Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life

by Maureen McCarthy

  Then I found the more arty, bohemian end of the city. Up over Victoria Street to Nicholson and Brunswick streets. It was here I ‘discovered’ the cafe society I’d only heard vaguely about. I would look longingly through glass doors and windows at the groups of young people inside. At the girls mostly. They fascinated me. They were all thin and seemed at first to be dressed identically too; in black, tight pants or short skirts, and skimpy, sombre silk blouses. Most were beautiful, with white faces, blood-red lips and close-cropped hair. And they all seemed to know what they were doing. What do they do? From morning to late afternoon the cafes were packed with them. The men were often just as handsome as the girls, hair tied back into ponytails, wearing worn jeans and old vests over unironed shirts. Did they study or work or just . . . exist to look so wonderful?

  Once I dared to open the door of one of those places. I’d spied an empty wooden table in one corner and suddenly feeling brave I ventured in. The door had closed behind me, so I knew I couldn’t turn back without feeling worse. I hurried to the little table and sat down, aware that a few pairs of eyes had followed me. I picked up the menu and breathed in, loving the musty smells around me: cigarettes and coffee and garlic and oil. Mint too, and other herbs, sweet and tangy. Almost immediately a tall young man of about twenty came over to me and smiled. He had a short, grubby-white piece of material tied around his jeans as an apron, which was the only thing that let me know he was a waiter.

  ‘What can I get you?’ He was a plain boy, with uneven teeth and bad skin. But his gentle voice and friendly, brisk manner made my terror subside a little.

  ‘I’ll just have coffee, thanks,’ I said, feeling a deep flush begin on my neck.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘what kind?’ My mind immediately went blank. Floundering, I opened my mouth hoping something would simply arrive on my tongue.

  ‘What kinds are there . . . ?’ I whispered, deeply ashamed. The heat in my face began to pulsate.

  He looked away to make out he hadn’t seen.

  ‘Cappuccino, long black, flat white . . . anything you like,’ he said, giving me a friendly smile. His hands were large and knobbly; not at all like the hands of the boys at college. They were strong and practical like a country boy’s. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him where he was from, but I didn’t dare. ‘Oh, cappuccino!’ I exclaimed in relief, a little too loudly, and he nodded and we both smiled at each other.

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’ He picked the menu out of my hands and I watched him dance off between the tables towards the counter like some kind of long-legged, agile animal. I relaxed a little, sat back and looked around. There was one other man by himself reading a book, but everyone else seemed to be with someone. Small groups of three or four at each table. I watched the way they lolled around, laughing occasionally, talking in low voices. The general buzz of talk was cheering. New people arrived, others left, palms were smacked together, cheeks kissed, hellos and goodbyes abounded. There was a wonderful refined easiness in the way they sat and moved and spoke and walked. It was as though they all belonged to a secret club. I sat and simply absorbed this exotic and wonderful world and wished with all my heart that I could belong to it.

  Underneath the chatter I could hear music playing. Suddenly the volume rose and I recognised the aria. That’s Puccini. From Turandot. But what’s it called? I strained towards the nearest speaker, forgetting where I was as the music washed through me. When it finished there was a crackling sound and then nothing. I ordered more coffee, but was too shy to ask the waiter to put the tape on again.

  As I sat there drinking my coffee, the few operas that I’d been introduced to by my music teachers over the years began to gnaw around the edges of my imaginings. La Bohème. The Marriage of Figaro. Carmen. The old favourites. Tales of lust and misery, high passion and despair. A song from Tosca swung into my mind with a kind of blazing force that skit-tled everything else away. I was suddenly humming inside! The cafe was making me remember, helping to galvanise my love for that music. It had been sleeping now for weeks. I hadn’t played the piano since my first night in the Carlton house. With a jolt I thought, I have almost forgotten about music. I became conscious of my head sitting squarely on my shoulders, my heart beating in my chest, and my toes, all ten of them, twitching in the sweaty grime of my old, worn sandals. I remembered what it was like to sing. Vividly. To open my mouth and push out the notes; make them soar and dip and swing out into the air. And remembering that set up a longing in me.

  I walked out of the restaurant full of a strange melancholy, longing to be part of everything I wasn’t. While I’d been inside the sky had clouded over and the light had faded dramatically. The nippy breeze brought up goosebumps on my bare arms and so, shivering a little and clutching myself, I lowered my head and made for the tramstop. Having neither umbrella nor proper shoes, I wanted to be home before it began raining. It must have been after six o’clock because the shops were beginning to light up and fresh crowds were roaming around the bars and restaurants looking for somewhere to eat.

  About three metres from the tramstop I stopped suddenly and turned around. Music was pulsating out from the side street I’d just passed. Loud, brash and inviting. Ignoring my sore feet, I walked quickly back to the side street and towards the back garden of an old pub. There were perhaps fifteen tables set outside on the lawn around a small stage, and masses of people were sitting there, in the half-light, some on the grass, drinking, smoking and talking, lolling back and listening to the band. There was a strong brass section, with a trumpet and clarinet and I think even a horn, plus drums, keyboards and guitar. But my eyes were on the singer. Only a girl, really. Well, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She was wearing a fitted black dress and her hair was flung back; when she twisted around I could see it almost reached her waist. Her voice was okay, but she was singing in an awkward way that I couldn’t identify. At that stage my entire musical knowledge could be slotted under either classical or church music, folk or bush ballads. And, of course, the rock music that I’d heard on the radio and television. I listened to the uneven rhythms and strange, changing tempo. Initially I thought they were incompetent, but I couldn’t tear myself away. I stood just inside the fence and drank it all in. There was something . . .O f course I’d read about jazz, but I don’t think I’d actually heard it being played. It was hypnotic – and nerve-racking. Where was the melody line? And the rhythm? The girl seemed to be singing up and down a couple of octaves, but I couldn’t really follow it.

  I stayed for perhaps an hour, leaning against the wall, the sound growing on me by the minute. The darkness deepened. A couple of simple spotlights were hooked up over the stage, and the many cigarette tips glowed brightly. Every time the girl did something different with her voice I was mentally testing it out on myself; what I knew my own voice could do. I could do that, I thought as I listened to her, only I could do it better . . . I’d just stop at that high point and then I’d trickle down the scale . . . Ah, that was nice . . . One minute she was deep and soulful, and the next she was tripping around the notes like a kid on roller-skates. I watched the people ebb and flow around the bar and tables, as the music went on over their conversations. Before I knew it the whole thing was over. Disappointed I watched them organise the packing up, feeling oddly let down. I was just getting the hang of it and it had to finish.

  A sudden burst of curiosity had me walking closer to the band members as they packed up. I wanted to know who they were and more about the music they were playing. I took a deep breath and sidled over to one of the musicians.

  ‘That was good,’ I said, ‘I enjoyed it.’ He looked up with a smile. I was surprised to see he wasn’t a young man at all. Up close I could see that his hair was thinning out. A gold front tooth flashed and there were wrinkles around his light-blue eyes.

  ‘Glad you liked it,’ he said.

  ‘Is it . . . er, is it jazz?’ I asked, then immediately felt stupid. I needed to know, but it sounded so dumb. Like I was a hi
ck who knew nothing. But he didn’t seem to think it an odd question at all. He shrugged and rested a sneakered foot on one of the speakers, then bent over and retied the lace.

  ‘Yeah. Mainly jazz. Bit of blues.’ Then he looked lazily up at the metal-grey sky. ‘Hey, it didn’t rain on us!’ I looked up and felt a shot of adrenalin zip through me.

  ‘I play too,’ I said shyly, ‘and sing.’ He looked at me and this time smiled in a very friendly way.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Once again I felt like an idiot, but I didn’t seem able to stop myself. ‘I’ve learnt for years . . .’

  ‘So what do you play?’ he asked.

  ‘Piano. And I, er, sing a bit.’

  He nodded thoughtfully and opened his mouth to say something else, but the girl singer was tapping his elbow. He turned around.

  ‘See you tomorrow then, Alan,’ she said with a smile that completely cut me out.

  ‘Yeah, see ya, mate.’ She waved and was gone. He watched her leave for a few moments and then turned back to me.

  ‘Now what were you saying?’ he said. But by this stage my bumbling self had come back. I gulped, aware of the heat climbing up my neck.

  ‘I play piano,’ I whispered, beginning to edge away, ‘and sing.’ He took a step towards me.

  ‘Well good!’ he laughed in a genuine, warm way. ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I was wishing like mad I’d never started the conversation. What in the name of God did I think I was doing just going up to a strange man and telling him I played piano?

  ‘I mean, do you have a job playing or singing anywhere?’ he explained kindly.

  ‘Er, no,’ I mumbled and took a couple more steps away. ‘Anyway thanks again. I enjoyed it . . .’ I gave him a stupid little wave, a smile of apology, then turned and began to walk off.

  ‘Hey, hang on!’ he called. I turned back to find him digging in his pocket for something. I waited, aware that my breath had become short. What did he want? Perhaps I should just run . . . He held out a small white card for me to take. I walked back and took it with a gulp, not meeting his eye.

  ‘That’s our name and everything,’ he said, ‘we’re playing at the Prince Patrick next Saturday night, if you want to come. Bring some friends.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I said, taking the card. The word ‘Fandangle’ in red ink was at the top, then the names of six musicians and their instruments, and a contact phone number.

  ‘I could maybe introduce you to a few people,’ he went on. ‘They might know of singing or keyboard work going . . .’ I looked up at him questioningly.

  ‘Er, thanks, but I, er . . . wasn’t really looking for . . .’

  ‘I thought you might have been interested in some work,’ he grinned and it suddenly occurred to me that he found my nervousness interesting. ‘It depends on whether you’re any good, I suppose.’

  I smiled, embarrassed, but said nothing.

  ‘Are you any good?’ he grinned again.

  I took a breath and looked away. What could I say? I didn’t know if I was really pleased that he was taking the time to be nice to me or acutely anxious. Probably both. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier. I shrugged.

  ‘Yes. I’m good,’ I said. At least I think that’s what I said. Something like that just came out from somewhere. He moved closer, stood right in front of me in fact, so I had to look him in the eyes. He was skinny and old and I could smell the sweat through his tatty black T-shirt.

  ‘Hey,’ he said softly, ‘that’s not good enough, girl. You gotta

  look me right in the eye and say it like this.’ He took a deep breath and growled loudly, ‘Of course I’m good, ya fuckwit!’

  I jumped. Then he laughed and I laughed too. He turned around to finish his packing, and I walked back out onto the street.

  I was buoyed up when I got home that evening, strangely excited about everything. It wasn’t as though I was actually planning to go to that pub the following Saturday. I mean, I didn’t even know where it was, and I hadn’t ever been inside a pub in my life. The very idea of playing in a band – any kind of band – was . . . well, it was just too far-fetched even to think about. The truth was that all my vague yearnings for a career in music had no context at all. I was dismayed to realise that I had only one clear image in my head. Me, dressed in some voluminous evening gown in perhaps red or black silk, one that would hide my size anyway, sitting at a shiny grand piano in an enormous concert hall, playing . . . playing what? Well, I supposed I’d be playing some beautiful piece by Bach or Mozart. There would be the audience, huge, well-dressed and appreciative, clapping at the end of each piece and calling for more. I don’t think I’d ever been to such a concert myself, although I’d seen and enjoyed them on TV. On the tram journey home I thought back to the conversation I’d had with the musician. His eyes had been glassy blue and very clear. The wrinkles around them were smile lines, really. He had not been condescending. He had taken me seriously. I felt good about having dared to speak to him.

  WE HAD A BRILLIANT TIME THE FOLLOWING night, Jude and me. One that cemented us as real friends. By this stage we were both getting on all right with Katerina. The three of us were polite to each other. Quite friendly even. But Katerina was always on her way out, or coming home late looking exhausted. It made it hard to get to know her. The truth was she intimidated me and I was always glad when she was out. And although Jude often joked wryly about making a date to see Katerina so she could hear about her amazing social life, I could tell at times that her presence tended to constrain Jude, too.

  I’d been in the city most of the day, feeling increasingly bored and frustrated, but on impulse I’d bought a CD. Katerina had installed a really good hi-fi system in our first week in the house, but I hardly ever listened to anything because I hated her choice in music. She had heaps of CDs, but they were all that middle-of-the-road stuff: Billy Joel, Whitney Houston, Rick Price, Madonna. That kind of music leaves me cold. I would rather listen to a grunge band like Pearl Jam or R.E.M., or even some heavy-metal bands, than the bland, overproduced stuff she obviously went for. That morning I’d decided that, even though I couldn’t really afford it, I would start my own music collection. I walked into the lounge room and looked at Jude, who was sitting quietly by the window reading a book.

  ‘You mind if I put something on?’ I said a little tentatively. We’d never talked seriously about music. She might hate opera. She looked up and grinned from where she was on the couch. ‘What ya got?’

  ‘Dame Kiri . . . in concert,’ I said, a little defensively, ‘er, it was cheap.’

  ‘Great! Whack it on!’

  I slipped the CD on then lay on my back on the floor and closed my eyes. Neither of us spoke until we’d heard the whole thing through. It was outrageous stuff. Completely over the top. So rich and full and complete that within a minute I was overwhelmed, transported. My head had swung right away from my own life and into the heavy dramatic world of the music. When it ended I still lay there, almost breathless, forgetting Jude was even in the room, feeling as though I was in an enormous, warm, delightfully fragrant bubble-bath. I was slipping and sliding around in all those soaring crescendos and spellbinding arias. I was aching with it. The notes were still vibrating around that little room well after the silence had descended; beating at me through the pores of my skin. This is Life, I kept thinking, Life with a capital L. This is what it’s all about. Nothing else matters. ‘Here, have a drink.’ Her voice startled me. I sat up, shook my head a little, and took the cup of tea Jude was offering me. ‘That was great,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I sighed.

  ‘You should be doing that,’ she said simply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Singing.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, why don’t you sing something now?’

  ‘What, here?’ I said in surprise. ‘But I’d be such a let-down after that . . .’

  ‘I know that, Carmel!’ sh
e grinned. ‘After Kiri we both know you’ll sound like a howling dog, but . . . I ’d still like to hear you.’

  I laughed and got up and went to the piano. I did feel like singing. And what’s more I suddenly knew I didn’t have to carry on with a whole lot of apologies with Jude. So I was out of practice. Big deal! I ran my fingers through a few scales, up and down the piano, then launched into a French love song that was popular at weddings. My voice was a bit croaky at first, but after a few lines it warmed up. I remembered the last time I’d sung in Manella –I think it was at the old people’s home. How when I’d started there’d been some noise in the room; shuffles and a few whispered conversations. As I went on the silence had deepened until everyone was listening. That was always a wonderful feeling, hearing the silence suddenly shift downwards another notch, into a deeper concentration. When that song ended I started on a rather difficult piece by Schubert that I’d learnt last year. Halfway through it I thought, Ah stuff it! I wasn’t playing it very well and anyway this wasn’t the time. There was so much to play. A few old folk classics tumbled forward into my mind. ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’. I opened my mouth and let the words come rolling out. A couple of verses from a bush ballad, then Roy Orbison, ‘The Great Pretender’ and the Beatles. ‘Let It Be’ was one of my favourites. After the first couple of lines, Jude began to harmonise with me. Her voice was thin, but strong, and she sang the harmony well.

  We caught each other’s eye every now and again as we sang, pleased at how we sounded. On and on we went, getting livelier and more confident with each new song. When I couldn’t think of anything else I started on a ponderous old hymn that was a favourite of mine, ‘Nearer my God to Thee’, and was surprised when she was able to join in on that too.