Check the excerpt out, below.
In the middle, it would pick upbetter andbetterfor a few moments foreshadowing something extraordinary.
May 17, 1966.
Credit: Rebecca Rocks
A heckler shouts Judas!
My father was there, in the audience, eyewitness to music history.
I leaned against the wall opposite the busker.
Passengers passed be- tween us, a few of them tossing coins into her keyboard case.
Her playing was basic but she had a good voice and a feeling for the song.
I tossed in a two-pound coin and earned a smile.
That time was gone.
These days I was taking more from my bank of memories than I was putting in.
Had I painted the Australian skies a deeper blue because they were the backdrop to my Great Lost Love?
Did they really jeer Dylan at the Free Trade Hall?
Your father had a ticket to that concert.
But he didnt go.
He had his own job to do and a family to look after.
I would have backed the original version.
I would soon have more immediate matters to occupy my mind.
From: angelina.brown@tpg.com.au
Hi
That was it.Hi.
There was a song to mark the moment.
Just a browse of her contacts list and a casualWonder what hes doing now?
punch Adam Sharp, key in two letters, Send.
There had to be more to it.
For a start, I would not have been in her contacts list.
We had not been in touch since e-mail was invented.
The address suggested that she was still in Australia.
I checked the World Clock Web site: 1:15 P.M. in Norwich was a quarter after midnight in Melbourne.
Had she left Charlie?
Had he left her?
Maybe they had split up fifteen years ago.
She was still using her maiden name.
She hadnt changed it the first time around.
I knew barely anything about Charlienot even his surname.
In my mind it was the same as hers.
The little bald cartoon character in his baseball mitt:
Its a high fly ball, Charlie Brown.
Dont miss it, Charlie Brown.
In real life, I was the one who had missed it.
One night, after a few pints, I had Googled her.
Unless I searched images.
Angelina washad beenan addiction, and the only way to deal with an addiction is abstinence.
Every alcoholic wants to prove theyre cured.
She might have a terminal illness and want to tie up the loose ends.
I could blame the breakfast conversation with my mother for that thought.
I let Angelinas e-mail sit until the evening.
I was still weighing my options when Claire arrived home.
Meeting went a bit over.
Do you want a glass of wine?
Tabottle open in the fridge.
Havent got the results yet.
I think shes a bit scared.
Did you give her my love?
Adam … better not have.
Have you fed Elvis?
Youd know if I hadnt.
That was a fair snapshot of the relationship that Angelinas e-mail might test.
We were a functioning household.
We didnt fight; we enjoyed meals together on the weekends; we looked out for each other.
Nobody writes songs about those things, but there is a lot to be said for them.
Or my parents, for that matter.
But the last few years had seen a fading of what was left of the romance.
I wasnt sure if that was a good or bad thing.
Our situation was probably not so different from that of many couples our age.
It would be a stretch to blame any shortcomings on a relationship that had ended twenty-two years earlier.
For those few minutes or hours, I would be back in 1989.
Most nights the boomers outnumbered the yuppies, and my sixties and seventies repertoire got a good workout.
It was early July, midwinter, and Australia had yet to deliver on its promise of sunshine.
The place would not have won any prizes for interior decoration.
No mealsjust bar snacks.
I had been in Australia three weeks.
I remember doing Walk Away Renee in homage to the new arrival, who had been given that name.
The barman, a knockabout bloke named Shanksy, gave me a half pintapotof lager.
I thanked him for letting me use the piano and he said, Anytime, mate.
I took up his offer and the bar became my social life.
Shanksy looked after my drinks and I put a tip jar on the piano.
I did all right with it, but money was not the motivation.
I got to know the piano well.
In the evenings, it made all the difference.
And too much time to think about the hole in my life.
I didnt see her walk in.
I saw her when she came over to the piano.
In a town that dressed in black, she was wearing a white woolen dress and high boots.
Mid-twenties, shoulder-length dark brown hair against light skin, maybe five foot seven with the heels.
She had a pink cocktail in her hand.
The collection of liqueurs behind the bar was more for show and Shanksys cocktail repertoire was limited.
But tonight he had produced a pink one.
With a cherry and an umbrella.
I dont usually notice perfume unless it has just been applied.
Perhaps hers had been, because it was strong and distinct.
For the record, it was Obsession by Calvin Klein.
Ever since, I have been able to detect it at twenty paces.
Say that again, she said, and laughed.
They wrote it together.
Springsteen never did a studio recording, but its on his live album.
Root i togevver, eh?
I gave her a look of mock offense.
Sorry, she said.
I didnt mean to be rude.
I just love your accent.
I decided to take the risk of being rude myself and drew my finger down my left cheek.
Everyonefrom Shanksy behind the bar to the couple standing in the doorway still wearing their coatswas watching me.
So, Because the Night, was it?
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, then looked around the room.
Its okay, I said.
You got most of it.
Would you mind if I sang?
In general, the answer to Can I sing with the band?
is a polite No, a response based on experience and the advice of my dad.
If Eric Clapton comes in and wants to play, Ill tell him he can bugger off.
Theres a lesson there.
She was not bad, and the crowd loved her.
I mean, theylovedher.
Who was I to judge?
She got a standing ovation and calls for more.
After one five-minute performance she owned the place, and I was a part of it.
I had no idea what was going on.
Would you like to do something else?
Thats your accent, isnt it?
She had a good ear.
And a commendable familiarity with popular music from before her time.
What number is this, Jim?
I said, mimicking Davy Jones.
That smile again: Seven A. Averycommendable familiarity.
Do you know Both Sides Now?
Never heard of it.
I played the intro.
He was about thirty-five and studiedly good-looking in a Michael Douglas sort of way.
Gordon Gekko in
Wall Street.
As soon as she had sung the last line, he dropped a coin in the tip jar.
I wound the song up and thought that would be the end of it.
Gordon Gekko began to walk away, but my singer stayed where she was, right beside me.
Do you know Angel of the Morning?
She responded by singing the first line a cappella.
I automatically brought my heel down to begin counting the beat.
I felt more than that.
She put her hand on my shoulder and pressed gently in time with me.
The loud cough and dirty look from her minder said:
Play another chord and Ill break your arms.
He looked at me.
My singer looked at me.
They looked at each other.
Then they walked toward the door.
She still had a faint black mark on her cheek.
I should have just let them go.
They were customers, and had done nothing to provoke me beyond the insulting tip.
It had also been a bad day at work.
I was technically up to the task, but still green at the consulting game.
Gordon Gekko had no way of knowing about my well-paid day job.
I may have been channeling my late father when I gave him a LennonMcCartney send-off.
Youre Gonna Lose That Girl.
They both turned around.
It was too dark to read their expressions.
I had to finish the song, to maintain the pretense that the choice was coincidental.
It took me further than I had intended.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
In the end it was me who lost the girl.
Hi, said the computer screen.
Meow,said Elvis, rubbing against my leg.
Mum, said my phone, switched to silent.
One thing at a time.
Ive got the results, said my mother.
Im afraid its bad news.
It was after ten P.M.
Ive had them for hours.
I didnt want to spoil your dinner.
They couldnt find anything.
So we still dont know what it is.
Hi, was still looking at me.
A link to my past and a chance for a reality check.
Nothing more than that.
She was ten thousand miles away.
One little drink couldnt hurt.
I filled the cats water bowl and walked back to the computer.
Claire had gone to bed.
Enlisting me as her ally: I just love your accent.
Ay up lass, I typed.
FromThe Best of Adam Sharp: A Novelby Graeme Simsion.
Copyright (c) 2017 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martins Press.
