Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  On winter Saturday afternoons, they drove to the football oval to sit in the car and watch the regional match. Rory drank sparingly from the bottles of beer he’d brought in the icebox and at half time wandered around talking to his mates. She knitted and waited in the sun-warmed car for friends and family to visit. In summer, they went on picnics, to the movies, just lazed around the house, sometimes worked on the house or in the garden and sometimes went to the cricket together. Because she disliked watching cricket, Rory occasionally went without her. Though being alone on weekdays was not lonely, Saturday afternoons alone, illogically, was.

  Sundays, as always, they went to early Mass, where she sang in the choir and Rory regularly read the lesson for the day. They came home to cook a hot roast dinner or to visit one of their countless relatives. Occasionally, the relatives visited them. She was proud of her house and her husband. Despite the disastrous start and the joyless sex, everything else was perfect.

  Although it was very different from her previous life at home with her mother and sisters it was, in some ways, not so very different. There was the weekday routine and there was the weekend routine, both regularly spiced with a wedding or a significant family celebration. Without exception, whether Catholic or Protestant, agnostic or atheist, what was important was family. Family first. Family loyalty, family support. Of major importance was helping each other through the bad times and celebrating together the good times. A very close second, adhering to the same values of loyalty and support, were friends. The communal thread of mutual support on which their pioneering fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers had built the timber township was paramount. In this tight-knit community, she was dutifully fulfilling her allotted role.

  As for Sunday Mass, except for the fillip of singing in the choir, the hour was infinitely boring. But mandatory. Her reactive moment of rebellion in the city had been an aberration; there’d been no further thought of disobedience. Just as the only local school, the sectarian state school, had drilled her in reading, writing and arithmetic, so had Father Doherty and her mother drilled her in church doctrine and ritual and rules. Father Doherty at Sunday Mass, her mother and her loyal band of volunteers in the school’s segregated religious instruction classes. Born, baptised, confirmed, reared and married a Catholic, she’d been drilled in religious obedience – her mother’s child.

  She was also her father’s child, a child of war. The home that Geraldine remembered as having once been steeped in icons and images and daily prayers was, for Connor O’Reilly’s post-war children, a house of fundamental division. Where their mother lived to serve God, their father had cried, ‘There is no God!’ Where her mother preached trust, her father had preached doubt. Where her mother loved God, her father, had there been a God, would have hated him. In his richly treasured sober times at home, her father had listened to the wireless, read the newspapers, read intellectuals, provoked discussion and pontificated on politics – never the specifics of war and wars. Always politics, always social justice. Why not communism, he asked? Why not socialism? Why blind obedience? To anything? Anyone? There is no God.

  She’d been his favourite, felt his pain, touched his agony, understood his rage and loved him. As had Monica. Yet Monica had become a nun, taking her final vows only weeks before his death. Mysterious are the ways of God, praised Katherine. Mysterious are the ways of women, mourned Connor.

  So why did she feel only disquiet and Monica only faith? Even though over a decade older, Monica had experienced precisely the same education, the same parents, the same influences. Could timing – Monica was born in the post-World War I twenties, she in the pre-World War II thirties – produce this profound difference? Or could it be happenstance? Or friendship with this person, not that one? Happenstance. Chance. Or God? Mysterious are the ways.

  Whatever its roots, family curse or her father’s tragedy, the habit of reading and thinking and analysing and questioning was remorseless. No turning a blind eye to or deaf ear from indisputable truths. The aftermath of the Second World War was grim. Churchmen and politicians were thundering divisions and screaming warnings of communist doomsdays. Unrest and bigotry and divisions and violence were escalating. McCarthy in America, Bob Santamaria in Melbourne, Mau Mau terrorism in Africa and increasingly disturbing murmurs from Vietnam.

  Time on her hands, the library shelves full of unread books, the newsagent’s shelves stocked with papers reporting local, state, national and international news, provocative editorials and widely diverse letters. The wireless playing Sinatra and Crosby and news on the hour every hour. The sensationally split State Labor Party falling to the Liberals and Henry Bolte; thank you, Mr Santamaria. Food for thought and time to think, listen and try to comprehend information and biases and opinions her father would have instantly clarified, always coloured by how drunk he was at the time. Meanwhile she was Rory’s wife and Rory was interested only in his family, his job, his church and sport. So don’t talk politics and world events to Rory. Don’t talk. Yet don’t stop thinking – listen and learn. Because she would have children who would be as thirsty for knowledge as she had been.

  Eleven months and two weeks after the wedding, she became a mother. Now the marriage was truly blessed; they’d become a family. Elizabeth Mary was a good baby, placid, cheerful, undemanding and infinitely lovable. Tess thanked God for her good fortune. The next baby might not be so easy.

  The single cloud was sex. Not until Rory disappeared each morning could she relax and then only until he arrived home at night. Gradually, probably inevitably, rising ambition and regular night-time meetings combined to distract him and sex became less frequent. This, too, was as it should be. Already climbing the ladder to further responsibility and eventual promotion, Rory was a conscientious breadwinner, a devoted father and a faithful husband.

  In her early twenties, notwithstanding the secret life of contemplation she was actively cultivating, she was already settled into the housewifely pattern expected of her. She was happy. Her life was following its predestined path. No one could ask for more.

  God’s smile was confirmed with the second pregnancy. She was, as her mother and grandmother before her, about to rear a large family. It was as it had been and always would be.

  In the eighth month of the second pregnancy, God frowned. Her world turned upside down.

  “I might not be back home in time to get your lunch today.” She started to clear away the breakfast dishes.

  “Don’t worry, love.” Rory pulled on his coat. “I’ll eat at work.”

  “I wish it wasn’t today. I haven’t caught up with the ironing.”

  “Do you want me to get time off? I could drive you.”

  “I need the exercise.”

  “The walk will be good for Beth, too.” He lingered. “I really am sorry I can’t spend more time with you. I could come back?”

  “Stop fussing.” Laughing, she pushed him to the front door, waited while the car backed out and waved as it disappeared towards the main road.

  She washed the dishes, bathed and changed Beth, showered and happily pulled on the only coat that fitted, an ugly brown wrap Katherine had located at the general store. It would soon not be needed. Strapping Beth into the pusher, she locked the house and started for the street.

  “Off to the doctor again?” Mrs Ryan looked up from her garden.

  “Again.” She sometimes wished she too had time for sunning in the garden.

  “It won’t be long now, dear.”

  “A month. I can’t wait.”

  “It’ll be a boy.” Mrs Ryan’s critical inspection was guileless. “I can tell by your shape. You’ll see.”

  “Rory wants a boy.”

  “You can’t blame him. Girls are not the same. The men always hanker after a son.”

  “He’s wonderful with Beth.”

  “I know, Tess. I see them two together, it warms my heart.”

  “How’s your family?”

  “Well. All well. Thank the goo
d God. They phone regular.”

  “I might call in on the way back.” Poor Mrs Ryan, it must be dreadful to be so lonely.

  “I’ll have the kettle boiling, Tess.”

  She wheeled the pusher towards the central shopping district, two lines of single-storey buildings – shops, the library, the fire station, the post office, the movie theatre and a couple of big old houses that had been there forever. Between them ran the wide main road that continued up to the high country and the mill. Not yet mid-morning, the traffic thin, the workers all at work, the housewives not yet out. She passed the general store that sold almost everything, many of them items also sold by the butcher, the grocer, the draper and the chemist.

  Shops were changing, small specialist stores complaining. Rory worried about the hardware store. Change was about to affect it too. The owners were facing the choice of expand and multiply or stand still and risk being swallowed up. He could be transferred. He wouldn’t go. He’d be given no choice. They’d manage somehow.

  “Ice cream!” Just passed her second birthday, Beth knew what she wanted.

  She wheeled back to the general store, bought a cone of vanilla. “Don’t spill it on your clean dress.”

  There was no hurry; she’d allowed plenty of time. Shoes slithering on dead autumn leaves, still wet and musty from last night’s showers, she slowed. Don’t risk a fall.

  The waiting room was nearly full. Dr Chapman was old, respected and trusted by everyone. He’d sensitively supervised the long labour she’d endured with Beth and expected this one to be quicker. This time, knowing what to expect, she’d be less rigid, more cooperative.

  Avidly perusing outdated magazines too expensive to buy, she pacified impatient Beth, again wished it was all over and yet again contemplated the litany of desirable names for the anticipated boy.

  “Mrs McClure – Doctor will see you now.”

  She wheeled in the pusher.

  From behind his desk Dr Chapman half rose, gestured to the opposite chair and flipped through the open file in front of him. “You’re looking well, Tess.”

  Nodding, she berated Beth who was struggling to be free of the pusher’s restraints.

  “Let her run around,” he suggested.

  Thus began the familiar monthly routine; standing on the scales for the weight check, sleeves rolled up for the blood pressure reading. She looked at neither. Beth was at the lightly curtained window watching Mrs Chapman rake autumn leaves into a pile for burning.

  “The wife hates autumn.” Thus began the doctor’s accompanying small talk.

  Still chattering, he released the tight black band encircling her upper arm, pumped up the pressure, reread the gauge and returned to his chair.

  Setting the equipment amidst the clutter on his desk, Doctor Chapman, as always, requested, “Tell me about this last month.”

  “The same. I’ll be glad when the next month’s over. Each month gets longer.” She rolled down her sleeve.

  He rang the small bell on the desk.

  The receptionist opened the door. “You called, Doctor?”

  “Would you amuse the child for a few minutes, Nurse?”

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  Beth went willingly. Mrs Taylor was a familiar figure.

  This was not usual. Usually the ringing of the bell and the entrance of Mrs Taylor signalled the visit was over.

  On the other side of the window, the doctor’s wife was moving towards the back of the house, out of sight.

  “If you’ll undress, Tess, I’ll be back.” He left the room.

  Of course, she should have remembered. Because they were about to enter the final month, there would be extra examinations and additional visits. She undressed, clambered onto the high examination table and covered herself with the skimpy blanket.

  Almost immediately, the door opened. “Are we ready?”

  “Is Beth all right?”

  “No problem. She’s a chirpy one, isn’t she?” Doctor Chapman closed the door, crossed the carpeted floor and pulled back the blanket.

  She cringed. She’d never get used to this, no matter how many children she had.

  He straightened. “All done, my dear. Get dressed. I’ll be back.”

  When he returned she was dressed, waiting in the chair and prepared for dismissal.

  “How do you feel?” He placed a detaining hand on her shoulder.

  “Good.” She started up. “I’ll get Beth.”

  “Not yet, Tess.” His restraining grip was unexpectedly strong.

  She folded resigned hands on her lap. This was to be a medical lecture. He was, as his reputation acknowledged, caring.

  “I’ll come to the point.” Circling the desk, he sank into his chair.

  She smiled. She should be grateful. He was doing his utmost to make these final weeks less unbearable.

  “I’ll be frank…” he began, but said no more.

  He was nervous!

  She looked to the closed door. “What’s Beth been up to?”

  “I’m sorry, Tess. We have a problem. Your blood pressure is somewhat elevated.”

  It wasn’t Beth. “Is that important?”

  “We cannot ignore it.” He lifted the receiver from the desktop telephone, dialled and asked, “Is matron available?”

  She looked at her watch. Beth had been too long with Mrs Taylor.

  “Stop fretting, Tess.” Cupping one hand over the mouthpiece, he reassured, “Beth’s being looked after. This won’t take too long.”

  Thank goodness Rory had decided to eat lunch at the store. Beth would be getting restless. The doctor was frowning at the silent telephone. She shouldn’t still be here.

  “Matron will be along in a minute.” Still holding the telephone, he impatiently flipped the pages of her file.

  She again looked at her watch, ostentatiously.

  “Ah Matron!” He snapped at the phone. “I’ll be sending a patient. Immediate admission.”

  The buzz of a woman’s voice at the end of the line was barely audible. What was happening?

  “Right! Well done! I’ll ask her.” He turned from the phone. “Can you be there by late afternoon?”

  What was he asking?

  “Merton Grove, Tess. There’s no bed immediately available. Can you check in late this afternoon? Early evening?”

  Merton Grove Bush Nursing Hospital. “Yes…I don’t know…Rory…he knocks off at…”

  “This evening, Matron. Theresa McClure. I’ll call back.”

  “I’m not due yet.”

  Hanging up, he scribbled on his pad and pushed the note through the clutter. “Give this to Admissions when you arrive. Mrs Taylor will provide information in the way of what you’ll require. I’ll see you tonight.”

  He wasn’t making sense.

  “I’ll see you later, Tess.” He started from behind the desk.

  Her heavy body would not move.

  “You mustn’t worry, my dear.”

  Why would she worry?

  “Bed rest it is for you.” Assisting her from the chair, he escorted her to the closed door. “We want that blood pressure down. Hospital bed rest is essential.”

  She’d rest at home. Her mother would help out.

  “No argument, Tess.”

  The door opened. Beth ran towards her.

  “She’s such a sweetie.” Mrs Taylor followed. “Mr McDowell has been waiting, Doctor.”

  “The hospital admission, Mrs Taylor. You will see to it?”

  Doctor Chapman and patient Mr McDowell disappeared into the doctor’s room. Mrs Taylor supplied the admission forms.

  She strapped Beth into the pusher, folded the list of hospital requirements into her handbag and emerged into the autumn midday.

  “Ice cream!” Beth demanded her regular reward for good behaviour.

  “When we get to the shop.”

  She wheeled the pusher down the steps, out through the garden and into the busy noon street.

  “Ice cream!”
/>   “In a minute.” At the general store she bought the ice cream.

  Strawberry dribbling, staining the white frock. More washing, ironing. Rory’s shirts waiting, Katherine to telephone, Beth’s lunch to be served. Telephone Rory. Pack the case. Telephone her mother. The list – where had she put the list?

  Autumn leaves musty under churning wheels. Precarious shoes slippery on skidding paths. Overhead branches and arching trees. Numb. Yellow leaves, red. Blue. Blue sky.

  A lifetime.

  A short walk. A lifetime.

  Helpless as the dying leaves on the fated trees, Tess McClure’s low-heeled sensible shoes were negotiating their ingenuous way towards paths she could never have anticipated.

  Mrs Ryan’s garden was empty, the front verandah vacant, the front door closed; she’d obviously given up on waiting for their return. Thank goodness. Passing through the gate, she unlocked the front door, released Beth from the pusher, set her at the kitchen table to eat lunch and soaked the stained white frock in a bucket of tepid water.

  “I tired.” Beth climbed from her chair.

  In the pretty blue-wallpapered bedroom Rory had prepared over two years ago, she placed Beth’s favourite picture book at hand and settled her in for the routine afternoon nap. On the wall above the bed head was the precious silver crucifix. Beth had already learned her nightly prayers by heart. She’d soon have a brother to share them with. Unless Mrs Ryan and her own instinct were wrong. Beth would love a sister. But Rory needed a son and she needed…she missed her father and her brothers.

  In the kitchen she made strong tea, very sweet, a distasteful sign of mounting anxiety. Without reason. She should feel not anxiety but gratitude. Doctor Chapman was being superlatively cautious. She should telephone Rory.

  In the laundry, the strawberry stain was frustratingly obstinate. What would Rory say? Beth’s best dress would never be the same. Maybe Katherine would know how to remove the stain. She should telephone Rory.

  She went to the phone.

  The office girl’s high soprano squeaked, “Chandler’s Store. May I help you?”