Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  She returned to the kitchen. “I’m sorry – I’ve been away so long. Don’t let’s fight.”

  “I’m not fighting.” Pausing momentarily, he resumed work. “I do have to get this done.”

  Wiser to let him be. As she’d always done. She pulled a chair to his side.

  “I have to do these tonight.” He was impatient. “We can talk tomorrow – when you’ve calmed down.”

  “Would you have been happier if I hadn’t come home?”

  “What!”

  “Come to bed, Rory.” She took his hand. “Come to bed.”

  “My God, Tess!” He recoiled. “You’ve been drinking.”

  She flushed.

  He closed the ledger. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Nothing.” If he should guess! “Nothing. I had a drink at Fran’s.”

  “Thank God Sean didn’t come home with you!”

  “I’m not drunk, Rory. I’m very tired.”

  “You’re not yourself, Tess. Go to bed.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The telephone woke her. She limped to the kitchen. Fran was phoning to check; she was sorry about last night. How was she? Was the pain bad? Had she had a good night’s sleep?

  “I’m okay. I took some aspirin.”

  “Good. When can we talk?”

  Each movement of her thin cotton nightdress scraped across tender skin. She stifled a reflexive cry.

  “Tess?” Fran was anxious. “You’re not angry with me?”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “We have to talk.”

  “It’s too late for talk.”

  From the other end of the line, there was no response. Of course Fran was unhappy and disappointed and hurt – and guilty. But then, so was she.

  She made an effort. “I’m sorry, Fran. I’m still very tired.”

  “I’m sorry. Did the phone get you out of bed?”

  “You’re right.” She pointedly avoided a direct answer. “There’s a lot to talk about. We need to talk this through. It’s not your fault.”

  Fran’s response was as expected. “Is this about blame, Tess? Is that what’s happening? Are you blaming us?”

  “How could I? I’m feeling…I’m sorry, Fran. Give me time. Rory’s in a mood. I’m too tired for this.” If only they could really talk.

  “What happened in Sydney, Tess?”

  If only she could confide. She couldn’t, not to anyone. Ever. She could go to St Joseph’s and confess. But why? Was she honestly sorry? Or ritually guilty? She didn’t even know that about herself. If the enthralling old priest in Sydney was to be heeded, her conscience already knew her sin and her lack of regret. She needed time.

  “Tess!” Fran’s voice was shrill with alarm. “Tess!”

  Belatedly, she responded, “We’ll talk, Fran. I promise. We’ll make a time.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I told you. I’m still tired.”

  “I can pick you up later this morning.”

  “No! Thanks, Fran. No, not today. Maybe later. Tonight, after Rory gets home. I’ll drive over.” She must get money for her own car. For her own life.

  “Tonight’s no good, Tess. They’ll all be here. We don’t want that. Not yet. It has to be just us, you and me. For now, just us. It’s very important.”

  Sean’s life came first. She surrendered. “Give me a couple of hours. I’ll meet you in town. At the bus stop.”

  She showered, bathed her legs, bandaged them in soft sterile gauze and gingerly pulled on her stockings. The house quickly tidied, she wheeled the bike into the rutted road, laboriously cycled to the store, answered Valda’s surprised greeting and walked through to the office.

  “I didn’t know you were coming in today.” Rory looked up from behind his desk. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m taking the car.” She took the keys from their hook.

  “For how long?”

  “I’ll be back before you close tonight.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The bike.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  She could have chosen to ride the bike the short extra distance. She hadn’t.

  “If you’re going far…” He was vaguely rattled, unusually uncertain. “I may need transport…you may need petrol…”

  “I’ll be back before you close.” She left.

  The papers on his desk rustled. He could have been preparing to follow her.

  She did not look back.

  The church door was open. The church, already primed for the weekend, was empty. She knelt at the altar rail, beat her breast and dutifully recited, “Holy Mary full of grace…”

  The hush of cautious footsteps and the faintly audible swish of a priestly robe interrupted. At her side, he stopped.

  Shielding her face, she did not move.

  The priest, a spare middle-aged man she didn’t know, ascended the shallow steps to the altar and disappeared through the side doorway to the vestry.

  She was grateful.

  Above the altar the carved face on the wooden cross stared impassively, eyes to the front.

  Still, even here, she felt no guilt.

  What then? What did she feel?

  Clean. Renewed. Tired, but new.

  A contradiction. Not possible. Not here. Not now. Not to be contemplated.

  She crossed herself and dutifully recited the required, “Forgive me.”

  Relocking the petrol tank, the service station attendant recognised the car. “Mrs McClure? Will I put it on the account?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “I’ll check the oil and water.” He reached in, pulled the handle to release the bonnet. “Never seen you driving.”

  Letting it pass, she watched him top up the water, test the dipstick, screw back the oil cap; a mundane task other women took for granted. She felt elated and ill at ease. She’d selfishly robbed Rory of transport necessary to the business. She felt uncomfortable. She felt guilty.

  “How’s young Sean?” The attendant slammed the bonnet into place, took a greasy rag from his pocket, wiped oil from his hands. “We don’t see him no more. How’s he making out?”

  “Sean’s fine. He has a job.”

  “I heard that. Done all right, he has. At school we never expected that. Got to hand it to you and Mr McClure. Who’d have thought?”

  At the bus stop two streets down, Fran was waiting in the utility truck. Waving, she indicated the side road. Car following car, they found off-street parking and pulled up side by side.

  Fran locked the truck. “I see you got the car again.”

  “It’s a beginning.” She was terse, intent on confining conversation to the reason for the obviously urgent meeting.

  “Fraser’s okay?”

  Fraser’s Bakery was clean and freshly scrubbed, the red plastic table and four chairs vacant, the smell of fresh bread inviting. They’d only recently begun to cater for other than takeaway food.

  Fran ordered coffees and wedges of cheesecake. “So how are you?”

  “Still tired. But better.”

  “What about the legs? How are they?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “You look better than you did last night.”

  No comment.

  The coffee and home-baked cake arrived.

  Waiting until the waitress was out of earshot, Fran pushed her cup to one side. “There’s no way to break this gently.”

  “All this mystery. Whatever it is, get it over, Fran. There can’t be many surprises left. Unless…Cathie’s not pregnant!”

  “Of course not. Though we will have to talk about that. I can’t believe you don’t know. Or…? Maybe you do?”

  “Fran! Stop beating about the bush!”

  “For one thing…this has nothing to do with Cathie. Or Sean.”

  “I thought…”

  “Oh God!” Fran was distraught. “How do I do this? How can you not know? Rory’s been seeing another woman.”


  “I see.” How could she have been so blind?

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to upset you all over again. Bert thought I should leave it. I’m sorry. Somebody has to do this.”

  How many people knew? How much secret ridicule had there been? How much misplaced pity? For how long had he been seeing someone? Only one? In all the years, only one? How did he reconcile his sin with weekly Holy Communion? How had she not guessed? A thousand questions. And irony. If only they knew.

  Fran was anxious. “What are you going to do, Tess?”

  “Me!” Sarcasm was easy. “You’re worried about me!”

  “We’re all worried about you. Sean’s worried. He’s devastated.”

  “Sean! Sean knows?”

  “That’s how we found out. Sean told me about her.”

  “He’s making it up. He’s teasing you. How does he know?”

  “He heard the gossip at work. Weeks ago. Just after you left. Sean was so upset. Bert fronted Rory.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He denied it. What else?”

  “So Sean played detective.”

  “Exactly. You know Sean. Then Bert checked. It’s true.”

  “I should have been here! Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “How could we? You had your hands full. Sean was okay with us. Bert didn’t think you should have to choose between Beth and Sean.”

  She could have left sooner. Beth had James. “You should have let me know.”

  “Sean doesn’t want you to know at all. I think he’s worried how it will affect him and Cathie.”

  “How on earth does he think his father playing around will affect them?”

  “I think – I believe – he fears your reaction to the news. You’ll be in a bad mood and take it out on him.”

  “He’s waiting for me to blow up over Rory.”

  “He’s waiting for you to stop him marrying Cathie. Both of you. If you’re fighting, you’re not likely to agree on something like that.”

  “It’s just talk. He’ll get over it.”

  “You know better, Tess.”

  “Oh God! I never thought. I never expected…He can’t!”

  “You know Sean,” Fran warned. “My money’s on him. He’ll find a way.”

  Of course Sean would find a way. He’d been taught to find ways, reared to overcome hurdles. “That’s what bothers me.”

  Fran was aghast. “You can’t think he’ll use his father’s affair against him to get his own way?”

  “You know Sean,” she mocked. “He’s in love. He’ll do what he has to do to get his own way.”

  “What about you? What are you going to do about Rory?”

  A customer entered, inspected the glass cases of fresh bread, cakes, biscuits. Suspending conversation, they waited in silence. Another customer entered.

  “It’s getting near lunch time.” She collected her handbag. “This place will be crowded soon.”

  “If you want, we can talk in the car.” Fran opened her purse.

  “My shout today.” Refusing Fran’s money, she peeled a note off the thin wad of leftovers from the trip.

  “You’re doing well,” Fran dryly commented.

  She didn’t respond. Despite Fran’s revelation, her private life must remain so.

  Reaching the parking lot, she unlocked the car door. “I’ll think about Cathie and Sean.”

  “What’s to think about? You can’t turn back the clock.”

  She sat behind the wheel. “I have to go, Fran.”

  “I thought we needed to talk longer,” Fran parried. “I shouldn’t have told you about the affair, should I?”

  “Don’t misunderstand. Please. I’m grateful. There’s so much to sort out. When I left, it was simple. Now, it’s complicated.” She started the motor. “There’s a lot of sorting out to be done.”

  “I know.” Fran leaned through the open car window. “What about Sean? What about marriage? I have to tell him something.”

  “I told you. Give me time. Tell him I’m thinking about it. He’ll settle for that.”

  “It’s not merely marriage, Tess. As you well know. There’s a dozen issues. For one – do they continue to use contraceptives?”

  “They’re having sex!” Too much. Too much.

  “Turn the motor off, Tess.”

  She obeyed.

  “I thought you knew.”

  Why would she know?

  Fran was waiting, refusing to remove her arms. Waiting.

  “Leave me alone, Fran.”

  “What about Sean? He’ll know I’ve told you.”

  “Tell him I’ll be in touch.” She reignited the motor, engaged the gears.

  Fran stepped back.

  She reversed the car, left Fran standing beside the empty space. Tough. If she’d offended her best friend, so be it. Amen. Fran had betrayed her, betrayed Sean.

  Not fair. Think. She must think. Of course Sean and Cathie had been having sex. She’d known it. As she known so many things she’d refused to know. She’d probably guessed Rory’s affairs long ago. Not true. True?

  No longer. No more self-deception. For too long life had controlled her, for too long she’d reacted. No more. From this moment…no. From the last night in Sydney, with the help of a man she would never see again, she would take control of her own life, she would act. For better or worse, let the chips fall where they may, she would act – not react.

  The carved face on the wooden cross above the altar in the timber church, imprinted in many guises over many years, suddenly seemed to be rebuking her. But why? In the church, the face had been without expression. Now, away from church and statue, she clearly recalled expression. But why rebuke?

  Because telling herself she felt no guilt was fiction. Because the habit of guilt was ingrained.

  Though not for Sean and Cathie. They should not be weighed down by the laws of old men in golden palaces. The Man on the cross hadn’t been. He’d followed his conscience. His Mother had supported him. Because that’s what mothers do.

  The voice of the elderly Sydney priest was in her ears. ‘You need to hear the voice of those of us who believe that the law of God is an internal matter, that God speaks to each of us in our conscience.’

  What about Rory? Was he feeling the guilt he’d been reared to feel? Almost certainly. Or had he heard someone like the old priest in Sydney? Or read the new literature? Or confessed to the new priest who’d had the sensitivity to leave her alone? She’d never know. She knew as little of Rory’s interior life as she did of Sean’s.

  How had she not guessed the true nature of all those nights away from home? Easy. She’d no more expected adultery from him than she’d anticipated it from herself. Stupid. Humans are human. The God/man on the cross was also human. He was about love, not guilt. Forgiveness, not punishment. Tolerance, not intolerance. Preached from millions of pulpits, yet not heard. Increasingly not heard.

  “You won’t forget – if you need me…”

  Almost of its own volition, the car turned into Bell Street.

  She pulled up at number eleven, locked the car, followed the cobbled path through thick shrubs, ascended the shallow step of the front verandah. Paved in cream and tan mosaic, one end of the verandah held two earthen pots of broad and glistening foliage. At the other end were stiff wrought-iron chairs and a table; ornaments only. The front door, teak-stained timber and heavy brass knocker, was set squarely in the middle of ruddy brick walls. At one set of windows were drawn blinds, at the other heavy cream lace curtains. Above her head, the ceiling of the verandah arched in colonial curves, cool and smelling of fresh paint. An old house, a loved house.

  She banged the brass doorknocker.

  No one answered.

  Locating an electric bell to one side of the door, she rang it.

  No answer.

  It was as it should be. Fate. God. The carved face on the crucifix – whatever, whoever, was telling her this was unwise.

  She turned ba
ck to the car.

  The garden had recently been watered. Dewdrop drips reflected rainbow colours on emerald leaves. The freshly mown lawn, sweet-smelling, sparkled in the early noon sun. Reluctantly heeding Fate’s warning, she re-opened the front gate and started for the car.

  No! No more reacting, no more accepting because she was programmed to shirk action. Not this time. Turning back, she retraced her steps to number eleven Bell Street, passed through the gate, again banged the knocker and rang the bell and again received no reply. Locating a side path to the back yard she found another clean, neat, mown lawn, rain-bowed recently watered leaves, an alarmed dog barking by its kennel, a sleeping cat basking in the sun. And no sign of John Lane.

  The dog, a Golden Labrador, was in a frenzy.

  She crossed to it. “Settle down, boy.”

  It leapt towards her.

  She held out her hand. The dog sniffed, accepted her caress. “Okay – okay.”

  The hot sun burned her bare arms. She returned to the cool front verandah and perched on one of the stiff iron chairs. Almost an hour later, the sound of the barking dog alerted her. John Lane, entering from the back laneway, was home.

  She went to meet him.

  “Hullo!” He seemed pleased to see her. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I hope I’m not a nuisance.”

  “Of course not. I’m very happy to see you here, Tess.”

  “I can’t stay now.” She’d already waited far too long. “When you’ve time, I need to talk to you.”

  “I have time now.”

  “I have to go.” The habit of retreat was a formidable hurdle.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Rory would have to wait. “I’ll make time.”

  “Good.”

  After he’d unleashed the dog and unlocked the back door, she preceded him inside. The cat squeezed between them, headed for its milk bowl.

  “Titch hates to be left out.” He plugged in the electric kettle. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “Tea – black – weak. Thank you.”

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

  “I should have phoned.”

  “Not at all. It’s a pleasant surprise.” He poured tea, settled opposite her at the circular kitchen table. “How can I help? You don’t mind the kitchen?”