Ruby Tuesday

by Hayley Lawrence

  She lifts her glasses and rests them on her head, pulling the hair back from her face.

  ‘Ruby, I presume?’ she says, extending a hand.

  I take her hand. No limp fish; a firm handshake. I’m not confident, but I am sure. I have a voice. I can take my voice anywhere. And it can take me places too.

  ‘Yeah, this is my girl,’ Robbie says.

  We move into the living room, which feels cramped with four of us.

  ‘Martha,’ Robbie says, ‘this is –’

  ‘Celeste Matthews,’ Martha grins broadly as she takes Mum’s hand in both of hers. ‘What an honour to meet you. I grew up listening to your solos. My parents were classical music enthusiasts so I know your work intimately.’

  Mum straightens a little. ‘Well that’s, uh . . . thank you.’

  ‘Celeste’s doing the backing music for Ruby. I’m guessing you’ll enjoy that,’ Robbie says.

  ‘I look forward to it. A rare treat.’

  Martha and Robbie take their mugs of tea and sit together on our small sofa. Almost too small to fit them both, but they pretend not to notice.

  ‘Should we begin?’ Martha says.

  Robbie pulls out his guitar, and we start with a cover, just to warm up.

  ‘Ruby Tuesday’, of course.

  With Robbie playing guitar, and Mum on the Steinway, I can’t help feeling like the luckiest girl alive.

  Martha leans back, studying me impassively.

  We pick up tempo and Robbie joins in for the chorus as we harmonise our voices. I sing a couple of octaves higher. He drops his voice lower. Then we meet in the middle, our voices looping apart and back together again.

  When we finish, Martha nods. ‘Nice,’ she says.

  But now it’s time for the real show.

  Time to stop being the child of two brilliant musicians and show her what I’ve got.

  Mum doesn’t give me time to overthink it. She starts with one small note. One key. Another. Gentle, cautious playing that picks up pace until her ballerina fingers are at work, dancing across the keyboard, using every inch of space on the deck. To hear her playing my piece with the same fury and passion that she plays Chopin makes me stand a little taller. You are good enough, she’s saying.

  I’m so entranced by her that I almost forget to come in at my beat. Almost.

  If I tell you a story

  About all my broken parts

  If I tell you the truth

  Will it break your precious hearts?

  ’Cause out there in the forest where the wild dogs roam,

  The men are cold in the place I call home.

  My words bleed into the melody, and Mum’s playing tells the rest, starting with the minor key. Our eyes meet briefly, and she gives me a fleeting smile. We’re doing this, and we’re doing it together.

  Colour me broken.

  Colour me worn.

  Colour me scarred.

  Colour me torn . . .

  My words and my mother’s playing tell parallel stories, the song and music entwined in a way we can never unravel. Hers speaks of fallen majesty and despair, of heights and hopes unrealised.

  But did nobody tell you

  That broken things can shine?

  Did nobody wake you,

  Say you’re precious and you’re mine?

  ’Cause gold can fill the cracks that glue you back together

  And build you into strength that’ll stay with you forever.

  It feels like it’s just us again. In our little lounge room filled with butterscotch light, playing for ourselves, reading each other’s language.

  For a moment, I forget and look for Nan, leaning on the door frame of the hallway, smiling.

  Mum changes to the major key now, each note interspersed with something that might be mistaken for hope.

  Colour me broken.

  Colour me worn.

  Colour me scarred.

  Colour me torn . . .

  Broken things don’t always mend,

  And not everything is forgiven,

  But brokenness is beauty too

  If we embrace the things we’re given.

  It’s Mum who finishes, after my last word is sung. Giving every bit of herself to the music.

  My mother is still a maestro. Still a great pianist of the twenty-first century. Nothing can take that from her, not even if she never plays to a crowd again. Her music will always belong to her whether she plays with Celestial Vendetta or not.

  Martha stands at the end of our performance, clapping her hands. She smiles at me, but she bows before Mum.

  ‘I just witnessed greatness,’ she says.

  After we’ve played, Martha sits with us for a couple of hours on the back deck, chatting all things musical.

  Mum and I see her off at the front door, but Robbie walks her to the car. I peer out the sheer curtains, my heart thumping with anticipation. He stays at her car door talking for a long time.

  When he finally comes back into the house, he closes the door quietly behind him, sombre-faced. Then he gives us two thumbs up.

  ‘She loved you, Roobster, absolutely fucking loved you!’ And he jumps towards me like a child, picking me up and spinning me around.

  ‘And you,’ he says to Mum. ‘She adores you. But you saw that for yourself.’

  Mum doesn’t respond to his praise, but I can already see her happiness. The burning pride of an artist whose work has resonated.

  ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking,’ she says, after a pause. ‘About what you said, about the thrill of playing for a crowd . . .’

  Robbie drops me from his arms. Stands dead still.

  ‘If you ask me to beg, I will,’ he says solemnly, pressing his hands together. ‘I will!’

  Robbie’s eyes are shining as he looks at Mum.

  She bites down on her lip. ‘The thing is,’ she says slowly, ‘we haven’t much time to practise.’

  ‘You’re doing the Entertainment Centre gig?’

  I can’t stop the tears. I don’t even try. They flow, and they flow and they flow.

  Back at school, life goes on.

  Nobody taunts me with my songs anymore. Everyone heard about the crash, of course – the gossip spread faster than the fire did. Even the local news headlined it. For some reason that generated more hits for my YouTube clip.

  Now everyone’s interested. Everyone’s my friend.

  But I don’t need brand-new best friends and Insta selfies.

  Alex told her friends in the art room about my meeting with Martha de Lange and how she signed me the next day. They say they’re expecting big things, but it’s dangerous to let people’s judgements rule your self-worth, even the people you like.

  I no longer fear the bus or the school jungle. My world is bigger than Cooper’s Creek. Who will people like Joey and Lukas, Jack and Kyle, the twins and Anna be to me in ten years? Nothing more than ghosts. I know that, but I still decided to make a statement to the police about Joey. What he did to me at the party. Even if it never amounts to anything for me, it’s important.

  One day soon I’ll leave, but some things will still run through me like blood in my veins – the forest, the music in my lungs. Nan, who is no longer here, but is with me anyway.

  For now I pour my energy into the things and the people that really matter. Mum, Erik and Alex, and into composing a new song for my first gig – supporting an all-girl rock band in Sydney. Martha wants me out there while my YouTube clip is still generating attention.

  I search for new words to describe old things, because the old words have a fire to them – laced with the pain of memories. I might never get justice for the things that have happened. Some broken things really can’t be made right. Only repaired.

  But I don’t have to suffer in silence.

  I have a voice and it’s okay to tell my story – in all its awfulness and all its beauty. Because I was put here uniquely to be me – and only I can write these songs. Songs that might connect with some voiceless gir
l I’ve never met. Songs that might help her feel less alone, because someone else out there has walked this path before her and survived.

  I close my eyes and give myself permission to tell a new story. One where I am worthy to stand on stage and be heard.

  Mum’s packing green tea into a container in the kitchen.

  ‘Can I help with something?’ Robbie says. He looks at me. ‘I’ll take good care of her, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t need taking care of,’ Mum says indignantly. ‘I’ve looked after myself perfectly well all my life.’

  Robbie rolls his eyes at me behind Mum’s back.

  ‘It’s true,’ I say.

  Mum’s fussing in that rare way that tells me she’s excited. Maybe even nervous. I’m a bit anxious about not going down to Sydney with them, but she’s adamant I’ve missed enough school and I can drive down on Saturday. I’ll still make it in time for the show. Lately she’s been amping up the protective parent role, and I let her because I can’t imagine what she felt that night I was missing in the forest.

  When Mum’s finally finished packing, she wheels out to the back deck, down the ramp and round the side of the house. I follow with her bags, Robbie on my heels. Mum stops suddenly and I nearly run into her.

  A black four-wheel drive is parked out front instead of the Lamborghini.

  ‘New wheels, courtesy of the band,’ Robbie says, giving Mum a smile as he walks past and opens the door. ‘I’m gonna have hand controls fitted for you when we get back.’

  It’s the flashest truck I’ve ever seen, with monster tyres, tinted windows, big black bull bar and roo spotlights on the front. It’ll stick out almost as much as the Lambo down at the shops.

  It screams off-road, through-gullies kind of adventure.

  It’s absolutely miles off the ground.

  He’s got no idea.

  ‘Robbie, I can’t . . .’ Mum looks it over. ‘I can’t accept this.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. Consider it a few years’ worth of child support.’

  Mum studies him a long time.

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ she says finally. ‘There’s no way to modify this to make it work for us.’

  I’m trying not to laugh, but I’m doing a bad job of it.

  ‘Damn.’ Robbie sighs. ‘Okay, we’ll trade her in for . . . I dunno, an Outback or something? This’ll do for today. I’ll help you in.’

  As he puts one arm around Mum and one under her knees, she laughs. ‘Quite the gentleman when you want to be, aren’t you?’

  I try to imagine anyone else being allowed to pick Mum up. I’m sure he won’t be allowed to do it again.

  I lean in and hold Mum tight. I don’t wish her good luck for the performance. She doesn’t need it.

  As I wave them off, darkness begins to fold over the house. It’s still warm, even though the heat of summer has finally let go.

  My phone buzzes as I walk inside.

  It’s a heart. From Erik.

  They’re gone, I type. Then hesitate a moment. Am I ready for this? But I already know the answer.

  Date night? Come over?

  I pull my favourite cotton dress from my cupboard. It’s white and lacy and simple and I’ve always felt kind of pretty in it, but it feels like I’m marking an occasion. Maybe I am.

  Fifteen minutes later, I hear the ute stop out front. I light the candles in my bedroom.

  My heart is jumping in my chest. I look myself over in the bathroom mirror. Check my teeth, my hair. Smooth my dress.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  When I open it, Erik’s under the porch light.

  He looks at my dress. ‘Fancy!’

  I feel myself blush. The dress was a mistake.

  ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘No, no, I love it. Come here.’

  He holds me a moment on the porch, and I press my face into his neck. Then I pull him into the house and we hold each other, me on tiptoes. And it’s enough to smell him, feel his warmth. I could stay like this forever.

  He kisses me once, softly on the forehead.

  I shut the front door behind him. ‘Do you want to come lie with me in my bed for a while?’ I say.

  He looks at me, holds me at arm’s length for a moment.

  I lean in and kiss him on the mouth. ‘I want to.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I whisper.

  We walk hand-in-hand to my bedroom. Candlelight flickers across the walls, making long shadows. It casts a golden glow over Erik’s face.

  He slips off his shoes and we fall onto the sheets together. He kisses me again – a long warm kiss. Playfully he rolls me over, pinning my wrists above my head. I’m aware of his strength, but it doesn’t scare me. He lets go of my wrists and I roll us over, so I can trace my hands across his chest, memorising the bump of his sternum, the coarse hair beneath my fingertips, the earthy smell of him, the salty taste of his neck.

  ‘This is my favourite place in the world,’ I murmur. ‘With you.’

  I lift my face from his neck and we kiss again, until we lose all sense of time and place. We kiss and tease and play and touch until Erik is on top of me again. He presses his body against mine, inching my legs apart with his.

  A flashback seizes me.

  Joey. The pain as he forced his way in. I tense up.

  Erik pushes off me.

  He smooths my hair off my forehead, and I see concern written on his face. A face and a look that is nothing at all like Joey. Did Joey look at me, even once?

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. It’s another thing to love.

  ‘Yeah,’ I breathe.

  I block Joey out. I clutch at Erik’s hair and bring him closer to me. Then I kiss him, hard. Because I want to, because it feels good.

  Right here, right now, our bodies against each other, I am drunk with desire. I’ll never feel closer to anyone as long as I live. I would go anywhere with Erik, anywhere in the world, and I’d do anything with him. Everything. A thousand times over.

  I want him to take me apart and put me back together again.

  With our mouths together and our eyes closed, our bodies entwined, nothing feels scary or wrong. Everything about this is right. I wish I didn’t have anything to compare it to. But we can’t undo the past, we can only write the future.

  Erik pauses. ‘You know I’m going back to Ireland soon . . .’

  I nod.

  ‘I don’t want you doing anything you’ll regret.’

  I kiss him once more, slowly. ‘You’re making me want you even more.’ I reach over to the bedside drawer and pull out the flat foil packet with the condom inside. ‘Do you want to?’

  His breathing is hard, his body warm against mine. ‘Yeah.’

  Erik slides off his boxers until he’s completely, unabashedly naked before me. I pull away, my heart a butterfly in my chest. All of him is exposed, candlelight dancing across his skin. I run my fingers lightly over the red jagged scar along his thigh. The scar that tells our story. He’s so incredibly beautiful.

  ‘Your turn,’ he says, and he pushes the sheet off us, leaning back to watch.

  The weight of expectation sends my nerves into a spin. My heart picks up and, with it, fear of his rejection.

  ‘Don’t be scared, Forest Queen,’ he says.

  And I remember her strength, that feisty little queen. It’s mine. It’s always been mine. If Erik’s brave enough to be naked, I am too. So I unhook my bra, and he watches as it falls. I’m conscious of the flickering light spilling across my skin, highlighting my milky flesh. Every freckle, every blemish on show.

  Erik traces one hand slowly down the full length of my body. I think I stop breathing. Then I peel my undies off until, like him, I’m completely naked.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says.

  He kisses me and my hands tangle in his hair, until I’m pulling him back down to the bed with me. On top of me.

  He presses his hands either side of my shoulders as we kiss, h
olding his weight just above me.

  ‘You can lie on me,’ I say smiling. ‘You won’t break me.’

  He lowers himself down until his entire body covers mine, and I can feel the force of him – the pounding of his heart against mine. ‘You’re sure?’ he breathes in my ear.

  ‘Yes.’ I didn’t get to say it last time. But I’ve never felt more sure in my life, so I say it again. ‘Yes.’

  He tears open the foil packet, and I brace for the pain, but there’s none. Only me letting him in, wanting him, his kisses on my mouth and whispers in my ear. It’s the kind of closeness I didn’t know was possible. As the last light is swallowed by the forest, Erik and I move as one. Until gasping, I feel him pulse through me. And there’s just warmth and our breath, and two hearts beating as one.

  I pull the ute up at the cyclone fence and punch the old code into the hangar gate.

  Don’t tell Erik I’m here. I text to Alex. It’s a surprise.

  My phone buzzes. He’s already flying.

  I walk into the hangar. Alex waves from the office and points out towards the airstrip. Daylight is spilling a huge rectangle of light into the empty space. I hear the drone of an engine.

  Then I catch sight of the refuelling truck, driving across the tarmac. The Bluebird is rolling slowly towards us after landing, her propeller a near-invisible blur of motion. The damaged wing has been fixed and patched. Most people wouldn’t even know she’d been flipped. I can see it, though. I know which one it was, how the new panel shines a brighter shade of blue.

  I wave my arms, but I doubt he’ll notice me from here. Everybody seems to see me now, but I only want to be seen by one person.

  The propeller on the Bluebird sputters to a standstill, as the engine dies. Erik leaves the plane on the empty taxi way, opens his door and climbs out over the wing.

  I run to him, and he wraps me in his arms.

  ‘Where have you been on this fine day?’

  He smiles, squints out at the horizon. ‘To the wild blue yonder. One last flight before I head home.’

  The thought of him leaving turns my stomach, but I push it down. Today I have Erik and a brilliant blue morning begging me not to waste it.

  ‘Will you take me up?’ I’m not sure he will. He hasn’t since the accident.