Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “What have you done, Tess?”

  “We went to school.”

  Deliberately, steadily, he set aside his untouched cup. Not a drop of tea spilled over.

  “I’m sorry, Rory. I should have told you.”

  Not a muscle moved.

  “Please. Don’t be like this.”

  “Like what, Tess?”

  She shivered. “I’m sorry.”

  Sean stirred, murmured, settled back to sleep.

  She concentrated on the full teacup, the midday hush, the shallow rise and fall of Sean’s chest, the pervasive tang of cold metal. Anything but Rory’s chill fury. She should have known. She had known. He would be angry, at the very least he would be angry.

  “Rory…I’m sorry.”

  “No you’re not.” Each action unbearably prolonged, he cleared his desk. Ledgers, invoices, records and pens in drawers or filing cabinet, crumpled papers and shavings from a sharpened pencil in the wastebasket.

  True. She wasn’t sorry.

  “I’ll drive you home.” Leaning heavily on the cleared desk, he levered himself up out of the office chair, as might an ageing man or a cripple.

  He was buying time. What was he thinking?

  “There’s no need.” She rejected the ride home. “Really. We’ll wait for the bus.”

  “Wake him.” Limned against the office window, his taut figure blotted out the midday sun.

  “Please – let him sleep a while. He’s so tired.”

  Not answering, he lifted Sean into his arms, collected the car keys from their hook on the wall and exited the office.

  She followed.

  “Mr McClure!” Valda was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Watch the shop till Tom comes back.” He swept on.

  “Mrs McClure?” Valda hurried in their wake. “Can I do anything? What’s wrong? Is Sean all right?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Valda. We’re going home. Sean’s very tired.”

  The Holden hummed through the somnolent midday streets out onto the highway, chuddered over the rough dirt track, turned in front of the isolated house and paused to release them. He did not switch off the motor.

  “You’re not stopping?” She helped Sean, now awake, from the back seat.

  He waited until they were clear, engaged the gears and disappeared back along the track.

  Heart thumping, she couldn’t move.

  “Mummy!” Sean dragged at her.

  “In a minute, love.”

  “I want a drink.”

  “I said wait a minute.”

  “I want a drink.”

  “Sean!”

  “Come on!” He pulled at her dress. “Come on!”

  “Leave me alone!” She slapped his hand away. “Leave me alone!”

  He started to cry.

  She fell to her knees. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

  The afternoon was endless. Sean’s nap dragged on. She checked him often. Had she overtaxed him? His snoring was unusually heavy. She fetched the mending basket, pulled the armchair to the bedside, listened to his heavy breathing, the occasional distant truck, the painful lowing of a solitary cow.

  Don’t think.

  Married at twenty, selected by Rory McClure and his family as suitable. Conforming to rite and ritual and tradition because it was what she’d always done. Flattered by their approval, theirs and Katherine’s. Rory was safe. Rory was her love, her only love. Love…? The wedding night, the wedding…

  Don’t think.

  Sean slept restlessly.

  The darning needle stabbed into the woollen sock. Outside the sun slipped behind the mountains, the sky bloodied, the shadows lengthened, the cattle filed to the unseen milking shed, the intermittent mechanical stutter of homebound farmers ceased. Still Sean slept.

  She should wake him.

  At teatime, Beth asked about Sean’s story of going to school. She answered, briefly, tersely. Beth was annoyed but knew enough not to press for further information. Sean happily concentrated on his food. Rory, who’d spoken only when necessary, glowered.

  At the meal’s end, Sean started talking about school. Rory coldly ordered silence. Sean disappeared into his room to play with his cars, watch T. V. and listen to his music. Beth disappeared into her room to do her homework. There was no talk about school – or anything else. Their children had left them alone and the air seethed.

  They were sitting, still without more than essential communication, either side of the unlit sitting room fireplace, when Beth flounced in. “I can’t sleep! Make him shut up!”

  “What now?” Rory folded his newspaper.

  “He’s still at it! I can’t sleep!”

  “He had a long sleep this afternoon, dear,” she soothed. “He’ll settle soon.”

  “Tell him, Dad.”

  “He’s happy, Beth,” she quickly interposed. “Don’t be hard on him.”

  “Dad! Please! Make him shut up!”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s singing his nursery rhymes. They’re driving me crazy!”

  “That’ll be enough, Beth,” Rory was very calm. “Go back to your room.”

  “I can’t sleep!” Beth appealed to her mother. “I have exams tomorrow! Please Mum. Make him stop.”

  “Have you asked him to stop?”

  “What’s the use?”

  “Try it. Explain.”

  “I have. A dozen times.”

  “Try again.”

  “It’s not fair!” Leaving the room, Beth slammed the door behind her.

  “Poor kid,” he quietly sympathised. “All this is very hard on her, Tess. You do spoil him.”

  She didn’t answer. Soon, soon he would talk about what she’d done today. Just hold still, give him time, don’t press. At least he was no longer angry. Or was he?

  Through the closed door they heard Beth screaming abuse.

  She started up.

  “Leave them, Tess.”

  “She’ll upset him.”

  “It’s about time. He’ll have to get used to it.”

  She returned to her chair.

  Unfolding his paper, he resumed reading. He’d come home early, eaten his tea, chopped the wood, brought his personal accounts up to date and settled to the newspaper as though it was his regular routine. He’d not gone back to the store, or a meeting, or one of his friend’s places.

  She flipped through a magazine. The leftover mending waited, unheeded. Soon, he would talk about today. He didn’t.

  The hour was late, the tension exhausting, when she closed the magazine, set it on the table alongside the untouched mending and asked, “Aren’t we going to talk about today?”

  He spread the paper across his knees; it scarcely rustled. “I see no point.”

  “You know it has to be talked about.” She’d thought he’d stayed home to argue. But he wasn’t arguing.

  “You’ve done it. The boy is going to school.” He might have been talking to a stranger about a stranger.

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “I would have appreciated some discussion before you acted.”

  “You don’t want him to go.”

  “I believe I made myself clear. He should stay at home with you. He doesn’t have to go. He doesn’t have to be hurt. They’ll crucify him.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I know that…” She faltered.

  He was immediately alerted, “What happened? What’s going on?”

  He’d find out anyway. He always found out. His customers gossiped the smallest detail of everyone’s lives. If they didn’t tell him, Valda or Tom would.

  She told him about the teasing children.

  “There you go.” He was smug. “Lucky you were with him.”

  “They were awful.”

  “I thought you’d learned that lesson. He doesn’t have to go to school.”

  “He doesn’t have to. He wants to. You should have seen him. He was so good.”

  “Do what you wa
nt.” He returned to his paper. “You always do.”

  Unfair and untrue. If, eventually, she did get her own way, she’d pay. Far more importantly, Sean would pay. In the long run, whether he went to school or not, Sean would suffer. He was already suffering. He’d readily comprehended that his father didn’t want to talk to him. He’d done what he’d learned to do, retreat to his bedroom and his cars and his music. He’d eventually know that his father didn’t like him and didn’t respect him.

  Okay. So she’d pay whatever the price proved to be. “You’re not listening,” she persisted. “Sending him off to school is not what I want at all.”

  The impatient rustling of the newspaper was her only answer.

  “Listen to me! You have to see! We have no choice!”

  “Do as you want.”

  “I told you. It’s not…”

  “For Christ’s sake, Tess!” He folded the newspaper.

  Careful…”You know I’m right.”

  His fists clenched.

  Careful…

  “Tess…” He paused.

  Wait…

  “You’re so sure you’re right,” he frowned. “I’m out of my depth here.”

  “He wants to learn. You do know that.”

  “I do know you push him to learn,” he retaliated. “That’s what I know.”

  “Because he loves it!”

  “Does he? Or do you love pushing him? You’re no different from your mother.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “When it comes to pressuring kids, Tess, you’ve learned from an expert.”

  Not true. Not possible. He couldn’t for a moment believe she’d pressure her children as Katherine had. He didn’t. But he did believe the jibe would unsettle her. And it had.

  “Think about it,” he urged. “Think it through. You went to the school today on a whim. Because of Beth. Think it through. Why school? You’re doing okay here.”

  That much was true. If Beth hadn’t spoken up…

  “Good girl.” He pressed his advantage. “It’s all I’m asking, Tess. Think it through. Be careful. Don’t go off half-baked like you usually do.”

  “That’s not true!”

  His face tightened.

  So far and no further.

  She tidied the room, went to the bedroom, turned down the quilt on the double bed and changed into her nightgown.

  He unleashed Rusty, locked garage and house doors, checked the windows, set the alarm clock, switched off the lights, changed and climbed in at her side.

  Still unsure, she lay quiet. Sleep was impossible.

  “Are you asleep? Tess?”

  “No.” Anxiety deepened.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You’re nothing like Katherine.”

  She didn’t answer. Any response risked opening doors better left closed. She didn’t move. Any movement risked a negative reaction. Stiff with apprehension, she endured the touch of his hand on her shoulder. Do not move.

  “Tess?”

  Of its own volition, her body moved away from him.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Tess.”

  “I know.” A man has needs.

  Outside the window, the night sky was black; the sounds of rustling trees forecast tomorrow’s predicted high winds.

  “About Sean…”

  “Not tonight, Rory. Please.”

  “You’ve got it wrong,” he pressed.

  “Go to sleep, Rory.”

  She was on the rim of sleep when his whisper woke her. “I’m frightened for him, Tess. What happens to him when he’s grown up?”

  Don’t answer, don’t respond. He knew that Sean might never grow up. He knew why the frequent infections and the vulnerability to pneumonia terrified her. He’d have thought it through. Not necessarily. Perhaps he didn’t dare. He’d lost the babies too. He’d never talked about them, never cried with her, never berated his God in her presence if at all. Perhaps the same fear that was spurring her into action was unmanning him? Perhaps he couldn’t accept the truth of Sean’s predicted future?

  Could it be that he wasn’t ashamed of being the father of a handicapped son? Could it be that he was frightened to love him!

  “What happens, Tess?”

  She feigned sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  “Good morning, Mrs McClure. Hello Sean.”

  “Good morning, Mr Lane.”

  “Today’s the day.”

  The day. Four months before his seventh birthday. They’d agreed he’d start later than the regular intake. “Not because we’ll treat him differently,” John Lane had been careful to explain. “But let’s be practical. The weather will be cooling off. The other first-year kids will be settled in before he arrives. We won’t be flying quite so blind, as it were. Let’s give him every chance available to us.”

  She’d been sceptical. If Sean was favoured right from the start, what kind of reception would he receive from the other children? And their parents.

  “Don’t think about it, Mrs McClure,” the principal had advised. “Just relax.”

  Relax? Impossible. The interval between last year’s interview and today had been riddled with mounting anxiety. Maybe Sean wasn’t as clever as she thought. Maybe the teasing would seriously harm him. Maybe she should for a million reasons heed Rory’s warning.

  Impossible. Because daily, each morning after breakfast, Sean asked, “Is today the school day?”

  In early January, when Beth had driven off with her father every morning, he’d been deeply upset. He’d refused to eat. He’d even turned his back on poor patient Rusty waiting for his morning play. Each eternal week since their visit to school had seemed like a year. He’d sulked, but he hadn’t misbehaved. He’d attended to his chores and his lessons, laughed little, sung almost not at all, played with his dog and his toy cars, watched his TV and each night stoically marked off each day’s end on the kitchen calendar.

  So today, after arriving early, they were following John Lane to the room with the small desks and the enticing personal blackboards.

  The teacher met them at the door. “Mrs McClure. Come in. Pleased to meet you, Sean.”

  “Hullo.” Sean put out his hand.

  Surprised, the teacher took it.

  “Miss Dixon is our new recruit.” John Lane made introductions. “We’ve expanded just a little since you saw us.”

  Miss Dixon was a big woman, big bosomed and broad faced. Her smile was welcoming, her warm brown eyes friendly and her manner reassuringly confident.

  “I’m glad you’re early.” Escorting Sean to his desk, Miss Dixon helped him take his books from his new schoolbag. “I see you already have your ‘John and Betty’ reader.”

  “It was his sister’s,” she explained. “Sean loves books.”

  Miss Dixon waved large hands across the three dozen surrounding desks. “I do have an assistant. Joanie will be in soon. You’ll meet her. Don’t worry about your lad.”

  “Joan’s a student teacher. She’s an excellent assistant,” John Lane assured. “You’ll be happy with her. As you’ll see, this is a combination class. Beginners through to Grade Two.”

  Sean unpacked. Cramming her big body beside him into the tiny desk, Miss Dixon opened the reader at page one.

  Sean immediately began to turn the pages. “I’m past there.”

  “Well done.” The principal approved. “We’ll leave you two get to know each other.”

  She was ushered from the room and from the building and was already passing through the front gate, when she fully comprehended she hadn’t said goodbye to Sean. He hadn’t even noticed her leave.

  At the store, Rory was out, the Monday morning customers were queuing and Tom and Valda were both busy. She caught the ten o’clock bus to the wayside stop and home. Transport was an as yet unsolved problem. How to get Sean to and from school each day? Rory and Beth left in the morning much earlier than he needed to;school ended much earlier than the shop closed. Hours before and after school in t
he shop with his father and opportunities for mischief could only lead to trouble. She had to come up with a solution.

  They hadn’t discussed it. Just arriving at the starting day with no more upsets had been difficult enough – clothes to be bought, infections to be kept at bay, keeping up with his quick body and enquiring mind, trying not to push him unduly where he was not ready to go, trying to persuade herself she hadn’t heard Rory’s whispered fears, working to give Beth the attention she needed. Transport had become a constant problem, but remained unvoiced, as so much else.

  Though Rory would almost certainly have thought of a solution, he’d refused to be involved. He was possibly hoping it would prove to be an insurmountable obstacle. He needed the car. A second car was not even a distant prospect.

  At one-thirty, she again walked the dusty track and caught the two-thirty bus back into town. The almost empty bus was an oven, the vinyl seats burned through her thin dress, the stifling air robbed her breath, the two other passengers were turkey red and the driver was rudely impatient. She could not do this every day, whatever the weather.

  How would he be? The school would be as hot as the bus. There’d been no sign of a fan this morning. What had she been thinking? Stupid. How could she have known today was going to be one of February’s worst? She should have waited. Until after Easter? Until winter? Sean couldn’t have waited much longer, any longer. How would he be?

  She sat in the schoolyard, in the shade of a gnarled and scrawny ancient gum only minimally cooler than the asphalted yard. At three-thirty, the bell rang. The older children spilled down the steps and ran off on their way home, the younger children were collected by their mothers. There was no sign of Sean.

  She raced into the building.

  “Mrs McClure!” Miss Dixon met her at the classroom door.

  “Where is he? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Asleep…?” She swayed.

  The teacher steadied her. “You’re ill!”

  “It’s the heat. Where is he?”

  “He fell asleep at his desk. We put him in the office.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  “Mr Lane’s waiting for us.”