Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “Sean’s home. You know that. What’s the fuss about?”

  “But, sir…”

  “Todd,” she intervened. “You heard your mother. This is not the time.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs McClure.” Todd turned away, starting back to his place at the children’s table.

  “Good lad.” Rory was relieved.

  But Todd, stopping in the middle of the dance floor, yelled, “It’s not fair!”

  “For God’s sake!” Rory spat. “Do something! Fran!”

  “It’s not fair!” Todd cried.

  Fran called. “Please, Todd. Not now. Sit down.”

  “Why isn’t he here!”

  “Todd!” Rory bellowed. “Do as your mother says!”

  “Sean should be here!”

  “For God’s sake, Tess! Do something!”

  She hurried onto the dance floor. “Sean wouldn’t thank you for this, Todd.”

  Crying, Todd allowed her to escort him back to his table.

  “You mustn’t be so upset.” She sat beside him. “Sean’s happier where he is. Believe me.”

  Was that the truth? Was Sean happier for being sheltered from the watching and waiting eyes across the room? She sat with Todd until, robbed of further drama, the guests lost interest.

  Rory angrily greeted her return. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

  “He means no harm.” Poor Todd. Rory would never forgive him. Sean’s allies paid a high price.

  “He’s done a good job of messing this up!”

  “He’s Sean’s friend, Dad.” Beth dabbed at her mascara.

  James placed a protective arm around her. “Don’t cry, love. It’s over.”

  “Sean should have come, James,” Beth sobbed. “We should have let him come.”

  Guilt. And still guilt. The single certainty, whatever its source.

  “It’s for the best, love.” James refilled his bride’s champagne glass. Todd’s outburst had left an unforgettable memory, interpreted in as many ways as there were guests.

  The band, an old-time dance ensemble fronted by an old-time Crosby-style crooner, arrived. Though years of practice had improved both skill and confidence, Rory was dancing out of duty not pleasure. Whereas James, an accomplished dancer, was leading his bewitched bride like a mechanical doll.

  Comparisons were inevitable. Despite some similarity in choice of profession, the two men seemed to be very different. Compared to deeply complex Rory, who was enduring the torture of his Catholic guilt as loyally as a monk his hair shirt, James seemed a lightweight. Maybe he wasn’t. She didn’t want to know. He’d be taking Beth to live a thousand miles away. She’d miss Beth terribly. She’d miss, almost beyond sanity, the joy of closeness to her grandchildren. She wouldn’t miss the complications and the compromises that proximity to James Nolan and his bigotry would have brought.

  Duties fulfilled, they sat with James’s parents watching the young couples and the children. Until, when the band eventually attacked the new frenetic dances, the head table turned their attention elsewhere. Rory moved to another table to join his brother, his wife and their daughter. She didn’t follow. Her tolerance already stretched beyond reasonable limits, she patiently constructed a bleak conversation with James’s mother – which deteriorated into contemplation of future grandchildren. Enough!

  Leaving, she again crossed to the children’s table. “Todd – you’re not dancing.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  Again, she sat in the low chair at his side. “You don’t like weddings?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “I’m sorry your dad couldn’t come.”

  “He wanted to.”

  “I know. Your mother told me. Cathie’s sick.”

  “Dad had to stay with her. Mum wanted to come. So did I.”

  “I’m very grateful.” She sipped at saccharine raspberry cordial.

  “Kid stuff.” Todd snorted. “Would you like champagne?”

  “No – thank you, Todd.”

  “Mum’s missing Dad.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her later.” She should leave, but Todd would be alone.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs McClure. I lost my temper.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Todd.”

  “Mum says I should learn to shut up.”

  She surveyed the empty plates, the remnants of the meal, the discarded napkins, the drained soft drink bottles, the dancing couples, children with parents, youngsters laughing, James and Beth in a world of their own, Rory laughing with his visiting relatives. Poor Todd, isolated and unhappy at the empty table, missing his friend, justifiably outraged.

  “I don’t know about that, Todd,” she admitted. “I think you’re very brave. I should have been stronger. Sean should be here.”

  Todd nodded.

  “I just couldn’t…” She paused.

  Todd waited, not speaking, not excusing.

  “You see… James…”

  “Sean knows James doesn’t like him.”

  “James doesn’t even know him. For some people, meeting Sean can be very challenging. You’ve grown up with him.”

  “Some of the kids at school are scared. New kids. I don’t get it.”

  “When you’re older. Talk to me when you’re older.” She bent to kiss him.

  He flushed but smiled.

  “Thank you, Todd.”

  Back at the head table, suffering jagged music, raucous laughter and the intensifying stench of tobacco and alcohol and sweat, she sat alone. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong with these people; not the sleek and sophisticated and cynical and blasé; not the rough and crude and proudly bigoted; and not the primped and curled and scented naive.

  The human species having a good time. The human species at its most repulsive. A shift in mood, a slight change in atmosphere and laughter would give way to conflict. As Todd had demonstrated. As she could have instigated, by insisting Sean be here.

  Why God? Why not abandon us? Why die for us?

  She sipped her champagne.

  Leaving his brother, Rory returned to the table. “What’s going on with Todd?”

  “He’s still upset.”

  “So he should be.”

  She pushed the glass away. She needed a clear head. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “What?”

  “We left him home, Rory.”

  “Not here,” he whispered. “Don’t start this here.”

  “I’ve made a decision.”

  “Not here!”

  Yes, here. “Never again, Rory. I warn you. I will never do that to him again.”

  His face tightened, but he said nothing. Noise and laughter escalated. From the head table, they silently watched their guests. Time stood still.

  Until a waiter beckoned to Fran, who left the hall and, returning, reported. “Bert phoned. They’ve just rushed Cathie to hospital.”

  The phone woke her. Leaving the warm bed, she hurried to the kitchen.

  “Tess?” Fran’s voice was without life.

  “Fran! What’s wrong? How’s Cathie?”

  “She’s over the worst.”

  “What’s wrong!”

  “Can you take Todd for a few days?”

  “Of course. What’s…?”

  “We’ve been with her all night. We’ve just come home to pack a few things. I’ll be staying in Roland, near the hospital.”

  “Is there anything…?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Fran interrupted. “I’ll send his bike. He can ride to school with you two.”

  “No problem.”

  “We’ll pack his case. Bert will drive him in.”

  “What’s going on, Fran?”

  “She’s over the worst. The temperature. You know?”

  “No, Fran – I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  “She’s having tests. The fever’s the problem. We’re staying in Roland. The kids are okay. Todd wants to be with you. Are you sure it’s okay?”

 
“I told you. Don’t worry. Look after Cathie.”

  “Thanks…” Fran was crying.

  “What can I do? Tell me what to do.”

  “I have to ask you about Sean, I have to ask…tell me he’s been immunised.”

  “Of course he has. Why?”

  “You mustn’t worry, Tess.”

  “For God’s sake! Now you’re really worrying me!”

  “Cathie has encephalitis. They don’t know…there’s a lot of mosquitoes around this year. They don’t know.”

  “He’s been immunised, Fran. He’s had all the baby ones. Of course he has.”

  “Cathie’s been immunised, too. Her temperature was way up when we got her there. They’re not sure what caused it. What the infection is. They’re worried about Todd. I was told to warn you.”

  Encephalitis! She’d read the books.

  “They told me to warn you, Tess. They said I have to warn you.”

  No true friend would ask so much. The doctors were worried Todd might have the infection and Fran had asked her to mind him! She’d make an excuse; they couldn’t take Todd into their home. What excuse?

  No excuse. Fran was in trouble and doing the best she could. The infection would have already spread to Sean and Todd and the twins and Cathie’s friends, or not. She could only watch for symptoms and for high temperatures.

  Fran was waiting. “I appreciate the warning,” she answered. “Of course we’ll take Todd. He’s very welcome.”

  Though Cathie survived the crisis, she would not grow up. Intellectually, she would remain seven years old; her school days were over. Todd and his family and his friends escaped the infection. Not so two other children in the wider region. High temperature, brain damage, one death and no known cause. Fear abounded, doctors were on high alert and investigations were intense. No specific answers were found but mosquitoes were highly suspect. It had happened before and probably would again.

  Todd’s stay had been a bonus. Sean loved him, missed him when he returned to his own home, resented his promotion to senior grades at school and was inspired to try to keep apace. During their hours together, playing competitive games of any kind, he pushed himself to outdo Todd. And as they grew older, Todd, who loved Sean, occasionally let him win.

  Rory stayed in town more often. She phoned Fran every day. Because she owed her. Also because their friendship, securely founded on mutual respect, had deepened with the advent of mutual frustrations. But the Mothers’ Club meetings were no longer quite the same.

  As loyalty demanded, the mothers rallied to the cause of supporting Fran and her newly handicapped child. At each meeting, they arrived with home-baked offerings designed to lighten Fran’s load. Between meetings they telephoned, wanting news of Cathie’s progress and begging for ways to help. Fran was experiencing neither the bigotry nor the condescension Sean’s handicap had inspired. Cathie’s handicap, these mothers understood. Brain damage caused by illness or accident, which could indiscriminately strike anyone’s child, was understandable – excusable. As Sean’s never would be.

  Though admirable, witnessing their acceptance, their love, their warmth, their wholehearted desire to help, was painful. They were doing as they were supposed to do; they were providing companionship and support for a friend. As Australian countrywomen everywhere, they were strong and caring and generous. Their legendary generosity constantly proved itself. They commanded patience, even if she couldn’t always give it.

  They were not cruel women. Their insensitivity sprang from the unhappy combination of ignorance and innocence. It sprang, paradoxically, from precisely the same condition that was the source of their strength – isolation. Far from the seaboard, they had learned the tough bush lesson that inter-dependence was critical to survival. Far from the seaboard, they had not yet experienced multi-faceted opportunities to learn the humanitarian lesson of unconditional acceptance of difference.

  Was it because, for these descendants of pioneers, ‘difference’ posed a threat? Because, to survive, they’d had to learn the cruel lessons of survival? Because the weak were vulnerable and rendered them vulnerable? What had happened to their imperfect babies? Whose children filled the secret walls of the institutions? Why were the streets of Heatherfield devoid of defective children, teenagers, adults?

  Cathie was now different. But yet equal. Because this difference had a tangible source? Because this child had been ‘normal’? Because she still looked ‘normal’! Could it be so simple? Whatever the truth, these women deeply cared.

  She thought about it often, made comparisons with the mothers, with the families back in Blackwood, the neighbours in Melbourne, the priests, the doctors, the teachers. Bigotry would seem to have no boundaries. No excuses.

  From where came acceptance? Why did Todd defend Sean? Why should he need defending? What caused Todd to accept Sean as fundamentally equal and the other children in the same classroom to degrade him? Where had Todd learned acceptance and his mates learned bigotry? Did comparison with Bernie’s parents and Todd’s parents suggest an answer? By the time the children arrived at school, was it already too late to learn the lessons of equality of human dignity and respect for those society labelled ‘different’? Or was it never too late?

  And always, unresolved, lurked the intensely personal questions. Why, when faith was the issue, was she so very different from her sisters? Why did she question things they never questioned? Why did they embrace as immutable truth tenets she could never begin to believe? Because of her father? Too simplistic. Because he was their father too, because they’d been reared in the same divided house. And yet…

  Always, she arrived at the same impasse. Rory was right. She thought too much and did too little. She should obey the rules, take comfort that there were rules. She should accept what was and not hanker after what she thought should be. God’s will be done.

  God’s will? Was it His will that the universally worshipped power of modern science had failed Cathie? Was it God’s will that…? Stop thinking.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mrs McClure! Do come in.” Miss Forrester’s cropped steel-grey straight hair framed a lean pale face, sharp brown eyes and stern thin-lipped mouth. Her black suit, white blouse and leather-strapped watch, together with the absence of any indication of femininity, seemed calculated to cause discomfort. Whether the unsympathetic appearance was characteristic, disguise or an unfortunate accident, the woman sitting behind John Lane’s desk was daunting.

  The principal, Sean’s co-protector for the last seven years, should be here to support her. He’d expected to be here. When he’d made the appointment, he’d promised to smooth the way over what could prove to be a rough hurdle. He, too, had questioned why, after so many years, the departmental psychologists were finally taking an interest in Sean. It could be good news. It was, more likely, bad news.

  Taking the opposite chair, she steeled herself; she’d endured worse. “I thought Mr Lane would be here.”

  “Not possible, I’m afraid.”

  “He’s not sick!”

  “His wife.” The sour lips pursed. “You hadn’t heard?”

  “No. No…what’s wrong?”

  “He’s off on extended leave, I’m afraid. You know her?”

  “We haven’t met.”

  “They tell me she’s a sweet little thing. Sad…sad…” Miss Forrester consulted the heavy watch. “Not to worry. We can get on with our business. As Mr Lane will have already told you, your son’s future needs to be considered.”

  “In what way?”

  “Surely, Mrs McClure!” The thin eyebrows ascended in genuine surprise. “You must realise!”

  “What?” Bad news.

  “Of course.” The hard eyes slightly softened. “I do understand. You’ve had Mr Lane in your corner all these years. They tell me he’s been very patient.”

  “It’s a great school,” she hopefully parried. “Sean’s doing very well. His reports are excellent.”

  “Mr Lane is not a psy
chologist, Mrs McClure. The poor man has been struggling under tremendous pressure. Teaching a combination class. Principal. Now his wife.” The grey crop shook. “I’m afraid these small country schools impose a significant burden.”

  “Sean’s done well.”

  The sharp eyes lit. “Interesting! You surprise me.”

  “Sean’s done well,” she repeated.

  “Within the obvious limitations of mainstream, yes, I suppose he has performed quite well in the past. However – times change, Mrs McClure. Teachers now specialise. You will, of course, appreciate how much better off he’ll be within the specialised system.”

  The psychologist was talking about an already accepted plan of action! She protested, “He’s doing fine here.”

  “Come, Mrs McClure. You know differently.” Disbelief distorted the humourless face. “He’s not been keeping up. He won’t keep up. Advanced mainstream education is not for your son.”

  Irrefutable. Witness Beth at the same age.

  “Why don’t we take a look?” The psychologist led the way from the office to the closed classroom door but did not enter.

  Positioned at the rear of the room, it was possible to observe through a newly fitted glass panel without the children being aware they were under inspection. Uncomfortably, even perhaps illogically, she felt she was spying on personal friends.

  Having grown in numbers though not in size, the school was now divided into three composite classes; Miss Dixon taught preps, one and two; John Lane five and six. Sean was with grades three and four where Miss Clayton, the new young teacher, had been continuing to teach Sean according to the recommendations of Miss Dixon and John Lane. Though not advancing at the average rate, he was still learning and still enjoying learning.

  Sean wasn’t the young teacher’s problem. Her problem was Bernie Cooper. Unlike Sean, who’d been labelled unteachable, Bernie was supposed to be teachable. He wasn’t. Though unhampered by a formal label, he’d not advanced at the same rate as his peers. Worse, he was a disruptive influence. A bully and a lout not a whit interested in school or schooling, he was big and muscular and daunting. Truly his father’s son. Poor Bernie. Who could blame him?

  On the other side of the observation window Miss Clayton, a restraining hand on Bernie’s shoulder, was reading a story to the class.