Duet

by Kimberley Freeman

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Present day: A reclusive woman living in outback Australia receives a letter acknowledging a terrible secret from her past. Thirty years before, she stole another woman's life. From the moment the letter is opened two women are on a collision course with destiny. From the London pop scene, to the opera stages of Europe; from a tiny Greek island, to a stifling manor house full of secrets and deceptions; from the sun-drenched Queensland coast, to the silent outback; Angela and Ellie are two women both looking for something. One in search of her identity and her memory; the other in search of the love that she had and lost; theirs is a duet whose last note will not be sung until the heart-stopping climax, when a shadow from the past returns to claim them both.

Release date: October 1, 2011

Publisher: Bolinda Publishing Pty Ltd

Print pages: 544

Sample

Prologue

Prologue

Western Queensland, Australia: 1997

She liked the mornings best. Mornings promised something that evenings never could: freshness, a new start. She tried to get any outdoor chores completed in the mornings, before the burnished sunlight hazed the sky and bit her skin. Afternoons were for dozing under the fan, or drinking chilled chardonnay on the patio. Mornings were for gardening, and the walk to collect the mail.

If it was very hot, or on the rare occasions it rained, she drove: the mailbox was one kilometre from the homestead. But today she had walked, because she was vain about her figure; not that there was anyone around to see it. Out here, the mail only came three times a week, and her box was usually very full. Yet there was only one letter, a plain white envelope with no return address on the back. The front was addressed in close, spidery writing: Penelope Bright, Mununja, Queensland, Australia, 4940. She absently slit the side of the envelope with her fingernail. A single sheet, folded twice, dropped out.

A pair of cockatoos flew overhead, screeching to the morning sun. She unfolded the paper, and read the single line inscribed upon it.

I know all about Angie Smith. Now you’ll get what you deserve.

Ice touched her heart.

Dropping the letter, she reached out to support herself on the mailbox. The envelope landed in a puddle from last night’s storm, the muddy water making her address bleed. A flood of memories came back to her, snatches of things disconnected by time and distance. The smell of a fur coat she’d once worn, the blaze of the spotlight, the caress of a lover long since lost. She lowered herself to the muddy ground and rested her head on her knees. Her history lurked close like shadows, brimming with secrets and lies. People had written about her over the years, but none of them could know the truth.

For it was not just a story about how a girl with nothing had become a woman with everything – wealth, fame, power – then turned her back on it all.

It was also a story about how she had stolen another woman’s life.

One

One

Kokondorf, Northern Germany: 1969

The day that Ellie Frankel’s mother died was clear, blue and silent, with sun sparkling on the snow. Ellie, only fourteen years old and having difficulty coming to terms with the dark moment, had not felt the loss at first. It hardly seemed real: Mama couldn’t be dead. By the day they buried her, however, the elements realised what a terrible emptiness Mama’s death had left behind; and so had Ellie. Rain had been threatening over the village of Kokondorf since she awoke, huge sweeps of dark cloud hanging low and cold over the thatched roofs. Drizzle overnight had started the snow melting, and dirty slush had been cleared from around the grave to make room for the cheap wooden coffin. Ellie’s eyes and nose streamed with the cold and the grief as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Only eight mourners waited at the graveside, including Ellie and her father. It was too cold and wet to come out, and Ellie’s mother had no relatives in Germany. Ellie scanned the mourners’ faces: the butcher and his wife, Frau Pottsmann who had given Mama work sewing and ironing, and Frau and Herr Neumann from the neighbouring farm, with their eighteen-year-old son Dieter. Papa nudged her, nodding emphatically.

‘I can’t, Papa,’ she said, struggling with her tears. ‘I can’t.’

‘You must. Despite your tears, you must.’

Ellie took a deep breath to ease the shuddering sobs. Then, in a clear, pure voice, she began to sing the first sublime notes of Schubert’s Ave Maria. Never mind that her throat was raw from crying, never mind that the sky chose that moment to open up and pour freezing rain on the scene, Papa had trained her since she was eleven years old to sing like an angel. And so, as the gravediggers scooped the sod into her mother’s grave, she did.

As she sang, she conjured her mother’s face in her mind. Not the pale, thin invalid that stomach cancer had reduced her to, but the full-cheeked, soft-voiced woman who had sat beside her father at the fire every night, embroidering cushions and humming gently to herself. It was impossible that she wouldn’t hear that humming again, take comfort in that warm embrace. Her voice almost cracked, but she wouldn’t allow it to, wouldn’t let Papa down.

Papa fell to his knees in the muddy snow and Frau Neumann went to him and squeezed his shoulder. The last notes of the song rang out and the rain intensified. Ellie didn’t know what to do so she stood, watching Papa’s back shudder with the effort of holding back tears. Dieter approached her, positioning his umbrella over both of them.

‘You’re wet,’ he said. ‘You must be cold.’

She looked up at his dark hazel eyes, but didn’t draw the same pleasure she usually did from looking at him. All her life, she had adored Dieter. She had followed him around as soon as she could walk, drawn his name in love hearts on her schoolbooks and, before her mother’s long illness had taken hold, other strange and addictive new feelings had made her tongue-tied and restless around him. Today, she had a heart too full of other emotions.

‘I don’t feel the cold,’ she said.

Dieter’s eyes went to the grave. ‘I’ll miss her,’ he said. ‘I’ll miss her English lessons . . .’

Ellie smiled in spite of herself. ‘You weren’t a very good student.’ She adopted her mother’s crisp English accent and said, ‘If I can teach you, I can teach anyone, Dieter Neumann.’

Dieter laughed and shook his head, but his expression soon grew serious again. ‘Ellie,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Ellie!’ This was Papa, climbing to his feet and reaching his big hands for her. His knees were muddy and his hair was dripping wet.

Ellie turned away from Dieter and put her arms around Papa. ‘Shh, Papa, it will be all right. I’ll take care of you.’ The rain eased as she led her father back down the slope to their dented Volkswagen.

He sat behind the wheel sobbing for a few moments, then gathered himself and started the car.

‘You sang beautifully, my girl,’ he said as they pulled onto the narrow road. ‘Your mother would have been so proud.’

Ellie’s gaze returned up the hill. ‘I hope Mama heard,’ she said, her breath fogging the window. ‘Wherever she is.’

•

Winter was long that year, but the spring thaw came as it always did. With the melting snow and shoots of green, Ellie decided that she hadn’t the luxury of languishing in her grief for much longer. Papa had allowed his sorrow to drown him. Some days, Ellie couldn’t get him out of bed before eleven o’clock. Papa taught music and languages in schools at the neighbouring villages. They had always got by on his small income and Mama’s part-time work, but one by one his employers grew impatient with him turning up late, or not at all. Ellie returned from school too many times, to see the Volkswagen parked on the side of the road exactly as it had been in the morning: a sign that her father hadn’t been anywhere. Hadn’t earned any money.

Two or three times a week she managed to coax him out of bed. She laid out his clothes for him and fixed him breakfast, practically pushing him out the door before getting ready for school herself. It exhausted her, and she began to feel as though she was his parent, rather than the other way around. The responsibility was heavy; she didn’t relish it. But all she could do was keep going.

What little income they did make was disappearing rapidly too. The only thing that brought Papa a measure of relief was a glass or two of whisky every afternoon. He had always liked a drink, and Ellie knew it was a source of tension for her mother, who was too meek to complain. But now one or two glasses weren’t enough, and three or four became normal. By July, he was trading cabbages and beets for homemade whisky with a snaggle-toothed man named Thorsten who came by every Thursday. Ellie couldn’t bear the way Thorsten looked at her, as though he were hungry and angry at the same time, so she had started appearing on the Neumanns’ doorstep every Thursday after school, and staying until nightfall.

Frau Neumann was a woman made up of warm colours and textures. Ellie loved her soft skin, her dark auburn hair, and her laughing dark eyes. She also loved Frau Neumann’s feisty temper, a contrast to her mother’s cool patience. They spoke very little, but Frau Neumann sensed that Ellie needed to be kept busy, and gave her little jobs to do to pass the time.

‘How are things at home, Ellie?’ she asked one Thursday, just as she asked every week.

‘Fine,’ Ellie replied, just as she replied every week.

Frau Neumann’s mouth turned down a little at the corners, indicating she didn’t believe Ellie. They were sitting at the long wooden table in the Neumanns’ kitchen, while the appetising smells of spicy cabbage and roasting meat filled the room. ‘Your father is well?’

‘Yes.’ Ellie put down the silver fork she was polishing, and said in a quiet voice, ‘He still misses Mama.’

Frau Neumann touched her hair gently. ‘Of course he does. He probably always will.’ She stood and went to the wooden sideboard, where she began pulling down plates for dinner. ‘Will you stay to eat, Ellie?’

‘No, I’d better get home to make Papa some dinner.’ Ellie never stayed, as much as she would have liked to. She understood that it was too much of an imposition, and Papa’s ugly friend was usually gone by the time the sun went down. She pushed back her chair, and it scraped loudly against the stone tiles. ‘Thank you for letting me visit.’

‘It’s always a pleasure, Ellie.’

Dieter appeared then, poking his fair head around the door. ‘Are you heading home, Ellie?’

Ellie smiled in spite of herself. Dieter became more attractive as he grew older, but she had convinced herself that he never noticed her. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I’ll walk with you. Let me grab my coat.’

Prickling with expectation, Ellie left the Neumanns’ house with Dieter by her side. He wore a light coat, his hands thrust deeply in its pockets and his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. They wound down the hill, the linden trees bowing above them. Ellie could see the lights of the village in the distance, and the dark spire of the church against the horizon. Dieter didn’t say anything for a long time, then he casually remarked, ‘I’m going away after Christmas.’

Ellie’s heart sank. ‘Oh?’

‘National Service.’

Of course, Dieter was eighteen and was expected to undertake military training as were all young men of his age. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, trying to sound bright.

‘Bremen, for training.’

‘That’s not so far,’ she said, thinking how far away it was. Her father’s old Volkswagen would never make it. ‘And it’s only eighteen months.’

‘No, Ellie. I’ve enlisted. What else can a man like me do? I didn’t finish school, and I can’t get that kind of money staying in the village.’ All the time he spoke, his eyes were on the road in front of him.

A night breeze gusted past, rattling the leaves in the trees and whipping Ellie’s long, dark hair into her face.

‘So,’ she said softly, ‘when will you come back?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I won’t come back.’

They walked on in silence and Ellie’s house came into view.

‘I wanted to tell you myself,’ Dieter said as they stopped outside her front door. ‘You’ve been a good friend to me, Ellie.’

‘Dieter, I –’

Just then the door flew open, and her father was there. His greying hair stood up crazily on his head and he stank of whisky. ‘Ellie, you’re home! Good. I have exciting news.’

Dieter was already turning away, raising his hand in farewell. ‘I’ll see you next week, Ellie.’

‘Yes, I’ll see you then.’ Christmas was still three months away. There would be time to see him, to memorise the adored contours of his face. But she knew that after he had gone, that was the end. He would meet somebody in Bremen, somebody more mature and beautiful, and marry her and never come back. Her instincts told her to get into her bed, pull the covers over her head, and nurse her sad imaginings until she fell asleep. But Papa had an idea in his head and wouldn’t let it go.

‘Come inside, come inside,’ he was saying, leading her gently by the wrist. ‘Thorsten brought me a newspaper, I’ve seen something wonderful.’

Curious, she followed him into their messy lounge room. Dust and music scores were piled on every surface. He found the newspaper and opened it for her, indicating a little square in the bottom right-hand corner of the second-to-last page. She read, Regional Aria Singing Competition. It listed several locations, and Papa had circled, Wiesenbach-Kokondorf area. Kokondorf Village Hall, 1 February 1970. Prize 50DM. Below the announcement was an entry form, which her father had already filled out in his sloping left-handed scrawl. He had even filled out the three songs she would sing; one of them was murderously difficult.

‘You want me to sing?’ she asked.

‘I want you to win. Imagine what we could do with fifty marks!’

‘Papa, I will sing for you, but I can’t guarantee I’ll win.’

‘I know you will win. Nobody sings as beautifully as my Ellie.’ Infused with new excitement, he moved to the old upright piano in the corner and began to fiddle with the stained yellow keys. ‘We’ll start with the Giordani and the Handel to warm up, then go straight to the Mozart –’

‘Not that song, Papa! I’m only fourteen.’

‘You’ll be fifteen by the time of the competition.’ Here he puffed his chest out proudly. ‘And you have the best teacher around.’

Ellie had to smile. Her father had once been an opera singer of great promise. He had been the star pupil of the famed German tenor, Franz Auerbach, who had called Papa the most promising voice of the decade; he had studied languages with Honours at the University of Hamburg. But a bout of pneumonia at the age of thirty-five had scarred his lungs and put an end to his career. His disappointment over this turn of events had been alleviated by meeting her mother, who was a nurse in the hospital. She was an English girl, looking for adventures in travel. He was keen to provide her with some and they had lived and worked all over Europe and the Isles. Papa had many stories of their travels, and Mama had always smiled and nodded along when he grew passionate and excited telling his tales. Soon enough, Ellie had come along and Papa had poured all of his ambitions into his young, talented daughter. She had learned to read music at the same time she had learned to read words, her first trembling notes as a six-year-old had been coaxed into tunefulness, and the techniques of an operatic soprano had been trained into her body and her throat since she was eleven. Her ability far exceeded her age, but the only places she had yet sung were local weddings and at her own mother’s funeral.

‘Come, let’s try it now,’ he said, searching on top of the piano for the score.

Ellie waited patiently. Since her mother’s illness, Papa had barely touched the piano. Her singing lessons, which had once been offered daily, had dwindled to weekly or less. To see him so full of purpose, riffling so assiduously through the layers of mess, made her heart glad.

‘Here it is,’ he said, pulling out the piano and vocal score of Mozart’s Così fan tutte. He found the page, and played the introduction to Come scoglio. Ellie scanned the music with her eyes and winced. It was a fiendishly difficult aria, certainly too hard for her.

‘Papa, are you sure?’

‘Here, here,’ he said, banging her first note hard on the piano, then began to sing in falsetto, ‘Come scoglio . . . immoto resta . . .’

She sang, and of course the first few notes weren’t hard. But soon they were flying up over the top line of the stave, and as her father flipped the page she saw the long lines of florid runs and caught her breath.

‘Papa, Papa, wait. Let me study the score a few days,’ she said, placing her hands over his on the piano. ‘I need to get the Italian right. I need to learn those runs . . . those runs . . .’

Papa turned to her with serious eyes. ‘My girl, I know you can do this, and you will do it beautifully.’ His gaze went to the empty bottles on the table. ‘I will do everything I can to help you. I’m sorry if I have let you down lately.’

Moved by his sad eyes, Ellie climbed into his lap and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Papa, I love you. You never let me down. Let’s learn this song then. Let’s not wait.’

At first he was true to his word. He stopped drinking or, at least, he limited himself to one whisky every evening. He went back to work, and in the afternoons when she came home from school the house was almost tidy. Lessons began the moment she came in the door. Sitting at the piano, he would warm her up with long rows of scales. Then he would strike up the opening notes of her first song, Handel’s Care Selve. That one she could sing, and the other pretty Giordani piece. But his smile, his nods of approval did not carry over to the Mozart piece. And so Come scoglio became a five-minute nightmare, repeated over and over, as she sang and he shouted at her sternly.

‘Don’t sing from the throat . . . Use your diaphragm . . . Neutral vowels, neutral vowels . . . Open the vowel there or you’ll kill yourself . . . Open, open, open above the passagio, foolish girl, open! . . . Stop croaking, start the note clearly . . . No, no, no, terrible onset, no portamento . . . I said no portamento . . .’ And when the long runs came up, he would start his chant, ‘Faster, faster, faster . . .’ as his fingers flew over the keys and she tried to manage her breath.

One evening, on the eighth rehearsal of the song, she was singing one of those diabolical runs, when her brain refused to continue any longer without breath. She fainted.

When she came to, her father was leaning over her, smiling.

‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ he said.

But after the first month, the level in the whisky bottle began to creep down too quickly, and Ellie had a horrible realisation. On the evenings that she sang well, he stayed sober afterwards, bustling about cooking dinner and making merry chatter. On the evenings she sang poorly, he would sag in his armchair in front of the fire and drink everything in the house. The pressure was almost unbearable: sing, and sing well. Some days she could do it, but some days she couldn’t, and her father’s drinking worsened.

Ellie never told Frau Neumann how bad things had become at home, and being at the Neumanns’ house once a week certainly relieved the anxiety. She saw Dieter from time to time, but never alone. He would come in from the cowshed, blond hair falling in his eyes, and his mother would say, ‘What will I do without you, my boy?’ and Dieter would smile weakly.

Christmas came and went, and Papa was so consumed with training Ellie for the competition that he didn’t seem to notice it was his first Christmas without Mama. Ellie noticed, of course. Mama had always insisted presents were opened on Christmas morning, not Christmas Eve as they were in Germany. This year, there wasn’t money for presents so Ellie didn’t have to carry on the tradition. Papa didn’t offer to go and cut down a tree, so Ellie pulled out their tired decorations and hung them around the fireplace, saving for her bedroom a little glass angel that Mama had loved.

Then, in the cold of January, the day came for Dieter to go away. Frau Neumann organised a little farewell party, and Ellie sat with Papa by the fire in Frau Neumann’s cosy kitchen letting the voices of the Neumanns’ family and friends wash over her. Her gaze kept returning to Dieter, who was talking animatedly to another young man of his own age, and who had barely looked her way all afternoon.

‘Ellie, could you get me another drink of wine?’ Papa said, handing her his empty glass.

Ellie cringed. Papa had already drunk seven glasses. ‘Papa, can you wait a little while?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think Herr Neumann has much more wine.’

‘Nonsense,’ he slurred. ‘I know he has a cellar full.’

So Ellie stood up and, embarrassed, returned again to the table set up with Herr Neumann’s wine bottles.

‘Another for your father, Ellie?’ Frau Neumann said, eyebrows shooting up in concern.

‘Um . . . yes,’ she replied.

Herr Neumann frowned, casting his glance over to Papa. ‘He’s nearly unconscious in his chair.’

Ellie turned to look back at her father. His head drooped to his chest, then jerked up again. ‘He’s tired, he hasn’t been well,’ Ellie lied.

Herr Neumann poured the wine and handed it to her grudgingly, and she returned to Papa.

‘Here, Papa. Would you like to go home after this one? Perhaps you need a rest.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, sipping the drink. ‘Stop fussing so much.’

‘The Neumanns must think –’

‘What do I care what the Neumanns think?’ he snapped, in a harsh whisper. ‘They’re ignorant farmers, they’ve never even been out of the pigsty.’

A gentle tap on her shoulder turned her around. It was Dieter, his deep, liquid eyes fixed on hers.

‘Ellie?’ he said. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Yes.’

Dieter’s gaze went to Papa, then back to Ellie. ‘In private.’

Ellie was sure that Dieter wanted to talk to her about Papa’s behaviour, and died a little with shame. ‘I . . .’

‘It will only take a minute,’ he said.

‘Go on, go on,’ Papa said gruffly. ‘I’ll be all right.’

Ellie followed Dieter out of the kitchen and down the corridor to the storeroom. From here, they crossed into an enclosed sunroom. Dieter led her in and then shut the door behind him. Ellie sat on an old armchair, glancing at the snow outside. The sky was grey, and the sunless windowpanes were chilly.

Dieter pulled a chair up beside hers, and leaned forward so his elbows were resting on his knees. She dared not meet his eyes.

‘Ellie, it’s not your fault.’

She pressed her lips together, then said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve known you since you were a little girl, Ellie. You always take too much responsibility on yourself. When your mother was ill, you worked so hard. And now I see it with your father –’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my father,’ she said sharply.

Dieter just smiled. ‘Oh, Ellie. Anyone can see what’s happening. You run about after him, looking guilty if he asks for another drink, acting as though it’s your fault that he is the way he is.’

Ellie shook her head. ‘It is my fault. If only I could sing better . . .’

Dieter laughed softly, kindly. ‘No matter what you do, he will still drink. He’s a grown man. What can a girl as young as you do?’

That stung. She had hoped that he might have seen the glimmer of womanhood in her.

‘Mama is worried about you,’ Dieter continued. ‘You can come to her if you need help.’

‘Thank you. I mean . . . I know that.’

He stood, and reached out a hand to help her to her feet. ‘Goodbye, little Ellie,’ he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek gently. ‘I know you’ll bloom in years to come. I’m sorry I won’t be here to see you.’

‘You’ll come back, won’t you? To visit?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? After training, I’m heading to Munich. Mama and Papa will come to visit when they can, but I expect to get posted somewhere. Perhaps I will get home from time to time. I hope to find you happy if I do.’

Dieter turned away and Ellie lingered a few moments in the sunroom. The cold outside seeped quietly into her heart.

•

On the evening of the competition the snow was piled up high outside the Kokondorf village hall, an echoing brick construction adjoining the church. Inside, two rusting radiators tried vainly to heat the dank space. Ellie sat in the front row along with the other contestants, trying to warm her hands under her jacket. Papa sat next to her, sober, smoothed and shaven, smelling of soap and hair cream. On the low stage, a woman no younger than eighty was running through scales on a slightly out-of-tune piano. Ellie felt the first flutter of stage fright, but took a deep breath and wouldn’t allow it to take her over. She glanced up to where the adjudicator sat, at the side of the stage, dressed in his elegant suit and wearing an expression of bemusement at the small provincial event. He was from Hamburg, a voice coach with an opera company there. Ellie could see his gaze judging the limp left-over Christmas decorations, the mismatched chairs, and the contestants’ clothes. Ellie wore her best pinafore and a clean white blouse, but her tights were spotted with darning, and her shoes were scuffed.

Five minutes before the competition was due to start, the door of the hall flew open and a young woman in a red taffeta gown and a fur stole strode in. She walked tall and held her head high, and her lips were turned up slightly at the corners in a smug smile. As Ellie feared, she came down to sit in the front row with the other contestants. Ellie squirmed, feeling like a dull moth next to her. The other contestants all seemed to sense that they were outclassed already, exchanging glances and tight smiles with their parents or spouses or friends.

Thirteen singers sang that night, and Ellie was sixth. She tried to clear her mind as she watched women and men of all shapes and ages climb the three steps and wait with frightened eyes for the accompanist to play them in. Ellie was easily the youngest there. Among the other singers, Ellie saw a lot of earnest interest, but no real spark of talent, and her mood began to lift. By the time it came to her turn to climb the stage, she had convinced herself she might win.

She paused a moment on the stage as Papa had told her to, offered the audience a smile, announced herself and her first song, then nodded to the accompanist. The music started, and she began to sing. The Handel piece went smoothly, the Giordani piece even better. Papa beamed at her, eyes alight with pride and relief. But when she announced the final piece – the Mozart, the nightmare – the woman in the red dress let slip a snigger of derision. Ellie lost her nerve.

Her breathing went first. Rather than the deep supportive breathing she needed to undertake such an ambitious song, she started shallow breathing in her chest. She tried to correct it, but was already in mid-phrase and her first high note came out sounding forced and thin. Papa had tensed forward; he made a fist and slammed himself under the ribs, signalling to get her breath under control. But the harder she tried, the more she lost her focus. The long, fast runs were approaching too quickly, and her vision brightened at the edges with fear. The unthinkable happened: halfway through the first run, she had to take a breath. It was all over, she had failed.

Ellie made her way despondently and perfunctorily to the end of the song, then took her seat next to Papa. He put his arm around her and squeezed her tight against his side, kissing the top of her head. But she knew how disappointed he was.

‘Don’t you worry,’ he said quietly to her. ‘The first two songs were brilliant, and much better than anybody else who has sung here tonight.’

Then the red-dress woman took to the stage. She announced herself as Christa Busch, the smug half-smile never leaving her lips. As the introduction to her first song started, her eyebrows began to emote madly, and a Schubert love song oozed from her mouth. Everything about her was polished, shining, radiating self-belief and painfully faked emotion; no matter that her voice was a touch hooty, she had all of the confidence that the other contestants lacked.

It was no surprise, an hour later when the adjudicator took to the stage, that Christa Busch won the fifty marks. Papa, who had been trying to convince himself that Ellie’s performance wasn’t a train wreck, finally had to acknowledge that the last four months of work had not brought him the result he’d dreamed of. Shoulders sagging forward, he led Ellie from the hall.

He opened the door to the Volkswagen, then his eyes caught on something across the road.

‘Ellie,’ he said, ‘wait here in the car for a minute.’

Ellie turned to see where his gaze was leading. The local pub, of course. She watched him walk away, off to buy a bottle of whisky to douse his disappointment. A sense of desolation washed over her, as though she were in a boat drifting further and further from shore, with no hope of making her way back. She had lost more than the competition: she had lost her father. Rather than getting into the car, she waited in the cold, clear air, watching the other contestants leave, watching Christa Busch climb triumphantly into a shining new BMW, watching the adjudicator emerge with his long overcoat on and move towards his own vehicle.

He saw Ellie, and raised his hand in a wave. She gave him a cautious wave in return, and he approached her purposefully.

‘Ellie?’ he said, a fog of breath emerging from his mouth. ‘That’s your name, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Ellie Frankel, sir.’

‘The Mozart piece was too big for you,’ he said plainly.

‘I know.’

‘Then why did you sing it?’

She shrugged, feeling young and foolish. ‘My father . . .’

‘How old are you, Ellie?’

‘I’m fifteen.’

He broke into a