The Sparkle Pages

by Meg Bignell

  We leaned on each other for a long time before I sighed and said, ‘But I do have work to do. Do you think you could help me?’

  SUNDAY 31st DECEMBER

  Dear God, Ria, Granny, Grandpa, Nanny, Pa, Neville, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the patron saints of everything and anyone else in the upperlands who might have some influence on the universe, help me make everything all right. Help me not to trip over myself and bugger things up any more.

  MONDAY 1st JANUARY

  Right. It’s the New Year and I know I am meant to have made my final notes in this diary by now, but I have this last bit to tell …

  Henry hosted a big New Year’s Eve do at Lettercello. There were crowds of people. Hugh and I packed up a picnic, the children and Valda and took our smarting selves along.

  We arrived to find a large party in full swing. The French doors had been opened out to the lawns and people were moving freely between the shop, the courtyard and the green. Henry, unusually flushed with excitement, rushed to welcome us. He smiled so widely at us that I had to give him a hard stare. He coughed, ran his fingers nervously through his hair and whispered, ‘Your mum and dad are out on the lawn by the linden tree.’ I tried not to faint.

  We found them. Mum said, ‘Hello, darling. Let’s sod this year right off, shall we?’ and gave me a glass of champagne and a forehead kiss. Dad winked at me and said, ‘You right, old soldier?’ and ‘Better not overdo the bubbles tonight, Zannah-doo.’ We settled onto picnic rugs, we ate, we chatted. I traced ‘oh dear’ and ‘Ria?’ on my leg with my finger. Hugh reached down and gave me his hand, and when I looked at him he smiled. With crinkles.

  And then there were the fireworks, and while everyone oohed and aaahed I could close my eyes and do a little bit of praying because after the last whizzy spinny thing, it would be time …

  I received the nod from Henry and had to let go of Hugh’s hand. Before I slipped away he caught my arm and whispered, ‘You’ll fly.’

  I stopped under a tree in the shadows and waited. A few very long minutes later, Henry found me and we weaved through crowds of people into the shop. There were only a few familiar faces, I noted with relief. Hannah’s and Charlie’s were two of them, Isobel another. They hadn’t seen me. Everyone was blessedly busy being festive and tipped-up and happy. Behind the counter at the centre of the shop, Henry gestured to the floor, smiled and did a few tiny excited handclaps. I sat down next to my brand-new viola and took it gently from its case. ‘Made especially for Susannah Parks,’ I whispered to myself. Henry fiddled about with a microphone while I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the clamour of my heart.

  ‘Excuse me, everyone,’ he said a moment later. ‘Pardon the interruption, but could you all please gather where you can see me? I’d just like to say a few words.’ The party simmered lower and moved forward. ‘I wonder whether,’ Henry continued, ‘on this eve of a brand-new year, you might all indulge me a little. You all know how shy I am with my cello.’ (Cheering from the crowd.) ‘Well, I thought I might impose upon myself to play you a little festive tune, as a way to say thank you for your support of Lettercello this year.’(More cheering) ‘And then I thought, actually, no. You and these walls have heard enough from me.’ (Boos from the crowd.) This deserves something much more rare and special. So, I’m thrilled to present you all, my wonderful customers, friends and family, with something very rare and very special …’

  There was a lengthy pause at this point because during Henry’s speech I’d had a mild-to-moderate panic on the floor and, having put the viola back into its case, was peeking around the corner of the counter, sizing up the prospect of crawling through everyone’s legs, out the French doors and into the night never to be seen again. (Mother of four vanishes on New Year’s Eve, friends and family report erratic and selfish behaviour, and display a sense of relief …) The panic turned into terror when I peered through the forest of legs and saw my family standing just inside the open doors. All of them. And Raffy staring directly at me. He looked alarmed and tugged urgently on Hugh’s hand. Hugh leaned an ear down to Raff and then jerked a glance my way. He smiled, nodded, gave me a wink.

  An urgent whisper came from Henry. ‘Susannah?’ I ducked back in behind the counter and tried to breathe. Henry joined me. ‘You know what you’re doing. You just have to trust yourself.’ He knocked the microphone stand and it swayed. Things were moving rapidly into awkward amateur territory. Henry looked at my terrified face and added, ‘But if you really can’t, I’ll take over. It’s your choice, Susannah.’

  Choice, choice, choice … I gasped some breaths in through my nose. And for a second I thought I could smell the theatre. Henry popped up again and faced the party. ‘Bear with us, everyone. Chat amongst yourselves for a minute but don’t go away …’ He kept talking. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the cursed tears came. ‘Oh, fuck off,’ I said to them.

  ‘I really hope,’ came Hugh’s voice in the dark, ‘that you’re not talking to me.’ I opened my eyes. He was crouching beside me. ‘Because I’m not fucking off anywhere.’ He brushed the tears from my cheeks, which made more come. ‘You can do this.’

  I sniffed. ‘Everyone expects a lot. I expect a lot. There’s so much expectation. And I won’t be enough. My fingers won’t know what to do.’

  Hugh took my fingers in his very warm hands and said, ‘You, Susannah Parks with all the sparks, are more than enough.’

  ‘Oh, no, Hugh. I’m so sorry. You’re the enough one. You always have been and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was searching for insufficiencies in you. I was looking for holes to match all mine. A tatty dress doesn’t go with a well-cut suit.’ I rubbed at the stupid tears and added, ‘It’s unbelievable how enough you are.’

  He smiled at me, with his whole dear face, and said, ‘Shut up and be brave.’

  But before I could, Rafferty appeared beside us. He gave me a smile and reached down to pick up the viola and the bow. Then he stood before the crowd, gave a funny little curtsey and began to play!!!!!!

  Can you believe it? He played, actually played! And played well! The tune was familiar but I couldn’t place it at first, and I didn’t try to think because I was so mesmerised by the sight of him. Raffy. Playing viola. I was dumbfounded. I looked at Hugh. He was equally amazed. We were still sitting on the floor but we shuffled out from behind the counter to get a better view. I searched all over the boy with the viola for my languid Raff but he wasn’t there. Beautiful posture, smart tones, smooth transitions. But the best thing was the little smile on his lips and the flush in his cheeks.

  I found myself humming along with the tune as he played and then, with a lurch in my chest that made me gasp then sway, I realised what it was.

  ‘Hugh,’ I whispered, clutching his arm. ‘Hugh?’ He looked at me. I squeezed. ‘It’s my “Lullaby for Eloise”.’ I put my hand to my face to brush away the tears, but there weren’t any there.

  At the end, we stood to applaud him – his first standing ovation. I heard Charlie’s loud whoo-hoo above the crowd. Mary-Lou danced around and Jimmy cheered without a trace of let-me-try-that. Eloise was watching me, her eyes all bright. I smiled at her and she gave me a little nod, then a bigger one, and I realised that Raffy was handing the viola to me. There was more cheering. Charlie was quiet, though. I could see his nervous face, Hannah beside him. They think I might ruin things again, I thought. In front of them was Valda, seated but head high, her eyes bright. What a beautifully long neck. Proud. She had her arm linked in Daphne’s, who was sitting beside her. They both looked younger.

  So, with Henry’s help, the viola under my arm and my trembling hands clutching the bow, I found the microphone and hoped it wasn’t picking up the pounding of my heart. The room went completely silent and I put the unfamiliar viola under my chin.

  If there’s no change, there’s no rhythm, only the same old beat.

  I stared at the floor and then glanced out to the audience and Valda told me later I looked just like a possum in the headlights. I caught
sight of Hugh’s face. He was the other possum, the one about to see his best friend get hit by a car. For a moment my mind went to Peter the Possum and, with sabotage in its sights, threatened to wayward completely away.

  ‘He who loveth best, playeth best.’

  I saw Hugh’s face again. I saw Ria at the piano and I heard her say, I’ll lead you in, Helen Burns. Stay brave. So I announced to the crowd, ‘This is a piece called the “Starlit Sonata”,’ in a loud and stilted voice that didn’t sound like mine. I swallowed, took a breath, let myself think, and looked at my family. ‘I wrote it for Hugh. And, as it turns out, for all of my family.’ Then I whispered to the viola, ‘No dissonance, all consonance, let’s follow.’ And then I began to play …

  Dear Mum,

  I want to tell you that you are better than fireworks, much, much, much better, with more whiz-bangs. There was a giant whiz-bang in my chest when you played your viola. You gave me tears.

  I am sorry I secretly played your viola. It was in the wardrobe and Ria said she thought it should be played so it wouldn’t get stale. She said to wash my hands because the oil in my skin isn’t good for the bow. I always did, I promise. Ria helped me on Skype. We found your lullaby music and she helped me read it. She cried when she saw it. I’m learning ‘Sweet Thing’ by Van Morrison too. Your new viola is easier to play than your old one but I’m going to save up for my own. Maybe a bit smaller.

  We kept it a secret because we were waiting until I had some good technique and a whole song to show you. And I was scared you’d be cross. I’m sorry to have secrets.

  Now that we don’t have Ria, can you teach me your viola, please? I want to one day be able to play what you played, that music that made everyone go still. I want to know how you play that. Thank you, Mum.

  Love from Raffy. Xoxoxoxoxoxo

  Dear Zannah,

  I know you’ve been writing in a diary and I wanted to add something from me, so you could refer back to it as a side note to your reflections on the year, from a reliable source. Also because I don’t think my spoken words can do justice to how I feel and what I want to say.

  I’ve already told you that seeing you play again was amazing. It was out-of-this-world amazing. I know you said your fingers felt huge and you mucked up parts but, trust me, the ‘Starlit Sonata’ never sounded so good. I heard the stars; I heard how they falter, then shine. I heard your tears too. And, with your hands sometimes unsure of Ria’s new key, I heard all that incredible hope.

  But what was even more amazing than the music was you. The look of you, with that music in your face, was better-than-anything amazing.

  I’m really sorry I haven’t helped more to bring you to your music. I’m not good with things that don’t go back together the way the manuals say they should. I realise that helping probably meant just being there more. I should have been there. I really hope I’m the only one you’ll ever choose to be disappointed by.

  Would it be too fix-it of me if I took you and the children away, on a world trip, to all the places you’ve wanted to go? I thought, since you and the Susannah-Viola seem to be making friends, that we could go to the places where she was born – Switzerland, Canada, Wales? But wherever you like. We could improvise. What do you think? Are they repairs you’d be happy for me to make? I should have taken you away sooner, but I don’t think it’s too late. Let’s put you in the sky, Susannah-Albatross, my chancey little sparkling star.

  Love (and a lot of passion) always, H xxxxxxx

  PS I’ll always be grateful for the bee in September.

  I can’t well say how it felt to play again. Perhaps my music said that best. My hands are back, though: fumbly, but here. Ria’s hands are too; her piano was just underneath, catching the little falls. And when I relaxed a bit and closed my eyes midway through, I saw again that magnificent Aurora.

  And Eloise, my little-big, black-white girl, was all blush and silver with feeling and feeling and trailings of tears. I held her face in my trembling hands and brushed the tears away, the way I’ve wanted to all this time.

  And Hugh. His amber eyes were bright with it all: with the year trickling away around us and the children writing their names in the air with sparklers. He kissed me for about seven and a half seconds with his eyes wide open and all the butterflies came out.

  The good butterflies.

  There has been sex. Quite a lot of it, actually. I know that this is not the new status quo; I know that passion will wax and wane. There’ll be more patches of no sex, then we might have hurry-up-then sex and birthday sex and we-should-have-sex sex. Occasionally we might have mind-blowing sex. None of it will benefit from too much overthinking.

  Lately there’s been a lot of what-would-I-do-without-you sex; that’s a really good kind. But I’m prepared for the not so good, the little cold bits. Marriage and motherhood is like any other art form, with its demands on patience, endurance and time. Its ups and downs, the welter and the whelm. We have six personalities in this house. There will be loggerheads and odds. But contrary motion is a simple device that dramatically improves a piece of music.

  Actually, I have been doing a bit of composing. Just one piece so far: a simple little bagatelle. It was meant to be for Raffy to try, but all these thoughts of passion, etc. inspired me to write some lyrics. (I was never a lyricist so this is a new and wavery thing.) And these ones turned out to be not all that suitable for a child’s playful tune. So I’ll just put them here instead, as a little mezzo note in between the highs and lows: an end point for the Sparkle Pages, and this resolutionary year …

  My heart, it sang soprano once,

  Against the brilliant stars,

  But now it sings contralto

  And it’s stronger for the scars.

  There is loss, there’s ice and frost,

  There’s fog and blinding storms,

  But also there’s a place for me

  That’s sparkly, safe and warm.

  Silly. Hearts can’t sing. My hands can, though, and do, every single day.

  The End.

  (Also the middle.)

  THANK YOU:

  – To my brilliant mum and dad. This book wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t here, with a functioning brain and a wayward imagination. So thanks to you both for sorting that out.

  – To a big sister who helped grow that imagination in our enormous garden, among the mulberry trees. Em, I’m sure I’ve popped some of your piercing observations into these pages and claimed them as my own, much like when I stole your Fimo creations and gave them to my friends. Sorry about that.

  – To my husband, Richard Dick Dickie Ben Curly Fezzle Bignell, I am so grateful to you for never, ever expressing dismay that I choose to write a lot and occasionally prance about on stages with microphones instead of milking the cows. Also, thank you for not ever complaining when I burn the guinea fowl.

  – To my children, E, B, and L, for being naughty enough to provide me with material and nice enough to leave me the heck alone sometimes. I love you even when I yell.

  – To Maggie Mackellar (words-can’t-express sort of thanks) for being precisely the mentor and friend I needed and need, for saying it’s okay to shut the door and keep my bottom on the chair, for introductions and for being so sensible when I’m floating about in other worlds singing musical theatre and listening to Amy Shark.

  – To Fiona Inglis, who was the first to endure the whole first draft, take a huge leap of faith with me and make it all seem achievable, thank you to you and all at Curtis Brown Australia and UK.

  – To Faye Bender for your efforts across the world.

  – To Nikki Christer. You were the very first to read some of the Susannah words, offer encouragement and keep me going.

  – To my wonderful, enthusiastic publishers, Kimberley Atkins and Ali Watts, for reining me in and cleaning me up.

  – To editor, violinist and wordsmith Amanda Martin for your musical insights and sensitive management of Susannah’s quirks. Also Elena Gomez, Celine K
elly and Emma Schwarcz for your clever editing and sharp eyes. To Madison Garratt, Louise Ryan, Louisa Maggio, Emily Hindle, Alysha Farry, Debbie McGowan and everyone at PRH who has contributed and made me and Susannah feel so welcome.

  – To Jude Elliot, who brought my voice out of my head and insisted I could, even when I couldn’t; to Adrian Smith, who reminded me not to do anything stupid like grow up; and to Father Terry Rush, who quite literally gave me space.

  – To the people who helped, inspired, tolerated and spurned me on in small-enormous ways – Des Vernon, Tom Flood, Posie Graham-Evans, Monica McInerney, Dominique Hurley, Richard Sprent, Matthew Annells, Gaye Wright, Caroline Bignell, Molly Archer, Kelly Pummeroy, Hannah Bale, Anita Schleebs, Maggie Sakko and all the gorgeous, long-suffering readers of megoracle.com.

  – To Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Charles Baudelaire, William Blake, T S Eliot, Martha Wainwright and Dodie Smith for their works, and to concert violist Jennifer Stumm for her insights.

  – To Kate Miller-Heidke and Tim Minchin, who feel like friends and who sang to me as I wrote this book, thank you for inspiring other friends like Ria.

  And thank you so very much to booksellers for selling and to readers for reading. Put this book to your chest and imagine it’s me giving you a little thank-you hug. Probably don’t kiss it or anything though; that would be weird.

  1. ‘The Sparkle Project. That’s what I’ve named this resolution. And this diary is the Sparkle Pages. There will be sparkles. I am determined.’ Have you ever gone to such lengths to reignite your spark for a certain passion?