Centre Stage Read online

  From stage actor and international television star to blockbuster, best-selling author, Judy Nunn’s career has been meteoric.

  Her first forays into adult fiction resulted in what she describes as her ‘entertainment set’. The Glitter Game, Centre Stage and Araluen, three novels set in the worlds of television, theatre and film respectively, each became an instant bestseller.

  Next came her ‘city set’. Kal, a fiercely passionate novel about men and mining set in Kalgoorlie; Beneath the Southern Cross, a mammoth achievement chronicling the story of Sydney since first European settlement; and Territory, a tale of love, family and retribution set in Darwin. Territory took Australia by storm, making Judy one of the nation’s top-selling fiction writers, and her following novel, Pacific, set principally in Vanuatu, met with equal success.

  Her next work, Heritage, a thriller based in the 1950s and set in the Snowies during the construction of the massive Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme, embraces postwar immigration and the birth of multiculturalism. The resounding critical and commercial success of Heritage has consolidated Judy’s position as one of this country’s leading fiction writers. Floodtide, Judy’s ninth novel, is set in the ‘Iron Ore State’, Western Australia, and reveals, through three decades, the loss of innocence of a population caught up in the greed and avarice of the mining boom.

  Judy Nunn’s fame as a novelist is spreading rapidly. Her books are now published throughout Europe in English, German, French, Dutch and Czech.

  Judy lives with her husband, actor-author Bruce Venables, on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

  By the same author

  The Glitter Game

  Araluen

  Kal

  Territory

  Beneath the Southern Cross

  Pacific

  Heritage

  Floodtide

  Maralinga

  Children’s fiction

  Eye in the Storm

  Eye in the City

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Centre Stage

  ePub ISBN 9781742741888

  Kindle ISBN 9781742741895

  An Arrow Book

  Published by Random House Australia

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  Sydney New York Toronto

  London Auckland Johannesburg

  First published by Pan Macmillan 1994

  This Arrow edition published 1999, 2007

  Copyright © Judy Nunn 1994

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Nunn, Judy.

  Centre stage.

  ISBN 978 1 74166 600 7 (pbk.).

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Contents

  Cover

  About the author

  By the same author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Thanks

  Dedication

  Poem by Harold Beauchamp

  Prologue

  Act I: 1969 - 1971

  Scene 1: 1969

  Scene 2: 1970

  Scene 3: 1970

  Scene 4: 1970

  Act II: 1972 - 1981

  Scene 1: 1972 - 1973

  Scene 2: 1977

  Scene 3: 1978 - 1979

  Scene 4: 1980 - 1981

  Act III: 1982 - 1985

  Scene 1: 1982

  Scene 2: 1982

  Scene 3: 1982 - 1984

  Scene 4: 1984 - 1985

  Act IV: 1990 - 1992

  Scene 1: 1990 - 1991

  Scene 2: 1991 - 1992

  Scene 3: 1992

  Epilogue

  ARALUEN: Bonus Chapter Sampler

  Thanks go to Captain Robert

  Lawrence, MC, and Robyn Gurney

  for their invaluable assistance

  in researching this book.

  For my husband Bruce Venables,

  who never saw me play Hedda Gabler.

  The Swan and the Globe and the Mermaid Tavern

  All rang with the song of the golden age

  And all the words in the world were woven

  And roared into history from centre stage.

  A poem by Harold Beauchamp

  from Beauchamp: A Life in the Theatre

  (Julian Oldfellow, 1999)

  Lexie watched fascinated as the desk drawer slid silently open. He was transfixed as his brother carefully took out the revolver they were forbidden to touch. As Tim opened the cardboard box, removed six bullets and put them in the pocket of his denim shirt, Lexie thought, ‘He’s going to be in deep shit’, but still he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  It was Lexie’s fascination which urged Tim on. It always did. Even though Tim felt the vast superiority of his ten years, and even though he considered the adventures he and Lexie shared to be of his own invention, it was inevitably his little brother who was the catalyst.

  Lexie never got the blame. And it never occurred to Tim to wonder why. By the time Tim had received the full measure of Lexie’s admiration and approval, he’d forgotten that his deed had evolved from a veiled suggestion from Lexie and he was fully prepared to accept the responsibility.

  Today was no exception. As they closed the back flywire door and set off for the woodshed, Tim could feel eight year old Lexie’s eyes shining with love and respect.

  ‘You’re going to be in deep shit, Tim,’ Lexie whispered. And Tim thought it was worth it.

  The woodshed was down the back of the block next to the chicken coop. There was nothing but bush stretching to the river behind. To the right was a vacant block and the Delaneys to the left had taken their brood away for the school holidays.

  It was one of those rare days when their father was off duty and one of those even rarer days when their parents had accepted an invitation which didn’t include the kids. They were out on a riverboat cruise celebrating a friend’s thirtieth birthday and wouldn’t be back for at least three hours.

  Tim had everything worked out. He even intended to fire the revolver into one of the big chaff bags of chicken feed to deaden the sound.

  He carefully loaded a bullet into each of the six chambers. ‘See,’ he boasted as he snapped the cylinder closed, ‘told you I knew how.’

  Holding the revolver in both hands, he pressed the muzzle firmly against the chaff bag and, with both index fingers, he eased back the trigger.

  There was a muffled crack, not unlike the sound his cap gun made, but Tim was far from disappointed. The weapon kicked thrillingly in his hand, the air was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and there was a neat hole in the chaff bag.

  It had worked. Tim’s heart was thumping with excitement and adrenalin pounded through his body, but he looked to Lexie for his ultimate reward. He wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘Wow!’ Lexie breathed out a long, gentle sigh as he stared down at the chaff bag. He squatted beside it and tentatively
poked at the hole. ‘Wow!’ he marvelled again.

  ‘Want a go?’

  His eyes as big as saucers, Lexie looked up at Tim and nodded.

  ‘Use both hands,’ Tim instructed. ‘And ease the trigger back,’ he said. ‘Don’t jerk it.’

  Lexie did exactly as he was told. He pressed the revolver against the bag and, with both index fingers, he pulled on the trigger. It was harder than he thought. Far from ‘easing’ it back, Lexie had to muster every ounce of strength he had before he felt the trigger move at all. But finally it did and he too felt the power of the recoil as the gun kicked like a living thing in his hands. Lexie was overwhelmed. It was awesome! It was thrilling! To feel such power …

  He stared down at the second hole and again knelt to examine it. Then he lifted the side of the bag to peer at the damage underneath.

  ‘Watch it, Lexie,’ his brother warned, taking the weapon from him. ‘You’ve got to be careful with guns.’

  Lexie wasn’t listening. ‘Look, it’s gone right through the other side.’ Chaff started to pour out of the hole. ‘It’s making a mess.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. The feed bin needs filling. We’ll empty the whole bag in when we’ve finished.’ Tim grinned. ‘Dad’ll be pleased with us.’

  But Lexie wasn’t listening. He was thinking about the chicken he’d watched his father kill for Christmas dinner two months before. ‘I wonder what it’d be like to shoot something real.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tim asked.

  ‘Remember when Dad killed the chook?’ Lexie did. He remembered vividly the suddenness of it all. One minute a squawking bird, then nothing but a carcass. Imagine having that power! He shivered at the thought.

  ‘Kill one of the chooks? You’re joking.’

  Lexie stared back at Tim for several seconds. Then he shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said flatly, ‘we’ll stick to the feed bag’.

  Tim wondered why the idea was so shocking to him. He’d seen his father kill several chickens over the years and it had meant nothing. With the exception of Ted the rooster and several layers, the rest of the brood was destined for the table anyway. They didn’t even have pet names. No, it was the idea of killing one himself that was so shocking. Shocking enough to be thrilling.

  ‘That hole in the chookyard where Ted got out isn’t fixed up too good,’ he said thoughtfully. He could feel Lexie’s eyes on him again, the younger boy looked as if he was holding his breath. ‘We could say they got out and we couldn’t catch them all.’

  Lexie nodded, still hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘OK.’ Tim made the decision. ‘We’ll shoot one of the chooks.’

  ‘Agatha’s bigger.’

  It was a breathless suggestion and Tim wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. ‘Agatha? Kill Agatha?’

  ‘She’s bigger.’ The bigger the victim the greater the power, calculated Lexie.

  But the idea of slaughtering the pet goose they’d fed by hand was repugnant to Tim. ‘We’ll do one of the chooks, OK.’ It was a command rather than a question.

  ‘OK,’ Lexie grudgingly agreed.

  It took them ten minutes to catch the right bird. Lexie insisted on the fattest one.

  ‘That’ll make Dad even madder—she’s just about ready for eating,’ Tim grumbled, but he clasped the bird’s wings against its back and told Lexie to latch the gate behind him. ‘We better not forget to rip that hole in the fence,’ he said as they returned to the woodshed.

  Tim had decided that they should shoot the bird against the chaff bag. ‘There’ll be blood,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lexie nodded. ‘There’ll be blood.’

  Between them they dragged the feed bag to the corner of the shed and propped it up. Tim made sure he had the chicken firmly pinioned against it with one hand, then he gestured to Lexie.

  ‘Give us the gun. Watch it,’ he said as Lexie fumbled the exchange.

  As Tim turned the gun upon the bird, he must have loosened the grip of his left hand. Or some instinct might have warned the bird of its fate. Whatever the cause, the chicken let out a demented shriek, twisted between Tim’s fingers and had escaped out of the woodshed door in an instant.

  Tim whirled to clutch it, there was an explosion, a thump and then nothing but the squawking of the chicken as it headed for the river.

  Lexie stared down at Tim. He was sprawled against the chaff bag, his fingers still curled around the gun. His head was flung back, his eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open.

  ‘Tim?’ Lexie knelt beside his brother and examined him closely. He was still breathing and he appeared unmarked. Except for the powder burns and the bullet hole in the chest pocket of his denim shirt. Lexie wondered if it had gone right through the other side. Maybe even through the chaff bag as well and into the floor.

  He leaned forward on his hands and knees and peered at Tim’s mouth. His breathing had a funny rasping sound to it and Lexie wondered whether he was dying. But if he was dying, why wasn’t there more blood?

  Then he saw the pool of red seeping from beneath the chaff bag and he watched as it grew and grew until it became a bright red river channelling its way to the door. Yes, Tim’s dying, he thought. And he stared at his brother with the utmost respect. It was Tim’s ultimate feat and Lexie was lost in admiration.

  He had no idea how long he knelt there. Tim’s face grew whiter and the rasping turned to a gurgle. With each gurgle blood bubbled from his mouth. And still Lexie didn’t move.

  It was near the very end, when the gurgles were barely audible that he heard his father’s voice. ‘Tim! Lexie! You there, boys?’

  Silence. Then the slap of the flywire door as it swung closed.

  Not long after that the gurgles stopped. Tim’s face was white as white and everything about him was so wonderfully still that Lexie hardly dared move for fear he’d lose the moment. It had happened. Death. He savoured it for a full five minutes.

  Then he rose to his feet. That was it. It was over. He crossed to the door, carefully avoiding the blood, and started up towards the house.

  ‘Dad,’ he called.

  As she crossed her legs she felt his eyes linger on the expanse of thigh exposed by her miniskirt. She had a horrible feeling she knew what he was thinking.

  ‘You’re very young,’ he said.

  Oh hell. She’d been right.

  ‘I’m eighteen.’ Maddy wasn’t lying. People always took her to be around fifteen. Because she was blonde and petite she looked very young and delicate and she constantly had to show her driver’s licence at hotels and discos.

  Maddy had come to the conclusion that there were two basic categories of middle-aged men: the paternal sort with kids her age at home, and the lechers who lusted after schoolgirl flesh. The fact that a lot of the lechers also had kids her age at home had come as a shock to her. Despite the last hard, fast few months of growing up, her protective boarding school background had left her prone to disillusionment.

  ‘I see that you only just scraped through your final exams.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maddy nodded, ‘I wasn’t happy in my last year at Loreto.’ She tried to look contrite.

  Jonathan Thomas wasn’t watching. He cleared his throat and fixed his attention on the papers before him. Oh God, he thought, she saw me. He couldn’t fail to notice Maddy’s response to him. It was the same response he received from every teenage girl he was confronted with and, as one of the directors of the most prestigious drama school in the country, he was confronted with many teenage girls. They all thought he was a creep, he knew that.

  He tried desperately to check his reactions but it was impossible. How could he fail to notice that glorious expanse of youthful flesh as the girl crossed her legs? And those firm, ripe breasts beneath the flimsy silk shirt? Without a bra, of course. His eyes were drawn to them like a magnet and try as he might to avoid them, he found it physically impossible not to flicker a glance now and then.

  He meant no harm. He never touched the girls. God forbid, he’d
be too frightened. Jonathan’s sex life was non-existent. He wasn’t a paedophile or a defiler of young women. At worst he was a lonely middle-aged fetishist who occasionally masturbated cleanly over the toilet bowl with a copy of Dolly magazine or Teen Vogue in his other hand.

  It had, therefore, come as a terrible shock when two years before he’d been suspended pending investigations into a claim from a seventeen year old student that he’d interfered with her.

  Questioning revealed that many of his female students accused him of perving on them. Jonathan was shocked. He was sure they hadn’t noticed.

  Things were not looking good for Jonathan Thomas until it was discovered that the student who had claimed ‘interference’ worked three nights a week in an up-market brothel in Surry Hills. The investigation took a different turn and, shortly after, when it was also discovered that Jonathan had recommended she be dropped at the end of first year, he was reinstated.

  But it had undermined what little confidence he possessed. He had lost standing with the other directors and members of the teaching staff and he now knew the students considered him to be a joke. Try as he might to concentrate on his work—and he was a good teacher—Jonathan was not a happy man.

  He cleared his throat again and looked up from the desk, willing his eyes to go directly to Maddy’s and not to linger over her breasts. He failed.