The Piper's Son

by Melina Marchetta

  And no, I don’t think it’s uncool for a girl to play the trumpet. Can you stop listening to Trixie the Antichrist and Ginger the Ninja? If you give up playing just because you’re measuring yourself up against someone else’s cool meter, then I’ll be pretty disappointed, Anabel Georgia.

  Love, Tom

  P.S. And may I remind you that I don’t care if Luca Spinelli is only one and a half years older than you. He’s in Year Ten. You’re in Year Eight. What kind of a pervert is he, thinking he can send you a playlist to remember Sydney by? Is he your counselor or something? Have you left Sydney for good and are never coming back? Nip this in the bud or I’m telling J-Lo and Dominic.

  He travels home by bus most days, because the trip is ten minutes longer and most of his time is spent trying to avoid being on his own or trying to not look like he’s on his own. MP3 players are perfect because the sight of someone walking the streets listening to music means something totally different from someone staring into blank space. It’s the joy of smoking for him. Isolation doesn’t have to be explained when you’re leaning against a brick wall with a cigarette in your hand. Rolling your own is better. It takes more time, and Tom has all the time to spare.

  And what keeps him going is the number one next to his in-box when he clicks on the address anabelsbrother, or when he takes over the ranking of the footy-tipping competition at work from a guy who left and susses out that Mohsin the Ignorer is at the top, with Tom catching up, or when he listens to Francesca Spinelli trying to get a chord right, or to Justine whispering to Ned the Cook about the next installment of her love for a guy called Ben who plays a violin and doesn’t know she exists. Or it’s Georgie’s voice calling out to him from her bedroom as he climbs the stairs to the attic every night. Sometimes when he comes home and he aches for the sound of something more than a “Hey, Tommy,” he lies on her bed and they keep each other company. They talk about Anabel and how much they both miss her and Great-Aunt Margie, Tom Finch’s sister, who’s a nun way out west. And it always comes down to Tom Finch and the veterans and how every time the phone rings, they think it’s the government giving them the news that even after forty years none of them is prepared for. And they talk about Joe. Of the time when Tom was in Year Eleven and he half moved in with them. Because it’s hard not to talk about Joe, with the ugly armchairs and banana chairs and LP collections and photographs constantly reminding them.

  “He was crazy mad for your father, you know,” Georgie tells him one time. “And Dom would have done anything for him. When you were born, Joe was in Year Nine boarding at Saint Sebastian’s, and your dad used to ring up and impersonate Bill to get him out of school most weekends. Anytime Joe wanted to be picked up or taken somewhere, Dom would do it.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. Tom wonders if they’re thinking the same thing. Dom would pick up Joe anytime, but not that final time. Not Joe’s body from London.

  “Once when Joe was at uni, he ended up in the lockup at Stanmore police station because he and his dickhead friends got drunk and stole a street sign. So he rings your father and he starts making up the lyrics to Paul Kelly’s ‘How to Make Gravy.’ But instead of singing, ‘Hello Dan, it’s Joe here,’ he sang, ‘Hello Dom, it’s Joe here.’”

  “Then he sang about every member of the family. Your auntie Margie Finch coming down from Queensland and your mum’s family coming from the coast, and he was bellowing out, ‘Who’s going to make the jelly?’ instead of the ‘gravy.’”

  Tom can’t help chuckling, no matter how many times he’s heard that story.

  “He reckons even the cops were killing themselves laughing,” she says.

  “He taught me the chords to that song, you know,” Tom says. “‘It’s a love story, Tommy,’ he told me. ‘It’s a love story between Dan and Joe and every member of their family.’”

  He turns on his side to face her, leaning on his elbow.

  “Remember when we used to come downstairs and get you to choose who did the best Joe Satriani?”

  “Oh, bloody Joe Satriani,” she said.

  “And that time you couldn’t stand it anymore and you bunked in with Anabel down at our place and Joe got me out of bed in the middle of the night and we played Satriani’s ‘If I Could Fly’ under her window so you’d think you were having a nightmare.”

  The bed shakes for a long time from their silent laughter.

  “Be honest. Who did the best Joe Satriani?” he asks.

  Before she can answer, she grabs his hand and presses it against her stomach and he’s about to tell her he doesn’t want to feel the baby, but her hand is trembling. Next minute he’s laughing and saying, “Oh, shit. Shit,” and she’s pressing his fingers in deeper and he’s saying, “You’ll hurt it, Georgie.”

  Other times they just listen to each other’s music.

  “What’s this one?” she asks one night while they’re sharing earphones.

  “We’ve all been changed

  From what we were

  Our broken hearts

  Smashed on the floor”

  “‘Smokers Outside the Hospital Doors,’” he tells her, turning it up louder.

  Georgie makes him listen to stuff that she doesn’t play when she’s out in the real world. There’s a whole lot of Regina Spektor, who sings about a guy called Samson being her sweetest downfall. Tom becomes a closet fan and listens to it secretly in his attic. He wonders if it’s the type of stuff Tara would have written if she had to write music about their relationship.

  Other times the door’s shut and he wonders if Sam’s in there.

  Every other moment of his day is a reminder of Tara Finke. When he watches his fingers tap at the keyboard, he remembers her thing about hands. Her own, others, everyone’s. It was one of the paradoxes about the very practical Tara Finke. Decides to extend her studies where she’ll have her hands in dirt, but has an obsession with manicures. Her school backpack was always sure to contain a manicure set and papaya hand cream. She rubbed it onto his hands one day in Year Eleven, feeling the texture of his fingertips, callused by the strings of his guitar, and his palms, rough from woodwork.

  “Productive, despite your lazy streak,” she had said, inspecting them.

  Some days he e-mails her stuff he knows she’ll find funny, like a “Vote Pedro” link because they both had a Napoleon Dynamite obsession. No one else in the group got it. Tom’s favorite impersonation was of Napoleon Dynamite running away, all arms and legs flailing. “It’s not even funny,” they’d say, but Tara Finke would be crying with laughter every single time. Back then, they’d send each other links all the time, trying to come up with the smartest. His favorite was “Survivors of childhood subjugation to watching The Bill.” Both Tom and Tara Finke belonged to a one-television household, a strange type of abuse at the hands of parents obsessed with noncommercial television. In most other ways they were different. She didn’t do toilet humor; he loved it. She hated epic fantasy; he hated anything with big Victorian frocks, no matter how much cleavage. Once she made him watch Pride and Prejudice and for ages he would reword Mr. Bingley’s apology to Jane Bennet, saying, “I’ve been an inexplicable fool,” for anything from losing his keys to burping out loud. Her reply to anything she wanted to do was Jane Bennet’s response to Bingley’s marriage proposal: “A thousand times yes.”

  One afternoon in his in-box he sees her name: taramarie. The Nazi who collects footy tips every Friday afternoon tells him he has thirty seconds to hand them in, but he hasn’t even started on them yet. His eyes are fixed on the screen, his heart is hammering, and finally, with shaking fingers, he presses the in-box and sees words typed in the most ridiculous font.

  Can you tell Frankie and Justine that I’ve run out of credit on my phone and to check their e-mails instead?

  Tara

  What. A. Bitch.

  “It’s only four thirty,” Stani says to him one day when he walks into the kitchen and puts on his apron and begins pulling the glasses out of the washer
.

  He shrugs. Francesca’s in the back room practicing and Justine’s doing an essay at one of the tables in the main bar, so it’s not as if he’s the only one who has nowhere else to go.

  Ned walks in as well, his face reddening instantly when he sees Stani. Ned is intimidated by anyone who speaks or looks at him, except for Francesca and Justine. And Tom. There’s nothing about Tom that intimidates Ned.

  “You’re early,” Stani barks.

  Ned nods in agreement and then goes to the freezer to get the meat out.

  Whether Ned wants him to or not, Tom begins chopping up the salad items just to keep himself occupied. Francesca’s voice travels to where they’re working silently.

  “Catch the news

  One more day

  Big wide world

  Swallowed whole

  Rhythm breaks me

  Out of step

  Need to shake this

  ’Less I break

  ’Cause nothing counts when you’re not here

  Too much sadness, too much fear”

  Ned stops seasoning the meat and closes his eyes for a moment, before walking to the door.

  “’Cause nothing counts unless you’re here. / Shake these shackles, I might tear,” he calls out to her before returning to the sink bench.

  “I have an aversion to rhyme,” he explains, as if Tom’s asked.

  Francesca’s practicing on the banjo today. Tom likes how it sounds.

  “She watched Shut Up and Sing and thinks she’s one of the Dixie Chicks.”

  Ned’s on a roll. He does that sometimes. Explains stuff out of the blue. It’s usually about the girls, and, inspired by Mohsin the Ignorer, Tom pretends he’s not interested.

  She begins singing again:

  “Speak the words

  Make no sense

  No part working

  I’m on hold

  Need those hands

  Make me whole

  Hunger breaks me

  I can’t breathe

  ’Cause nothing counts unless you’re here

  Shake these shackles, I might tear.”

  Ned grunts with satisfaction. Tom stops chopping and thinks for a moment before walking to the door.

  “’Cause nothing counts unless you’re here. / Shackles bind me, I walk free,” he calls out.

  He walks back to the sink. Ned stares at him questioningly, shaking his head. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “When he’s home, she’s unbound from the shackles constructed by her loneliness and so she walks free,” Tom explains before going back to the chopping.

  “Whereas I think that if she doesn’t shake the shackles, she is so fragmented and fragile that she’s like a piece of . . .”

  “Tissue paper?” Tom suggests.

  Ned nods. “That can tear.”

  She tries it again with Tom’s chorus.

  “I think they’ve had a mini argument long distance,” Ned explains. “She’s okay with tattoos in ode to her, but apparently he got pissed with the engineers while they had a day’s leave and piercing took place. One to the eyebrow and the other . . . she won’t say.”

  Tom looks at him with disbelief. “Will Trombal? Piercing? In places she won’t say?”

  Justine walks in and has an anxious little chatter with Ned the Cook in the corner. When Tom walks toward them to empty the scraps from the cutting board, they stop speaking for a moment.

  “It’s not as if I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

  “We’re not talking about you, if that’s what you think, Thomas,” Justine says patiently.

  He goes back to his chopping but doesn’t let it go. “I’ll make you a two-trillion-dollar bet I know what it’s about.”

  She stands with her arms folded, waiting. Tom and Justine always used to make bets in the trillions and billions, mostly about music trivia and chords, and Justine could never resist taking up the challenge. There’s a hint of a smile on her face.

  “Go on,” she says.

  “You’re probably in love with some musician at the Con. And we all know how that’s panned out in the past. One whole year of having a secret crush you’ve told no one about and now you’ve entered the second year, where you talk about him and do nothing about it. Next year you’ll be analyzing the way he says, ‘Hi, Justine.’ Hopefully by the Beijing Olympics — no, the Olympics they’ll one day have in Afghanistan — you’ll have exchanged mobile numbers.”

  She stares at him drolly and then gives Ned the same look.

  Francesca walks in at two minutes to five, ready for her shift. And the news. “Why’s everyone standing around?” she asks, fiddling with the radio.

  “Because Thomas is a smart-arse,” Justine says. “He reckons I’m not going to get Ben the Violinist’s phone number until Afghanistan has the Olympics.”

  He’s ready for the onslaught. Daring to hurt the feelings of one of the sisterhood was punishable by a death stare. Tara Finke’s was the deadliest, but Francesca’s was the closest by seconds.

  “What timeline did I give it?” Francesca asks.

  “2025,” Ned informs her. “You said she would probably be taking Ben the Violinist on their first date to your fortieth birthday.”

  “Mock me all you like, but this guy’s not shy. He’s just not into me,” Justine says. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”

  “His name’s Ben,” Francesca says to Tom, as if he’s asked. “And he’s twenty-one and he’s a violinist and he’s from the Riverina and he has a very, very dry sense of humor and he lives in Waterloo with a bunch of mates, and when he plays the violin, he keeps his eyes closed and this one time he opened them and the first thing he did was catch Justine’s eye. And then he winked. So now she says it’s their song.”

  Tom makes a sound as if he’s sobbing and he covers his heart with his hand.

  “And she just has to build up her courage and let him know how she feels,” Francesca says.

  It’s always been the same with Justine. She was the most comfortable in her own skin of all of them, and since they left school, she was the one with the biggest social life outside their group, totally at ease with guys. Unless she’s madly in love with them.

  Stani pokes his head in. “Are we on strike?”

  Justine follows him out, and Tom walks over to the radio and turns it off in the middle of the second news story, which is about some freight train crashing into a passenger train in California. Francesca switches it back on, staring at him with irritation until he switches it back off again.

  “It’s nowhere close to where your people are,” he tells her quietly. “Seeing you’ve got the original out of the way, what will the cover song for the Blessed Pierced One be?” he adds.

  Francesca looks at him suspiciously and then back to Ned, who looks sheepish and gets back to work.

  “How do you know I wrote it for him? It could be for any of them.”

  “Need those hands. Make me whole.”

  She makes a face as if she’s thinking. “That’s my mum.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Hunger breaks me. I can’t breathe. That’s Will’s line,” she says.

  “Why? Because he’s choking the life out of you?”

  She forgets about the news and walks away, but he can tell she’s laughing.

  “Maybe Snow Patrol,” she answers from the door. “You know? ‘Set the Fire to the Third Bar’ or ‘Chasing Cars.’ Or something by the Silversun Pickups. He likes them.”

  “Guitar work will be hard for both.”

  She shrugs. “Lucky I know a good guitarist or two.”

  To: taramarie@yahoo.com

  From: anabelsbrother@hotmail.com

  Date: 1 August 2007

  Dear Finke,

  Bit surprised because I always took you for a practical Times New Roman font girl, so when you sent me that heartfelt note using the GlooGun font, I said to myself, you never really know someone.

  Anyway, I thought you shou
ld know, since you were always interested, that there’s a chance Tom Finch is coming home soon. There’s a lot of talk going on about those old-timer vets and the government finally digging up the seven bodies that were left behind. Don’t know if you heard about the two they’ve already returned, but Tom Finch could be next.

  I notice more of his stuff around the place these days and I think it’s part of Georgie’s preparation to bury him. Things like scapulars and his swag and his books. Although I can’t see it being a priority in my father’s life at the moment, it was always his obsession. Joe’s too, funnily enough, because Joe didn’t belong to Tom Finch. But Joe was a history fanatic and he was used to working with evidence and it was one of the things he shared with my father. I know that’s why the thing with Joe not being buried properly hit my old man hard.

  I’ve never really wanted to ask my pop Bill a lot of questions in the past because he might have thought I didn’t respect him just because he wasn’t my dad’s father. But Tom Finch has never felt like my grandfather. How can you look at someone whose last photo was taken when he was twenty-one and consider him to be anything more than some poor bastard my age, born on the wrong day? But I love him, you know. Can’t explain how I love someone I’ve never met, but I do.

  Just between you and me, I think my father and Georgie have always been a bit hard on Bill. My mum reckons that I’ve always seen my pop as a mellow older guy, but he’ll be the first to admit he was tough on my father. They used to have it out on the front lawn, according to Georgie, back when they were seventeen. “You’re not my fucking father, you bastard,” my father would yell. But I think Bill loved them all the same, and never favored Joe over the others. Everyone said it killed him when Georgie dropped the Mackee name and sometimes I actually think she regrets the decision and misses it, but I think she was angry at Bill and Nanni Grace twenty years ago for moving down to Albury and taking her little brother with them. It was the only way she could get back at them.