Ruby and Marjorie did their best. They had their own tuning methods.
‘What’s for tea?’ Marjorie would ask when they got home from school.
On a good day Elise might pause from the potato peelings. She might adjust the tea cosy hat before smoothing her frock underneath the kitchen apron.
‘It is not tea, Marjorie. It is dinner. Tea is a drink. Dinner is the evening meal.’
And the girls would be happy with that.
Other days Elise seemed to have forgotten an evening meal – even an ill-mannered tea. The girls, however, knew that any amount of rebalancing of high stringing could be achieved with a tuning fork. They had seen it done on the piano in the lounge room many times. But they didn’t have a tuning fork. And they knew that neither the bone-handled main course fork nor the dessert fork would be of any tuning help when their mother had forgotten about an evening meal. So they tried to do the job with the music.
‘Play the piano tonight,’ the girls would then coax.
‘Mendelssohn.’
‘Brahms.’
And if all was not too bad, then Elise would agree. The piano would be played and the high strings would be lowered. Marjorie would lie in her bed with her hand on the tongue-in-groove lining boards. She would lie there – ears stretched to the air, her hand pressed to the wall. And that would do for Marjorie – there in the dark of the night. In the quietness of her bed with Ruby there in the room with her. ‘Don’t stop,’ she would whisper to the wall when Elise’s solitary recital would end. ‘Another one, Mum. Just one more.’
Sometimes the plea would transmit from Marjorie’s fingers, through the wall, fuse with the piano and meld with the keys. As Elise sailed between the worlds. And Elise might have the energy to do another lap.
Some nights, though, were not so. These times, the playing and singing might start well. But it would falter. The glorious singing would stop. The magnificent hands would crash down on the keys. Elise had the courage sometimes to give it another go. ‘For Pete’s sake!’ the girls would hear as she attempted a correction. But, even so, the outcome for the night was sealed. ‘Hell and damnation!’ they would hear, and music scores would fly in panic across the room as Elise slapped them in anger. The piano would shudder and groan as it was clouted shut. Elise would rush from the room, slamming the door behind her. Fleeing outside.
And this was where Ruby and Marjorie were overrun. Because the family, in managing the tuning of Elise’s high stringing, forgot about habit – and its outcome of complacency. It should not have crept up on them. They should have listened to the warnings. But they didn’t. And it did.
So the family became accustomed to Elise and her involvement with the tea cosy hat, and her redistribution of family responsibilities, and her immoderate self-assessments of her talents. And neglected to see Elise had elicited reinforcements; and these reinforcements were creeping over the horizon.
The family could have tuned all they liked. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. Sometimes strings are just too far gone. And there are always those roundabout who are more than willing to assist someone with the final snapping of a too-tight string.
The months crept through winter and headed for spring. And Elise was able to extend on all fronts before anyone noticed. And before Marjorie had time to weigh up the obvious dangers of plastic.
Chapter 8
‘How come you two always drive yourself to the bus stop now?’ asked Jesse as they shoved and clambered onto the school bus for the lumber to high school.
‘Because we can. How come you do?’
Jesse ignored the question. Everyone knew Wheat Bag Boy had always got himself to school for as long as anyone could remember. ‘How’s your mum?’
‘None of your business. Why?’
‘Just asking.’ Jesse looked at Marjorie very carefully and for a long while – like he would look when he was under the bonnet and checking the health of an engine. ‘You still going over to Jimmy Waghorn’s place?’ the engine examiner asked.
Marjorie stopped in her tracks – halfway down the school bus and halfway to the prized back seat. She looked over her shoulder at Wheat Bag Boy. ‘Also none of your damn business,’ she said.
‘I heard your mother wears a tea cosy on her head now,’ called Kevin Doherty from the front of the bus. ‘Still having trouble with that crazy business in her head, is she?’ He grinned and looked to Jesse, who glared at him and moved down to slouch in the back seat.
‘How is it there, without Jimmy Waghorn?’ Jesse whispered to Marjorie as he shoved in beside her. He watched her from top to bottom now for her reaction – like when you check the oil and then put the dipstick back in and out, and in and out again – to see if it has changed. And he recognised that look from Marjorie – the wariness, the worry, the fatigue. It was there for an instant. Before her eyes pulled down the blinds and she turned her head to look out the bus window.
‘There’s going to be a variety concert in town soon. It’s a drought fundraiser. You should get your mother to sing,’ said Jesse.
Marjorie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why?’
Jesse shrugged. ‘Because your mother is the best we’ve got around here. It might do her good.’
Marjorie stared hard at Jesse. Trying to make him out. ‘Who says so, Wheat Bag Boy?’
‘I do. And don’t call me Wheat Bag Boy.’
Marjorie paid no attention to that. ‘And how would you know about such things?’ she asked.
‘You don’t have an exclusive patent on knowing things, Marjorie.’
Marjorie turned in her seat. She looked fully at Jesse. She narrowed her eyes and studied him for some time. A part of her noticed the sun in his wavy brown hair and his long, tanned fingers resting lightly on the top of the seat in front. That hair could do with a comb, she thought. She shook her head and shifted to look out the window again, to stop the thought. ‘No one likes Mum’s singing. Or her piano,’ said Marjorie to the bus window to stop her brain combing. Only the family – and they don’t count. Only Jimmy Waghorn – and he has gone away.
‘Get her to sing a song out of a musical,’ suggested Jesse. ‘Meet them halfway.’
Marjorie didn’t answer. She reached for her schoolbag and pulled out the latest book she was reading. She gave Jesse one last quizzical look before sticking her head in her book and leaving it there – firmly stuck in the safety of paper. All the way until they arrived at school.
Marjorie said something that night, though. At teatime. ‘The kids at school are saying there’s a fundraising concert coming up,’ Marjorie said between the peas and the mashed potatoes. ‘Maybe you could go in it, Mum?’
‘Eh? What’s this?’ asked Bill.
Elise put down her knife and fork and wiped her mouth with her serviette before looking across at Marjorie. Her expression was indecipherable.
‘It’s a drought fundraiser,’ Marjorie ploughed on through her mashed potatoes. ‘It’s gunna be a competition – that’s how they’ll raise the money.’ Her voice now decided Bill’s question was scary, so it began to squeak. ‘Mum could be a contestant. She could play the piano and sing something.’ Marjorie bent to shove the mashed potatoes into her mouth to stop the squeaking.
But it was too late. The words had got out. Elise folded her serviette and placed it beside her plate and smoothed the tea cosy on her head. She got up from the table and left the room. Shutting the kitchen door behind her.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Bill. ‘You’ve gone and upset her. Why can’t you leave well enough alone?’
Marjorie glanced over at Ruby and saw the look on Ruby’s face. She supposed it was the same look that was now on her face.
‘I thought it might help,’ Marjorie apologised to her potatoes. ‘I thought Mum might like the idea and it would get her out of the house and she would win.’ She faltered, red in the
face.
The kitchen door opened again. Four heads swivelled to watch. Elise walked back in with a smile on her face and an arm full of sheet music. ‘I would like to contribute to the fundraising concert. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’ Elise beamed at Marjorie before sitting down. ‘What do you think I should sing, Bill?’ she asked.
Bill looked at Pa and Pa looked at Bill. Ruby and Marjorie looked at Pa and at Bill and then looked at each other. Everyone trying to gauge the lay of the land. ‘Go on then,’ said Pa to Bill. ‘Don’t just sit there like a bloody useless nincompoop. Give Elise a hand.’
Bill nodded at Pa. ‘Go on, you two,’ he said to Ruby and Marjorie. ‘Get and clear the table and do the dishes. I need to help your mother with the music.’
So Jesse Mitchell’s suggestion was put into action. Bill nominated Elise for a singing item and Elise got to work to prepare for the concert. And the family got to work to support Elise as she got to work. Pa ascended the heights of patriarchal contribution and declared he would make his own breakfast – ‘Just for the bloody time being, mind!’
Elise had chosen ‘Wouldn’t It Be Loverly’ from My Fair Lady. This was not a funny song. So why laugh? Marjorie started it. One night when things seemed to be fine and the practice was going fine. ‘You just swore, Mum,’ Marjorie interrupted.
‘I did not. You know I do not swear. It’s unladylike.’
‘You said abso-bloomin’-lutely. You told me bloomin’ is a swearword.’
‘As I am singing the words of a respectable song, it is appropriate for me to use that kind of language.’ Elise laughed, and looked at Bill. And everyone laughed. ‘Of course I would never use that word otherwise. It is vulgar. Therefore, you two are never to use such a word. Understood?’
Pa snorted into his saucer of cooling black tea, and Bill glared at him.
It was a good time – all this practising. Elise, in the hurly burly of practice, did not have time to tighten the strings on her nerves. Or administer her prescribed doses of self-condemnation. All she had time for was practising. Even Elise thought she was happy. But peace is never for the long haul. Everyone should remember that. And tranquillity can dry out so quickly in the Mallee:
‘I can’t believe you’re entering in the concert,’ said an eyebrow-arched Shirlene Doherty.
‘Yes,’ said Elise, smiling.
‘Are you sure you’re up to it? I hope it won’t be too much for you.’
‘Why would it be?’
‘All that worry. It’s going to be hard on those tricky nerves of yours, isn’t it?’
‘On the contrary. I am actually enjoying rehearsing for it,’ said Elise.
‘Well, I hope you’ll be good enough on the night,’ Shirlene Doherty warned. ‘But it doesn’t matter if you don’t make it, does it? Everyone would understand. What with the sort of nerves you’ve got there and all.’ And a solicitous Shirlene shook her head. She smiled as Elise and her nerves rushed from the store.
Elise never said anything but Marjorie felt it starting to leak after that. Out through the gaps in the floorboards and the ripples in the tin as the night of the concert loomed. Because, unbeknown to Marjorie, the high stringing of nerves is very sensitive to the concerns of solicitous folks. Therefore, the closer the concert came to the farmhouse the quicker the tranquillity ran out in that house. It was running out of Elise the fastest of all. But it was gathering tranquillity from the rest of them stuck in that house as it ran – like iron filings running after a magnet.
Bill stopped laughing and tried to help. He made Elise coffee. He made Elise date scones. He tried to soothe her with the tea cosy hat. ‘Gorn, you two,’ he said to Ruby and Marjorie. ‘Get and give your mother a hand around the house.’ To Elise he said: ‘Old ma Doherty is a sour old cow. Don’t listen to her.’
Bill did not tell Elise everything, though. He never said you have the best voice ever heard in the Mallee and that is for sure. That, for sure, was the truth. But he didn’t say that because he knew it wouldn’t have helped. He did mention some things to his sisters, though. In private. They talked about it when the children were in bed and Elise was busy practising.
So Aunty Kathleen and Aunty Thelma said something when they were both in the store next:
‘Jealousy is one of the seven deadly sins,’ said Aunty Thelma as she plonked her packet of Uncle Toby’s rolled oats on the counter. She glanced over at Shirlene, who was leaning against the counter reading the magazines.
Mrs Cameron blinked in alarm.
‘No it isn’t,’ said Shirlene.
‘Yes it is. It’s a mortal sin,’ said Aunty Kathleen, nodding piously. ‘I wouldn’t be mucking around with mortal sins on my soul. Not with Father O’Brien only doing confession once a month now.’
They couldn’t stop it, though. Elise’s leak got bad. They did their best but it wasn’t a leak you could easily fix – not like a hole in a rainwater tank. You could fix that with a bit of an old rag shoved through the hole and with the pressure on the inside holding it all steady. But Elise did not have enough insides to aid in stopping any leak. No matter how many mortal sins might be cut short.
It was Pa who brought the leak to a stop. Perhaps because he had lived in the Mallee the longest, and therefore knew what it took to really stop a rainwater tank leaking. ‘Stay the course, girl!’ Pa ordered one night when Elise’s leaking was flooding the kitchen. ‘It’s not long now. Stay the course. Never you mind about that Shirlene Doherty. You show her. You show them all what a thoroughbred lassie like you is bloody well made of!’
The night of the concert was the longest and shortest of Marjorie’s life. Some things that night went so fast Marjorie was never able to properly see them or hear them again – like what she wore. Other things that night pushed themselves outside time. They drowned themselves in resin and gave themselves back to Marjorie as garish resin paperweights. Staying with Marjorie forever – peering out at her from their resin prison. Things like Elise’s performance, and the money, and the prize list.
The house sighed and creaked as Elise packed her sheet music and practised a few last notes and dressed for the concert. The verandah boards complained as she walked from the sleep-out back down the hallway towards the kitchen. And the tin on the roof rattled in agreement with the wind that suddenly rushed at the house in spite. But Elise withstood. She came into the kitchen dressed in a new dress she had made herself. Ironed – for hours – by Marjorie and the cast-iron flat irons, aided by the water-filled sauce bottle with the holes punched in the lid to dampen the garments. And wearing stockings and high heels. And a hat. With a handbag hung over her right arm. Elise was wearing gloves and a lipstick-enhanced smile. The coffee percolator popped a final bubble of encouragement. The stove puffed non-committal smoke.
Pa came into the kitchen dressed in his Sunday best – a three-piece pinstriped suit complete with grandpa shirt and watch chain and black hat. The white stubble had vacated his chin. He stood and surveyed the family. ‘Bill, get that hat off her head!’ he hissed, being discreet as he jerked his thumb at Elise while examining the ceiling above the kitchen cupboard.
Bill gently removed the tea cosy hat from Elise. He put it at Elise’s place at the table. Patted it to let her know it was alright. And it was time to get going. Wood was put on the fire and the dampers were shut down and Bill went to get the car.
Bill had filled the car from the petrol drum near the shed earlier in the day. All the other farm drums crowded around while he did that and had all tinked enigmatically at Bill – not choosing to disclose whether they were barracking for Elise or not. Neither did the scrub. It just watched, silent as always, as Bill pumped away on the pump arm sticking out of the top of the forty-four-gallon drum. And it watched now, just as silently, as everyone got in the car. Ruby and Marjorie climbed into the back and sank onto the red leather seat. Pa climbed in – now as taciturn as all
that night-time Mallee staring at him through the car window as he sat himself in the back next to Ruby and Marjorie.
There was nothing to be heard but the sound of the car engine toiling up and down the sandy track into town. No one said anything. Bill glanced at Elise when he could – without attracting attention. Every time he had to turn left, he looked at Elise. Elise looked out the side window the whole length of the trip and held tight to the sheet music. The myriad inscrutable stars looked down on her face gazing out the car window. And that face and those eyes of Elise’s gazed back. Inscrutable in return.
Everyone from roundabouts was at the concert. All the kids from school were there. Except Wheat Bag Boy. Marjorie couldn’t see him anywhere. ‘Where’s Jesse?’ she asked his friends. They just hung their mouths open and stared at her and shrugged their shoulders.
There were plenty of people on the benches. Waiting for the entertainment and their opportunity to thumb their noses at the drought and let it know that no drought was going to force them to walk off their land. And plenty of people out the back behind the heavy red curtains. Waiting for their opportunity to perform and to thumb their noses at the drought and let it know that no drought was going to knock their town about. There was a barrel for the men – placed outside the hall so as not to offend the womenfolk. And a shandy for the ladies (but really they should stick to a cup of tea and looking after the supper).
There were murmurings and shufflings of feet and quiet coughings. Then the curtains were drawn and there was the concert. There were fiddle players and honky tonk piano players. There were reciters of poetry, reciters of prose, someone telling jokes and a couple of church choirs. There was a man playing the spoons, and a man playing the saw. There were children, singing and dancing.
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