The Cello That Wouldn't Play Bach

By Rob Clarke

A thousand hearts stopped beating. The orchestra grinds to a halt. A furtive glance, and with a shake of the head to the conductor the cello soloist  walks off the stage.

A young woman looks at her father, "What is happening dad?"

"All will be well Georgia," he turns to answer, "it's just a broken string."

And so begins our story.  Played out not under the bright lights of the Hong Kong stage but in a modest life in South Melbourne, where a young, if reluctant gifted musician rises above the impact of her father's business and family collapse.

Bonds are formed between  an old luthier; a failed concert cellist now turned teacher to the girl, the girl, and an unwanted  cello, which steadfastly refuses to play works by the old masters, notably J. S.  Bach.

Joining a local orchestra, her section leader sees within her a great potential. She premiers the work of a young composer to wide acclaim only to see her career hopes dashed in a disastrous national radio interview when she refuses to play Bach.

When her teacher does not turn up for a lesson, her insensitivity at his no show is severely chastened by the pawnshop owner who knows more of the story. 

His friends rally; the cancer now in remission, his teaching lifts her playing to where now they consider a career as a professional cellist. His plan is to subtly modify the timing of the Bach second suite she has to play, he hopes, by breaking accepted norms she will startle the judges into favourably considering her application.

Days before the university entrance performance her teacher's illness returns and he's rushed to hospital where the prognosis is poor.

The hospital informs the luthier of his old protege's death on the day of the recital, he cannot risk her knowing and remains silent in his grief.

During the performance, Georgia looks into the old man's tear filled eyes and knows David has died. In an act of love and faith she attempts the Bach on her dead teacher's instrument.

Horrified, her father sees her walk onto the stage with the cello but it is too late, she sits and plays.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beattock Books
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223661467

Rob Clarke

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Book preview

THE CELLO THAT WOULDN’T PLAY BACH

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Rob Clarke

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Beattock Books

Copyright Rob Clarke 2023

This book is sold with the understanding that the author is not offering specific personal advice to the reader. Although the author has tried to make the information as accurate as possible, he accepts no responsibility for any loss or risk, personal or otherwise, that happens as a consequence of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, stored, posted on the internet, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the written permission from the author of this book.

The work is entirely fictional.

With the exception of historical references to people and places all characters in the book are fictional and any potential impact on individuals or organisations is unintended.

References to Yo YO Ma, Jacqueline du Pre and Mischa Maisky are either as a matter of public record or to add relevance to the story. They all represent the highest levels of artistic talent and are held in the highest esteem by the author and all cellists. As for the broken string, the author was in the audience and witnessed the event.

References to the South Melbourne Symphony Orchestra are based on the authors time spent in the band. A time which he remembers with great affection and also the members that both played there at that time and those who still do.

To my grandchildren, Amelia, Harrison, Georgia and Emily, in the hope you all may grow to love and make music.

Just a broken string

Will you be in meetings all day, dad? Georgia called without turning her head, her gaze fixed on the busy Hong Kong harbour.

Until three or four this afternoon baby, have you planned to go anywhere?

"I was thinking I might visit the sea aquarium. From the island terminal, I can catch a bus.

I’m sorry I will miss that. Sadly, it’s the old business before pleasure, but having you here with me makes it like a holiday.

It would have been nice if mum could have come. Georgia frowned and looked at her father.

I asked her several times, but she had other plans and didn’t seem able to change them; anyway, let’s head down for breakfast. Are you hungry?

Always, Georgia smiled.

Enjoying the generous buffet, the hotel clerk’s arrival went unnoticed. Mr. Baker, he enquired.

Yes? Sam turned his head to look at the speaker. Your guests have arrived.

Thank you. I’ll be there in a moment. Finishing the last mouthful of coffee, he rose from the table and turned to Georgia. Don’t forget your phone and call me should anything go wrong; and don’t forget we have a date with Yo Yo Ma tonight. He bent down to kiss her on the cheek, then

followed the clerk from the restaurant.

Georgia smiled as she watched him walk into the hotel lobby. He had been a fan of Yo Yo for years, and though he said it was coincidental that he was playing in Hong Kong while they were there; she knew he had orchestrated the meeting to coincide with the concert.

It must have been approaching four in the afternoon when she returned from the day’s outing. Tired, but pleased with all she had seen. Even the cable car swaying high above the rocky shore was part of the adventure.

As normal, her father was late. She showered and dressed, ready for the evening’s entertainment.

She liked classical music well enough, but it was just sharing a special time alone with her father that pleased her more. Her mother never attended concerts, she never asked why.

Well, look at you, a real princess! Her father beamed at her as he walked into the room, her long flowing dress one they had chosen the day before.

Dad, you are late. We may have to skip dinner if you don’t hurry and get changed.

Give me five minutes, sweetheart. I’m starving, but we will not be late for the concert.

They enjoyed, but did not linger over dinner; their hotel, handy to the ferries, encouraged a walk to the terminal. The night was clear and balmy, a soft breeze blew through the open sides of the ferry as they made their way to the island. Georgia stood gazing out over the water to the bright lights of the hi-rise buildings that fought for the precious real estate.

Arm in arm, they walked the short distance to the concert hall. A crowd of well-dressed music lovers of all nationalities swept in. A rustle of excited chatter ebbed and flowed through the space.

Where is the program, Georgia? her father whispered. She handed

him the notes for the evening’s performance. There is an overture first, dad, then Yo Yo will play the Rococo variations. You love that one. She smiled at her father, now engrossed in the details of the night’s concert.

Polite clapping broke into their thoughts as the concert master walked on stage. The orchestra tuned to the strident tone of the Oboe; the night had begun.

The Respighi overture, though well received by the audience, was not why they were there, and, following a brief break in proceedings, the guest soloist walked onstage to thunderous applause. Holding his prized cello to the rear for protection, he shook hands with the conductor, nodded to the players, and sat.

A hush descended. Both Georgia and her father strained to hear the sweet music. There would be no coughing or cell phone rings tonight to break the spell.

Suddenly, the sound of the cello stopped. The band played another bar or two before the conductor called a halt to proceedings and looked down to his left where Yo Yo was staring down at his instrument.

Something was wrong.

Nervous whispers swept through the hall.

Rising from his chair, Yo Yo, with just a curt nod to the conductor, walked off-stage. The band sat silent; the conductor motionless at the lectern.

Rumours ran like a grass fire through the audience. Soon a clue emerged from the back-stage dressing rooms, a broken string.

A smile and a shy nod to the audience marked the return of the soloist to the stage. Enthusiastic clapping assisted his return. Following a brief discussion between conductor and artist, the work resumed at the start of the variation in which the string had failed.

The tension in the hall seeped into every patron. Sam held his daughter’s hand as the music ebbed and flowed. With his fingers flying up

and down the finger-board, Tchaikovsky’s famous music now brought to life by one of this time’s best players.

All too soon, it was over. The audience stood as one. Clapping and cheering, Georgia followed her father to her feet to join the robust appreciation for Yo Yo’s performance and, almost as important, his composure.

Couldn’t he have just played the notes on the other strings? Georgia posed the question as they walked back to the ferry terminal.

I’m sure if that was possible, he would have baby, Sam replied, there are only so many combinations of notes on the strings and Tchaikovsky’s music is complex in the extreme.

I’m glad he fixed the cello dad, it would have been disappointing for it to end like that.

That’s the question of the night Georgia, greatness never lets something like a broken string get in the way of completing what he had started. He would never let down the people who had come to hear him play. You will face things in life that are hard, Princess, but it is how you manage them that determines what kind of person you are.

A bit deep for a music concert, dad. Georgia smiled, took her father’s hand and led him onto the ferry.

Entering the suite, the light on the phone caught her attention. The message light is on dad, do you want me to call the desk?

No dear, you get ready for bed. I’ll call to see what they want. Thank you for a lovely time dad, good night. Georgia hugged her

father and walked to her room.

A little later, she could hear her father’s somewhat raised and anxious voice. The phone call was not going well.

All her life, the ‘business’, as her father called it, had been both stable and profitable. It was no Microsoft, but the family was very comfortable, a

nice house, nice cars, a nice school, everything was nice.

The light from the main room seeped under the door, disturbing Georgia’s sleep. She turned to the bedside clock; it was two am.

Concerned for her father, she eased out of bed and, with a knock, entered the room. Staring out over the harbour, a half-drunk cup of coffee on the table, he sat preoccupied.

Is anything wrong, dad? Walking up to the chair, she hugged his shoulders.

Sorry princess, he replied, startled by her appearance, did I wake you?

I saw the light on and it is late. Are you okay? Just an issue with the business, baby.

A broken string, dad? she smiled, remembering the earlier conversation.

He frowned and sipped the now cold coffee. Seems a truck just ran over our cello princess.

Georgia moved to sit on the floor at her father’s feet and looked up at him.

We have to leave on an early flight, baby. I have ordered breakfast in the room by six.

Daddy, what is wrong? I’m not a child, you can tell me.

Sighing, he looked down at her. It seems my partner has embezzled all the company funds and absconded overseas. I won’t know everything until we get back, but from what the accountant has told me, everything except our personal assets is gone, and so is the business.

Oh daddy, I’m so sorry, will we be all right?

I fear things will get worse before they get better. I’d rather not talk about it right now if that’s okay with you. Let’s find out the damage and then we will know what we can or can’t do. I need a shower.

Ten hours is a long time with no conversation. The flight to

Melbourne dragged. Often she would look across at her father, now and again he would force a smile and squeeze her hand. Otherwise, he was oblivious to her presence.

Lacking a clear understanding of the situation, her youthful imagination filled in the gaps.

The bad penny

Be right there, Tony called from the back of the shop as he heard the doorbell ring. He knew he didn’t have to rush out. These days, there were ten sellers for every buyer. The pawnshop was an early indicator of a shift in the economy.

South Melbourne was a bellwether. Nestled in the old Greek settlement, along with the port and St. Kilda, a greater cross section of humanity was hard to find.

The swing door squeaked as he pushed through into the shop where the drunk stood motionless. Apart from the smell of cheap booze, they just had a look, a way they carry themselves. Tony had seen more than his fair share of them over the years. More often they were from south of the market where the rents were cheaper.

He looked at the face. He was not interested in what he had to sell. It would be a rarity if they offered anything of real value for cash. All he needed to know was in the eyes. The drink came before the fall, maybe too much of the good life, too much wine women and song, or in this case, music.

The customer stood motionless, clutching the instrument as you would a child. This was a difficult time, the drink or the cello, a point of no return.

How can I help you? Tony asked. The eyes came up from the floor to look at the shopkeeper.

How much for the cello? came the reply.

Hard to say. We don’t deal much with orchestral instruments. Let’s have a look. Put it up here on the counter. It was clear the instrument was in pristine condition, even if the owner had seen better days.

Opening the case, Tony frowned. The cello was beautiful. The warm glow from the timber rose from the case. Apart from the rosin on the fingerboard, it was in pristine condition.

Tony looked at the seller. Are you sure you want to sell this? Need the money, was the only reply.

Fearing the cello had been stolen, he paused. I just need to make a phone call, don’t want to cheat you out of anything. Is that all right? The seller just nodded. He was in no position to argue. "Won’t be a minute.

Take a seat." Tony turned back to the office.

Hi Mark, Tony from the pawnshop. Got a guy in here trying to sell a cello. Looks to be a fine piece. Have you heard of any stolen instruments in the last few weeks?

Not offhand. How much is he asking?

We haven’t got that far. Seems to be down on his luck and on the bottle. I’ll offer him a hundred. Maybe you could drop by and have a look at it for me.

I’ll turn up tomorrow morning. Thanks, bye.

The squeak from the door roused the seller, who stood lost, looking into the cello case. Like I said, there is little market for something like this in my line, so I might disappoint you with my offer. In fact, why don’t you take it to Mark Thompson? His music shop is just down the street. He might see more in it than I do. He looked at the customer to gauge a response. There was the flicker of recognition in the eyes, then the resignation set back in.

How much will you give me?

Sorry, but all I can offer is a hundred dollars, and that’s assuming the bow is here as well. He was not sure if the seller was even aware of the insult in the offer. Reached into the case, he unclipped the bow and handed it to the shopkeeper.

Tony sighed again. The mother-of-pearl work was exquisite. Turning it over, he saw the initials of the luthier who crafted the bow, ‘MT’.

I’ll try not to sell it okay, just in case you want it back. He searched for any response in the face as he took two fifty-dollar notes from his wallet and held them out.

I’ll need your contact details, part of the legal stuff we all have to do now. Just put your address and phone number if you have one on this form and we are done. He was never sure if the information was true or false. It never mattered.

The cello owner scrawled an almost unintelligible address on the form, took the money and walked from the shop. The bell signalled his departure.

Tony looked again at the cello, sighed, and closed the lid. He hoped Mark could shed some light on the instrument tomorrow. Picking the case up, he walked back into the office. This sale would not stay in the shop.

Anyone here, or can I take what I like? The cheery voice called. The doorbell announcing the luthier into the pawnshop.

Take what you want. I need the space. A voice from the back replied.

Mark backed through the squeaking swing door into the office, not wanting to spill the coffee in the mugs he was holding.

Ah, good lad, just what I need. Tony looked up at the smiling face of his friend and took the steaming brew from the outstretched hand.

Mark looked around, This looks more like a junk shop than a pawnshop. When are you going to clean this mess up?

"Remember, I have seen behind the curtain in your place, so don’t be

too quick to criticise."

They both laughed and sipped the coffee.

So, where is it? I have to open in half an hour.

Tony was not sure how this was all going to fall out after seeing the initials on the bow. You may not be too happy, my friend, but it is over there on the workbench. He watched Mark walk to the bench, put down the coffee, and open the case.

As he picked up the instrument, the luthier turned it over, looking for the telltale marks of the maker and any damage. Sighing, he put it back against the felt supports, then drew the bow out, running his fingers along the polished wood. He sighed again.

Anyone you know? Tony broke the tension in the room.

Yeah, I know him. Mark closed the case, picked up his coffee and walked back to the desk, sitting in the spare seat.

Well?

Talented kid, spent a few years overseas, came back and settled in Sydney, then disappeared from the circuit, never heard of again.

You made it, didn’t you? You must have been close. Tony looked at his friend, whose eyes just looked at the floor.

It hurt when he stopped talking to me, hurt a lot. But seeing the cello here like this breaks my heart. I gave it to him. Do you know that? I wanted him to make it and now look where he and it has ended up.

What do you want to do?

Well, the last thing I want to do is have anything to do with him again. Let him rot in a gutter somewhere.

The venom came as a surprise. His friend was anything but a bitter, angry man. There must be much more to this than he was prepared to say.

The two had known each other for about five years. Mark had been a fixture in the town when Tony bought the pawn shop. Often he took instruments there to see if they were worth repairing; things like guitars and banjos, though sometimes a violin or a cheap plywood cello. Over

time, the friendship developed, each one alone in their shops some hundred yards apart, not that far from the market.

No, the cello, it can’t stay here, you know that. Let me give it to you to sell, then you can pay me back.

Yes, I’ll take it with me, but I want to pay for it now. I want it back even though it will pain me just to see it in the shop; you’re right, it can’t end up here.

The coffee break was over. Mark, in no mood for pleasantries, picked up the case and, after thanking Tony for calling him, left the shop.

Tony stood outside and watched him trudge down the footpath, head down. He was not sure the luthier even looked where he was going.

Sighing, he turned and walked back inside, the friendly tinkle of the bell a distant essence to the sadness of the cello.

Downsizing

Georgia saw little of her father following their return from Hong Kong. From her room, she heard daily arguments coming from downstairs. Her mother’s ranting, rising to screams of rage, the slamming of doors, and then the silence.

It must have been over a month after their return when she woke on a Saturday morning. The house was quiet as she made her way into the kitchen to fix some breakfast. Her father sat without looking up, staring into his coffee.

Good morning dad. Saturday today. Do you have to work? Hello baby, no, come and sit with me. I have a bit of news.

Sure dad, let me make a cup of tea. Should I make one for mum? No, that won’t be necessary.

Georgia gave him a kiss as she walked past to turn the kettle on. You look sad dad, anything wrong? She pulled up a chair and sat next to her father.

He tried the laugh at the comment, Sometimes I wonder if the troubles will ever stop, but with some there is a sense of relief. Your mother left last night, kiddo. She always wanted the good life, the money, the cars, the fancy clubs. Now, with that all gone, so is she. I’m very sorry, baby.

Georgia sipped her tea, looking at her father waiting for the real bad news. It did not surprise her to hear that her mother had left. Depressed daily following the crash of the business, she had just sulked around the

house.

We are going to have to move. Even though we own the house, the divorce means I have to give half to your mother. The cars are going as well, so we have to make some changes, a new suburb and a new school for you, I’m afraid. I’m sorry this is all coming at you at once, baby, and it won’t be easy for a while.

Where will we live, dad? The news was all too much to absorb.

I think I may have a job in the city as a contract engineer. But with no car, I think we should move closer in. I have seen a nice unit for rent in South Melbourne and there is a good public high school there as well. Are you going to be all right with this?

Doesn’t seem as if I have much choice. A tinge of bitterness came into her voice.

No, our options are pretty limited right now. The police are trying to find my ex-partner, but even if they catch him, it’s doubtful there will be any of the money left.

She lifted her head to look at him, When do we have to move dad? "It’s going to take a few weeks to confirm the job and the rental

property. We can go in today and have a look around if you like. I don’t have to give the cars back for another two weeks. Listen to me Georgia, we are going to be fine. In fact, it could have been much worse. The money from the house and a good-paying job will mean we are not living under a bridge, we might even find the new life more enjoyable, different to this fancy area for sure, but I’m sure you will make new friends and adjust to the school."

Georgia tried to smile. You don’t think the Porsche will be out-of- place today, do you?

That’s my girl. I don’t know what I would do if you turned on me right now.

She pushed back the chair and walked to where he sat, his head low, looking into the empty cup, and hugged him. "I guess it really was just you

and me for some time, I always hoped mum would relax and enjoy life, maybe this is for the best, but if you find another lady, I want to vet her, Okay?" she said with a hearty laugh.

One woman in my life is enough right now kiddo, let’s make some breakfast and then we can do a tour of our new suburb. There is a great market there. You may love wandering through it.

This is an old suburb, dad, Georgia remarked as they drove through the tree-lined streets and narrow twisting lanes.

This area of Melbourne is old, baby. The early settlers never strayed too far from the river. I like the rustic charm. The trees soften the feel of the place. What do you think?

We will be fine dad, please don’t worry, I’ve read that young people are very resilient. Genuine laughter filled the car.

She needed resilience in spades. Leaving her school was harder than she thought. Even though she was a rich man’s child, so were all the others, so they all saw the world through the same eyes. South Melbourne high school was not even close.

Having to walk everywhere was also very different, but she soon warmed to the slower pace of living. She even enjoyed browsing the market, a necessity as she was now the de facto wife, shopping after school.

I think I need a trolley, dad, she mentioned over the Friday meal of fish and chips.

Why is that? he looked at her?

Well, all the old Greek ladies push a trolley and, like you said, we need to fit in. She grinned at him across the table.

"You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Georgia. It was never the money, the house, the fancy lifestyle, it was just about you.

Thank you for hanging in there, kiddo."

Where else would I be dad, there is no-one but you, nor anywhere else I would rather be.

The small kitchen was silent except for the gentle clatter of knives and forks as they enjoyed the fresh fish from the market.

Have you made any friends at school, baby?

A bit early, dad as they still see me as an outsider. Somehow our situation has leaked out and the poor little rich kid thing is still to be worked through. Still, there are one or two who seem nice, so there is hope. But right now, there is just me. How is your new job working out?

It’s much easier for me baby. Everyone is nice. They don’t care what has happened in your life as long as you can do the work and don’t cause them extra effort, everyone is happy. My boss seems pleased, so I guess that’s the main thing.

The present

Oh yes, he continued, there is one thing. Now close your eyes and wait. I won’t be a moment.

What, what are you doing dad? Reluctantly Georgia closed her eyes.

The dinner at least was finished. Move your chair back. What are you doing?

Just do it baby, it’s just that your present is a little on the large size, so you have to make room.

Trusting but nervous, Georgia pushed her chair back over the floor. Ready?

I guess so. I hope it is not all wet and slimy like some of the fish I saw today.

Now, would I do that to you? his tone was playful. With you I would never be surprised, dad.

Okay, you need to hold your arms out a bit, not high like that, lower, like you were going to hold a baby, or in this case, a large baby.

Slowly, he lowered the present into her lap. She struggled to accept the object, solid wood, and feeling around to the top of the other side, strings.

Open your eyes. What is it?

"A cello, silly, a cello just for you. I know you can’t play it right now, but this is part of you and me, part of the past and, hopefully, part of the

future."

Her eyes looked down at the instrument. It was indeed a cello, full size. Clearly not a classically made one. She wasn’t sure how she should react.

In another time, they played a game over a broken cello string. Was her father taking the conversation of now some months back to ease them into a new world?

So, you expect me to play this? You do know I have never played a musical instrument of any kind, dad.

Yes, I know and yes, it would please me no end if you would consider learning to play. I’m too old to start now, but to have you play for me from time to time would mean more to me than you can imagine.

"Okay, I’ll think about it, thanks dad. Does it have a case or anything?

What about a bow?"

Well, there isn’t a case, but the man at the pawn shop said this bow should work just fine.

You bought it at a pawnshop?

Well, it’s all I could afford right now, princess. Are you unhappy I have done this?

No, of course not, just another adjustment, I guess. Thank you, daddy.

You go and change and thank you for cooking dinner. I’ll make breakfast to even the score.

Georgia pushed her chair back further so she could stand up while still holding the cello. She tried to look happy for her dad. She knew there was not a lot of money in the budget right now. But really, a cello? she mused as she walked from the kitchen to her room.

Sitting on the bed, she cradled the instrument. Clearly, it was as cheap an instrument as she had ever seen. There was no soft glow of prime timber. The very shape seemed even to be awkward. Running her fingers over the strings, the four notes sounded not unpleasant, but not inspiring.

Not one of your better gifts, dad, she thought as she maneuvered the cello into the back recesses of her wardrobe.

Starts to play

Routine has the side effect