The best part was the soloist — when he actually played. He sat for a long time on his platform, swaying to the music, occasionally wiping his hands down his pants, looking nervous and psyched-up — until he got the signal from the conductor and then he set off like a bloodhound.
Elliot thought he was a legend, and sat forward to watch the musician cover every bit of his cello. There were no guitar frets to guide him and he leapt and scrambled along his fingerboard without missing a note. The sound was amazing yet the soloist didn’t seem to be amplified as far as Elliot could tell. Astonishingly, the cellist knew the whole thing off by heart and yet the orchestra, who according to Elliot seemed to have the easy part, all had music on their stands.
The bow in his right hand whipped and belted the strings — it was like watching a finely tuned athlete at the height of his game. He played flat-out for nearly twenty minutes and ended with sweeping runs and flourishes of his bow.
Elliot leaned back and gave two gigantic claps before Zeya grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t clap between movements,’ she whispered.
‘The guy’s a genius; I can’t not clap.’
‘I know,’ she giggled, ‘but he’s not finished.’ She didn’t let go immediately. The next part, or movement, was hellishly long and at times very slow, but Zeya had held his hand and he could still feel her imprint on his skin.
The sheer volume and power the orchestra created in the loud and fast bits made Elliot feel alive and stimulated as if he’d smoked something. The light caught the spike on the end of the soloist’s cello and it seemed like a bright and lucky star, an omen.
‘Why is everyone so obsessed about not clapping between movements?’ Elliot asked Zeya after the concert. They were squashed into a booth in a noodle bar and Elliot nudged her knee under the table. ‘What’s the harm in a quick round of applause?’
‘It breaks the mood and it wasn’t the end of the piece.’
‘Zeya, the mood was broken. People were coughing and moving and the dude on the cello was wiping his face; the whole orchestra was having a scratch.’
‘You’re probably right; it’s just a rule.’ Zeya expertly picked up a shrimp with her chopsticks and ate it delicately. ‘It’s possibly more fashion, because a couple of centuries ago composers were offended if people didn’t clap.’
‘Really?’ Zeya surprised Elliot with her depth of knowledge. ‘Anyway, the concert was good. I’ve never been to an orchestra thing before — well maybe when I was at Primary.’
‘It’s a shame New Zealanders don’t support their classical artists.’
‘Don’t we? I thought it was just my family.’
‘All those old people there today and only about four people our age? Young people in this country are free to do anything they like, yet you all do the same.’
‘Well—’
‘In Burma, orchestras aren’t allowed. Sometimes going to school is forbidden.’
‘You must be pleased you’ve escaped.’
‘I haven’t escaped. Why would you think I’d desert my country? I’m here getting educated, and one day I’ll go back and help.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Of course not. My cousins and friends are there. I’ll put my strength into the fight for democracy.’
‘What can you do? One more person demonstrating or throwing rocks? They shoot students and protestors in Burma.’
‘I can study medicine, or law, or politics, and fight from the inside. I’m one of the lucky ones because I’ve got a chance to learn. It’s my duty.’
Elliot wanted to change the subject but Zeya wasn’t finished. ‘The music we listened to was ripped out of the composer’s heart because of his passion for his country. There’s more to nationalism than watching a game of—’
‘Don’t say it.’
‘It’s true, though.’ Zeya had the decency to look uncomfortable. ‘Rugby should not be a driving force for a nation’s passion.’
‘Why not? Do we have to be under a dictatorship to be passionate?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘What then?’
‘I think you all just play, play, play. You shrug your collective shoulders.’ Zeya shrugged her own shoulders to demonstrate.
‘So, what should we care about?’
‘My country’s been trampled on and ruined. We went from being one of the richest countries on earth to asking for handouts from the United Nations. We’ve been at war for nearly half a century and you wonder what you should be caring about?’ Zeya didn’t seem to be blinking as she leaned forward and spoke to him. ‘Why are you not told about us? Why don’t you care?’
‘I do care; I just didn’t know.’
‘I don’t mean you, personally.’ She put her chopsticks down. ‘Everyone turns the news off when there’s riots in countries like mine. People say, “Why can’t they get along?” or “Look at those idiots waving banners.” Those idiots are my family.’ She looked as if she might cry. ‘Why doesn’t the rest of the world care?’
‘I don’t know.’ That was the truth; Elliot had no idea. Now that he’d listened to Zeya, though, it felt shameful that her country was so desperate and unhappy and his country kept rolling on playing sport.
Beans and sausages on toast were on the menu at Arnie’s when Elliot got home. Arnie was greedy for details of the afternoon but Elliot was reluctant to share a single morsel of his time.
‘Does Old Man Rash know you’ve been out with his daughter?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No. I don’t think so either. You’d better watch out for that Rashim ’cause some of those older Burmese men have funny ideas about women.’ Arnie served himself a plate of food then pushed the pot towards Elliot. ‘Help yourself. He’s got a wife who’s about thirty years younger than him. Hard to tell the wife from the daughter, I reckon.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s a messy country, Myanmar; it’s under military control, you know.’
‘Yeah. Zeya always says Burma. She got fired-up about the way the world has deserted them.’
‘We probably have. We’re an apathetic bunch.’
‘What can people do?’
‘Nothing. Lobby our government to make a stand, but who listens?’
‘Zeya reckons she’s going back when she’s finished studying to do her bit.’
‘You would, wouldn’t you? Fifty years in the navy has made me appreciate how lucky we are. Old Rashim came out years ago on a Colombo Plan and went to university here. He’s got himself a good life and he’s always back there, sponsoring other Burmese families out. It’s the only way people can escape from that place.’ Arnie stabbed his sausage and waved it as he spoke. ‘He takes the family back all the time. He must feel guilty as hell about his lifestyle here, not living in fear each day. He’s got his wife’s mother here too.’
‘Zeya’s grandmother?’
‘She’s probably younger than Old Man Rash. Can’t be easy living in that house with all those women.’
‘What about—?’ The phone ringing interrupted Elliot’s next question, and Arnie leaned across the table to mute the TV.
‘Get that phone. Might be her now.’
Coronation Street was about to begin and Elliot could see Arnie was torn between missing his programme and listening in to Elliot’s phone call.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, dear, it’s Mum.’
‘Hi Mum … Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ She was doing all the preliminaries and he listened carefully to her tone. Sure enough, she was edgy.
‘Elliot, I have to talk to you about something. Do you have a minute?’
Shit, he thought. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s not great news, I’m sorry.’
‘Okay. What is it?’ Why the hell can’t she just spit it out?
‘It’s about Nana.’
‘Nana?’
‘She’s very sick.’
He could deal with a dog issue, just not a pregnancy one. ‘How
sick?’
Elliot heard all the particulars again about the tendency for St Bernard’s to suffer from congenital hip problems and what a ripe old age she was, and how he could say his goodbyes if he came home soon, etcetera, etcetera.
‘Yeah, Mum, okay. I’ll come back at Easter.’
‘That’s fine, dear. We’ll keep Nana comfortable until then but after that it would be kindest if we put her down.’ Mum choked on those words.
‘I understand. We’ll do it at Easter.’
‘Everything alright?’ He’d scarcely clicked the phone off before Arnie was quizzing him.
‘Yeah, just Nana. She’s on her last legs.’
‘Do you need to go immediately?’
‘No. They’re keeping her pain-free until I get home and then—’ He made a pulling the plug gesture and Arnie gaped at him.
‘That’s illegal.’
‘No, it’s the most humane way, Mum said.’
‘I’m not letting you near me if I get sick.’
‘Nana’s a dog.’
‘Good Lord.’ He turned Coro up and they settled into silence. Elliot was relieved to get lost in the problems of a small street in Manchester on the other side of the world.
A twenty-year-old builder from the Kelburn site, who was heading north to do some hunting, gave Elliot a ride halfway and Dad drove down to take him the rest of the way home.
It was okay being in the car with Dad but it was a shame they had so many no-go conversation areas. Lena was obviously off-limits.
Zeya was out because Elliot felt privately protective towards her.
Arnie was safe, but nothing about the navy could be discussed because Dad hated talking about his brief stint there. Elliot and Rick believed something had happened to Dad when he was in the navy; the way he always shut the subject down if it came up.
Nana was out as a topic because it was too emotional, so mostly they chatted about electrical stuff and Rick’s sport and how well Rick was doing generally.
‘Home sweet home then,’ Dad said as he turned into Brunswick Ave. Elliot stared at the familiar landscape, searching for changes. There were none.
Mum came out to greet them and Rick carried Elliot’s bag inside. Everyone was being too kind and they moved away when he went to pat Nana.
She was in her basket on his old cot blanket and she thumped her tail and gave a welcoming bark when he walked through the door.
‘Hey there, Nana. You’re okay, aren’t you?’ She flinched as she struggled up. Her front legs came out of the basket but her back legs wouldn’t move and she sank over the edge of her bed and lay there stranded. She made a whinnying sound like a horse — her apology for not standing.
‘Come on, you’re fine.’ But she wasn’t fine. Elliot helped her back into the basket and knelt down to stroke her massive head. When he and Rick were little, they had driven miniature cars up the white stripe between Nana’s eyes and down her head and shoulders. If they went into her brown or black fur they were pulling off the road or crashing. Elliot ran his hand along the white stripes of her coat now, and she stared at him with devotion.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ Mum said. ‘Come on, Elliot.’
‘Ahh, that’s wonderful, Lou,’ Dad said in an over-jovial tone.
Elliot gave Nana one last head rub and stood up. He thought it was barbaric that they were carrying on as normal, eating dinner, and then killing her in the morning.
Mum said to think of it as a release from pain. It didn’t matter how you phrased it, Elliot reckoned they were still taking her to the vet to be killed.
Later in the evening, the brothers carried Nana outside so she could relieve herself. Out on the lawn, she gave them a grateful look as if to say, ‘Thanks boys, I won’t be long.’
They sat on the steps facing the garage and Rick said, ‘How old were we when we jumped off the roof?’
‘Dunno. I was seven maybe, or six.’ It was folklore really, but it felt good to chat. ‘We were crazy.’
‘Obsessed. Peter Pan was real to us — I don’t think that’s normal. And the way I just did whatever you told me—’
‘That’s what little brothers are supposed to do.’
‘Huh.’ Rick gave a quiet laugh. ‘I was right on the money then.’
‘It’ll be weird at home now; no me, no Nana.’
‘I thought you might come back now, ah, now that—’
‘Now what?’ Elliot’s stomach performed its familiar high jump and he leaned forward to stop the ache.
Rick breathed in slowly and said, ‘Oh nothing. Nothing.’
Nana gave a ruff from the darkness of the lawn and they went over to lift her up.
‘On three,’ Rick said. ‘One, two,’ and they both said ‘three’ together as they each took half her weight. Elliot had Nana’s head, and her brown eyes stared at him in the dark. She was light compared to the load he felt he was carrying. Nana was a loyal dog, a keeper of secrets, and a magnificent beast. He couldn’t bear to let her die; his last link to his carefree youth.
Mum put Nana’s basket in Elliot’s room beside his bed and they laid her on her blanket.
‘Jake Griffiths just rang,’ Dad called out as Elliot tucked the blanket around her. ‘He said he’ll come here tomorrow at nine, since she’s such a big dog.’
Mr Griffiths was the family vet and his daughter, Melanie, was in Rick’s class at school.
‘How kind,’ Mum said. ‘That will save all the lifting.’
Elliot decided to go to bed to escape the details and niceties. He thought they were all just executioners pretending to be civilised.
Rick had trials for a rep team the next day and Elliot heard him saying something about having done his share of the grave digging. ‘Elliot can do some,’ he said, and then as he walked past Elliot’s room, he muttered, ‘You’ll be home keeping a low profile no doubt.’
Elliot didn’t answer. The friendly chat on the steps was soured and he shut his door without saying goodnight.
The next morning was all rubbish, and according to Elliot there was no way Nana didn’t know what was going on. Mr Griffiths came with an assistant, a young girl who blushed when she saw Rick and Elliot.
Nana was on her blanket with a towel under her rear end. The vet said dogs often evacuate as they go to sleep; Elliot didn’t like the way Rick sniggered at that. Nana was obedient but quivering. The assistant put a muzzle on Nana’s nose — Mr Griffiths explained that it was just while he got things started. He squatted down beside Nana and shaved a bit of fur off her paw. Nana seemed affronted at the muzzle and she kept her eyes off the vet as if she wouldn’t lower herself to look at him.
When Nana was prepped, Mr Griffiths went off to the bathroom to draw up the syringe. She gave a big dog sigh and dropped her face on Elliot’s arm, where a string of drool, which had managed to escape the muzzle, lay on his sleeve. Mr Griffiths came back into the room. The syringe was down by his leg and he said, ‘That’s right, Elliot, just reassure her.’
Nana’s deep brown eyes were trusting and calm as she focused on Elliot’s face. He felt her tense as the needle slid into the vein on the shaven leg and tears flooded Elliot’s eyes. Mr Griffiths unsnapped the muzzle and Nana faded into stillness before them. Elliot wasn’t sure if she was dead because her eyes were still open, although they weren’t looking at him anymore.
‘Take your time; there’s no hurry,’ Mr Griffiths said. He laid the syringe in a tray and handed it back to his assistant. Then he ran his hand over Nana’s face and arranged her face folds so her eyes closed a bit. Elliot was aware of him tucking Nana’s front leg back in line with the others before he scooped the towel up as he moved away. Elliot couldn’t see what had happened down there.
Dad went off with Mr Griffiths to see him out the door and Rick gave Nana a last pat before he went to get his kit on. Mum moved into the bathroom to blow her nose.
Elliot, left alone with Nana, buried his hands in her coat to let the warmth and familiar denseness seep int
o his memory. He leaned forward and breathed in her fusty dog smell. Mum came back and massaged Nana’s paw as if to apologise for hurting it.
Elliot watched Mum give Nana’s paw her attention and he wanted to say, ‘I’m in trouble. I’m in shitting big trouble and I need help.’ He had so many birds-and-bees questions; not least the one that went, ‘How do you know if you’ve been stung?’ Tears of pity for his predicament welled up again and he brushed them away.
‘Oh, Elliot. She’s out of pain now,’ Mum said.
He felt ashamed about the way he’d caused so much trouble for his mother, and even worse that she thought the troubles were behind her. Elliot had gone and written a whole new chapter; she just hadn’t read that far ahead yet.
‘Today is the worst day,’ Mum said. ‘After this, things will get better.’ She put her hand on his arm and the surprise touch almost made him talk. She said, ‘Shall we finish this?’
‘Yup.’ They wrapped Nana in her blanket and by the time they’d done that, Dad was back to help lift the dead weight out to the garden.
‘Hey, Rooster. Sorry ’bout Nana.’ Deeks was throwing baskets at his house when Elliot arrived. He slotted in beside Deeks as if he’d never been away.
‘Ta, mate.’ His arms were sore from digging the hole and filling it again. She’d been no small lady.
‘Remember when you got her? I thought you were the luckiest person ever.’ He ran around Elliot with the ball and jumped up to have a shot at goal.
‘Yeah. She was a cute ball of fur.’
‘Now you’re the unluckiest,’ Deeks laughed, bouncing the ball on Elliot’s feet.
‘Shut up, Deeks. My life may be funny to you—’
‘Don’t get all roostery; I was just joking.’ He held the ball out. ‘Here, have some free shots.’
‘Nah.’ Elliot leaned on the wall under the hoop. ‘I need to work out some stuff.’
‘Yeah?’
‘The thing is, I’ve been on my laptop at Arnie’s looking up how to work out, you know, if you’re the father, and it’s all quite confusing.’
Coming Home to Roost Page 7