McAlpine & Macbeth

Chapter 1

The stranger

         The man slips unseen into the shadows at the back of the Cessnock School of Arts Hall; only the squeak of his shiny, patent-leather shoes betrays his presence. He leans his weight against the wall, folds his arms and waits.
          A spotlight wanders across the raised stage. It slides past the solitary figure of the next contestant, then in jerky movements finds the girl again. Footlights flicker into life along the front of the stage. They highlight her glowing cheeks, and glint on filaments of hair escaping from her chestnut braids. Even if he’d wanted to, the stranger could not take his eyes from her.
          The applause fades and the girl nods to the harpist.
          At the back of the hall the man straightens. He leans forward, holding his breath as her voice soars to the rafters, perfect in pitch and melody. This is what makes it all worthwhile. He’s heard this version of She Moved Through the Fair before, but never like this, never with such purity of sound. The girl has the voice of an angel.
          The stranger licks his lips. Sometimes it’s worth travelling the hot and dusty backroads in search of talent. His client may even be persuaded to pay more to possess a young songbird, especially one with the promise of beauty. Who knows how high the price might go?
          The girl sings the final, haunting bars of the popular ballad. There’s a moment of silence before cheers, whistles and applause thunder through the hall. Her plaits fall forward as she bows. Her face beams; then, unable to contain her pleasure she skips from the spotlight.
          Footlights silhouette a woman who steps into the aisle from her front row seat. Her dark hued dress hangs from her bosom to her ankles with no indication of a waist, and as she waddles down the aisle towards the man her squat, broad body reminds him of a blunt-nose Manly ferry ploughing its path through the Harbour’s waves.
         Steel-rimmed glasses catch a glint of light from the stage and as her eyes fix upon him, they focus with intent. Yes, his instincts were correct the last time they’d met – he’d never pull the wool over this woman’s eyes.
        ‘Do we have a deal?’ Her voice is strident above the buzz of audience chatter.
        ‘I believe we do, madam.’ He nods to where the girl waits in the front row. ‘What about her parents?’
        ‘Don’t worry about them.’
        The man studies her face for a moment before he speaks. ‘It’s secure, I hope. A lot depends on this deal.’
        'Of course it’s secure.’
        She stops and turns to the stage where the judges prepare to announce the Eisteddfod winner. In the hush of expectation the young singer’s name is called. As she bounds up the stage steps to receive her prize, applause fills the hall again.
       ‘Wasn’t it lucky I caught her singing and that I recognised her talent?’ The woman’s voice rises above the noise. Her lips part a little in what could’ve been the beginnings of a smile, but fix into a thin line again. ‘Giving a little concert, she was; disobeying the rules of the orphanage. But it did give me the idea of the Eisteddfod – a perfect cover to show her to you.’
        The noise fades in the Hall as the woman turns to face him. Her voice is low, but he has no trouble understanding. ‘What about my money?’
        Her eyes pull him in like a moth to a lamp and he resists the impulse to look away. He attempts to reclaim the upper hand. ‘I’ll post a contract to you as soon as I get back to Sydney.’ The man nods towards the girl on the stage. ‘Have you begun her training yet? My client has high expectations, y’know and he’s impatient.’
       ‘Impatient?’
        The man smirks as a sharp snort bursts from his nose. ‘He’s not exactly a spring chicken. And with his last wife dying in childbirth he’s rather keen to see what I’ve found. Mind you, he’s says he’s willing to wait until I find him the right one.’
       ‘How old is he?’ Her voice displays mild interest.
       He shrugs. ‘Maybe forty-five. Anyway, I’ll bring your deposit in cash when I call on you in a couple of months. I want to check her progress.’
       ‘She’s stubborn, I’m afraid. Not at all interested in learning to cook or mend.’ The woman frowns.‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t teach her.’
       ‘Don’t worry too much about those details; I doubt she’ll spend too much time cooking and mending.’ His giggle is high-pitched, at odds with his deep voice.
      The woman studies his face in the dim light and contains her revulsion. No point in antagonising him. ‘When will you collect her?’ She gazes at the girl as she walks back to a front row seat, clutching the silver cup to her chest.
     ‘In six month’s time.’
      Her voice tightens with irritation. ‘Six months? The bigger she grows the more she eats; not to mention other expenses. That’s why I get rid of them once they get too old.’
      As he leans close to the woman’s face his mirthless grin exposes dull, stained teeth. ‘Well, let’s say that extra time will allow her to mature a little, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I’ll call in to check on her progress in say, three months or so?’
      She winkles her nose, steps back to escape the smell of his breath and snorts in disgust – too many cigars and brandies for her taste. She heads back to the empty seat beside the girl.
      At the back of the hall the man pauses on his way through the open door. His portly figure, backlit by the oil street lamp outside, casts a long shadow up the aisle like a stain on the threadbare carpet. Then he turns and disappears into the darkness.

(c) SC Gwyther