The Sisters' Song

by Louise Allan

  I am here, waiting…

  Nora’s voice swelled as she pleaded with the moon to tell her lover she was still waiting. I could hear the longing and the love, and just as it did in childhood, her voice reached inside of me and moved me in a way no other could. I felt the emotion stirring and almost had to turn away.

  Moon, oh, oh, shine for him

  Shine for him

  Shine, shine, oh shine for him.

  She sang the climax, her voice reaching high before dropping to the final notes, which were so low and full they seemed to come from the depths of her belly. The sound faded and we remained still and silent. Not a rustle, not a creak. She’d reached all of us, wrapped us all in her beauty. It was a jewel for our memories, never to be forgotten.

  It took a while for the spell to break and then we clapped, all three of us, but Grace the most.

  ‘There you go, Grace,’ said Mum. ‘You have something to aspire to.’

  Nora swivelled on the stool and faced Mum. ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘I’ve watched you and Grace,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen what music does for you, both of you. And I’ve realised you can’t change the way people are made.’

  ‘But that’s not what you’ve said before,’ said Nora. ‘Why change your mind now?’

  ‘Oh, something Ida said about forgiveness. Before it’s too late.’ She paused. ‘There’s a lot that’s happened I can’t change, but there are a few things I can.’

  Nora was still for a long while, her eyes on Mum’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her words barely audible.

  From then on, the piano stayed unlocked. Grace began piano lessons and her hands were soon chasing each other up and down the keys, giving life to those dots on the page, just like her mother. It was a joy to witness.

  Despite the warmer weather, Mum’s cough progressed over the summer and she lost weight no matter how high I piled her plate. In May, she took to her bed and she was too weak to even tinkle her bell. If it was sunny, I took her out to the verandah, but she stopped taking an interest in that, too. The doctor started coming every day, but she didn’t improve and by June she was sleeping most of the time.

  As Mum grew more frail, I took the rocking chair into her room and sat with her during the day. When Nora visited in July, we didn’t go to town but spent the day sitting by Mum’s bedside as she slept. We didn’t talk much, both of us just sitting with Mum, occupied with our memories.

  ‘I remember her before Dad died,’ I said, ‘when she was happy.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ said Nora.

  A bit later on, she said, ‘That day she asked me to sing, do you reckon she already knew?’

  I nodded. ‘She really does love us, Nor, in her own way.’

  A few weeks later, Mum stopped eating and I stayed with her all night, giving her sips of water and sponging her. She passed away in her sleep in August, just before dawn, a couple of months after her fifty-eighth birthday.

  In the quiet light of the pre-dawn, I washed her hair one last time. I trickled the water over her long tresses, still not completely grey but streaked with brown like the trunk of an ageing gum. I grated Lux flakes and rubbed them into her scalp, then rinsed it all out. As the sun rose and the room filled with light, I wrapped her hair in a towel and rubbed it dry, then brushed it out, still soft after all these years.

  I dressed her in a mauve silk dress and laid her out for the undertakers. Then I called Len in and we stood by the bed looking down at her. She was pale and even smaller in death. I kept wanting her chest to move, or her eyes to open and for her to sit up. But she stayed still.

  I chose a hat with violet flowers, and when I took it in, Len said, ‘She doesn’t need to wear a hat to her grave.’

  ‘I want her to take one with her,’ I said. I fingered the flowers decorating its brim and the tiny stitches she’d sewn, then I placed it on her breast. Her hand felt heavy and swollen as I lifted it, the blood already pooling and darkening her skin like a bruise, and laid it across the felt brim. ‘Her hats were a part of her, a beautiful part of her, and I want one to stay with her always. I want to remember her like that.’

  Mum’s funeral was in the church at Ben Craeg, the same church in which she’d married, and she was lowered to her final resting place in the cemetery beside our father.

  Nora and Alf and the kids started walking back towards the pine trees, but I lingered. I stood by their graves, the two of them side by side again, and it gave me solace to know that Dad was already there and waiting for her, ready to greet her when she arrived. He’d waited a long time to see her again.

  Sometimes when I was alone in the house, I sensed her presence, as if she was still in the room. I’d close my eyes and whisper, ‘Mum?’ Around me, the air would move. I’d wait so I could feel her, hear her voice, smell her hand cream and hairspray. I wasn’t frightened—it felt nice; she felt close.

  I talked to her in those moments and told her about Nora and the kids, Len and the garden, and the weather and the passers-by. I talked to her until I felt ready to open my eyes and face an empty room. For as soon as I opened them, she was gone.

  Once again, I felt the weight of emptiness pressing down on me. The hollow house, the silence, the stillness. After having Mum around for all those years—in her bed, sitting on the verandah, eating at the table, even filling her chamber pot—I didn’t appreciate the tranquillity.

  Dinner times were quiet, just the sound of our cutlery scraping against the plates.

  ‘Never thought I’d say it, but I miss hearing that bell,’ said Len.

  I smiled, but I felt like a tiny marble rattling around in a tin without a corner in which to lodge. While Len was at work, I turned on the wireless for company and, after I’d done my jobs, I sat out on the verandah knitting and hoping the gentle succour of the sun and the sky would cheer me up.

  I put off cleaning Mum’s bedroom. I tried a few times, but it felt as if she was still there, like the room had absorbed her and she was part of it. I waited until a few months had passed, then made a start, slowly, so it didn’t hurt as much. I peeled back the bedspread and untucked the sheets. As I slid the pillow from its case, I smelt the Lux flakes from her hair. I held it to my nose and I didn’t know if I could wash it because then the last of her scent would be gone.

  I took her dresses and coat from her wardrobe, and her shoes, barely worn, and packed them in a box to give away. I wrapped the set of pillowcases and the tablecloth she’d embroidered in tissue paper, and placed them in the memory box on top of my wardrobe. I couldn’t give Mum’s hats away, so I left them hanging on the hall stand. Every week when I dusted them, I felt as if a part of her was still with us.

  When I’d finished, I closed the door on the neat room with the empty bed and wardrobe, and I felt hollow inside.

  I’d neglected the garden and it needed tending. The ivy had lost its leaves and resembled a shaggy, untrimmed beard draped over the side of the house, so I cut it back. The weeds were flourishing, and I took to the soil with my hoe and rake and dug them out. I fertilised the earth and planted more bulbs and seedlings.

  Being out under the sky and amongst a living garden helped, but the house still felt claustrophobic with memories.

  In December, Len and I went out to Ben Craeg for Grace’s end-of-year concert. Grace had turned eleven in September, and as we pulled up, she was sitting on the steps with her knees together. She saw us and jumped up and ran down the path. Her hair streamed behind her, the ends of her feathery curls catching the light.

  She slipped her hand in mine, her face lively. ‘Guess what?’ she said as she led me up the path, past the letterbox and rose bushes full of blooms. She looked about to burst.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been chosen to sing tonight.’

  ‘Oh!’ I stopped, my hand involuntarily going to my chest.

  ‘What’s wrong, Aunty?’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing.�
� I blinked and slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘I reckon your grandmother’s had a hand in that.’

  Nora greeted us curtly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she snapped. But she seemed quiet and distracted. I asked her three times if she wanted me to prepare the vegetables for dinner, before she sighed and said, ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Ida, I don’t care.’

  I nodded and peeled potatoes and carrots anyway, and then I washed Grace’s hair. Grace leant forward over the bath and her copper spirals tumbled down the mint green of the ceramic. I kneaded the shampoo into her scalp and rinsed the suds from her curls with the plastic hose. We sat by the rotary clothesline, under cottontail clouds and in a light breeze, while I dried her hair with a towel. I took each section and rubbed it from top to bottom until all her curls returned, soft and weightless. I brushed it, slowly, gently, the curls stretching and springing back in undulating shades of red and gold and copper.

  Over dinner, Nora was sharp in her responses, and when Alf was tardy coming in from fixing the fence, she barked at him because they’d be late.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked her again as we were clearing away the dishes.

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.’ But her face twitched.

  Grace changed into a frock the colour of emerald with a white Peter Pan collar and a bow at the waist.

  ‘Oh, Gracie,’ I said when she walked into the lounge, her skirt swishing and her hair tumbling down. ‘You do look lovely.’ She looked like a mirage, a moving ripple of green and red and gold.

  The men all wore collars and ties, even young Ben. He was fourteen and had changed even in the three months since I’d last seen him. He’d shot up and filled out, all muscle and broadness, and his voice had deepened. A couple of pimples spotted his chin and forehead.

  We stood around waiting for Nora. The mantel clock chimed the half hour, then the quarter to, and I went in to hurry her up.

  Nora was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a burgundy dress that was buttoned at her wrists. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. Her hat and bag waited on the bed beside her.

  ‘Come on, Nora,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

  She shook her head and her earrings glinted as they swung. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t miss Grace’s performance.’ My voice was sharp.

  She twisted her hands together and shook her head. ‘I can’t go.’

  ‘You can’t let Gracie down.’

  She shook her head again and her eyes began to fill. ‘I just can’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She looked gaunt and pale, and her lips were trembling. ‘I’m too nervous for her.’

  I felt my body soften and sat down next to her on the bed. I reached for her hand and she clasped it.

  ‘What if she forgets the words?’ she said. ‘Or the tune?’

  ‘It’s ‘Silent Night’. Everybody knows the words to that.’

  Her brow creased and she kept shaking her head as her fingers squeezed mine. ‘I’m so nervous. I’ve never been more nervous. Not even when I performed on stage myself.’

  ‘Gracie will be fine.’ I patted her arm and stood. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t go and watch her do what I did.’

  I bent so our eyes were level. ‘Nor, Grace isn’t you. It doesn’t have to end the same way.’

  She held her hand against her chest for a moment until her breathing slowed. Then she gathered her hat and bag and looked up at me. She nodded, her face still pinched.

  ‘I’ll be right there beside you,’ I said.

  Chapter 25

  Grace stood alone in the centre of the stage, the choir behind her in the dimness. The hall quietened and, hands by her sides, she gazed out over the heads of the audience towards the back of the hall, her face open and her eyes clear. Her dress gleamed and the white of her patent leather shoes shone below her hem. The fluorescent light overhead caught the tips of her hair and they shone copper and gold.

  The piano played the slow opening chords. Next to me, Len straightened and looked ahead, and I felt his arm press against mine. On the other side of me, Nora was gazing down, her hands clenched in her lap.

  Silent night, Holy night.

  It was a bud of a voice, soft and filled with innocence. As soon as she began, everyone sat forward; all eyes were on her.

  All is calm, all is bright.

  Her voice grew stronger and clearer, a pure sound. I let it pass over me, soft as a breeze and, oh, so soothing.

  Round yon virgin, mother and child.

  My memory stirred, for I was hearing another young girl. I could see her fingers flitting over the piano keys and hear her voice reaching out and wrapping itself around all who were listening.

  Holy infant so tender and mild.

  The two girls mingled, and the girl on the stage became the girl in my memory. I turned to that other girl sitting beside me. Her head was bowed and her hands were clasped so her knuckles were white. Her mouth was forming the words as Grace sang, and together they inhaled before Grace sang the final line.

  Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.

  Her voice trailed off and the rest of the class joined in.

  Silent night, Holy night

  Shepherds quake, at the sight.

  Some were looking up, others down. Some wriggled and some scratched their heads. But their mouths opened as one, and their voices came in unison.

  Glories stream from heaven above,

  Heavenly hosts sing Alleluja.

  The hall seemed to lighten as their innocent voices rose.

  Christ the Saviour is born! Christ the Saviour is born!

  No one moved until the sound had faded. Then slowly, one by one, we began to clap. The front row stood and applauded, then the second, and down through the rows all the way to the back, until everyone was standing and clapping.

  On the stage, Grace smiled and bowed. The nun who’d been conducting beamed and motioned to Grace to keep bowing.

  Len and I were on our feet and cheering, our grins broad. Grace kept bowing, and I doubt if the old hall had ever heard so much clapping. The applause went on and on. Nora stayed seated, her head down and her hands clasped against her forehead. She was the only person in the hall not standing.

  Eventually the applause settled and we sat back down.

  Len inclined towards me. ‘That went well, I thought.’

  I leant closer to Nora and whispered into her ear. ‘It wasn’t just Grace up there. You were there, too.’ She didn’t look up.

  Afterwards, we headed out into the warm night air. The clouds were grey in the black sky, like spumes of smoke, and a crescent moon shone just above the dark shadow of Ben Craeg. Outside the hall, we jostled our way through the crowd of people offering their congratulations and commenting on Grace’s beautiful voice.

  Alf stayed by Nora’s side, acknowledging everyone who greeted them. Nora didn’t smile or stop to talk. She kept her head down and pushed her way through the throng in silence.

  ‘Oh, you must be very proud,’ came an Irish voice. It was the small nun who’d conducted the choir.

  Alf stopped, but Nora kept walking, a statuesque figure striding over the lawn towards the car, the burgundy dress swishing about her calves.

  ‘Grace did very well,’ the nun said, smiling. Then she turned to Grace and her face became serious. ‘I hope you do something with your gift. God has given it to you for a reason.’

  Grace freed her face from her father’s side and looked at the nun. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  Nora was silent in the car on the way home and when we arrived, she swept inside without a word. The rest of us filed into the kitchen, and I filled the electric jug and switched it on. The others sat around the table in the dining room, while I cut fruit cake and made a pot of tea.

  ‘How did it feel?’ Alf asked Grace.
‘Standing up there in front of everyone?’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘You weren’t nervous?’ he said.

  ‘I loved being up there. I wanted to stay there and sing all night.’

  ‘No one would get me up on a stage singing in front of people,’ said Len.

  ‘No one would want you up there,’ I said as I carried the teapot and cups into the dining room. I left them on the table and went to find Nora.

  The front door was ajar. Nora was outside on the porch, her elbows resting on the brick balustrade. She’d kicked off her shoes and they were toppled on the ground beside her.

  I opened the screen door and she glanced up. We stood side by side. I could just make out the fence on the other side of the road and the dark shape of a cow. The wind rustled through the grass and the only other noises were the crickets and the occasional groans of the cattle.

  ‘Grace was exquisite tonight,’ I said. ‘Mum would have enjoyed it.’

  Nora nodded. She unclipped her earrings and they jangled in her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t go to your concert,’ I said. ‘When we were kids.’

  Nora sniffed. ‘That’s long forgotten, Ida.’

  ‘I’ve felt bad about it ever since,’ I said. ‘But seeing Gracie tonight, well, now I feel like I was there…in a way.’

  We fell silent, then she said, ‘I saw myself up there tonight, too. Young and innocent and full of dreams.’ She spoke slowly, pausing between the words. ‘Sometimes, I wish I could undo it all. Go back and not make the mistakes I did. I wonder what I might be doing…’ She looked out towards the paddock.

  ‘You were young,’ I said. ‘And in love.’

  ‘And stupid.’ Every now and then the shard of light from the doorway caught a bauble on the earrings in her hand, and they glinted.

  ‘You can’t torture yourself forever about what you did when you were a girl,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not torturing myself. It’s just always there.’ She wiped under her nose with the back of her hand. When she turned to me, her eyes were sadder than I’d ever seen them. ‘Every day I live the consequences of that decision. And the shame. Getting pregnant and having a child to a man who’s not your husband is like having your shame written in big letters across your forehead. The whole world can see. Anyone who looks at Ted and then looks at Alf can see it. Every time I look at him, I see his real father, and I’m reminded—’