Satima Flavell's Blog, page 2

The Cloak of Challiver, Prologue and Chapter One

PrologueJedderin carefully lifted the shrubby branches that blocked his path, willing them to make no sound as they brushed each other and his clothing. Stealth was essential, silence imperative, if he was going to get his son back.
Only he wasn’t getting him back: he’d never had him in the first place. Anger at Norduria and Fiersten for keeping him from his boy arose in him for the thousandth time. If he did succeed in snatching Everan now, he would never let him go again.
And there he was, the precious child, counting a collection of pebbles. He had sorted them into piles according to colour. ‘One, two, three, brown; one, two, three, four green…’
Jedderin’s heart leapt at the sound of the clear, musical voice he’d never heard in all the child’s four years. He took a step forward, longing to scoop his son up into his arms, but on the other side of the clearing, Auberin put up a hand that clearly said ‘wait’. He was still creating wards, as were Ellyria and Ostrin in the other two quarters of the circle. They must make no mistake this time. Any time now, his mother and her paramour would start to teach him basic magic, and the boy must not be corrupted. If he learnt magic at all, it must be the right kind — the kind that helps people. The sort of magic Ellyria had taught Jedderin, Auberin and Ostrin, years before.
Jedderin pulled his mind back to his spell-casting and finished the warding of his quadrant. The four nodded to each other.
Now, Jedderin! Auberin’s command rang in Jedderin’s mind, but he was already halfway across the clearing. He scooped Everan into his arms as the others hastened to join him. Ellyria was already mouthing the vortex-summoning spell to carry them safely back to Stavershall.Part One: twenty-one years later The boys! Ellyria smiled. They hadn’t been boys these twenty years and more, but she still thought of them as her babies, and always would. Yet today was their fortieth birthday. She shook her head in disbelief, pausing under the plum tree beside the door that led to the seaward sally port. The young fruits were swelling fast in the unseasonably warm weather.
The sound of voices made her turn. Lyrien and Milana had entered the orchard and had their backs to Ellyria as Milana shut the gate. As always, Ellyria was struck by the contrast between the two girls: Milana, tall and slender, with blonde hair not unlike Ellyria’s own, and Lyrien, short, stocky and red-haired, a throwback to Fairstad’s family, like Polivana.
Polivana. Ellyria swallowed the lump in her throat as a laughing face surrounded by ringlets came to mind. The Dark Spirit’s first payment. Lady forbid that either of these two should meet the same fate.
The pair turned, Lyrien slipping her arm through Milana’s as they strolled down the path. ‘Just imagine, Mil, this time next year you’ll be an old married woman. That’s going to curtail your freedom!’
Milana grinned. ‘Only if Daddy has his way.’
‘Give this Prince Morifer a chance. You might even like him.’
Milana grimaced. ‘I doubt it. He’s thirty-three! That’s fifteen whole years older than me. And apparently he’s mad keen on hawking and hunting. He really doesn’t sound like my type at all.’
‘He looks quite handsome, though, from his portrait.’
‘That’s only to be expected. Artists always see the best in their subjects, don’t they? If I were really as pretty as the portrait my father sent to Falrouvia, there would be men lining up to court me every single day.’
Lyrien chuckled. ‘I’m sure there would be, considering the fat dowry your father is promising — Grandmamma!’
Ellyria held out her arms. ‘Good morning, ladies!’
The girls picked up their skirts and ran down the path to hug Ellyria. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. So this marriage your father’s considering doesn’t appeal, Milana?’
‘Appeal? Spend the rest of my life in Falrouvia? It’s freezing cold there, and I’d hardly ever get back for visits.’
‘But you’ll have to marry someone, and Falrouvia is only a couple of days’ sail. If they were talking about sending you to Kyrisia I’d be worried, but really, Falrouvia’s not all that bad.’
‘Well, I don’t want to go, that’s all. Anyhow, why are they marrying me off at eighteen when Lyrien’s one and twenty and unwed?’
Lyrien shrugged. ‘Father has this strange idea that Linvar should marry first and ensure the succession by having a son or two. He wants him to marry a local girl rather than someone from the continent, and so far no one has measured up. She needs to come from a good, loyal family, not too rich and not too poor, and preferably not have brothers. Father says brothers-in-law might get ideas above their station and try to take the throne for themselves if Linvar were to die young. And he won’t have me marrying anyone until Linvar has an heir or two for the same reason.’
‘I haven’t seen Linvar for months,’ said Ellyria. ‘Is he still keen on handiwork?’
Lyrien nodded. ‘Yes. The latest fad is learning to plough, of all things. He’s spent hours and hours some days, out at the home farm, guiding a team of oxen up and down a field. I don’t know what he sees in it, myself.’
Milana’s creased brow suggested some deep thinking was going on. ‘Getting back to you not being allowed to marry until Linvar has an heir – is that fair? What if you met someone you really wanted to marry?’
Lyrien shrugged again. ‘It hasn’t happened yet, and I must have met every eligible man in the Islands. But I think it’s because since that business with Prince Nidvar, the whole family has become more aware of the importance of a secure succession.’
‘But that was years ago, cuz, and we’ve been at peace ever since.’
Ellyria broke in. ‘Nidvar was a troublemaker. And it was all a long time ago.’ She bent over to smell a lavender bush. ‘Isn’t this beautiful? And so early this year.’
Lyrien also bent over the fragrant plants, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s divine. I love herb gardens!’
Milana laughed. ‘Maybe you should get Grandmamma to teach you to make some of her magic potions!’
‘I’d like that, but I don’t think I’ve got time for herbalism as well as music. They are both pursuits that people devote their whole lives to, and I’ve only got one life.’ Lyrien stood up and stroked the leaves of the lavender bush, obviously reluctant to move on.
‘And a life that’s busy enough already, from the sound of things’, said Ellyria. ‘Are you looking forward to tonight’s party?’
The girls both nodded assent, but it was Lyrien who spoke first. ‘I’ll play with the musicians, if I’m allowed, and leave the dancing to Milana.’
Milana grinned. ‘I’m sure they’d rather see me dance and you play than the other way around. I can keep time all right but I can’t even carry a tune. I hope all our cousins will be there so I’ve got plenty of partners! Grandmamma, are Danvard and Pedwen coming, do you think?’
Ellyria shook her head. ‘I doubt it. They’re due back from Kyrisia anytime — they might even be home already — but even when they’re home they’re always off sailing with that Seafaring Academy your Uncle Volran founded.’
‘Well, we’ll find out tonight, I suppose. And we should be getting back, shouldn’t we — they’d nearly finished carting stuff down to the barge when Lyrien and I sneaked out.’
Lyrien pulled a flask from her belt and pulled out the cork. ‘It’s thirsty weather for this time of year, isn’t it?’ Her face lit up as she looked over down the path beside the lavender plot. ‘Ooh, look — apricots, already!’
She hastened down the path to the apricot tree. ‘Apricots are my favourite fruit! It will be ages before they are ripe, though.’
Still holding the flask to her mouth, Lyien reached up to squeeze one of the tiny fruit. ‘Oops!’ She lost her balance and the flask flew from her hand to land at Ellyria’s feet, spilling milk on the soil beneath the tree. ‘Oh Grandmamma, I’m sorry — did the milk splash your gown?’ She bent over and retrieved the flask.
Ellyria staggered and gasped, leaning one hand on the tree trunk and struggling for breath as she tried to calm her thundering heart. ‘No, no, I’m fine, Lyrien. Milana, I don’t suppose you know what rootstock they used to graft this tree?’
‘Yes, I do know, Grandmamma. It’s only an apricot tree because someone grafted apricot twigs onto the roots of a damson tree. One of the gardeners explained it to me. It’s fascinating. They cut sprouting leaf buds from one tree and somehow stick them into a slit on a different tree. Amazing, isn’t it?’ She turned to Lyrien. ‘We really ought to be getting back. Will you excuse us, Grandmamma?’
Ellyria nodded. ‘Of course.’ Her heart still pounded but she managed a smile as the cousins turned to leave.
Milana grabbed Lyrien’s arm. ‘Come on, Lyrien — Binny will be furious with me.’
‘You’re still frightened of your old nurse?’ Lyrien’s laugh rang out as the two girls started up the path.
‘You’d be frightened of Binny, too, if you’d felt her hand on your bottom as often I did when I was little!’
The gate shut behind the pair and their voices faded as Ellyria leant her back against the tree, shaking and fighting back tears. The old spell, the one she herself had cast twenty-two years before, taunted her mind. Get thee to hell and stay in hell, till hell be tired of thee. Or if heaven will’t till milk be spilt, ’neath apricots grown on a damson tree.
Gods in heaven! Her granddaughter had opened the door to the Dark Spirit.He flexed his fingers and stretched. His body was still strong, just as the Dark Spirit had promised. Surely that meant the other part of the promise would eventually be redeemed? But his confidence grew thin sometimes. What was the point in having a healthy body that never aged beyond fifty, if he could not enjoy life? Sometimes he imagined his walk was around a tiny courtyard, with flower baskets on the walls. His bed became a seat where he might sit with a lover — a delightful young thing, fair of hair and slender of body. Like Ellyria.
But as for Ellyria herself — he spat on her! Foul witch that she was, she still roamed free in the world while he was buried here, far from home, far from the delights of love. The only consolation was that Ellyria would have aged twenty-one years. She would be a wrinkled old hag by now, no doubt.Nustofer paused by the window and peered through the narrow aperture. There were tantalising glimpses of the forest-covered hills beyond the walls of the monastery that was his prison. He had not been outside those walls since he’d been incarcerated, all those years ago. And most days he never left his cell. If only the Dark Spirit would redeem the second part of its promise and come to release him!
The door rattled as the key turned. Dinnertime. On feast days, the inmates were allowed to eat in the refectory, but on most other days they were simply left to rot in their cells. Not that Nustofer wanted their company. They were all insane. The monks thought he was insane, too, but he knew it wasn’t true. He had been mad once: driven mad by the witch and her magic, but no longer. The Dark Spirit’s spell had cleared his brain and strengthened his body. Of course, Ellyria’s magic still lingered, so he still had the fits, but that wasn’t the same as being mad, was it?
Two novice monks brought his bowl of potage. The physicians thought he was violent, so they always sent two boys. Perhaps he did cry out and thrash about when the witch’s magic overtook him and the fits came, but they didn’t come as often these days. Yet he wasn’t allowed in the chapel because of the fits.
Not that he wanted to go to chapel, anyway. He had long since given his allegiance elsewhere.He ate the food slowly, making the most of every mouthful. When your life revolves around three meagre meals a day, it’s best to stretch the few benefits. The next event would be the candle, which was brought every night at dusk.
And as usual, the novices came back for the bowl, bringing the fat stub of an altar candle and fire in a small cauldron to light it. They closed the shutter over the window, set the candle in its sconce, lit it and departed, with barely a nod to Nustofer as they left.
He sat on his bed, gazing at the candle in its wall sconce. The stubs always burnt out within an hour or so, and after that there was nothing to do but sleep. He might as well watch it burn, for there was nothing else to do now, either.
The candle flickered, creating shadows on the walls and ceiling. Its trance-inducing dance made shadows on the walls. He watched them leap and flicker and die, only to leap again. Their dance varied from night to night, depending on which draft was worse, the one from around the window shutters or the one from under the door.
A sudden rush of air, and the shadows took on a different pattern. Enormous wing shapes covered the walls. Nustofer fell to his knees, fear clutching his belly. He had forgotten the sheer terror the Dark Spirit’s presence engendered.
The terror lasted only a few wild heartbeats, to be replaced by an overwhelming joy. ‘You have come at last,’ he cried out. ‘I knew you would come, even after all these years!’The Dark Spirit’s form gradually solidified in the candlelight. Nustofer had also forgotten how tall it was. Its head almost reached the ceiling and its shoulders were as wide as the trestles in the dining hall.
It smiled its cruel smile, and Nustofer shuddered.
‘Apologies, my friend’, said the spirit. ‘I was detained by my hellish neighbours. But now it is time to take our vengeance on Ellyria and her house, is it not? Like you, I have had plenty of time to lay plans.’ The spirit’s gaze flickered over Nustofer. ‘I think, my friend, it is time to renew that body of yours. Renew — and, shall we say, make a few improvements.’
Nustofer flinched as the spirit touched him on the forehead. He had forgotten that cold touch. He felt as if he was being stretched. He looked down to see that his thighs were visibly lengthening. He tried to get to his feet but found himself stumbling like a new-born colt.The spirit took his arm. ‘Careful, my friend. It will take you an hour or two to learn the distance from your head to your feet. Now, how about some new attire? You must be tired of that grey robe by now. 
And how long is it since you last handled a sword?’
‘Many years, your grace. Many, many years. I entered the order when I was seventeen and have not touched a weapon since.’
‘Then you will need practice. I shall make sure you get it. But let me see… yes, black, I think, with a brighter-coloured surcoat.’
Nustofer looked down and found himself clad like a prince. Under his red and yellow surcoat, a coat of mail glinted in the candlelight. A weight at his left hip told him he bore a large sword. He glanced down. If the sword was worthy of its finely crafted scabbard, it must be a fine blade indeed. And a weight at his right hip had the satisfying feel of a purse well laden with coins.
The Dark Spirit gave him a mocking bow. ‘Splendid, Prince Morifer. Shall we go now, my lord?’‘Prince?’ Nustofer’s heart leapt. Rank, position, all the money he could want, servants to command — everything he’d always wanted would be his.
‘Yes, you are taking the place of a certain Falrouvian prince who has met with, shall we say, a misadventure on his way to court the very lovely Princess Milana of Syland.’ The spirit pressed a hand to Nustofer’s forehead. ‘You will have all his memories and abilities. Your own will fade into the background, and will seem almost a dream. Come now, your master-at-arms awaits.’‘Of course I’m grown up! You don’t see me often enough, Grandmamma. Are your students keeping you busy, that you visit us so seldom?’
‘I have only a couple of students at present, Milana, and they don’t consult me very often. How is your own practice coming along? Any luck with the scrying?’Milana shook her head. ‘I practise sometimes, but I don’t think I’ll ever be any good at it, Grandmamma. I hardly ever see anything in the water and when I do I can’t tell whether it’s past, present or future or just something my mind has dreamed up.’
Ellyria laughed. ‘Never mind, my dear. There are plenty of worthwhile things to do other than magic. But do keep trying now and then. Maybe one day the lock will go ‘click’ and you’ll find yourself able to scry with the best of them. But what about your proposed fiancé? Isn’t he coming to visit soon?’Milana grimaced. ‘I’m afraid so. I know Daddy means the best for me, but the man is far too old, by my reckoning.’
‘Give him a chance, my dear. You might actually like him when you meet.’‘Mm, that’s what Lyrien says, too,’ was Milana’s noncommittal reply. They descended the staircase and rounded the screen that separated it from the Great Hall. Beverak, Tammi, Linvar and Lyrien were already there, with Melrad and Edeanna with Urbancho, Milana’s brother.Ellyria crossed to where Tammi stood chatting to Edeanna. ‘Where are Volran and Zavardi?’
‘Not here yet,’ Tammi replied. ‘You know how rough the channel can be this time of year. I suspect they’ve missed the tide and will have to be rowed in by boat instead of waiting for the ship to dock. Shall we sit down?’
Just as they were taking their seats a page announced the arrival of the Challivan royals. Volran, Ellyria noted, looked flushed and breathless. Both he and Zavardi were overweight. Their enormous appetites were the stuff of jokes, and not just within the family. Ellyria strode over to greet them with a formal embrace apiece.
‘You’re wearing the cloak, Volran! It’s not looking bad is it, to say it’s over twenty years since I wove it. Not an easy night’s work, I can tell you!’
Volran smiled. ‘It was worth it, Mother, to make such a fine piece. And it’s warm, too, so I don’t only wear it on ceremonial occasions.’
'I hope you put it on every day, Volran, as I instructed. It will lose its power to keep you and your bloodline safe if you don’t.’
‘Oh, he does wear it daily, Mother!’ Zavardi’s lovely dark face shone with love and pride. ‘And talisman or not, it really is quite the best-made cloak I’ve ever seen.’
‘Well, now he has a chance to show it off to the Dresnian court. Shall we sit down?’
They took their places at the high table, and Beverak gave the signal for the courtiers on the floor below to be seated.
‘Are the boys still in Kyrisia, then?’ Ellyria asked.
‘Yes, they are, but they should be back within the next few days,’ Volran replied.
‘Not that we’ll see much more of them when they are home,’ said Zavardi. ‘They still spend more time out with the Sea Training Academy than they do sitting in court with their father. They can wrap him around their little fingers, you know.’
‘Ah, they’re good boys, my dear,’ put in Volran. ‘They’ll settle down to more formal duties within a year or two, you’ll see.’
Ellyria resisted joining the argument. Kings’ sons should be trained to rule, but Volran had always indulged his boys. Heaven help Challiver if the pair didn’t settle down and anything happened to Volran… She pushed the thought away and reached for her spoon. The spell on the Dark Spirit was undone, and there was no point in fretting about it. Better to enjoy what happiness they could, for once the Dark Spirit showed its hand, chaos would surely reign again, for the dagger of Dresnia, lost these twenty-odd years, was still missing. Ellyria still clung to the remote hope that it would turn up, but that’s all it was, a remote hope. If it hadn’t been found by now, it probably never would be.
There was dancing after dinner, and Ellyria looked on fondly as Milana danced with Linvar. Lyrien was sitting with the musicians, merrily tootling away on a pipe, while Tammi and Beverak had joined the dancers on the floor, where trestles were still being pushed back as more and more couples joined the throng. If only life could always be like this!

But it couldn’t last. She’d tried to persuade herself that the Dark Spirit would not come back to claim the rest of its price for curing her sons, but it was just a silly hope. Poor little Polivana had been the first payment, and the spirit would want the lives of two more young women when it returned. She had taken every precaution in case this should happen. She’d made jewellery, well laced with protective spells, for both her granddaughters, and had set wards on all the royal residences — but no matter what she did, the Dark Spirit would surely find a way around it. She just hoped she would get some warning before it did.
Come back for Chapter Two tomorrow!

Book news

Friends, I have made a world-shattering decision. Well, world shattering to me, anyway – I hardly suppose anyone else will notice.

As you all know, I have written several books, one of which, The Dagger of Dresnia, was published by Satalyte Press four years ago. But sadly, Satalyte is no more, and while the book is still up on Amazon (thanks to my friend Andrew) it is actually nobody’s baby.
I have tried various people to help me to get book two, The Cloak of Challiver, up on Amazon and other online bookshops. Eventually, another writer put it up as an ebook, but I was not at all happy with the cover. Finally, I purchased another cover, and have decided to serialise the book here on this blog.
Watch this space. I hope to get the first chapter up shortly.

Many thanks to Marieke Ormsby for the cover art.

More news from schooldays

I hope my continual references to my schooldays aren't boring everyone to tears, but as the celebrations of Sydney's  Conservatorium High School's centenary draw closer, I am getting more and more excited. I plan to fly to Canberra for Conflux, that city's annual science fiction convention in the last weekend in September, where I expect to meet up with writing colleague Carol Ryles, who currently has two homes, Perth and Sydney. I hope to spend a few days with Carol and her husband while I wait for the Big Event.

Big event? The centenary celebrations for the Conservatorium High School, where I was a student in the late 1950s. There is ferver at the Con for all things historical this year, and you can read about it on the Facebook page, Conservatorium High School 100 Years of Class where you will find much planning and much reminiscing. The pic at left is of a poster from the earliest days, circa WWI. Those weekly concerts must have been a godsend to citizens of a country at war.

Guest blogging

Swapping blog posts with colleagues is a well-established way to meet new friends and consider new possibilities in writing or whatever sphere tickles your fancy. This week I am guest posting as 'writer of the week' on Russell Cornhill's blog. Funny thing about growing older - you really do become forgetful and even a bit vague. I put my hand up to write something for Russell's page a few weeks back - then promptly forgot all about it! So maybe old age is a good thing to discuss for starters!

You can find my introductory effort at  https://www.facebook.com/russell.corn...

The rest of the week will be given over to discussion on reading, writing and publishing. Come and visit!

A ‘Dear John’ Letter

‘Dear John -- Oh how I hate to write…’ We all know that old song, about a girl who is jilting her beau in favour of his brother.


This ‘Dear John’ is not one of those. It is a post to try to tell you about a beautiful friend who passed away earlier this week.
(Photo by Nigel Dowling Smith)Dr John Rouse Terry was a scion of an old NSW family: ‘pure merinos’ they were (the early C19 slang among the convicts deported to NSW for the free gentlemen who took up land to breed fine-wool merino sheep). But my friend was not a farmer — he was a musician, and a fine one. We were fellow students at Sydney’s Conservatorium High School back in our halcyon days. The ‘Con High’ was then, and possibly still is, the most ‘selective school’ in Australia. All the pupils had to be promising music students, enrolled with one or more of the fine teachers ensconced there.
John fulfilled the requirements perfectly. Not so yours truly – I was a barely adequate piano and singing student. John was made of sterner stuff. He could play all the classic composers by ear or by sight, and when I knew him, he was already composing his own music. Unlike me, he was a dedicated student.
But let us loose and boy, did we have fun! Sticky chewing gum on a teacher’s chair. Playing hide and seek underground in the forbidden regions of the Conservatorium’s cellars, hiring a practice studio and creating a ruckus that brought complaints from people genuinely trying to teach or practice nearby — and once, to celebrate the end of studies for the year of 1959, wagging school completely to go to the beach. That earned me the only bout of genuine sunstroke that I ever had. My parents and I were travelling by car to Melbourne the next day and my father had to stop several times so I could throw up by the roadside. Sic transit gloria mundi. (Well, yes, it really was a 'Sick Transit’.)
I never did ask John if he got sunburned too, but as he was fair-skinned, like me, it’s very likely he did. He and I did a bit of kissing and canoodling on the beach that day – the only time that I recall our relationship becoming physical. A few years later, along with a few other former classmates, he was to attend my first marriage. After that we almost lost touch – I travelled widely and seldom lived in the same place for more than a year or two. However, we ran into each other occasionally, and in more recent years, John’s sister, a fellow Shakespeare lover and former president of the Shakespeare Club of Western Australia, mentioned John from time to time. The last time John and I met, sadly, was at the funeral of his brother-in-law.
Ave et vale, beloved friend. I’ll bet you’re giving those heavenly choristers a good workout!

Artshub Reviews

I love the Festival of Perth in all its manifestations - the Festival proper, the Fringe Festival, and the Writers Festival. However, I was only able to see a soupçon of the Festivals this year - one visit to review the intriguing show CollageN, which you will find at
http://performing.artshub.com.au/news-article/reviews/performing-arts/carol-flavell-neist/review-collagen-at-fringe-world-255283

And just one day of the wonderful Writers Festival, which is online at http://publishing.artshub.com.au/news-article/reviews/writing-and-publishing/carol-flavell-neist/review-writers-week-perth-festival-2018-255282

Review - collageN - Perth Fringe Festival

I hadn’t planned on visiting the Fringe, but I was intrigued to receive an invitation to the opening night of collageN. The name alone was enough to engage me. Collagen is something all higher forms of life have to have. After all, it’s what holds flesh, bones and skin together.

Essentially a one-woman show, collageN is the brain child of Laura Strobech, who will from next month be studying acting at the Victorian College of the Arts. The work is definitely a student piece, filled with ideas and original thought, but perhaps not as cohesive as it could have been through having, if anything, too many bright ideas!

Let’s begin at the beginning. Strobech lay under a plastic sheet in one corner; the audience filled the remaining space, mostly seated on the floor. Some of them had to shift in a hurry when Strobech started to slither, snake-like, on her belly. She took a garment from an audience member (I should add that most of the audience consisted of young adults who were, I suspect, friends and fellow students.) There were bits of inane conversation about sitting vs standing, and suggestions that audience members could take the sheets of thin plastic that were the set and do whatever they liked with them.

Our hostess then scrambled up a step ladder and perched atop. From her lofty seat, like an empress, she requested – and got – a pear, but immediately demanded it be changed for an apple. However, she settled for a nectarine, which, after taking a bite, she shared with audience members. (Don’t tell the occupational health and safety crowd –I suspect they would not approve one little bit!)

She proceeded to wrap the nectarine seed in plastic and to ‘plant’ it in another plastic sheet, which she then put over her head like a bridal veil. Audience members were encouraged to trace her facial features through the plastic, using a black marker pen.

After a return to the starting pose, lying supine behind a plastic curtain, Strobech sat up for several minutes then lay down again. She sat up again and vocalized for a while, then stood up and did a bit more vocalising. Finally, she fell silent and still, as if engaging in silent meditation. Loud applause.

I saw many such creations when a student at NIDA, and later, WAAPA, and later still, I came to see that Fringe Festivals are excellent mediums for showing such experimental pieces to outside audiences. In fact, this kind of avant-garde production is one of the reasons the Fringe Festival exists. Performers can use Fringes for experimentation on many levels, both personal and professional. Furthermore, we are much blessed in this country to have tertiary courses in all states for students to refine and polish their talents. I shall look forward to seeing more work from Laura Strobech when she returns from VCA.

3.5 stars
collageN
Performed and Presented by Laura Strobech
Paper Mountain, Northbridge
17-19 February 2018
Part of Fringe World 2018

Fiat Lux

As a teenager, I was lucky enough to spend three years at the NSW Conservatorium of Music, which has its own high school, known familiarly as the Con High. I was there from 1957-1959. 

This year marks the school’s centenary, and the celebrations can be heard right across the country in Perth, thanks to Facebook. Check it out at https://www.facebook.com/groups/1271076779693709
My schooling was chaotic. The family moved around a lot, and by the time I was fourteen, I had been to six different schools and hadn’t liked any of them.
But the Con High was a joy. At last I wasn’t the only weird kid on the block. People of an artistic temperament (and I mean that as praise, not as the subtle criticism you so often hear when someone says, ‘She has an artistic temperament, you know’) do best when they mix with others of their own kind. The public school system recognises that fact these days. Here in Perth, Western Australia, there are specialist public schools for all branches of the arts, and I imagine the other states are similarly endowed. Fiat Lux, ('Let there be light') the Con High’s motto, sums up the essence of a good education – cast light on a student’s abilities and he or she will flourish.
When my long-suffering mother heard about the Con High, she couldn’t get me there fast enough. I was auditioned by the education department’s head of music, Terence Hunt. I dutifully played the schoolgirl standby, Für Elise, and he commented to my mother, ‘Well, she doesn’t show any signs of genius, but she should be capable of becoming a teacher’.
I had just started third year (equivalent to today’s year 10) at Liverpool Girls High, but for some reason I had to repeat second year at the Con. I suspect it was my mother’s idea. She told me there was no room in third year, but I quickly found that wasn’t the case – the two years shared a classroom and there were roughly equal numbers in each: a total of about twenty-eight. The entire school had only about sixty pupils, with girls outnumbering boys by something like five to one.
My mother was right. Repeating a year enabled me to consolidate my learning. I had never done very well academically, but at the Con High I did extremely well, perhaps due to the small classes. I was almost always dux of the class in academic work, but musically I was far behind many of my classmates. Most of them had reached AMEB Grade VI while I was lumbering along with Grade IV. Several of my fellow students had perfect pitch and most of them could sight-read me into a cocked hat (or maybe into the grey beret that was part of our uniform).
I studied piano with Raymond Fisher, singing with Renee Goossens   and I also learnt Speech and Drama with a lady whose name escapes me. (We had moved around so much I had an unplaceable accent that must have been partly Yorkshire, partly Lancashire and partly Australian.)
My schoolmates and I blossomed in the hot house that was Sydney Con. Where else in the world could we have sat in a maths class with musicians of the calibre of David Oistrakh or Clive Amadio practising in the room overhead? (When Oistrackh was rehearsing, dear Mr Teasdale gave up trying to teach us maths for the duration, and read his newspaper while we listened, entranced.)
There were some incredibly talented students at the Con High. Many subsequently made their livings as orchestral players or teachers in the music field. One of my classmates who shall remain nameless eventually became a famous concert pianist. I am telling tales out of school here, but this lad developed an attachment to a friend of mine in Liverpool, and would spend weekends at my place to woo her. He practised enthusiastically on my family’s upright piano and managed to break the back-touch (that simply shouldn’t be possible!) which distressed my mother no end.
At the end of fourth year, I realised that I would not have the right subjects to matriculate – I had given up maths because I was hopeless at numbers, and algebra seemed to be beyond my capabilities. Geography was the only ‘science’ subject I had, and it was to be shifted from the sciences to the humanities in 1960 – the year I should have matriculated.
Dearest Betsy Brown — a beloved teacher who eventually became headmistress — coached and coaxed and dragged me through the final year’s syllabus over the summer vacation of 1959-60 so that I could sit the Sydney University’s Matriculation Exam in January, and, wonder of wonders, I passed! So against all advice I left school in February, 1960 to study Arts at Sydney Uni – but that’s another story.
Miss Brown was eventually awarded an OAM in recognition of her service to music and education. She died on about 23 Jun, 2002. As she started teaching in 1943 – the year I was born! – she must have been about eighty years old. If I have a patron saint, it is Betsy Brown.
The Con High was, quite honestly, the making of me. I never took up music professionally (I am a writer and a ballet teacher by trade) but the Con High nurtured and protected me for three wonderful years, and the friendships I made there gave me much joy. Long may its light continue to shine!

Shrinking Brain!

Can it really be so long since I last posted? Excuses: illness (not serious), forgetfulness (likewise, but probably permanent) and, of course, holiday stuff. I spent three precious weeks with my sister Anne who lives in Mount Gambier. (The distance from Perth is roughly the same as London to Moscow: Australia is Too Big, I reckon.) Anne and I had a great time together and I also got to catch up with my nieces and nephews, as well as my daughter, Billy Jo, who lives in Adelaide.

The forgetfulness is apparently due to 'frontoparietal atrophy', which means that part of my brain is shrinking. I've been taking Aloe Vera, Gingko Biloba and lots of B-vites, all of which are said to be helpful to this condition. They have made a bit of difference to short-term recall, but sadly, the worst symptom is constant dizziness, and so far I have found no help with that one. We are living far longer than previous generations, and many of us are keeping physically fit, but apparently there's no treatment for brain shrinkage.

However, I'm determined to enjoy life for as long as possible. I've been having a virtual school reunion, thanks to a Facebook page devoted to people who attended Sydney's Conservatorium High School, which is celebrating its centenary year. Sydney, of course is on the other side of Australia, yet there are several ex-Cons living here in Perth, and last weekend four of us got together. One of the quartet attended the Con at the same time as I did, so we had lots of yarns to exchange. Another lady was there in the 1940s and the other one was there in the seventies. We hope to get together again before too long, and I am hoping to go back to Sydney for the school's Big Bash in October. My new schoolfriends are in the photo with me - Gillian, Dianne and Marguerite. Charles, Gillian's husband, snapped the shot.

Shrinking brain notwithstanding, I hope to get the final book in The Talismans Trilogy off the ground this year. It only consists of  few ideas in my head at present, so I really must knuckle down to it, in between Shakespeare Club, teaching dance, fitness classes and other commitments. Wish me luck!

Weigh-in time!

We are more than half way through November and I have not written a blog post. Life goes on as usual: Mondays and Tuesdays I teach dance. Wednesdays and Fridays I go to keep fit class. The third Saturday of each month (that's today!) is devoted to the Shakespeare Club of Western Australia's monthly meeting.

So I should be getting plenty of exercise. That's the theory, anyway. In actual practice I only do two or three fitness activities in a week. However, a friend and dance colleague of long standing teaches an adult ballet class and I've been going to that for the last two or three weeks. I'm spoilt for choice, in fact, as there are several excellent adult ballet classes available in Perth. Some, like the one I teach at Trinity School for Seniors, are for beginners or near beginners: others are open classes for more experienced people. However, my class is the only one, as far as I know, that's intended for people over 60.

Dance, especially ballet, is a very healthy activity. It can help develop and improve strength, flexibility, balance, grace and co-ordination, to say nothing of musicality and confidence. It saddens me to see the number of people of all ages who are grossly overweight. I am glad I will not be a pallbearer at such a person't funeral!

Even so, I'm ashamed to say that over the last couple of years my exercise program has slipped and.I am now well over my 'working weight' - the 7 stone 10lb  (about  55 kg) I used to be when I was dancing professionally. A love of cakes and ice cream accounts for much of that, but is hardly an excuse. I've generally managed, as an adult, to keep my weight under 80 kg, but if I don't watch out, it quickly shoots up to as high as 95kg. Some people, and I appear to be one of them, seem born to be fat.

We have all, I'm sure, met people who seem to stay slim no matter what they eat. Anorexia and induced vomiting aside, it seems our genes must have an important role to play in our weight.

That's my excuse, anyhow, and I'm sticking to it!