Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  At precisely nine p. m., the pianist took his place at the piano and Uncle Leo all the way from Brisbane sang a happily tipsy Danny Boy. Just as Schubert’s unconventional Ave Maria introduced the final phase of an O’Reilly wedding Mass, so did Danny Boy introduce the end of the official phase of an O’Reilly wedding breakfast – the bridal dance.

  Rory, who’d dutifully practised for hours, was not a dancer and didn’t want to be. But his body was close to hers, his arms strong and the promise of the night to come in his eyes. His one dance safely executed, he returned to the haven of drinks with his brothers, his mates and his father. She danced with his brothers, the men of the choir, Uncle Leo and Geraldine’s seven-year-old son. Rory didn’t mind. He wasn’t jealous. From the safety of celebration with his non-dancing brothers and friends, his attention remained on her. He was happy for her. Everything was as it should be.

  At precisely ten p.m. she changed into the new powder-blue frock and coat, matching cloche hat, gloves, handbag and high-heel shoes she and her mother had travelled to Melbourne to buy last summer. Then, after circling the ring of well-wishers, farewelling her sisters, Rory’s family and her tearful mother, they finally raced through yet another shower of confetti to the neat grey Holden waiting in the car park.

  “He’s been drinking a bit, Tess.” Rory’s father anxiously followed. “Maybe you should be driving.”

  “Get off my back, Dad.” Swaying on unsteady feet, Rory awkwardly helped his father and brothers strip the car of ribbons, lucky horseshoes, glittering hearts, paper flowers and rough slogans.

  “I could drive.” Though she desperately didn’t want to tackle the winding road that had killed her father, she’d drive if Rory needed her to.

  “Stop worrying, Tess.” He waved happily to the audience shivering in front of the hall. “I’m not drunk. It’s the night air. I’m right as rain.”

  Uncertain, she tossed hat, gloves and handbag onto the back seat.

  He climbed clumsily behind the steering wheel.

  “Rory…you should let me drive.”

  “I’m not drunk.” He was impatient. “Stop fussing. Get in!”

  Friends and family were shivering, her mother hovering. But the dangerous road lay ahead. She balked. “Mum. Tell Rory I should drive.”

  “Don’t be such a fool,” Katherine scoffed. “Get in. Rory’s okay. He’s good to drive.”

  She obeyed her mother.

  The cold engine roared into life, grated into first gear, eased onto the road and tooted ecstatic farewell. Katherine tottered into the road behind, waving, smiling and satisfied. Beside her, silhouetted against the dark mountain skyline, cheering and waving and freezing and ready to return to the as yet only half-empty flagons at the party, were Rory’s brothers, her sisters, the clans and their friends. She waved until they were out of sight. Nothing would ever be the same again. It was as it should be. Rory was at her side.

  “I love you, Rory.”

  “Me too, Tess.” Steering with one hand, he groped for her breast. “We’ll be there in a few hours.”

  “Please don’t,” she begged. “Please…pay attention to the road.”

  He knew her fear of the road. Headlights probing the thin drizzle, they skidded, swayed, slowed, picked up speed, swerved – and slowed again.

  “Maybe we should turn back,” she ventured. “Mum wouldn’t mind. We could stay with her.”

  “Don’t fuss, Tess,” he laughed. “We’re not having our honeymoon night in your mother’s house. I haven’t drunk all that much.”

  “You shouldn’t have drunk at all.”

  “It’s an act. I’m expected to be drunk.”

  “It’s not just the night air, love. You really did drink a lot.”

  “I’m not drunk, Tess.”

  “I think we should stop.”

  “For God’s sake, Tess! Shut up!”

  She tried to concentrate on the faded white central line of the slick highway but saw only the wreck of her father’s truck. She closed her eyes. The wheels screeched around a bend. He had drunk too much.

  “Please, Rory.” Not to anger him, she tried to feign composure. “Let me drive.”

  “I told you.” His fists tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m not bloody drunk.”

  A sudden break in the fog lit a grid of streetlights far below and the sheer drop at her side.

  She screamed.

  “Shit, Tess! Cut it out!”

  The fog again thickened. The city lights disappeared and the sheer drop again became invisible. The speeding car, blindly following the white line, rushed on.

  She whimpered. “Please slow down.”

  “For God’s sake, Tess. Get off my back!”

  “Please don’t yell at me.”

  “Shut up, Tess! Bloody shut up!”

  She knew his rare temper. They both knew. They’d talked about it. They’d talked about the pressures of months of preparation and the almost impossible imposition of sexual discipline. They’d foreseen the frustration of the impossibly long wedding day and ensuing reception, the danger of the hazardous trip down from the mountain and they’d agreed on the need to travel to the city for their honeymoon night. They’d talked when he was stone cold sober, when he was reasonable. They’d agreed she’d drive if he thought he was drunk. Because he so seldom lost control, they couldn’t have predicted that alcohol and excitement and probably tiredness would cause his temper to kick in.

  She hunched away from him.

  “Shit! Now you’re sulking.” Again controlling the steering wheel with one hand, he felt for her breasts.

  She slapped his hand away. He pulled to the left, located a broad wayside parking area and stopped. The car’s headlights captured glistening wet moss and running rivulets and tall ferns and giant rocks.

  “What are you doing?”

  He switched off the motor and the headlights. “Come here.”

  “Not now, Rory. Let me drive. I’ll find a place. We’ll stop…” She should give him time to sleep it off.

  “Come here.” Unbuttoning his trousers, he moved across the seat, fumbling at her skirt. “Take it off.”

  “No! Not yet!”

  “Feel!” Grabbing her hand, he forced it against his groin. “Feel, Tess. Feel me.”

  She struggled to wrench her hand away. “Not yet, Rory. Please…”

  He was too strong. “Shit, Tess! We’re married.”

  “Not here, Rory.” With her free hand, she fought him. “Please…please wait. I’ll drive. We’ll find a place…”

  “I told you.” He pulled her hand into his opened trousers. He was big and hard.

  She recoiled. “I can’t!”

  He jammed her fingers against him. “What’s wrong, for God’s sake? It’s not as though you haven’t…” His mouth was on hers, bruising.

  She tried to beat him off.

  He held her, his hands powerful. Quickly, she jabbed her free hand into his diaphragm.

  Winded, he momentarily loosened his hold.

  She opened the car door.

  “Bitch!” Grabbing her coat, he dragged her back.

  She kicked backwards, felt the coat rip and fell onto the road.

  Fumbling at his trousers, he climbed from the car. “What the hell do you think this is about?”

  Off balance, she was on hands and knees in the mud.

  “Blast it, Tess!” Rounding the car, he pulled her to her feet. “That fucking outfit cost a mint.”

  Soft mountain rain and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. He wasn’t to blame. His mates had taken advantage. They knew he’d be vulnerable. Surrendering, she allowed him to drag her back to the car and settle into the passenger’s seat.

  Not speaking, he circuited the car, resumed his place in the driver’s seat, switched on the headlights, engaged the gears, pulled out of the wayside stop and resumed the headlong descent down the mountain. He gave no inkling of his mood. She dared not talk. Any distraction could send them off the road. T
eeth chattering, freezing in the wet clothes, she willed herself not to complain.

  For over two hours they drove through sleeping rural townships until, distantly, the dark horizon was lit by the reflected glow of Melbourne’s outer suburbs. Accelerating, he sped into the increasingly densely populated areas, slowed to cruise into the deserted city centre, turned into the underground garage of a central city hotel and switched off the motor.

  The garage smelled of petrol fumes and mould. Gagging, she slumped in the cramped seat. They should not have tried to come here tonight. They could have arranged to stay somewhere in the mountains, or in one of the foothill villages. They should have stayed in Blackwood. They should have known to stay in Blackwood.

  “I’ll get the luggage.” Matter-of-factly, he started from the car.

  She straightened the sodden skirt, found the ripped coat and tossed it beside the hat and gloves on the back seat. She’d never wear any of them again, no matter how expensive they’d been.

  He summoned the watchful porter. “Tell him you had a fall.”

  She’d say nothing. Even if he did notice in the dim light, her appearance wasn’t the stranger’s business.

  “Bad night to be travelling, sir.” Settling the luggage on a trolley, the porter started for the elevator.

  About to lock the car, Rory pointed to the back seat. “You’ve left your coat behind.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Of course you need it,” he blustered.

  “Do you want the porter to see me carry it in?”

  Not answering, he locked the car.

  The porter led the way into the elevator, then through a maze of narrow passageways. He set the cases inside a small bedroom, pocketed his tip and left.

  Rory closed the door, opened the narrow wardrobe door, pulled out the drawers of the dresser. The dresser mirror reflected her muddied powder-blue dress and mussed hair. Shocked, she turned away.

  The room was cramped, the walls pale grey, the overhead light dull, the grey carpet thin and the floral curtains faded. The matching floral bedspread, turned down, exposed the bed prepared for the night. The distorted reflection of the cheap mirror haunted her.

  She lifted her case onto the bed. “I’ll unpack.”

  “I’ll do it.” Opening the case, Rory waved her away. “Go clean yourself up.”

  “Rory…I’m so…”

  “Not now, Tess. The bathroom’s down the passage.”

  “I’ll need my nightwear.”

  “These?” He located nightgown, dressing-gown and slippers. “Don’t be long, Tess.”

  At the open door, she paused. He was opening his own case, unpacking.

  “Rory. I’m sorry.”

  He was hanging clothes in the wardrobe. “Don’t be long, love.”

  The communal bathroom was at the end of the hallway. Quickly stripping off the soiled clothing, she bathed and changed into the nightgown, dressing-gown and slippers.

  He would be waiting. He’d had time to sober up. The cramped grey room would be transformed. They’d be together, as they used to be in the mountains, when summer’s full moons had watched, when she’d let him touch her body and she’d touched his. Wonderful nights. Painful nights. They were in love, made to be together, in every way. The fulfilment of sex was forbidden.

  Sometimes, more often during the long preamble to the wedding ceremony, frustration had been almost unbearable. She’d promised the church and her mother she’d marry as a virgin. Though as a teenager Rory would surely have made the same promises, she doubted if he was also a virgin. Boys were different, Katherine had warned. Their needs were more urgent. Together, they’d been strong. They’d saved themselves for this night. By now, he’d be sober. They’d know the full magic. Tonight would be the beautiful night they’d promised each other it would be.

  Wrapping the soiled clothing in her towel, she left the communal bathroom. The city hotel passageway was empty, the lamps in the wall brackets dim, her slippered feet on the thin stretch of carpet silent.

  Her heart thumped. This walk was momentous. This act would be her very last before she and Rory were joined together in every way, for the rest of their lives. Reaching the unlocked bedroom door, she turned the knob.

  The time had come. The church had blessed their union, the ceremonies were over, the formalities complete. They were man and wife. She opened the door.

  “Tess!” He was leaning against raised pillows, the bedside lamp’s pale glow illuminating his handsome face, his intense blue eyes. “You look beautiful.”

  “Mum made it for me.” She stroked the fragile pink lace of the nightgown.

  “Come here.” He threw back the blankets. He was naked.

  Blushing, she giggled.

  He was confused. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s the first time…I’ve never seen…”

  Quickly, he recovered. “Take the nightdress off, Tess.”

  She hesitated. “I can’t…I…please…switch off the light.”

  “I want to look at you.”

  “It’s embarrassing. I feel…”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “Please, Rory. Switch it off.”

  “I’ve waited a long time, Tess. I want to look at you.”

  She reached for the bedside lamp. “It’s embarrassing…”

  He sprang from the bed. “Don’t touch that!”

  “Please Rory – give me time.” She folded defensive arms across her breasts.

  “Take the bloody thing off!”

  Ripped lace fell to the floor.

  The light stayed on.

  He gave her no time.

  She screamed.

  “Shut up, Tess! Shut up!”

  She obeyed.

  “There’s my good girl.” He rolled off her. “Cover yourself.”

  She reached for the light switch.

  “Leave it on.” He held her, strong as steel.

  She cringed.

  Not again! Sweet Mother…

  Hours, minutes, she was silent. His thrusting weight was brutal, his kneading hands bruising. Between her thighs, she felt the sticky heat of fresh blood. From the light’s merciless glow there was no warmth, from the blankets only chill.

  She dared not move.

  He had waited too long.

  Dawn. As the wan five a.m. light crept through the thin blind, she switched off the light, covered her naked body with the dressinggown, painfully pulled on the slippers, crept back along the alien passageway to the communal bathroom, vomited into the toilet bowl and fell to the bathroom floor. She could not go back.

  She filled the bath, slipped from the gown and gingerly lowered herself into the tepid water. They’d made him drink too much. She bathed the torn skin and the dried blood and she managed not to cry out. Someone might hear, someone would guess. No one would ever know. It wasn’t Rory’s fault. She could not go back.

  She left the bath, again put on dressing-gown and slippers and stole back down the passage into the bedroom. Averting her eyes from the watchful mirror, she dressed in a fresh nightgown and lay on the scrawny mattress in the claustrophobic room beside her naked husband. Compulsively tolling the beads, she whispered the rosary. ‘Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us…’

  The room brightened, the morning roar of traffic intensified, a distant factory siren screeched, voices hurried outside the door. Rory snored.

  He stirred, stretched.

  She stiffened.

  Turning on his side, he reached for her.

  She recoiled.

  “Tess?” His eyes widened.

  Fists clenched, she held the nightgown to her breast.

  “What’s wrong? Tess?”

  She was shaking.

  “Oh God!” He remembered. “Tess! I’m sorry.”

  Her hands on the nightgown tightened.

  “Tess…” Gently, he prised her hands free. “Tess…I’m sorry…”

  They’d made him drink too much.

&nb
sp; “Tess – please. Dear God!”

  His distress was heart breaking.

  “Sweet Jesus. Forgive me, Tess. Please…please…”

  “Shhh.” She cradled him, soothed him, against her bruised breasts.

  “Sweet Jesus.” His tears were heart breaking.

  “I do love you, Rory.” She’d always loved him.

  “Forgive me? Can you ever forgive me?”

  Virgin bride. He’d waited too long.

  “Tess?”

  “It’s not your fault, Rory.”

  “Why did I drink so much? Why?”

  “Rory…don’t…”

  “Say you forgive me, Tess.”

  “I love you.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you, Tess. I couldn’t!”

  Too late.

  He bent over her. “I couldn’t hurt you, Tess…” He loved her.

  Trembling, fearful, confused, enduring the raw pain of lacerated tissue and the compulsive pounding of his body on her bruised thighs, she again submitted.

  They went to Sunday Mass at the Cathedral. An enormous building, totally unlike the tiny timber church in the mountains, the air was unfriendly and cold and too aloof for ordinary people. The purr of hushed whispers and the smug faces of women in fur coats and men in double-breasted suits and well-dressed children behaving like pretentious puppets were unsettling. The distant altar, clothed in gold and lace and attended by obsequious men who turned remote backs on the fashionable worshippers crowding the uncomfortable pews, was totally unrelated to everything she’d learned to expect.

  Though the building was crowded, nobody spoke to anybody. Nobody smiled. Even the choir, almost too far away to see, took their assignment seriously. If only she could be back in the mountains with her friends this morning. She’d be singing with her family. She’d be singing with Geraldine who was due to return to her husband in Perth later today. But then, if Gerry hadn’t come over for the wedding, she’d not have been in the mountains at all. The wedding…don’t think!

  She’d never come here again. She shouldn’t have come here this morning. She shouldn’t have…don’t think. Too late. She’d inherited introspection, a handicap. The family blamed her father. Connor O’Reilly had thought himself to an early grave. The drink had got him in the end. Not suicide. Catholics don’t take their own lives. If only he hadn’t died. She’d not have had to leave school early. She’d have been away, studying to be a teacher. Rory would have been proud. She’d have learned to be sophisticated, to be the wife Rory needed. She wouldn’t have been marooned in the high mountains. She loved the mountains. She loved Rory. If her father hadn’t died, she might not even be here. She might be…don’t think.