Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Mercifully, no one protested. Cream cakes and tea were served. Small cliques formed. Harriet was securely shielded by a group of long-time friends.

  She asked Fran, “What’s wrong with her?”

  “No one’s saying,” Fran answered. “Before you came, Denise hinted at an operation. Harriet stopped her. You know Harriet.”

  She knew Harriet well enough to know her ill health, whatever the cause, had to be gravely affected by the added burden of having to send Bernie away. Don’t go there! Instead, she asked, “How’s Todd?”

  “They’re still keeping him and Sean apart.” Fran was unhappy. “Ever since the psychologist interfered.”

  “It’s not so bad. There’s play time, surely.”

  “Todd says Sean’s not supposed to play with him.”

  Why couldn’t the adults let the kids work it out? “It’s probably for the best,” she bitterly comforted. “Todd has to grow away from him. They both have to accept it.”

  “Todd won’t.”

  “He’ll get used to it.” They’d discussed the situation too often.

  “I was wondering.” Fran set aside her empty cup. “Todd and I were wondering – could Sean stay overnight with us sometimes?”

  “What about the others? Cathie? The twins? Bert?”

  “They’re all in favour. They love Sean.”

  She was unsure.

  “We’ll look after him, Tess. You don’t have to worry.”

  “I know.” She looked at her watch. “God! I’m late.”

  Fran held her back. “He’ll wait for you, Tess.”

  “I know, but…”

  “You’re avoiding the question,” Fran accused. “What’s wrong with us all of a sudden?”

  “Oh, Fran! It’s not you.”

  “What’s wrong, Tess?”

  “I can’t.”

  “If we’re not the problem, then you’ve got to talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let us help. Please, Tess. Let us help.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise?”

  Nodding, she started for the front door.

  Harriet Cooper followed. “Tess – have you got a moment?”

  “I can’t…I’m sorry…Sean will be waiting.”

  “If you possibly can.” Harriet was agitated. “A moment only? Please?”

  She relented. “I’ll phone the school. He can make it to the shop on his own.”

  Arrangements made, she was ushered into a small elegantly furnished sitting room. Attractive watercolour paintings were on every wall. Harriet Cooper was deceptive in unexpected ways.

  “What beautiful paintings.”

  “A hobby. Nothing more.”

  “They’re yours?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Do you mind?” She inspected the personal gallery. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  “Most are from years ago.” Harriet was matter-of-fact. “Would you care for a fresh cup of tea? Coffee?”

  “I’m sorry. I really can’t stay long.”

  “You’re welcome any time, Tess. You’ve been very loyal. It is appreciated.”

  “I’m so sorry you’re unwell. If there’s anything I can do…”

  “A passing malaise,” Harriet’s thin shoulders shrugged. “My doctor assures me I’ll be fully fit by Christmas.”

  Patently, further talk of health was forbidden.

  “To come to the point,” Harriet continued. “we’ve never spoken of the psychologist.”

  She braced herself.

  “If you’d rather not?”

  She’d much rather not. Yet Harriet would not have asked her to stay behind without good reason. “I’m sorry they sent Bernie away.”

  “They didn’t,” Harriet firmly corrected. “We did. To be frank, we ourselves arrived at the inevitable conclusion. We had no choice. Bernie needed more than was possible here.”

  “It must have been a very difficult decision.”

  “One has a duty. So, of course, I naturally feel obliged to make myself available to support Bernie’s new school.”

  “So much travelling!”

  “He needs to know we haven’t abandoned him. I plan to become involved – fund raising – volunteer helper – whatever their need is.”

  “How does your husband feel about it?”

  “Joseph’s most supportive. He’s unhappy about the whole business, of course. Nevertheless – what can we do?”

  “The young mothers will fight. They’ve made that clear. They’re sure to demand support services. They’ll not give up easily. There’s got to be some way to support disabled country kids in their own communities. They shouldn’t all have to choose between education away from home and no education. There’s got to be an answer.”

  “You’ll find out, Tess. The reality is that there’s nothing to fight for. The young mothers are dreaming impossible dreams. A small isolated community can never, by definition, provide adequate services for a disabled child. There can be no answer. Even if there eventually should prove to be, it most certainly will not be in time for us.”

  She was silent.

  “You don’t agree,” Harriet pressed.

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  “Each to her own.”

  “I’ll never give up. I won’t send Sean away.” If the declaration should be taken as criticism, so be it. “Never.”

  Harriet was unruffled. “You don’t surprise me, Tess. In fact it’s precisely why I asked you to stay behind. I’ll be recommending you as incoming president of the Mothers’ Club. I know it won’t be for long. However, it would prevent a split. As you will have observed, a split is a real possibility.”

  “Me!”

  “You have a strong will. They are going to need it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not possible.”

  “You could be in a position of strength to fight for a place for your son.”

  “It didn’t help you.”

  “Sean and Bernie are two different children.”

  She was right there.

  “Will you think about it, Tess?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am sorry.”

  Fran had problems. Two grades ahead and banned from playing with Sean, Todd was finding his final year at primary school difficult. Becoming dependent on Sean’s need and fighting his battles had cost him other prospective friends. He’d become the target of the bullies. Choosing not to physically battle, as he’d formerly been compelled to do, he retreated. Acutely lonely, his work was deteriorating, his former good humour disintegrating.

  Although Fran and Bert feared, with justification, that Todd’s regression could be linked to a need to retreat to a level of performance that would keep him close to both his friend and his sister, they’d nevertheless pursued the suggestion that Sean go to the farm for a sleepover. At least, they argued, the boys would have some fun. As well, Todd would be temporarily free of pressure and maybe feel reassured that Sean and he would remain friends in the future.

  Left no choice, she reluctantly stood by while he eagerly packed his bag and smiled a falsely happy smile as he waved goodbye from Fran’s truck.

  The clock ticked mercilessly; the night would never end. Eleven – she’d promised not to phone. If necessary, Fran would phone her. Sean was all right.

  How could he be, on his first night away from family since his birth? She’d nursed him through all his coughs and colds and infections. She’d not left him during the past months of debilitating menopause, nor did she intend to in the future, no matter what the state of her health. The one time she had been away, for Katherine’s funeral, Rory had looked after him in their home. Now, unpredictably, his best friend’s need had taken him from his family. She owed Todd. Sean owed him. There was also Sean’s need. He needed to be weaned. The future might prove to be as cruel as the past. Not so! Yet Harriet Cooper’s dilemma haunted.

  She’d assured Fran that Sean h
ad readily accepted the separation from Todd at school. Not true. He’d accepted the requirement for obedience, as he’d so painstakingly been taught to accept it. She hadn’t told Fran of the mornings he’d fiddled with his Weeties and delayed wheeling his bike out, or pretended it had a flat tyre, or faked yet another cold. School was becoming less attractive for Sean too. Was that simply because he couldn’t play with Todd? Or was he becoming more deeply aware of his difference? Probably both and much more. Puberty…

  Don’t think. Do not worry about a future he might never live to see.

  Eleven twenty-five. Still no phone call. Nor any sign of Rory. In distant Sydney, Beth was pregnant. The house was empty, the weather unseasonably chill. Fires in December? Not unusual in the high mountains of The Great Dividing Range, unusual in the low mountains and sweeping plains of Heatherfield. The weather was becoming as alien as the world.

  Eleven forty-five. She strode out to the wood stack. Clouds covered the moon, blanketed the jagged peaks, smothered the skinny trees. But the trees were there…she could not see them but they were there.

  In his kennel by the shed, Rusty snored.

  An owl hooted.

  Impossible to go back inside.

  Pray…

  She fell to the wet lawn…

  Twelve-thirty. Rattling across the corrugations, the approaching sound of Rory’s car.

  Urgently, she gathered the logs, went inside, re-stoked the fire and waited.

  “Still up?” Carrying his nightcap glass of wine, he’d not noticed her damp clothes.

  “I didn’t know if you were staying in town.”

  “I thought you’d be well asleep.” He sat in the opposite chair. “You’re not worrying about Sean.”

  “It’s his first night away from us.”

  “Not before time. He should get used to it.”

  “I know.”

  “You coddle him, Tess.”

  He emptied his glass. “I’m for bed.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You should get your sleep.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  At the door, he paused. “By the way, I saw Sean’s teacher today. You should have told me they’d suggested special school. I didn’t even know it was an option. You should have told me.”

  She shivered.

  He shrugged and waited.

  She prodded the burgeoning flames.

  He left.

  The closing door clicked softly behind him.

  Beyond the closed door was the waiting bed. He’d soon be asleep. The flames flickered – red and yellow, blue tinted. A snapping spark flew to the carpet. She smothered it with her bare hand. The pain was physical; she needed it.

  One a.m. The fire was dying, the house sleeping, the room cooling, the pain smouldering. She inspected the burnt skin, not deep, not even very painful.

  One-fifteen a.m. She went to the kitchen, bathed her hand in tepid water, bandaged it in soft gauze, swallowed two aspirins and a glass of port and went to bed. Sleep was not so easy.

  The familiarly steady rhythm of Rory’s snoring and the pulsing pain were essential contacts with the physical. She should sleep. Consciousness sharpened and steady sleep grew edgily elusive. Until in the vulnerable three a.m. hours, when yet again apprehensively on the rim of sleep, she heard, “Careful Tess.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve disturbed you.”

  He didn’t answer.

  He must have spoken in his sleep. Not so. The voice had not been Rory’s. Careful! Whoever had spoken, herself or Rory or imagination, she must heed the warning. She must be careful.

  She needed help. From whom? Who to trust? To believe? To depend on? Not Rory. Even if Katherine was at her side, or Monica, she could never confide the truth. She needed to think. She must stop switching off; she’d thought it would make things easier. It didn’t. Her burnt hand was terrifying evidence of where the ruthlessly repressed wounds of the past were taking her.

  The steady rhythms of Rory’s heavy sleep remained uninterrupted and with hindsight she heard the warning voice as a woman’s. Katherine’s ghost. Ridiculous! A trick of the early morning hours. Or the fanciful wish of troubled imagination.

  Frightened, she left the bed and returned to the chill sitting room chair. The fire was out, the room lit only by a faint beam of released moonlight. She left the fire unlit and the light off and sat shivering in the bleak room. A possum skittled overhead, an owl hooted, a last ember momentarily glowed in the black fireplace; and died.

  Not thinking was no longer an option. She must learn to keep thinking. How to think. How to analyse. How to comprehend the church’s exhortation to offer the suffering of personal pain to the glory of God.

  The personal pain of physical suffering or the silent endurance of the mind’s torture? She’d grown up listening to the priests’ weekly homilies, noting her father’s daily protests. But as a child, only as a child.

  What was the church’s meaning, the meaning her father had railed at? Was it incomprehensible? Unreasonable? Not relevant. Offering up pain to the glory of God was the business of saints. ‘Sweet Mother, let my mind rest.’

  Not possible. She must cultivate the habit of clear thinking. She must heed elusive depths. Sanity demanded it.

  She went to the kitchen, switched on the electric heater, redressed her wounded hand, made hot chocolate and contemplated her options. What were the blessings of being born into the church? What the curses? What the legacy of growing up in a house divided? What the cost of living, not with faith, but with disbelief – with doubt?

  How to maintain mental health. For herself and possibly for Sean.

  Chapter Twelve

  Christmas had come and gone. Todd and Sean’s friends had moved on to Roland High School. Bernie had been long gone, Sean was still at school, the tension of waiting for his inevitable exclusion excruciating, the agony of not knowing how to plan his next step unendurable.

  In pursuit of fictional works she couldn’t afford, she’d long been acquainted with staff at Heatherfield’s mundanely stocked Carnegie Library. Determined to stretch her brain, to cultivate the habit of thinking and analysing and learning and planning, she turned to the library for help. Persuading the librarian that she was reading for ‘further studies’ classes, which was in a sense true, she won outstanding cooperation. Standard works would be delivered direct from library headquarters, suggestions for further reading would be regularly discussed, pertinent newsletters and magazines were freely available and personal assistance was happily assured.

  The chief librarian became a familiar ally, a corner of the hushed library her study room. Initially intimidated by convoluted clinical jargon, she tackled each page, each paragraph, each word, each author – as she would a personal enemy. Which, in a way, they were. If she was to challenge the ‘specialists’ who would deny Sean the right to equality, who would deny him the right to personal fulfilment outside the box of conventional expectations, she must learn their language. She must study their work and every relevant subject, no matter how wide ranging or how difficult.

  The pattern of the week changed to coincide with the rural library’s limited hours. Tuesdays and Thursdays, after she’d escorted Sean to school, she studied in the library, ate a slow lunch in the park or at the store and returned to the library before again meeting Sean. The hours sped until she often went without lunch or ate a quick snack on the bench outside before returning to her studies. Jargon was becoming familiar, researchers her friends, complex theses a treasure chest of new knowledge. And sometimes an affirmation of her belief in Sean’s ability and of the as yet untapped potential of children like him.

  Occasionally, caught up in the books and lulled by the library’s serenity, she was late getting back to the school; but merely a little late, because the obliging librarian could be relied on to sound the alarm. Happily, wandering off was no longer a problem. Sean could be relied on to wait, under the verandah if it was wet,
otherwise by the gate.

  Today she was a little late. Riding towards the school, she passed homebound children and mothers, some walking, some in cars. No cause for concern. The sun was shining, the weather mild. Today she’d been studying international journals imported by the obliging librarian. In the United States, where the law had already enforced policies of educational inclusion of black children, people were now vigorously debating policies of educational integration of children with ‘special needs’. New words, new policies. Maybe the next generation would not have to fight so hard. Reason to hope. Sean had been lucky. Thank you, John Lane. Rita Dixon.

  Alarm bells rang from the moment she turned into the street. A gang of small boys was attacking another child. Sean! Kicking and punching and furiously fighting back, he was outmatched. Miss Dixon, screaming down the front steps, reached him first. The children had already fled.

  Though shaking, he was physically intact. Emotionally? Hard to tell. Had it happened before? Unknown. Would it happen again? Certainly. And he might not be so quickly rescued. A new system had to be adopted. Though she was never again late, Miss Dixon kept him at her side until he was handed over, a precious prisoner transfer from guardian to guardian. She didn’t tell Rory; presumably Sean didn’t either. But the end was in sight.

  A year after the psychologist’s edict, John Lane finally assumed full responsibility for management of his school. His wife’s early death had been both release and tragedy.

  A week after his return, he sent a formal letter home with Sean. An appointment was required. Would she kindly telephone to arrange a suitable time. Not a question, a demand. The waiting was about to end, the next step about to begin. What would be the nature of the next step?

  She parked the bike by the front fence, watched Sean doggedly disappear into the building, waited until exactly nine thirty and knocked on the open office door.

  “Tess! Come in!” He shook hands, ushered her to the visitor’s chair and resumed his place in the chair behind the desk.