while working with him – except at the very end when it appeared she had discarded music altogether, along with the common civilities of life. He had felt her absence then as a personal attack. She knew he had grown accustomed to her presence while he worked and would have heard his labouring, yet she let him sweat and groan alone.
And then she was gone.
He stood by the climbing rose and snapped off the bright hips, aware of the muscles dragging on his bones. Only sixty-seven years old, yet his body had grown heavy and claustrophobic, and there was a dull sagging in his legs, and his fingers as they pinched the hard round knobs felt swollen. Some mornings he could hardly grasp the pencil, and anyway had nothing to write. There was a movement too, in front of his eyes, an under-water, wave-like movement that made him nauseous. A few weeks before, he’d had his eyes checked, but there was nothing wrong, just failure staring him in the eye.
People were saying he was finished, and yet it could not be over already. He had thought to keep going forever, had so much music still to write, but could not dredge it up.
How had it come to this? Dredging it up? Gouging, scratching and wringing the music out of him. He had known difficulties before; the Heritage Cycle had given him a savage time, although he had been rewarded in the end, for it was Heritage that had released his pent-up creativity and ushered in those wonderful years when the music had poured out of him, and he would listen in amazement to what he had produced. This is how it had been, and would have continued if Anna had not run off, with nothing by way of explanation except a scrappy note saying she was leaving Melbourne, had taken her cello, would be in touch but not for a while.
How ironic that his first response had been relief, but then, in the year or two before she left, her behaviour had become so abominable, no parent would have put up with it. And besides, he had been convinced she would be back, a week or two, perhaps a month, and she would return, released from whatever had been driving her and ready to settle down. But the weeks had passed and the months, and it became clear she had no intention of coming home. Duncan had known his work placed restrictions on her, but also knew she had received unparalleled benefits. She had enjoyed the best music in the world, had known, even played with the world’s best performers, had met luminaries of all sorts – painters, writers, actors, a steady stream of them passing through the Bayle household. It had been an enviable upbringing for an artistic child. Although perhaps it had been too much, perhaps this had been behind her deplorable behaviour, the tantrums, the bad company, staying out all night, alcohol, drugs, under-age driving, a parade of misdemeanours that had increased as she grew older.
‘Come and help me,’ Duncan would say in the months before she left, come and help as she always had done, and if she bothered to answer at all it was to tell him he could do his own work. ‘You’re the famous composer,’ she would say, ‘don’t ask me.’ In earlier days when she was difficult, Juliet would offer excuses: Anna was going through a stage, or Anna was having a difficult adolescence, or it was hard being the child of a famous man; try to ignore the behaviour, she would say. So he did, and