by Hugh Mackay
Scarcely knowing what they were doing, they left the wedding reception early, went for a long walk and ended up in Lizzie’s bed. Neither of them claimed to be in love, then or later, yet they admired each other intensely, laughed at the same things, enjoyed the same movies, read the same novels. Lizzie was a kindergarten teacher who really loved the kids in her class. Her taste in music was unsophisticated, but she was an eager pupil when Daniel began to introduce her to the kind of music he played.
Daniel and Lizzie had never declared their undying love for each other: they had decided they were ‘modern best friends, with sex’. Secretly, Daniel felt Freya would always be his best friend, with or without sex.
Lizzie and Freya hit it off when they met, and Daniel had mixed feelings about that. He was always glad of opportunities to see Freya, but felt uncomfortable with her in the presence of Lizzie. Lizzie, no fool, sensed all this.
Eventually, Lizzie announced that she wanted a baby. By then, she was in her late thirties, and nature was refusing to oblige. A protracted IVF program followed before Lizzie had a successful embryo transfer. Nine months later, baby Felix was born without complications. Daniel was smitten.
Freya was insanely jealous of Lizzie’s good fortune, though not of Lizzie herself, and she enjoyed seeing Daniel take to fatherhood with such relish. She was surprised to find she was able to hold the baby without any conflicted feelings. This was Daniel’s baby and she was happy for him and for Lizzie.
As they walked to the cafe they had chosen, Freya slipped her hand inside Daniel’s arm. She knew he liked her to do this, and she felt it was harmless enough. Best friends, and all that. She also knew it was a gesture that fed Daniel’s longing for her, and she did not care to dwell on that.
They both ordered pasta and a glass of red wine.
At a certain point in the conversation, Daniel looked deeply into Freya’s eyes and said: ‘It will never be any different. I will love you like this until the day I die.’ Daniel regularly made declarations like this – had been making them for years – and Freya both resisted and welcomed them. She would love Richard to do something like this, say something like this, make her heart skip a beat like it did when Daniel said these absurd, unrealistic things.
‘You have Lizzie,’ she replied, ‘and now you have Felix. Nothing we do or say to each other must ever impinge on any of that.’
‘You didn’t mention Richard.’
‘Don’t be silly, Daniel. I love Richard. Richard is my husband. You know that. I wouldn’t ever do or say anything to upset Richard. How many times do I have to tell you that?’
‘That’s crap, for a start. You’ve told me that Richard doesn’t like you hanging out with me like this, yet you still do it.’
‘And what about Lizzie? Wouldn’t she rather you went straight home from rehearsals and helped her with Felix? Aren’t you keen to get home and see them both?’
‘Ah, Freya.’
Freya knew that tone of voice. That dreamy look. That tilt of the still-boyish head. The flop of that long, unruly hair. She knew Daniel in ways she would never know Richard. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. There was no mystery about Daniel. He was about to declare his love for her, yet again, and while she had no reason to doubt the sincerity and purity of his attachment to her, she found she actually enjoyed the realisation that she was sometimes not on the same wavelength as Richard. Life with Daniel would have been endlessly romantic, reckless, and utterly irresponsible. Nothing practical would ever have got done and even the chaos might have become tediously predictable, as well as irritating. But, in small doses and within safe limits, it was still lovely to know Daniel adored her.
‘Do you know, Freya, that every note I play, I play for you? Do you really know it? Do you know that one of the things I love most about our performances is that when we’re on the concert platform, I can look at you – gaze at you – more intensely than at any other time because you can’t pull a face, like you just did. You have to play on, looking sublimely lovely, and just accept that the man sitting over there is making love to you with his cello.’
Daniel had said the same thing, or very nearly the same thing, a hundred times or more. More. And Freya never tired of hearing it.
16
Coming Home –
8th Variation – ‘A Text from Jean-Pierre’
The sight of his convivium gladdens Richard’s heart, as it always does when he comes home, the delight only slightly dulled by his growing conviction that a polished concrete floor would be a marked improvement on the travertine pavers. The natural next step. A building is a living thing, subject to constant decay and needing constant renewal. That’s a line that goes down better with clients eager to renovate than it does with Freya.
Freya is sitting at the farmhouse table – that table had certainly not been a mistake, in spite of her resistance to the cost – with her back to him. Richard notices that her shoulders are shaking, though whether she is laughing, shivering, coughing or sobbing it is impossible to tell.
‘Home is the –’
‘Shut up, Richard.’
So she is shaking with anger.
‘You okay, Frey?’
‘I am not okay. I am as far from okay as it is possible to be.’
Richard’s mind runs quickly over the events of last night. All clear, as far as he can recall. And today has been uneventful, until now. They’d had a brief phone conversation and an exchange of texts about their expected arrival times at home, and it was agreed they wouldn’t need to bother with a proper dinner. A plate of cheese and crackers is already out on the table, together with a plastic tub of potato salad and another of coleslaw, both from the deli. It seems safe to proceed.
‘What is it?’
‘See for yourself.’ Freya hands him her smartphone and he reads the text message on the screen: I’m out. J-P
Richard scans the screen for a sign of the author, but doesn’t recognise the number of the sender.
‘Who is J-P? And what is he or she out of?’
These are innocent questions but they provoke more rage from Freya. She howls like an animal, her face reddening.
‘Fucking Jean-Pierre. Gone. Left. Quit. Just like that.’
‘Jean-Pierre?’
‘Our second violinist, Richard. You have met him on at least five occasions. Do you never pay attention to anything or anyone to do with my work?’
Richard is stung. That feels like an unfair remark. He would describe himself as broadly supportive of Continental Drift, if somewhat detached from the fine detail.
‘You feel upset.’ That is a line Richard has recently picked up from a speaker at one of the Socially Aware Architects workshops on resolving interpersonal conflict.
Freya gazes at him, open-mouthed with disbelief. ‘Upset? Yes, you could say upset. You could also say suicidal, homicidal . . . no, not homicidal, genocidal. I want to kill all Frenchmen.’
‘Is that entirely rational, Frey?’
‘Entirely rational, Richard. Today is Wednesday. It’s actually Wednesday night. We have a major, major gig on Saturday night. Big event. Big money. New work. That is three days away. Count them, Richard. One, Thursday. Two, Friday. Three, Saturday. Three days. And the fucking Frenchman has quit. Cold. And by text.’
‘No warning?’
‘Ha. It depends what you mean by warning. Tantrums every single rehearsal. Maybe that was a warning. Storming out of today’s rehearsal because of some light-hearted remark Daniel made. But never an actual, specific threat to leave the group. No.’
‘Let me think about this while I get changed. There must be a rational solution.’
‘Oh, there’s a rational solution, alright. Track down the traitorous Frog and ram his phone down his Gallic gullet. If you could murder someone by text, I’d do it.’
Richard retreats from the danger area.
If he comes back in here with one of his smart-arse so-called rational solutions, I’ll kill him, too, thinks Frey
a. What I need now is for him to let me wallow. I need some sympathy. Process, Richard. Not the rush to a conclusion.
As he changes his clothes, Richard ponders the problem and sees only three possible solutions. He suspects Freya is too distressed to think straight, so he assumes – hopes – she’ll be grateful for the input of a calmer mind.
‘Let me pour you another drink,’ he says when he returns to a still-fuming Freya.
Richard takes his time, as if to demonstrate the level of calm required. Freya is controlling her breathing, knowing – fearing – what is to come.
‘Cheers!’
‘Salute.’ No exclamation mark.
‘There are only three possible ways out of this.’
‘Richard!’
‘Let me finish, Frey. First, you cancel the gig. Loss of face. Loss of income.’
‘Not an option at all, Richard. Can we not do this, please?’
‘I assumed that would probably be the case. Second, you might not have thought of this. You could play as a trio. I don’t know what’s on the program, but it may well be the case that the second violin part – second violin, right? – wouldn’t be missed. See what I mean?’
Freya has clenched both fists into tight balls of repressed rage. It is some time before she speaks. ‘Oh, yes, brilliant. I see what you mean alright. The house would be fine with a few windows and walls missing. Who needs all those windows and walls? Eh? Sometimes you can be a total idiot, Richard. And I mean total.’
‘I don’t think that’s a reasonable analogy at all, Frey. All I’m saying is that second violin is a secondary part – by definition – and that half the audience might not even notice if it was missing.’
Freya is slowly shaking her head as if she simply can’t believe what she’s hearing. There is no level at which she can respond. No way into this.
Richard is undaunted: ‘But let’s say you are right, just for the sake of argument. You need a fourth player. Alright, that brings me to the third and most obvious solution. I’m sure you’re already working towards it with your colleagues.’
‘What? Killing Jean-Pierre?’
‘Come on, Frey. I’m trying to be serious. Finding a replacement for Jean-Pierre.’
‘Just like that. Wednesday night, for Saturday’s gig, with a new work included in the program, written for us and rehearsed for a month. Find a replacement!’
‘How hard can it be? The world is full of eager young violinists, some of them brilliant sight-readers bursting with talent. You’ve often said so yourself. Too many people studying music. Too many good players. Most of them will never make it.’
‘Richard. Stop. Leave this to us, please.’
‘But I only meant that –’
‘Richard!’
‘Three days’ rehearsal. That’s plenty. Sure, it’ll be intense. But a good player. An accomplished player. It’s only a matter of reading the music, surely. How hard can that be?’
‘Oh, any old builder will do. It’s only a matter of reading the plans. How hard can that be?’ Freya’s voice is bitter, sarcastic and shrill. She is seeing, once more, a weird side of Richard that she usually finds endearing but now, in a moment of crisis bordering on panic, finds repugnant and mildly psychopathic.
Richard shrugs. ‘Up to a point. Any qualified builder with a bit of experience. Runs on the board. Yes, any good builder could read the plans. He’d get by.’
‘No site meetings. No interpretation. No role for an architect once the plans are drawn. Is that really how it is, you moron? You fucking moron!’
‘I think this discussion is becoming unproductive, Frey. I fully acknowledge that music is different from architecture. Or building. I was only trying to help. Just trying to clarify the options. I’m sorry. It’s just that I think –’
Freya doesn’t wait to hear what he thinks. She is already on her way to the bathroom, possibly to vomit – her most common response to high anxiety.
Richard follows and, through the closed bathroom door, persists. His voice is still calm, his demeanour still dignified. ‘I’d only add that it’s possible to be too precious about all this. When our technical skill reaches a sufficiently high standard, we call it art – whether it’s architecture or music. There’s nothing mystical or supernatural about it. That’s all I’m saying. Focus on the technical aspect.’
A faint moaning from within.
‘Frey?’
‘Go away.’
17
Schooldays
Russell, Geoff and Barry were at school together forty years ago and have kept in touch. They still meet three or four times a year.
‘Hey! Did you see the little item in Domain about this brilliant architect who’s come up with a new kitchen and dining concept – the convivium?’ Russell fished a newspaper cutting out of his pocket. ‘Guess who?’
Geoff grabbed the cutting and ran his eye over it. ‘Richard Brooks! Is that our very own Richard Brooks?’
‘Babble himself,’ Russell said.
‘It’s not like him to be such a self-promoter.’
‘I agree. That was my first thought when I saw the item. An image of Richard Brooks came back to me and I thought, this is very uncharacteristic of Babble. And as far as I can see it’s just a fancy name for an expanded kitchen and dining area.’
‘Yeah, Babble was never a bragger,’ Barry said. ‘The dead opposite, in fact. But the name. Convivium. That’s pure Babble. Latin, is it?’
‘Search moi.’
‘We should look him up, you guys. We should never have lost touch. He was a wreck by the time we left school, even though he always shone in exams. I don’t know. All that stuff with his father going off and then his mum dying. We never found out what his mother died of, either. Babble was always vaguely miserable, or something – except for that one time.’
‘I was quite close to him at school. But I think I was a bit heartless, given what he must have been going through.’
‘I always liked him too. I vaguely thought of looking him up. Someone told me he’d done architecture, so I thought he must be getting on alright.’
‘Yeah. Well, he wouldn’t be hard to find. Especially not now he’s famous. Sort of. The name of his firm is here.’
‘You said “except for that one time”. What did you mean?’
‘You remember – the poetry thing.’
‘Remind me.’
‘The end of year ten. After his life had fallen apart, more or less. Did you ever visit him at his grandmother’s house?’
‘Once. It was on a weekend. Yeah. I only went the once, though.’
‘You’re not Robinson Crusoe. I don’t think anyone ever went back for a second dose of Grandma . . . what was her name? It wasn’t Brooks. Can’t remember. He always called her –’
‘Grandma Davies. Something like that. She was ferocious. And the house had this terrible smell.’
‘Arsenic and old lace.’
‘Precisely. And the old crone was as deaf as a post.’
‘Poor Babble. Why did he ask us to his house? Hardly anyone did that. Maybe he needed relief from the old woman. She always seemed to sort of hover over him.’
‘But what was the poetry thing? I dimly remember Babble was nuts about poetry. Is that what you mean? He could memorise stuff like it was going out of style.’
‘Poetry was his big thing. He wrote it, too, you know.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No, really. He once showed me something he’d written. A long love poem to that girl – what was her name? The girl he took to the year ten formal? He was clearly crazy about her, but never even held her hand, according to Sarah, who always knew everything.’
‘God. Sarah. I haven’t thought about her in years. She’s probably the mother of four brilliant children and running a merchant bank.’
‘I think her name was Angie, the girl Babble took to the formal. That’s it – short for Angelina. Pretty unusual name back then. She was a stunner. I could neve
r work out how Babble convinced her to go with him. Didn’t she get pregnant in year eleven and have to leave school?’
‘Probably. I can’t remember. Not many schoolgirls were on the pill in the seventies. I do remember that. Condoms or risk it.’
‘Get to the point, Baz. The poetry.’
‘Surely you remember the assembly where the headmaster announced that Richard Brooks was going to recite “Requiem”, that Robert Louis Stevenson poem, in memory of his mother?’
‘I do now. Of course! Bloody Babble. Talk about gutsy.’
‘There was a lot of tittering and murmuring as he marched up to the dais. He wasn’t exactly the most popular kid in the school, as we all know. Hopeless at sport. A lot of the guys thought he was pathetic, but he certainly wasn’t pathetic. A bit aloof, maybe – that faraway look he often had. A strange bugger, to say the least. Anyway, I remember how he held his head up as he reached the dais, as if he was somewhere else.’
‘God! I haven’t heard that poem in years. I haven’t heard any poetry in years. Ha! My wife sometimes says I need more poetry in my life. She might be right. What about you guys?’
‘Poetry? No. Never. Not since school.’
‘Go on about Babble. I do vaguely remember this. Got a big reaction, didn’t it?’
‘A big reaction? Are you kidding? Babble stood there beside the head until everyone was quiet. Then the head sat down and there was just Babble. Cool as a cuke. Launched into it like a professional actor or something.’
‘Jesus, Bazza, you’re bringing a lump to my throat. I do remember this. It was magical. The assembly hall had never been so quiet. I think a lot of the kids hadn’t known about his mother’s death and everything, so they didn’t really get the significance of it until the head announced it. Or maybe not until Babble launched into it.’