Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  AUTUMN MUSIC

  by

  DULCIE M. STONE

  AUTUMN MUSIC

  Copyright © DULCIE M. STONE 2008

  First published as printed book 2008

  Published as eBook 2012

  The National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Stone, Dulcie M.

  Autumn music.

  ISBN: 978-1-921406-21-8 (pbk.)

  978-1-922155-54-2 (epub)

  978-1-922155-55-9 (mobi)

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and thepublisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  The author asserts her moral rights.

  Distributed by Palmer Higgs Pty Ltd

  www.phbooks.com.au

  About the Author

  Dulcie May Stone, born Dulcie May White in Melbourne 1924, has won acclaim as an author, educator and campaigner for people with disabilities. She has been awarded an MBE for service to the handicapped (1981), was nominated International Woman of the Year in 1996/97, was included in the Outstanding People of the Twentieth Century Selection and, with her late husband, received an Apostolic Blessing in 1989.

  Dulcie has previously published the following works:

  Fiction

  Tools of War. Zeus Publications. 2007.

  Dark Oasis. Poseidon Books (an imprint of Zeus Publications). 2007.

  Fay. The Australian Institute on Intellectual Disability, Canberra. 2006.

  Chance’s Children. Spectrum Publications. 2003

  Ask Me about Saturdays. SMARTBOARD Internet Publisher. 1997.

  Ask Me about Saturdays. SpringDale Publications. 1993.

  Hullo Fay. Self Published. 1991.

  Jonny Love. Spectrum Publications. 1982.

  I Laugh I Cry I Feel. Spectrum Publications. 1978.

  Included in the International Year of the Disabled selection, Bologna Book Fair, 1991.

  Non-Fiction

  Switching on the Light. Spectrum Publishing. 2002.

  Becoming a Writer. Stone & Associates Publication. 1996.

  Parent Power ’94. SpringDale Publications. 1994.

  What’s Volunteering & What’s Not? SpringDale Publications. 1993.

  Towards the New Dream. SpringDale Publications. 1993.

  For Adults Only? Upper Yarra Community House. 1990.

  Principles of Voluntarism. Community Service Victoria Publication. 1988.

  Teaching with the Retarded. Spectrum Publications. 1979.

  Parent Power. Mildura and District Educational Council Publication. 1971.

  An editorial committee member of ‘Interaction’, the Australian Institute on Intellectual Disability quarterly journal, Dulcie retired from teaching in 2006. She enjoys a busy family life with her four children, twelve grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren.

  Dedication

  To the memory of Father James Green.

  On my conversion to Catholicism, just weeks before his sadly premature death, my mentor and friend Father Green promised: “If you’re still with the Church, I’ll congratulate you in ten years’ time.”

  Acknowledgements

  To each one, and there are hundreds, who have been at my side on the long learning journey which has been my life.

  Introduction

  April 1980

  Munich. Germany

  My husband and I are in a very anxious queue waiting for train tickets at the Munich Railway Station. The reason for the anxiety is evident. Every newspaper headline carries the word ‘Teheran’.

  Since early November last year, when fanatical followers of Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini stormed the American Embassy and took a hundred staff and marines hostage, Iran’s capital has been the site of an ongoing international crisis.

  The United Nations Commission, desperately trying to resolve the problem of fifty-three American diplomats still being held captive, has been unsuccessful. The Ayatollah refuses to co-operate.

  Even though we can neither read nor speak German, today’s Munich newspaper headlines warn us there’s been a new development.

  We’re living in a century of unprecedented universal violence. Born into the turmoil following the First World War, David and I have lived through the Great Depression, the ‘Peace in our time’ debacle following Hitler’s Munich meeting with English Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, the Second World War and the very real threat of Japanese invasion of our country. We’ve witnessed the unleashing of the atomic bomb, the Korean War, the Vietnam War and the Cold War.

  Now, travelling Eurorail we’re in Munich where the too-recent 1972 ‘Black September’ guerrilla assault on its Olympic Games Village is reminding us that no one is immune. Though the crisis in Iran has been escalating and many tourists have opted to rush home, we’re not sure. Optimists (or idiots?), we’re kind of hoping it will all go away.

  A tall young man a few paces ahead of us in the Munich queue opens his newspaper. He reads the German news article. He screams, then races around the huge room like a gibbering madman.

  Someone in the queue interprets. The hysterical young man, one of the original hostages, is an escapee from the Teheran Embassy. Today’s newspapers report a failed rescue attempt of the remaining fifty-three hostages. It’s a debacle. Eight hostages have died.

  The article continues. Speaking to a shocked world, American President Jimmy Carter takes personal responsibility. The Ayatollah calls the fiasco an act of stupidity.

  Here we go again?

  We’re at a crossroad. We’re in the middle of Europe where the latest act of rampant terrorism seems to be quickly escalating into a personal hazard.

  I’m here because I’m confronting a crossroad of a different kind. On long service leave from my job teaching people with intellectual disability, I’m asking myself – have I the strength to continue this work? Not because of the people with intellectual disability, but because of the roadblocks set in my path by people who say, “You’re wasting your life.” “You’re an idealist.” “They can never learn.”

  We don’t go home.

  May 1980

  Lourdes. France

  It’s beautiful. Green! Everything, save the heavy grey sky and the snow-topped mountains, is a luxurious Irish green. Expecting to find the tawdry tinsel flimsy of a tourist Mecca, the amazing rustic beauty and overwhelming tranquillity is a very welcome surprise.

  Showered, rested, changed and ready to face the tawdry tourist trap we know has to be there, we head downhill to ‘the grotto’. They are here, as forewarned; the shops, the souvenirs and the tourists. But orderly, relaxed, unhurried. Peaceful. Another surprise. So what – maybe it’s a trick of fortunate timing. Whatever the reason, we are happy to be here, to be part of it.

  The shops end well before the entrance gate. We pass through. More green, acres of it and a hush almost as if we’re in a back-home library. A few groups amble around. A couple of heart-warming sights – handicapped people being escorted by young volunteers.

  We quietly join the line slowly moving towards the grotto where Mary, the Mother of God, asked young Bernadette to wash her face at a fountain that wasn’t there. Until Bernadette, obeying the vision, dug the hole that was to become the healing fountain which has resulted in many proven miracles. Passing the statue, we quietly kiss her feet and quietly and unhurriedly leave. No big deal. No thrill. No sudden fervour of passionate belief.

  So – what to do?

  “Let’s walk around a bit,” David suggest
s.

  We walk. Peaceful paths, friendly faces, lowering sky, distant mountains, a beautiful church. We’re about to leave when the faint sound of a distant choir attracts us. Following the sound, we enter a dark underground chamber; unlit and apparently of immense proportions. We have no idea where we are but follow, in the dark, the sound of the choir which crescendos inharmoniously at our approach. We are, we later discover, in the famous underground cathedral we’d never heard of and on our way to the tiny chapel at the far end of it.

  Abruptly stepping from dark to light, we emerge into the chapel, candle-lit for Mass. A score of worshippers, a robed priest, the Mass almost ended. We kneel, entranced that finally here is an unexpected ‘happening’ for us to appreciate.

  We don’t know the half of it!

  We’ve stumbled on a Mass for people with intellectual disability – in English. The strangely discordant singing is now explained as, around us, the disabled people belt forth their off-key interpretation of ‘Hail Queen of Heaven.’

  Mass ends. We stand.

  The priest steps down from the altar and removes his robes. His congregation hug him, pump his hand, slap his back and behave in a refreshingly irreverent manner.

  Finally one fellow holds the smiling priest close and says, “Thanks, John.”

  And here am I, a teacher from the other side of the world, privileged to witness this magical moment. For me, my miracle. A miracle of timing, of place, of need, insight and reassurance which eventually supports me back to my rewarding job and through the awesome trials still to come.

  Dulcie Stone

  2007

  Chapter One

  April 1954 -

  Blackwood, Great Dividing Range,

  Australia

  “Who gives this woman to wed this man?”

  “I do.” Genuflecting to the wooden figure above the altar, Uncle Leo left her side and retreated to his seat beside her mother.

  Her eyes misted. Leo O’Reilly was an inadequate stand-in for her father. But then, even if he’d been alive, would her father have been here? In the church?

  The ceremony continued until Father Doherty solemnly pronounced, “I declare you man and wife. Rory, you may kiss your bride.”

  She turned to Rory.

  He lifted the delicate veil.

  She raised her face.

  His lips, soft, brushed hers.

  The witnesses, shuffling released feet, applauded. Praise be to God. The McClures and the O’Reillys were now and forever gloriously united in the persons of Rory and Tess.

  Father Doherty completed the marriage rite, the organist pumped the organ and Geraldine, backed by the choir, sang the first note of the Ave Maria. The witnesses, even the children, fell immediately silent. The only sound was her sister’s sweet soprano singing Schubert’s honeyed prayer.

  A moment to be revered. Father Doherty robed in white, the altar draped in lace and gleaming gold, candlelight flickering on the suffering figure nailed to the wooden cross. The side altars, one for the Risen Christ, one for His Blessed Mother; one red robed, the other blue. Their colours imitated in the red gowns of the cherubic altar boys and the blue uniforms of the choir. The pungent smell of incense almost, but not quite, overpowering the intermingling perfumes of frangipani and roses and aftershave and hot wax. And her husband at her side. Memories to be treasured.

  “You’re shaking,” Rory whispered.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He held her hand.

  Father Doherty intoned the final blessing, “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen.”

  Immediately, the faithful organ soared into the rousing Wedding March. Bride and groom, followed by family and friends, paraded from the church into the evening light, into showers of confetti and carefully focused Box Brownies.

  Scores of cameras clicked. Handsome Rory, fair, fine-boned, slim and clever, was the pride of the McClures. Rory McClure had a future. Tess was lucky. Though not the most beautiful girl in Blackwood, she was also undoubtedly clever. Canny Rory. He’d had the sense to choose her. Though Tess wasn’t ugly, not at all. Hers was the delicate prettiness that should age gracefully, as her mother’s had.

  Today she was lovely. Her plump young body had been ruthlessly corseted into the beautiful white gown stitched by her sisters. Her full oval face, russet curls and huge dark eyes were framed by the handmade lace veil first worn by her great-grandmother. She was glowing. She looked as happy as she should be.

  Catholic cheers resounded through the overhanging mountains. Rousing Catholic cheers from Blackwood’s oldest and finest, proud pioneers who’d stood together against flood and drought and fire and famine.

  The sun dipped behind the mountains, the air chilled and Rory escorted his bride to the waiting car with his brother at the wheel. Two of her sisters, arranging gown and veil, helped her into the back seat. Her oldest sister and best friend, Monica, deceptively sombre in her black habit, stood apart.

  “Bless you, Tess,” Monica mouthed, making a formal sign of the cross.

  Beckoning her sister to the car, she whispered, “Would he have given me away, Monny? Would he have come to the church?”

  The nun pressed a silver-wrapped package into her hand. “He loved you, Tess.”

  But would he have entered the church, even for her wedding? “Pray for me,” she begged.

  “Be happy, Tess.” Black veil and white embraced. “Go with God.”

  Her sister stepped back and the car slowly moved through the church gates.

  She waved goodbye through the back window. “I wish we could have talked longer.”

  “Not to worry,” Rory reassured. “We’ll see them all at the reception.”

  “Monica won’t be there.”

  “Not even if Katherine orders her to?” Rory teased.

  “Not even then. Poor Monny. She hates missing all the fun.”

  “She doesn’t have to. She could have stayed,” he chuckled, “Jerry would’ve looked after her. He’s got a thing for nuns.”

  His brother objected. “Shut up, Rory!”

  “Keep your eyes on the road, son.”

  “Monny wants to start back to the convent,” she explained. “It’s such a long drive.”

  “Poor Monica.” Brushing the veil back from her face, he kissed her. “She’ll never have what we have, Tess.”

  She blushed. “Jerry’s watching!”

  “So what, Mrs McClure!” He kissed her again. “The world can watch.”

  Nearing the photographer’s studio, he asked, “Are you going to open your present?”

  She unwrapped the small package. Handed down through the generations, her father’s treasured silver crucifix lay on its cream velvet cushion in its tiny red velvet box. She’d seen it only once before. Monica had carried it at her father’s funeral. There was no message; it spoke its own. The family’s beloved baby, she’d been the best loved by their father. He’d have entrusted the precious crucifix to Sister Monica to deliver on her wedding day. Tess would have the son to inherit it. It spoke only of love, not faith. Connor O’Reilly had left his pregnant bride for the Great 1914-1918 War a staunch Catholic. He’d returned to his wife and first child, Geraldine, an atheist.

  Though stories abounded, the single undeniable consequence of Connor O’Reilly’s war was evident in the home. The opposite of Rory’s home and the homes of their Catholic relatives, she’d been reared in a house totally stripped of outward signs of religiosity. The story was that he’d stormed into the house, thrown out the icons and the pictures, started drinking – and almost never stopped. Half true. He’d kept the silver crucifix and significant other family mementoes. He’d also been sober at work in the mills and, presumably, when he’d sired two more girls and two boys. Katherine O’Reilly would never allow a drunk into her bed. Nor would she surrender the thanksgiving prayer before meals and attendance at Sunday and Feast Day Masses.

  The death of his two sons, Sean and Patrick, late
in the Second World War had broken what was left of the man who’d returned from the First. Just after her sixteenth birthday he’d driven his timber lorry off the edge of the tortuous mountain road to his premature death. Drunk or sober, premeditated or accident, no one ever knew and few dared to contemplate. Pressured by family, the police had not delved and the church had not doubted.

  Having been buried by the forgiving church he’d not believed in and having lost his sons, Connor O’Reilly had gifted the crucifix as a wedding present to his favourite daughter. The crucifix that spoke of love, but not faith. A precious relic, a troublesome heritage. Would he have walked down the aisle with her this afternoon? His absence left a hiatus that nothing filled. She missed him, as she missed her brothers. Sean, tall and handsome and charming, his mother’s son. And Patrick, contemplative, who had contemplated priesthood. Contemplation – the O’Reilly curse.

  The wedding car pulled up in front of the large hall booked for the reception, in its back seat the newlyweds. McClure and O’Reilly united – a beautiful young couple, appropriately matched, eager to rear good Irish Catholic sons and daughters for the advancement of post-war Australia. Keep the yellow hordes at bay. Fight for right. As Irish Catholic Australians always had and always would – even possibly in the very near future. If the Viet Minh drove the French from Vietnam, the dominoes of creeping communism could well see more Australian sons at war.

  Repacking the cross, she squeezed it into her tiny reticule, handmade by her mother. God forbid that Rory should ever follow the path of the lost O’Reilly men; that she should ever know the hell her mother must have known – but never spoke of. Flamboyant and charming and beautiful, Katherine was a private woman. If she was in any way bitter, no one ever knew. Except God?

  To the accompaniment of hearty applause, they entered the decorated hall, took their place at the bridal table, cut the three-tiered cake, drank the bitter champagne, responded to the maudlin speeches and were captive audience to the risqué jokes. While men guffawed and women giggled, she silently thanked God that Father Doherty had left early, that her mother was remaining happily tolerant and that Monica hadn’t come at all.