Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Memories of mixed emotions. Polite laughter, dutiful prayers, careful talk and admiration for her mother’s superb skills as hostess and cook. And great sadness. The superb hostess, smoothly citing work-related excuses, had banished her husband from his own table. No dissent or hint of dissent allowed. Her father should have been there then. His spirit would be with her tonight.

  Rory came home early. Together they completed the preparations and together they welcomed the priest to their home. Wearing casual slacks and open-necked shirt, Father Pat looked surprisingly youthful. Physically untouched by what he’d seen, he could be thirty, or fifty. Of obvious Irish heritage, he was a strongly built red-haired fairskinned, ruggedly attractive man; a son his forebears would have been proud of. No wonder Rory approved of him. As for whether he approved of Father Pat’s passionate homilies, he never said. Sufficient that he trusted Sean would not be hurt.

  Yes, Father Pat professed. He knew about Sean. He knew about Cathie and he knew her parents were lapsed. He’d done his homework. He didn’t say who’d been his tutor and they didn’t ask. He was here. He was a man of goodwill. He was also content to wait until after the meal had been eaten and the dishes consigned to the sink awaiting tomorrow’s work, before getting down to business. Until then he listened to Rory’s views on the universal threat of big business at the expense of small businesses and answered questions about his experiences. On business, he made no comment. On society, he bemoaned South Africa’s Apartheid and praised Bob Geldof’s Live Aid concert. Sean was really going to approve of him.

  Rory kept admirably apace. How little she knew of her husband. Tonight the man across the table from the affable priest was the man she’d thought she’d been marrying. If only the three of them could openly talk. If only frank discussion could happen. Did it happen in Father Pat’s exclusive community? Did priests ever really talk frankly?

  After the meal, deciding against the formality of the sitting room, they talked at the kitchen table. Father Pat, gratefully accepting the offer of a few beers from Rory, discussed the matter of the young couple. He listened, with genuine interest, to their doubts and fears and hopes and concerns. Then, with a genuinely open mind, agreed to counsel Sean and Cathie and to continue to keep in close touch – whatever the outcome.

  Formalities over and reassured by the priest’s attitude, she ventured, “Do you mind if I ask you about your homily on Sunday?”

  Rory frowned disapproval. “Not now, Tess. Father Pat has given up enough of his time.”

  “I’m sorry.” She withdrew. “Rory’s right.”

  “Not at all, Tess.” Father Pat set down his beer. “If something I said bothers you – go ahead.”

  “It didn’t bother me. If you said what I think you said, it needed saying.”

  “Oh dear!” He laughed. “I’ve confused you! They tell me I do that sometimes. Which bit confused you – and how may I clarify?”

  She flushed. “I don’t mean to…”

  “Don’t tell me all of it confused you!”

  Piqued, she retorted, “I didn’t say you confused me.”

  “Forgive me, Tess. I shouldn’t tease. Tell me – what do you think I said? And why do you think it needed saying?” Relaxed and friendly and enjoying his beer and open to serious debate. A rare priest. A rare man.

  “You asked if Jesus came to earth today, where would we expect to find Him.”

  “Right…”

  “Then you quoted where Jesus says: ‘They who are in health need not a physician.’”

  “And you are asking – what?”

  Rory was embarrassed, “It’s clear enough.”

  Father Pat’s quick eyes twinkled. “I believe it’s clear to Tess.”

  She had correctly interpreted the homily. The priest was saying that the physician – Jesus – was needed here, in this place. For the disheartened people sitting in the pews, for the disenchanted people not sitting in the empty pews, for the bewildered people like herself and for the blindly obedient religious like Rory.

  Sensing depth he did not understand, Rory attempted a detour. “I wonder, Pat. Do you regret leaving your missionary work? Was it hard to accept?”

  “On the contrary Rory. How can I not accept what God ordains?”

  “That’s not God! That’s men in power!” Too late. She’d said it.

  “Tess!” Rory was shocked.

  “I’m sorry,” she retreated. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

  Gently, the priest reached out, patted her hand. “It’s okay, Tess. It’s okay.”

  Surprisingly, she felt no discomfort. Whatever his chronological age, in experience and wisdom he seemed much older. He exuded the compelling confidence of hard-won lessons.

  “You are right, Tess,” he calmly continued. “I was following orders from men in power. I was ordered away from work I loved. Work I felt born to do. But now, looking back, I see a clear path. I believe I’m being taken on a journey. I don’t know where to. But I believe it.”

  “Pre-destination!” She exclaimed. “That’s not faith. That’s fate.”

  “I have to disagree,” he smiled. “The instructions from the men in power you speak of brought me to my moment of choice. My choice. Do I choose rebellion? Or obedience?”

  “Not so simple,” she argued. “There is no choice. You aren’t programmed to disagree. Obedience was inevitable.”

  He shrugged. “That’s an ongoing argument. For me, there was a choice and I thought it through.”

  “You chose obedience.”

  “Shall I tell you why?”

  She nodded.

  “Before I tell you why, I must tell you this…”

  “There’s no need…” Rory began.

  “I must tell you,” Father Pat insisted. “I have serious reservations about many things within the church today. God willing, I will never desert her. From where I sit she is at her own crossroad, as I was. She doesn’t need me rebelling from outside. She needs me prodding consciences from within. She needs me and others like me – like you – working to renew the message of love and service and peace and goodwill. To bring hope! To acknowledge her mistakes and grow. She needs us to think, to ask questions, to stir – if you like.”

  The huge kitchen was hushed and somehow secretive. Spectres of distant dissenters seemed to be in its shadowed corners. Hiding. Harbouring imprinted guilt that forbade questioning. Rory would be deeply upset.

  Reflexively, she left the table, plugged in the kettle. “I’m making hot chocolate. Would either of you like one?”

  “Thank you, no.” Father Pat pushed his empty glass across to Rory.

  Rory poured fresh beer.

  The awkward moment over, Rory blustered. “I guess I’m like you, Father. I disagree with quite a lot. But surely people like Tess and me can’t do anything. Asking unwanted questions is not for people like us.”

  “If not you, then who?” Father Pat parried.

  “I know what questions I’d ask, if I could. It’s not the point. I don’t need to get into all that. I’ve got enough on my plate. Leave well alone, I say. It’s not healthy.”

  “On the contrary, Rory. Questions are healthy.”

  Returning to the table, she asked, “All questions? Or only some?”

  “Like what, Tess?”

  “You talk about faith. Loyalty to faith.”

  “You have a question concerning faith? As distinct from questioning ritual and rules and tradition?”

  Rory shifted uneasily.

  Father Pat hesitated.

  “I’m sorry,” she backed off. “We’re keeping you up too late.”

  Rory prepared to cap the unfinished beer.

  “It’s okay.” Father Pat set his bare elbows on the table. “I’m happy if you are, Rory?”

  “No problem.”

  “So now, Tess…” The priest was very earnest. “You’re talking with a traveller. I’m on learner plates. With that understood, here’s my thinking. Be aware you’ll never get a
ll the answers. By definition, we’re incapable of total comprehension. As the old tale tells us – the blind man touches the elephant’s trunk – and calls it a snake, his leg – and calls it a tree. He touches part of the whole. Without sight he can’t comprehend the whole. In the world of the Spirit we are blind. The whole is bigger than its parts.”

  “Yet we must keep asking questions?”

  “Of course we must. Because we are human. Because asking questions is what we do. It’s what defines us.”

  “I’d be happy to confine mine to solving solvable problems,” Rory sought amusing distraction.

  “Actually,” Father Pat laughed. “I’m having fun. I’m curious to find out where this path I’ve chosen to follow will lead me. What about you, Tess? I take it you’re doing a lot of questioning.”

  “About the church, yes.”

  “About faith?”

  “That, too,” she admitted.

  “If I may?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I was born into the Roman Catholic faith. I became a priest because that was, as you will understand, what I was reared to do. Overseas, I nearly left. Until I began to comprehend. In the life of the universe, I’m not even a blink.…” He chuckled. “Forgive me. The grog’s loosened my tongue.”

  “Please. Go on…”

  “I am, however, part of an evolutionary process. Man alone has the power of individual choice. Good, evil, action, inaction – my choice. I have this conviction of mission. I can’t explain it and no longer wish to.” Firmly pushing the beer away, he was wryly sardonic. “I should leave. May I say Amen?”

  Father Pat smiled, “I declare you man and wife.”

  Sean raised Cathie’s veil and said, “You are Mrs McClure now.”

  At her side, Rory stiffened.

  She placed a comforting hand over his. “They’ll be all right, Rory.”

  The organ purred, the choirmaster raised his baton and the sweet voice of the lyric tenor sang a magical Ave Maria – Schubert’s. Tradition satisfied, the few McClures in the congregation were mistyeyed. Memories of other weddings, of sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles and regret; regret for the divisions Sean’s birth and now his marriage had wrought in the family. Not altogether a happy ceremony.

  Rory’s strong hand held tight. He, too, had to be remembering and regretting. At their wedding, the Ave Maria had been a signpost on a road they’d started on together and too soon strayed from. Maybe the signpost would point to a happier road for their son.

  “They’ll be happy,” she whispered. “Look at them.”

  Sean, wearing his new grey suit, slim and fit and proud. His eyes grave but filled with light – elated. Cathie, in her beautiful ivory silk bridal gown, small and petite and pretty and a little shy, leaning on Sean, loving him. Fate had cruelly hurt them. They didn’t see it that way. Fate had brought them together, set their feet on a fortunate path and they were happy.

  Across the aisle, Fran was dabbing at her eyes. A non-believer, possibly an atheist, what was she thinking? Regretting? Hoping? Fran had diligently supervised every aspect of the arrangements. Cathie was to be protected, as always. Convinced that Sean, with sensitive support, would cherish his bride, Fran had organised a wedding essentially no different from those which would eventually happen for her other children.

  Today’s ceremony was the climax of over a year of tough and confronting battles. They’d consulted doctors, psychologists, priests, teachers, even a psychiatrist.

  They’d requested informed opinions – would the newlyweds be capable of setting up house away from family supervision, would they need constant financial supervision, would they think quickly enough in moments of crisis? Should they definitely not have children, should they rely on the contraceptive pill, would they be sufficiently responsible to use the contraceptive pill, should surgical intervention be considered, appropriate, mandatory, etcetera, etcetera…

  They’d received a mere two profoundly significant, firm answers. Vasectomies were socially and legally acceptable, though not within the Roman Catholic Church. The contraceptive Pill was socially and legally acceptable, though not within the Roman Catholic Church. As for other advice, in the end each expert expounded the obvious; no one could predict what would happen, whether they’d manage well, very well, or not at all.

  Sean opted for the vasectomy. Father Pat made no comment. He’d promised to marry the young couple. Amen.

  Today he’d kept his promise. So here they were, yet again, walking through doors seldom opened and treading a path seldom trod. Sean was confident and happy to take on the world. Happy to take on realistically whatever hurdles confronted him, to accept realistic limitations. Happy to be Sean. Happy.

  Though there was no overt opposition, extended families and a wide circle of acquaintances and commentators disapproved. Though they’d been careful to try to limit formal invitations to people of proven goodwill, some had bluntly rejected the invitation and some had ignored it – hurtful for their parents and not important to Sean and Cathie. Monica had telephoned, with regret. She wished them happiness, all of them. She was happy, fulfilled and happy. She was still at the convent, but couldn’t possibly get leave. Why? A cynical question, it popped in and out. Monica would brave strong rebuke to show support. Her reason for being absent had to be genuine.

  The twins were bridesmaids, Todd and a visiting cousin the groomsmen. Behind the front pews, at the back of the small church, were Valda, John, Tom, a few close friends from the general store and others she didn’t know but who obviously knew Sean; even the petrol station attendant, ill at ease in a navy blue suit and sedate tie, was there.

  The Ave Maria concluded; Father Pat blessed bride and groom. “You may kiss your bride, Sean.”

  Holding hands, the couple shyly kissed.

  Continuing, Father Pat intoned, “Pray for us, O Holy Mary Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.”

  Through blinding tears, she looked to the silent blue statue by the altar steps.

  At last the organ swelled, the choir followed its lead. Bride and groom, accompanied by applause, flashing cameras and a shower of confetti, walked proudly down the aisle and out into the soft May evening.

  No chance of fires, little risk of storm, but cold. Shivering, she pulled up the collar of her smart new coat.

  “Mind your step, Tess,” Rory warned. “The leaves are slippery underfoot.”

  The leaves are slippery…the leaves are…Sweet Mother. Why does it have to be autumn. Another time another place another life…

  Sean assisted his bride into Todd’s waiting car.

  “They’re off to the photographers.” Rory waved.

  Todd drove off, the bride and groom in the back seat.

  “I’ll get the car.” Rory followed Bert to the car park.

  ‘There must be no more children, Tess.’ Dr Chapman’s long ago voice was louder than the cheers following Todd’s car.

  “Congratulations, Tess.” A young woman stepped from a small cluster by the church door. “What a beautiful ceremony that was.”

  Thank God she’d not obeyed the high mountain doctor. Thank you God for Sean.

  “Tess…?” The young woman moved closer. “Are you okay?”

  Refocussing, she flushed. The woman was a stranger.

  “Jill Burton. You don’t remember me.”

  Of course. “You took over the Mothers’ Club, when Harriet left.”

  “That’s right. My youngest is at school now.”

  The cluster of women moved to her side. “We wanted to wish you well.”

  She remembered a few. Most were young women, young mothers. “It’s very kind of you all to come.”

  “We brought a few things for the newlyweds.” They proffered a decorated basket filled with shinily wrapped gifts.

  “I’ll tell Sean and Cathie they’re from you. Thank you.”

  “We wanted you to know we’re happy for your families. We’re with you.
Will you tell Fran?”

  “We appreciate it’s been pretty hard, Tess.”

  “Wish them the best from us, Tess.”

  “Anything we can do – any time.”

  She was crying.

  Rory pulled into the kerb.

  Loading the basket into the back seat, the women backed clear of the car, except for Jill Burton.

  “I hate to give you this now.” Jill thrust a folded copy of the daily ‘Melbourne Sun’ through the car window. “You’ll hear about it anyway.”

  Rory, waiting until the path was clear, followed Bert’s car out towards the farm. “What is it?”

  “I haven’t a clue.” She threw the newspaper onto the back seat. “Wasn’t that nice of them? Did you see the presents?”

  “They mean well.”

  “They do more. They turned up to show support.”

  “Which is more than can be said for a lot of others.” He was still fuming. Some of his customers had given him a hard time.

  The post-wedding party was perfect. Machinery in the farm’s enormous barn had been moved to the outer walls, the rough cement floor scrubbed, a tall gas heater centrally installed. Visible heat waves, wafting to the fluorescent strips lighting the high ceiling, strengthened the stench of cow dung and machine oil and the aroma of the inadequate but many-perfumed cleansers. A disc jockey and his equipment sat at the edge of a makeshift dance floor.

  She and Rory and the sedately dressed elders sat by the exit door, far from the disc jockey, drinking wine and beer. The gaily-dressed young people drank punch, flooded the dance floor and danced their frenetic dances. Conflicting odours and wildly diverse colours and deafening music and unbridled laughter and bright faces and quiet contentment and mute anxiety merged in a unique celebration of a unique event.

  Sean shed his solemnity, Cathie her shyness. They were two happy young people dancing with friends and family. The world was smiling.