Autumn Music

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “Don’t you think you should try?”

  She was at the kitchen sink, preparing to wash the dishes.

  “Tess?”

  “I’m sorry.” She scrubbed remnants of egg from a breakfast plate. “I really am sorry.”

  He placed a cautious hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could help, Tess.”

  “I know.” She turned to him. “Don’t you ever feel…?”

  Gently, he took her face in his two thin hands. “Tess – you’ve been so strong. Don’t give up now.”

  “It’s hard,” she confided. “There’s no reason any more.”

  “I’m not enough? Our marriage is not enough? Even if we can mend it?”

  “There’s got to be more! There’s got to be!”

  “Like Monica?”

  “Yes! No! No,” she protested. “I’m not Monica.”

  “Yet you have this same sense of – I don’t know what. Something more. Something that isn’t satisfied. You want what isn’t there.”

  “Monica’s found her place. She’s doing something worth doing.”

  “You’ve done something worth doing! Enjoy the fruits, Tess. Have fun. I don’t want to keep spending all this time away from you. We don’t have to do it that way any more. I don’t want to go out tonight without you.”

  “I’d only spoil it for you,” she objected. “I don’t know how to talk about anything any more. There’s too much serious stuff happening. I can’t pretend there isn’t.”

  “God only knows where all this comes from,” he sighed. “Maybe you get it from Katherine.”

  “Haven’t you ever felt it? There should be more to life than working for three meals a day and a roof over your head?”

  “Sure. There’s having a family. There’s honouring my vows. Mass…”

  “That’s enough?”

  “For me, Tess.”

  She turned back to the breakfast dishes. “I wish it was that easy for me. I honestly do.”

  “I wish I could help,” he repeated, “even though I don’t understand.”

  She watched him leave, continued the housework.

  Today, again, nothing.

  Wait. Patience. Rory was being patient, inhumanly patient. He deserved better.

  She phoned the shop. “Can I speak to Rory?”

  “I’m not sure…” Valda was hesitant.

  “Is he there?”

  “He’s very busy. Can he ring back?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Can I give him a message?”

  “No – yes.”

  Valda waited.

  “Tell him to call in here before the dinner tonight. I’ll be going too.”

  Anticipation didn’t shorten the long day. She prepared frock, undies, accessories; she showered, washed her hair, lacquered her nails, found his file on Rotary, read minutes of meetings, notes, reports, press files of Rotary members’ activities. She’d have to talk about something.

  Six o’clock. The station wagon was pulling into the driveway. Checking herself out in the hall mirror, she gathered her handbag and opened the front door.

  The phone rang. She wasn’t expecting a call. It could be Sean or Beth. It was Jill Burton, her voice anxious.

  “Tess!” Rory was calling from the doorway. “Don’t make me late.”

  “Jill – would you hang on a minute?” Hand over the mouthpiece, she replied. “I’m on the phone. It sounds important.”

  “I’ll be in the car. Make it quick.”

  She returned to the telephone. “Is something wrong, Jill?”

  “Fran Marshall suggested we phone you.”

  “Is everything all right? What’s wrong?”

  “She would come herself, but – the farm – you know.”

  “Is something wrong with Cathie? What’s wrong!”

  “I’m phoning for the Mothers’ Club. Fran said you’d help.”

  Her heart settled. “How may I help?”

  “Fran suggested we should talk to you first.”

  “My husband’s waiting. We’re on our way out.”

  “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be bothering you. It was only a thought.”

  “If you phone tomorrow,” she suggested. “We’ll talk then. I’ll be home all morning.”

  “It’s my fault.” Jill was increasingly anxious. “I should have phoned before. I’ve been flat out all day.”

  “Tomorrow. Phone tomorrow. I promise…”

  “Not tomorrow,” Jill interrupted, “tomorrow’s too late. It’s the way it happened. We never thought of you. Then Esther ran into her in the supermarket. She wasn’t sure if you’d want any more trouble. We really didn’t know if we should bother you. You’ve got enough problems of your own.”

  “Tess!” Rory, waiting in the open doorway.

  “I’m sorry. I am being a nuisance.” Jill Burton’s voice sharpened. “I’ll have to find another way. We’ll manage somehow.”

  “Hang on! Please! Hang on!”

  Fran wouldn’t have recommended this, whatever it was, without good reason. She had no choice. “It’s one of the mothers, Rory. Can you wait?”

  “I’ll go on.” His response was immediate. “You come on when you can.”

  The front door closed behind him, the retreating car headlights glowed disconcertingly through the windows. Was she finding urgency where there was none? Was she seizing a reason for not going with him where there was no reason? Too late. He’d gone.

  “Jill?” She again returned to the phone. “Are you still there?”

  “I hope I’m not causing trouble for you, Mrs McClure.”

  “This is about a disabled child.” How could she be so sure? But then, how could she not be so sure?

  “How did you know?”

  “Tell me,” she asked, “what do you want?”

  Phoning the hotel, she left a message for Rory. He would understand. Now, he would understand. Even though it was almost too late, even though she’d almost not taken the phone call and had not been given specific details about the Mothers’ Club meeting, it was where she had to be. Thank you, Fran. Thank you, Jill. Not taking time to change into less formal evening clothes, she backed the Holden out of the garage and drove immediately to the Uniting Church hall.

  “Mrs McClure!” Jill Burton rushed through the open double doors and down the shallow front steps. “It’s very good of you. We really appreciate this. Giving up your night out. I’m so sorry it’s such short notice. My fault. Mine alone. Apologies. I hope your husband wasn’t too upset.”

  “I phoned through a message. I told them I’d be finished about nine. Will that be long enough?”

  “If we’re lucky.” Jill Burton ushered her into the almost empty hall.

  “Are you expecting more?”

  “There’s no way to know. It’s a special meeting. You didn’t see the papers?”

  “I don’t always read the local news.”

  “We’re planning to join the protest march in Melbourne.”

  “I did read about that. It’s to support integration of disabled children into state schools.”

  “That’s the primary reason we’re here. The Mothers’ Club has convened this general meeting to rally support. The country must have equal representation. We’ve invited former members, ageing parents, everyone we can think of. Fran wanted to be here.”

  “I hope you won’t be too disappointed. People aren’t interested in what happens to us, Jill.” Bitterness was instinctive.

  “They should be,” Jill argued. “Especially this time. We sent out notices to all the schools.”

  “Did you notify Roland schools, too?”

  “Harriet tipped us off to that.”

  “Harriet? Harriet Cooper!” She was surprised. “Is she involved again?”

  “She’s making an extra effort. This being a special night.”

  “I haven’t heard a word. How is Harriet?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll see a great change. Since Bernie’s trouble, she�
�s not the same, poor thing.”

  “What about her husband? How is he?”

  “He’s in the nursing home. At least she let him go.”

  “So Bernie’s still at home?”

  “I guess she feels guilty.”

  So much guilt.

  “What’s the other reason you’re here?”

  “We may have to formalise in some way. That’s why we wanted Fran,” Jill confessed. “Turns out she has her hands full. She recommended you. Besides, she believes you have more to offer.”

  “Offer? Offer to what?”

  “That’s the thing,” Jill was wry. “We haven’t a clue. We need to be on the ball. We need someone with experience. Someone…”

  “An old woman,” she laughed. “You need an old head.”

  “Oh God! I didn’t mean…”

  “Of course you did,” she lightly mocked. “Quite right, too. I don’t see I’ll be much use. But I’ll certainly support you. If they turn out.”

  “If they turn out,” Jill echoed. “We’re here. We hope to enlist a full bus for the march. Let’s see what eventuates.”

  Taking her place at the end of the front row, she surveyed the executive arranging themselves at the table on the hall’s low dais.

  Except for Jill, she knew no one. They were the new breed. Young women clearly aware of their responsibility and familiar with the new era of setting goals and functioning within the often complex guidelines of accountability. Young women expecting as their right what women like former President Harriet Cooper had never dared to expect, even as a hard-won trophy.

  Ambitious women, ambitious for a better future. The television she watched, the magazines she read, the books currently being written testified to a universal shift. Traditionally involved in their children’s education through predominantly fund-raising efforts, some mothers’ associations were demanding more direct educational influence. Consequent experience had become a sound base from which an individual might launch a professional future. Many young mothers, thinking past the childbearing years, were planning a future in a more powerful forum. Other women had done it this way. Why not one, or even more, of these few at the table in front of her?

  Behind, the thud of farm boots, tap of light feet, scrape of sandals, clatter of high heels and occasional swish of wheelchairs communicated the arrival of a growing audience. Turning from study of the fascinating executive table, she surveyed the hall. Where had they all come from? Half a dozen wheelchairs, two men, three women, a child; another child severely disabled in a pusher. Surrounding them, uncomfortably seated on the hard benches, were somewhere close to a hundred people. Farmers, tradesmen, housewives, two social workers she’d met at Sean’s home. Plus a handful of children who may or may not have been handicapped. Most likely present because there’d been no babysitters to fill in for their parents or parent.

  The adults spoke in low voices, waiting, watching the executive prepare papers, pens, notebooks, carafe of water, glasses. The children, large-eyed and awestruck, were uneasily silent. The severely disabled child whimpered. Why had they come? What, in particular, had the Mothers’ Club notices said to draw this crowd? They’d surely be accustomed to fruitless meetings. So why make the considerable effort for this particular meeting? Surely they couldn’t all be interested in travelling to Melbourne to march for educational integration?

  Alerted by a wheelchair being clumsily manoeuvred to her side, she moved to vacate the aisle seat.

  “Thank you, Tess.” Harriet Cooper was a ghost of the powerful figure who’d once dominated her flock. Emaciated and grey and drawn, she was trembling from the effort of negotiating the wheelchair.

  “You should have let me help with the chair!”

  “I can manage,” Harriet struggled for breath. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “You came too,” she responded. “Surely someone could have helped you with the chair!”

  “I can manage!” Harriet’s spirit was as ever.

  “I would have thought you’d given all this up.”

  “One has to do what one can. They need encouragement, if only by a show of numbers tonight.” Harriet stroked the limp hand resting on the lifeless lap in the wheelchair.

  From her son there was no reaction, not even a faint flicker in the dead eyes. Despite any reparations the surgeons might have affected, Bernie’s grossly scarred face was horrific testimony to the beating the headlines had trumpeted. Thank God Sean had escaped.

  Shamed, she sought words to comfort Harriet but found none.

  “How are you?” Harriet asked. “I haven’t seen you for such a long time.”

  “I’ve been away. We’ve been moving house.” Excuses. She could have tried harder to contact the Cooper house.

  At the front table, Jill Burton rapped for silence. “I’d like to thank you all for coming.”

  Silence, profound; even the whimpering child was making no noise. The mood of the audience was wary. Yet they were here.

  “I’d especially like to thank Fred and Lena from the Social Welfare Department.”

  Applause. Effusive. Release of tension? Genuine appreciation? Genuine appreciation from me, she decided. Plus resentment? Welfare Department personnel were ensuring that Sean and Cathie did not need her.

  Jill Burton introduced her companions at the table, the executive of the Primary School Mothers’ Club – descendants of herself and Harriet and all those long-ago fighters. Different fighters. Nonetheless, fighters. Jill Burton was unhurried.

  The audience was growing restless.

  Jill concluded, “Our President, Esther Murray, will address you first. Then we’ll take questions.”

  Esther Murray, tall and blonde and slim and well groomed and self-assured, responded, “To come straight to the point. Although the government has introduced new legislation…”

  Restlessness erupted. “What about the march!”

  Undaunted, Esther continued, “Children with disability still aren’t being given the equal opportunity they’re entitled to. They are…”

  “Get to the march!”

  “Please…” Esther was unruffled. “Children with disability are routinely being barred from schools – here and in Roland and in the wider region. When they are accepted, which isn’t often, there are inadequate supports.”

  “Get to the point!”

  “If you will allow me…”

  “We’ve heard this before!”

  “What support?”

  “There’s schools!”

  “Who’s going to pay?”

  “Get to the point!”

  “What about Social Welfare?”

  “What about the march?”

  “What about our kids?”

  “There are special schools!”

  “Get to the march! We want to know about the march.”

  Esther raised her voice. “Please! One at a time!”

  The babble momentarily ceased, but restlessly. Esther was losing control.

  “Send the retards where they belong!”

  Hooting. And applause. Pandemonium reigned.

  “No integration!” A man, blue suit, dark tie, white shirt and thrusting head, was walking towards the platform. Behind him, two men and three women. Like the speaker, they were middle-aged, ordinary. Unremarkable in any other place at any other time.

  She cringed. Confrontational protest had arrived in sleepy Heatherfield. They were here for blood, half the audience applauding. Thus the unexpected high numbers.

  The Mothers’ Club had hit a nerve. Amidst uproar, the group commandeered seats close to the platform.

  Argument continued. “Give the mothers a go!”

  “Get on with it!”

  The man in the blue suit, sitting quite still, said no more.

  Gradually, without specific direction from anyone, the room quietened. Pragmatism left no choice. Unless the audience settled for long enough to hear the president, they might as well all go home. Nothing was to be gained by continued
disruption for the sake of disruption. The example of the blue-suited man, an obvious leader, spoke loudly.

  Esther nervously resumed. “We’re fed up with government inaction. That’s why we’re here. We must be at next week’s protest march through Melbourne to the steps of Parliament. The country must have equal representation. We must show we mean business. We need numbers. There’ll be a bus…”

  “Hold it!” The leader was on his feet.

  “As I was saying,” Esther overrode him, “there’ll be a bus!”

  “It’s not on. No integration! No bus!”

  Immediately responding, his supporters chanted, “No bus! No bus!”

  They’d been set up. The purpose of the meeting, never having a hope of being conflict free, had been skilfully reduced to the matter of hiring a bus.

  Esther Murray and her confident band were out of their depth. Not only had the notices attracted genuine petitioners, it had also attracted disgruntled families and bigots. Whereas some may have argued reasonably, or even been persuaded to leave because objection was pointless, the seemingly very ordinary man had wrenched control.

  Echoing down the ironic years, she heard the voice of Bernie’s bigoted father. ‘We don’t want his kind at our school.’ Poor Harriet.

  Physical violence was imminent. Screeching women and aggressive men were waving fists at distressed parents, bewildered spectators and trembling wheelchairs. The women at the table were impotent. Jill was beside Esther, vainly shouting for silence.

  Someone should call the police. Someone was surely already calling the police. But when would they arrive? Sleepy country towns…shrinking police numbers…

  Placing a shaking hand over hers, Harriet begged, “Tess! They’ll listen to you. Do something!”

  Not to her. Maybe to Rory’s wife? He’d earned community respect. Maybe…

  “Tess!” Harriet was distraught.

  She moved without thought or plan to Esther’s side.

  The president pounded the table. Glasses bounced and water spilled from the carafe. “It’s Mrs McClure! Listen! Please! Please listen!”

  Nothing changed. The hecklers abused. The families wept.

  “It’s no use.” Esther resumed her seat. “They’ve come to stop us.”