Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “Is that so vitally important, Tess?”

  She slammed the car door; a reflexive rebuke.

  “Sorry!” He raised immediately defensive hands. “It slipped out.”

  She’d have to walk quickly. It had suddenly become essential to be home before the men.

  “Tess…” He leaned across the vacant seat, reopened the passenger door. “I’m sorry.”

  She hesitated. How much did he know about her? Did he know more about her personal life than she did about his? Probably. Surely. Because he would know from Sean, from his teachers, from the diligent psychologist. Even from the other mothers.

  The car door remained open, the rough track uninviting. She returned to the car. Too late, she remembered the old sandals under the tree and said nothing. They were not important.

  Stopping at the front gate, he noted the empty garage. “I see you’ve made it in time.”

  “It’s habit. I shouldn’t worry so much about it.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he agreed.

  “I’m grateful for the lift. Thank you.”

  “It’s a pleasure.” He prepared to reverse across the narrow track.

  “I didn’t mean only the ride,” she added. “Thanks for everything. For Sean. For everything.”

  The motor purred in neutral. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “It depends on the question.” Though it could be hazardous, she owed him.

  “You’ve won your battle for Sean. His father has admirably extended your efforts by finding suitable employment for him. You’ve been a good team. You will agree?”

  Was this his question? “Of course. Everyone knows how good Rory is with Sean.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t. It’s not my business any more.”

  So he, too, perceived danger.

  “Tell me it’s not my business, Tess.”

  That, she couldn’t do. John Lane had earned the right to talk about Sean’s future. “Rory and I don’t know what we’d have done without your help,” she carefully responded. “You were one of the few people who gave Sean a chance.”

  “Honestly, Tess!” Suddenly impatient, he discarded further pretence. “How in the name of heaven do you stand it? Out here, alone? No one sees you. You never mix. How the hell do you survive? What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

  “One question?” she teased.

  “Sorry,” he grimaced. “I seem to be constantly apologising.”

  “I don’t mean to make fun of you. I guess I’m too tired.”

  “I’m sorry, I…” He stopped. “Hell, Tess! I’m not sorry at all. I care about what happens to you.”

  “I appreciate your concern. Really, I’ll be all right. You mustn’t worry about me.”

  “Your friends are worried.”

  “How do you know that!”

  He shrugged. “I keep in touch. Teachers – we care. No one ever sees you any more. You must have plans. You must have thought about the future.”

  “I haven’t dared.”

  He gestured to the broad dry prairie and the starkly brooding mountains, hotly waiting for the descending sun. “I can see why you chose here. But now? There’s got to be more for you.”

  “Maybe. If there is, I’m not ready. Everyone, everyone, told me Sean would never grow up. Never mature. Out here was to be forever. Then you took him into your school.”

  “You regret that!”

  “Of course not. You have to understand. I honestly expected to be chained to Sean for the rest of my life.”

  “If he lived?”

  “I have to go.” She turned away. She must not let him too close.

  “We had a child,” he confided. “He had a difficult birth. He didn’t make it. My wife never recovered, in every way.”

  She turned back. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No children.” He seemed offhand.

  She knew better.

  The pre-evening birds circled, the distant axes quietened, smoke from the mill drifted in the cloudless sky, the pungent scent of burnt eucalypts warned that summer was about to begin. The indigo horizon glowed; his eyes were bleak.

  “I’m sorry you had no children.” She returned to the open car window. “You’d have been a wonderful father.”

  “Tess…” His hand brushed hers. “Find yourself something to do.”

  She looked down, unsure, unable to leave.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “No more games, Tess.” He smiled, the long years of constantly deepening trust confirmed. “Not between us.”

  Too soon. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Why don’t you get a car?” He sensitively responded to her unease, as always. “Get around a bit?”

  She laughed; safer ground. “One word! Money!”

  “Rot! That shop of Rory’s is a goldmine!”

  She blanched.

  “Lord! I’ve tried so hard to shut up!”

  “I have to go.”

  “Stand up for yourself,” he urged. “You fought for Sean. Now you must fight for yourself!”

  “I don’t understand.” She stepped back. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Again.”

  “It’s late.”

  “Don’t take offence. Please?”

  “How could I?”

  He nodded. “Keep in touch, Tess? I know. It’s late. It’s important you get in before they arrive. I won’t hold you this time.”

  “Thank you for the lift.”

  “You won’t forget, Tess? If you need me, let me know.”

  She crossed to the gate, opened it, watched the car take off and again called, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  They were late. She’d had time to change, prepare the meal, remake the bed, feed the fowls. Sean ate his meal and fell asleep watching his T. V. Rory poured his port and started work on the account books he kept at home.

  “I thought you were going back in to a meeting tonight.”

  “They cancelled it. I’ll catch up on the books.”

  He didn’t like interruptions; this one was essential. “Do you mind…?” She settled in the opposite chair. “I have to talk to you.”

  “Not now,” he clicked impatiently. “I need to get these up to date.”

  “I want a car.”

  Steadily, as though she’d said nothing untoward, he set the pen down.

  “I need a car. I need my own car. I’m sick and tired of the bike. I’m too old for the bike. I have to have a car.”

  “You said that.” He picked up the pen.

  “You can afford it.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I have to be able to get out of here.” She was ruthlessly calm. Any hint of uncertainty, or resentment, or emotion and she’d lose before discussion began. “I went to Roland today. I enjoyed it. I can’t ride the bike that far. I have to get out of here.”

  He closed the book, refilled his glass. She finally had his full attention.

  “You went to Roland.” He seemed unreasonably unsettled. “Why on earth would you do that? You never said.”

  “Do I have to? Do I have to tell you everything I do?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Why on earth would you go there? Did you plan it? I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “Lots of things. For one, there could be another bushfire. I’ve no intention of being caught out here with only the bike. It’s not fast enough.”

  “There’s the phone. You can call me.”

  “You’re not listening, Rory – I need it. I need a car for myself.”

  “Dammit, Tess. You choose the most inconvenient times.”

  “I choose the only times you give me!”

  His eyes glazed.

  Too close! An argument would ensure she never got a car of her own. The seed had been sown. Wisdom dictated she back off. Not unlike his son, he needed time.<
br />
  “You’re probably right,” she retreated. “Maybe earlier, when Sean was smaller, when we couldn’t afford it. Maybe then I really did need one.”

  “Exactly.” Savouring his drink, he caressed the rosy glass.

  He’d had the last word. She must not go further, not yet. The miserly restrictions of the housekeeping allowance, in comparison to what she’d learned today about the business, were going to have to be discussed. But not tonight. Tonight she’d taken a tiny step in a new direction; a small step at a time was all he’d tolerate.

  They went to bed. She’d not told him that she’d spent this week’s housekeeping allowance on clothes, that she’d met John Lane, or that he’d driven her home. She never would tell him.

  She eased from the bed. Beyond the kitchen window, the moon was high in the day-bright sky, the mountains brooding, the spring cicadas deafening. Why would she never tell him? Why had she backed off? Why should she believe she needed to tread carefully when demanding the truth about their finances? Did she still fear him?

  He held the purse strings. She’d chosen new life. But she hadn’t a cent left in her purse, not even a bus fare to Roland – and no way to get it.

  When she woke, they’d left for work.

  A new day. She cleaned the house, already hot with promised heat. The mending waited, the ironing – no money left, the month’s allowance spent.

  She sat at the kitchen table, sipped the tea she’d made at eleven. Years of habit. Home from cycling to school with Sean, a cup of tea before tackling the breakfast dishes, the beds, the floors, the dusting, the washing; barely time to finish before setting off again. No more, except the habit had become intrinsic.

  The house was immaculate. Beds, dishes, washing, even the evening meal prepared and waiting in the fridge. There was always the mending and reading and listening to records and walking and gardening. Or planning the new bookshelves that would also stretch the empty purse strings and provoke another argument.

  There was always the bed.

  She could phone Fran. Cathie would be with her. Unlike Sean, Cathie did not want outside work. The twins and Todd had left home for further education at distant universities. Bert would be in for his morning break. They’d be sitting, the three of them, in the enormous farm kitchen. Fran would be impatient to get on with whatever job they’d interrupted.

  Cathie was capable of work. Time had shown that the encephalitis, which had impaired her intelligence, had left her only slightly backward. She was eligible for the same invalid pension as Sean, possibly with less reason. She loved the farm and was helpful both in the house and with the outdoor work. She loved her family and their friends. She had a full and happy social life. She didn’t want to be employed and there was no need to encourage her to want it.

  No, don’t phone Fran.

  Eleven-fifteen. The long hot day stretched ahead, lonely, desolate, unbearable. She went to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe, hung the hanger holding the new frock on the door handle, set the new shoes beneath it.

  Money. Is money what it’s about? Is money what it’s come down to? Sean, his pension supplemented by his wage at the store, had more than she had. Sean didn’t have to ask his father for money.

  She replaced the frock and the shoes in the skimpy wardrobe and returned to the empty kitchen. Outside, deathly noon silence. She missed Rusty. The money she’d spent yesterday would have been better spent on another dog. She rinsed cup and saucer, emptied the teapot, went outside.

  The mountains were silently blue, the burned trees again sprouting green renewal, the willows drooping sadly into long grass, the wattles a yellow oasis in their blue-green world. She went inside, fetched the mending and turned on the radio, turned off the screeching headlines of violence and found music.

  She was stuck. There was no way forward until, at least, she received next week’s allowance. Meanwhile she’d work on a more productive and achievable plan. Reactive impulse would never get her where she wanted to go – when she’d worked out where she wanted to go.

  Five days later, after lunch, the phone rang.

  James’s voice, all the way from Sydney, was strident with alarm.

  “James! What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Beth. Can you come?”

  “What’s wrong!”

  “She’s very ill! Can you come, Mother? We need you! Beth’s ill!”

  “James – I can’t hear – calm down.”

  But she could hear. She could hear his distress. Dreading his response, she prompted, “What exactly is wrong, James?”

  “She’s…” He steadied. “They think it’s cancer. She wouldn’t go to the doctor. She’s been in pain for weeks. She never said a word.”

  “Where is she? Talk to me!”

  “She’s to have a hysterectomy. She’s…” He seemed unable to go on.

  “When, James? When? What about the children?”

  “The children. They’ll stay with friends. It’s in Sydney – the hospital. I’m phoning from the hospital.”

  “I’ll be there, James. Tell her I’ll be there.”

  “For sure?”

  “Of course I’ll be there!”

  “What about Sean?”

  Sean.

  “Mother?”

  “I’ll phone you. Can you meet me at the aerodrome?”

  She phoned Rory, Fran, the airline. No problems. She’d be in Sydney tomorrow. Fran would board Sean, make sure he got to work on time. Rory would drive Sean back each evening, have tea with Fran’s family, watch the house, feed the fowls and sleep at the flat. She packed the new clothes together with the best from the outmoded wardrobe.

  Keeping her constant company, not abating with the rush of preparations, was terror. Beth was ill, perhaps dying. How legitimate was James’s alarm? James was not easily alarmed.

  She went into Sean’s room. The tiny silver crucifix hung above his bed. She knelt. ‘Please – let her live.’

  Echoes down the years. Other prayers. Other bargains.

  ‘Please let her live. I’ll be good.’

  No more bargaining. Bargains were for children and for innocence.

  She again phoned Rory. “I’m ready. Can you pick me up?”

  “Mum…” Beth, frail and pale and frightened, clung to her.

  “I’ll stay till you’re well, love,” she promised. Though the months of secret pain were evident and the necessary hysterectomy tragic, the terror had proved to be without foundation; the tumours had been benign. The long-term prognosis was complete recovery – and no more children. No more grandchildren.

  She ached for Beth’s pain; she should have been here.

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” Drifting off, Beth whispered, “Who’s looking after Sean?”

  Even now, Beth was apologising for taking her away from Sean. What had she done to her? She should have been here. She should have come here before. She should not have hidden away from James, from Beth.

  “I’m so sorry, James.” She left the bedside. “I should have been here.”

  James led her away. “Don’t cry, Mother. You came. You came when we called.”

  In the reception room the children, her grandchildren – strangers – waited.

  “I want to see Mummy.”

  “Daddy – can we go in?”

  “Later – later.”

  They’d met earlier, at the airfield. Louise and Bernadette – already young Irish beauties. Fair skinned, blue eyed and auburn haired, their features strongly reflected the handsome Nolan inheritance.

  She’d missed them all, their baby years, their pre-school years. They’d accepted her pleasantly but without curiosity; their mother’s health was their prime concern.

  “I’m taking the girls in to see her tonight,” James had explained at the aerodrome. “Then back home to Bunnaburra.”

  From the back seat, her granddaughters had objected.

  “Sorry.” Their father had been predictably firm. “I’ll phone you every night. You have to k
eep up your school. Besides, Gran will be visiting Mummy every day.”

  Gran. Pleasing, unsettling. Tess. Mother. Gran. How did Beth’s family think of her? How had the only grandchildren she would ever have been reared to think of her? Katherine? How had her mother felt? How had she managed the confusion of identity – Katherine, Mother, Gran? With aplomb. As she’d managed everything.

  “I’ve booked you into a guesthouse. Not flash – homely – not expensive. By the beach.”

  “It sounds fine. Thank you, James.”

  “It’s on the bus route. You’ll be able to visit regularly.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got a couple of days. A mate’s putting me up. After that – thank God you could come.”

  Each day the same. Lonely breakfasts at Mrs Frank’s old-fashioned guesthouse, a walk along the beach, lunch at a seaside cafe. Afternoon visits to Beth, suffering a painful and slow recovery. Recovering.

  Afternoon visits. A huge metropolitan hospital. A maze of passages on each floor, in each department. Smells, sounds, silences, professional jargon imprinted on memory. Forget!

  Each night she ate dinner at the guesthouse, made a final evening visit to the hospital where she helped the nurses settle the patients for the night and stayed until Beth was sedated and asleep. Then she caught the late bus home, spent an isolated spell on the broad verandah and read a few pages of her current book before going to sleep.

  Gradually, without planning, a pattern developed. The busy nurses, at first using her sporadically in times of crisis, began to allot her specific tasks. She became an unofficial volunteer aide. She was grateful. The arrangement relieved both herself and Beth of the necessity to invent lengthy but pointless chatter. They were able to spend constructive time together, while she could also usefully fill the long days that would otherwise have been empty. She’d not felt so needed for a long time.

  At last, far from home and amid the sounds and smells and sights she never wanted to know again, she began to feel whole; even eager to start each new day. Maybe she did have something to give. Maybe the lessons she’d learned and the unsettling sense of unfinished business were related. Could there be something new to do? Something still to be done? Worth doing? She had energy. She had strength. Why should middle age be an end? Could it be a beginning?