They had arrived early and there was only a handful of people in the hall. He liked to allow plenty of time especially to a concert. It was a typical Melbourne showery autumn day and she had been reluctant to leave the house but he had persuaded her.
"They are playing Beethoven," he told her, "The Kreutzer sonata, I haven’t heard it for years."
"Rubbish, we’ve got it on tape and on disk." As an afterthought she added, "Not to mention that old 78 that you can’t play."
She knew why he wanted to go to this particular concert. It held memories for both of them but she liked to tease him and Martin played along with her. "Come on Deb. It’s not the same as a live performance and the tram stops right outside the Town Hall."
It was not often that they went to concerts these days, with the prices at the Arts Centre and since they had given up the car, the inconvenience of public transport; but this was local and they could afford the sixteen dollars concession for the two of them.
Deborah had looked out at the gusty Melbourne rain. She smiled the quizzical way she had when humouring his whims "If we go," she said, not quite surrendering, "we’ll use my taxi card. I’ve no desire to sit through a concert with wet feet."
They obtained centre seats a few rows from the front. The hall was almost full when a burst of applause greeted the appearance of the performers. "Not a bad crowd," said Deborah, I thought only old fools like us would come out on a day like this."
The music began. The early items were greeted with deserved applause and then, the piece he had come particularly to hear, the Beethoven "Kreutzer" sonata.
At the first plaintive notes he sat back and closed his eyes. The music took over, the hall faded and he was more than half a century and half a world away. To the first time he had been to a performance of that piece. It is 1939 and he is sitting in a small dimly lit hall in the East End of London. In his hand are duplicated program notes. The music is the same everything else is different.
The little hall was full as always for these Sunday evening concerts. He had had a long day; his father insisting that Martin help in the workshop in he morning. In the afternoon he had tried to catch up on his studies. His father wanted him to take over the family business but abetted by his mother and sisters Martin was determined to break out of the family pattern and go to university.
This Sunday evening concert was his main relaxation. Here for sixpence he heard some of the country’s best musicians. He found a seat between an elderly man wearing a skullcap and a smartly dressed girl, a young woman rather. Martin the son of a tailor could appreciate the quality and cost of her costume. He knew just enough about perfume to realise that too was expensive. Her scent made a small quiver along his spine.
Although he recognised several people in the audience he was not sorry to sit alone and read the comprehensive notes given with the sixpence admission fee. The first half was devoted to the Beethoven Kreutzer sonata a work he had listened too only on record. "It has been said," he read, "that this sonata seems to have been conceived while a special quality of violin tone was ringing in the composers ear."
The opening bars were familiar but heard "live" he began to appreciate the "special quality" of the program notes. Carried away by the music, fascinated by the violinist’s fingering, it was a while before he became aware that something —or someone was touching him. He glanced round surreptitiously. The girl next to him was apparently aware of nothing but the music. Her hand swung loosely at her side and her hand had accidentally brushed his thigh. The hand was soft and slim with long coral nails. His two sisters spent a lot of time caring for their hands but theirs were nothing like as delicate and manicured as this.
He tried to concentrate on the music but the presence of the girl was disturbing and her perfume was exciting him. He wondered who she was and whether he could make an excuse to speak to her. Almost eighteen he wasn’t very experienced with girls. And that’s an understatement if ever there was one. In fact except for his sisters he hardly knew any, going to an all boys school and helping in the family business in his spare time.
He thought what he might say to her. "You do have lovely hands" sounded fatuous and as if the rest of her wasn’t particularly attractive. What then? "Can I buy you a cup of tea?" seemed at once brash and inadequate. Perhaps he would escort her home or at least to a bus stop. hold that shapely hand — a kiss! His mind ran riot as he began to fantasise what they might do together. Nonsense he thought, she’s out of my class, probably a friend of one of the performers. He tried to get his mind back to the music but her perfume; her very presence made it difficult to concentrate.
The fiddle like a bird in full flight soared and dipped; the piano accompanied it like a musical express train. Martin flew with the bird, raced with the train. With a climactic burst the music ended. The girl turned to him, "Wasn’t it wonderful." But now the opportunity was there, his courage deserted him. With a muttered, " Sorry, must go" he pushed past the man in the skullcap and bolted to the exit.
Martin almost ran into the street. He walked up and down cursing himself for his cowardliness. He wondered what to do next. He could hardly go back to his seat after such boorish behaviour yet he did not want to leave. Perhaps he could see her after the concert and apologise. What would he say? Anyway she had probably forgotten him by now, if indeed she had ever really noticed him as more than a shadowy fellow music lover.
Gloomily he wandered into the tea bar. The audience was returning to their seats and the room was almost empty. He bought a cup of tea and took it to a corner table. Immersed in his despondency he sat oblivious to his surroundings until a voice penetrated his thoughts.
"Hello! Do you mind if I join you? I’m Debbie Saunders."
Deborah was glad she had agreed to brave the rain and come to the concert. Indeed her initial resistance had been a little game. She had wanted to go as much as he did. More practical than Martin she yet had the same sentimental fondness for this work in particular. Usually she took the initiative and had to persuade him. It was like that at our first meeting she thought. Deborah glanced at him affectionately, his eyes closed, hand gently beating time to the music. She relaxed, closed her eyes, let the music engulf her. Unbidden, memories floated out of the past. Her mind drifted back half a century.
Although she would not admit it even to herself, one of the reasons for coming to the concert was to meet this boy.. Mickey had pointed him out the previous week. Tonight she had watched him dash out as soon as the interval began and thought now I‘ve missed my chance. It had been a strange departure as if he was suddenly ill or had forgotten something urgent. In the tearoom she chatted with her friends but her mind was still on the boy’s odd behaviour. When they started to return to their seats she made an excuse and held back. She had intended to join them when she saw him go to the counter and take his cup to a table in the corner.
She wondered what she should do. Would he think her too forward if she, a complete stranger went over and spoke to him? On the other hand he was not a complete stranger to her. . Mickey had spoken about him quite a lot. It was his desolate, forlorn look that decided her. Quaking inside a little, for she was a well brought up girl and well brought up girls did not approach strange men, she walked over to his table.
A last minute panic that she had made a mistake, "You are Martin aren’t you?" and when he assented, "My cousin Michael pointed you out last week. Said you helped him with a maths problem and how clever you were," Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Hurriedly, I wanted to thank you. Mickey and I are quite close." The wrong thing again. What idea will that give him? "He’s my cousin. We were brought up together. Almost like brother and sister. Oh dear! I have made a mess of it haven’t I. Have I made a complete fool of myself?"
Not as big a fool as I have. " Of course not. You’ve cheered me up. I was feeling a bit down in the dumps .Bit of a tummy upset but I’m okay now. Mickey Saunders ? Nice kid. Oh! Now I’ve said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to put it like that."
"We seem to be apologising to each other. Perhaps we should start again. Hello I’m Deborah Saunders. My friends call me Debbie."
The rain as if deciding that Melbourne was sufficiently wetted, had moved Eastward over the Dandenong's, the sun seizing the opportunity to warm their sodden suburb. Martin and Deborah decided to walk.
They strolled in silence for a while at ease with each other, then Deborah said, "I’m glad we came. Wasn’t it a lovely concert? You know, for a few minutes I felt myself back in Circle House. I still wonder how I had the nerve to go over and speak to you that night, a complete stranger. It was only because you looked so miserable even after that wonderful music. Have you ever thought how different our lives might have been if you hadn’t had that tummy upset? We might never have met."
"I was thinking pretty much the same but I’m sure we would have done sooner or later."
"Have you ever had any regrets?"
Why did she ask that? "That’s a funny thing to ask after more than half a century. "No of course not. None at all." Nor had he. Not real regrets. He could never tell her but he couldn’t help fantasising as he had on and off over the years, what might have been if he had spoken to that other girl. The one in the next seat who had brought on his "tummy upset".
Deborah spoke, "Why so pensive suddenly?"
"I was thinking." he prevaricated, "of the first time I kissed you. I don’t suppose you remember it."
"Of course I do." She was indignant. "As if I could ever forget. It was that same evening. We walked and walked and talked and talked and you took me home and kissed me on the doorstep. Doesn’t that sound old fashioned now. Mind you weren’t very good at it that first time."
" I’ve had a bit of practise since then," he said. "Let me show you."
And there and then in the busy suburban street the tall elderly grey haired man drew his still attractive wife to him and kissed her long and passionately on the mouth.
"No," he whispered, "No regrets at all."