Dead People's Music

by Sarah Laing

  ‘New York, that would be cool. We should go together, find the next Andy Warhol and join his factory. Have you seen his movies? They’ve been playing at the Paramount: Heat, Trash, Women in Love. Great stuff.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ I felt ignorant and young and slightly desperate. I wondered how hard it would be to kiss him, or at least to touch his hand, to overwrite all my knowledge holes.

  ‘We should go together,’ he said. ‘Maybe next week.’

  ‘That would be great.’ I leaned a little closer to him so we were almost touching, antennae of heat probing each other.

  The sound of an engine, a door opening, mewling. Bruno jumped off the map, peering over the cliff. I followed him, looking down on an idling car, a dark figure emptying a sack, small wriggling forms disappearing into the undergrowth.

  ‘Hey, are they kittens? They are! Take ’em to the SPCA, mate. Don’t dump ’em here.’

  The figure looked up, then jumped into the passenger seat. The car revved off, leaving a smell of diesel.

  ‘Aw, you bastard,’ Bruno yelled. ‘Come on, let’s get down there and save them.’ Bruno scrambled down the bank, landing on the road, then slid down the next one. ‘Here, kitty, here kitty-kitty,’ he said. ‘What kind of people would do that? What arseholes. Did you get their number plate? Some people are so selfish.’

  I followed him, but was reluctant to go though the gorse and snag my brocade.

  ‘Help me,’ he said, and I picked my way around a bush, crouching down to look beneath. I stretched my hand under, and when I felt a scratch I whooped with triumph, but it was just prickles.

  ‘Here, kitty-kitty,’ said Bruno, moving deeper into the thicket, further away from me.

  We trudged back down the hill empty-handed, dry-lipped.

  ‘I hope those kittens are okay. Maybe they’re old enough to fend for themselves. Only they’ll be eating all the geckos to survive,’ said Bruno.

  The walk down took much longer than the ascent, and my blood sugars really were low now. I ate glucose tablets, but they didn’t seem to have much effect beyond propelling my blistered feet forward.

  We were hardly talking by the time he dropped me off. Sorry, I whispered to myself. Sorry for making you come with me, sorry for me being a charity case, an exchange for washing and cooking favours from your mum. I’m sorry that I fancy you and you think I am a naïve girl who plays an annoying instrument. I fingered my blisters, some burst and gluing my tights to my skin, others squishy and balloonish. I looked forward to popping them before I got into bed.

  Bruno pulled up outside my house, not turning off the engine.

  ‘Thanks for a fun night,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m just really bummed out about the kittens.’

  ‘Me too. See you around?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Andy Warhol, right?’

  ‘Right.’ He remembered. It was real.

  Hugging myself, I stood on the kerb as he pulled away.

  CHAPTER 15

  Wellington, 1950

  Klara patted Frankie’s bottom, trying to soothe the grizzle, walking up and down the conservatory that overlooked the harbour. She was unsure of this view: although the water worked through an infinite variation of colours, some days wet river-rock grey, others a Mediterranean azure, a thick belt of bush separated her from it. The bush was a fortress for Sleeping Beauty, and at night there was something that shrieked. Owen thought it might be a possum; the next time he was up at the farm, he would grab a rifle. She had leapt out of bed when she first heard it, and it took twenty minutes before her breathing returned to normal.

  Owen had suggested they get a Karitane nurse to come and live with them — he was sure his parents would pay the bill — but Klara didn’t like the idea of another woman in her house. Instead she went to see Mrs Pringle, the Plunket nurse, a gentle woman who had advice. ‘Oh no, formula is much better for Baby. He’ll grow faster into a bonny prince. He’ll sleep longer too. You mustn’t give in to his cries, or he’ll become spoilt. Feed him every four hours.’

  Klara secretly defied her, breastfeeding Frank every hour some days. She found it comforting, this dense, warm presence kneading her still-soft body. Frank obliged by gaining enough weight to climb the lower-middle quartile of the chart. The Plunket nurse reluctantly accepted his progress, suggesting that Klara might be ready to meet some other ladies in the neighbourhood so that she didn’t feel so lonely. This made Klara burst into angry tears — how dare this stranger pinpoint her isolation?

  But it was true. At least when she was a child, Esther was there to talk to her, and however needling and bossy she might be, Esther understood. Owen left early in the morning, taking the tram to his gallery on Ghuznee Street, and sometimes he didn’t return until late. When she questioned him about it, he told her that his business was new; he had to do all within his power to cultivate artists and collectors, and sometimes the best way about it was a bottle of red wine. Then he would look at her, vulnerable with hope and excitement, and say, ‘Oh Klara, if I can shift a couple of gloomy landscapes, I’ll be able to exhibit the new guard and it won’t matter that only a few paintings sell. The brush strokes I’m seeing, they’re so rough and yet they reveal what’s at the heart of things. They’re not polite, my artists. Not at all.’ He shook his head proudly, as if they were his sons. ‘You’re okay, aren’t you? You’re managing?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Klara, still wanting to please him, to not stand in his way, her only ally in this strange country. But the days were so long, with no one to talk to except Frankie, and although she was trying to give him a happy, honeysuckle-sweet childhood, she suspected that her loneliness tainted her milk.

  If only she could play her cello, but Frankie invariably cried halfway through a piece. She would have to put the instrument down and comfort him, feeling irritated by the interruption, her inability to finish anything, anything at all. Also she would hate herself for being unable to love him unconditionally; what was wrong with her? She had been a motherless child; she must cherish this time they had. She played while Frankie slept, but she could not crescendo; she had to absorb the swell inside her body. Sometimes she thought she might implode.

  The Plunket nurse finished making notes in Frankie’s baby book. ‘Some ladies in the neighbourhood meet each other for walks. Or they hold morning teas. Mrs Wills is due to host the next one on Thursday morning. Here, I’ll give you the address.’ And she scribbled it on the top of the page, above Baby progressing well. Smiles, coos.

  Klara got Frankie into his second outfit, his first stained with sick. She had numerous pale blue sweaters, jerseys, she must remember to call them, that had been knitted by Owen’s mother. Vera had been shocked that Klara couldn’t knit or sew very well. ‘I hope at least you can wash,’ she said.

  The washing was Klara’s bane, her hands chafed and swollen by it. All that scrubbing was softening her fingertips, making her strings bite into them, and her washing machine terrified her, thrashing about in the laundry like something possessed. She had been avoiding it, washing only the necessary nappies, and now the little white outfits were making damp mountains on the floor. Normally, when Frankie spilt, she wiped his front with a cloth, and the wool would be stiff, slightly sour-smelling by the end of the day.

  Klara tucked the soft woollen blanket around Frankie and pulled up the hood of the pushchair. It was still crisp, spring once more, and the light was bright, hurting his green eyes. She wished that they were brown, like hers, but she supposed it made his father pleased to see himself in his son. Sometimes she looked at Frankie and wondered whether they had even given her the right baby at the hospital: he seemed so different from her. She started pushing the pram down the hill, leaning back to provide a counterweight so that it didn’t fly out of her hands, hurtle off an embankment. Her high heels weren’t practical for this gradient, but she knew she had to dress appropriately, to put on a public face even if some days at home she didn’t change out of her dressing gown. She
was wearing her hat, her gloves, her brown wedding present suit, which still fitted at a pinch. She wondered whether Tante Dagmar’s eyes were still good for tailoring; she wasn’t much of a writer, and Esther, in hospital, hadn’t been able to visit. Esther’s letters were filled with gossip about her fellow patients and the relative strictness of nurses.

  Klara opened the latch of the gate to a two-storey house that was much more gracious than her own little bungalow. It looked English with its tiled roof, its arched brick entrance way, its bower of old-fashioned roses and neatly trimmed hedge. There were a couple of babies sleeping in their prams on the flat lawn, but Klara couldn’t leave Frankie in the cold. She didn’t agree with Owen’s mother, who believed it would strengthen his lungs. Who was to say he wouldn’t freeze to death? And what if a magpie swooped down to peck out his eyes?

  ‘Hello,’ said the auburn-haired woman at the door. ‘I’m Mrs Wills. You must be Mrs Quinn. Do come in, Nurse Pringle said you would call.’

  Klara followed Mrs Wills down a dark wood-panelled hall, hung with the sort of landscapes that paid Owen’s bills. She opened the door to a living room, a fire burning, and a tea trolley set with scones, cakes and biscuits. Three other women turned and smiled brightly at her.

  ‘This is Mrs Proctor — her Henry is in the garden with my Margaret.’ She pointed at a fleshy moon-faced woman with yellow hair. ‘Mrs Davies and her Patricia.’ The next woman was older and bespectacled. ‘And Mrs Stewart and her Andrew.’ Mrs Stewart was small, dark and brittle. ‘And this is Mrs Quinn with …’

  ‘Francis. I call him Frankie.’ Klara noticed the women’s faces change at the sound of her voice, as they always did. Her New York accent wasn’t being as easily overwritten as her German one.

  ‘Please, sit down. How do you take your tea?’ said Mrs Wills.

  ‘Black, no sugar,’ said Klara.

  ‘Oh, I’d already begun to pour milk. But of course, you people have your tea with lemon. You’re American, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Klara, because it was easier, because anything too European was problematic.

  ‘I would have said she was Irish,’ said Mrs Proctor. ‘Americans do sound Irish, don’t you think?’

  Klara snuggled Frankie into one arm, reaching for the tea with the other.

  ‘No, you mustn’t drink tea with the baby. Put him down. What if he reaches and grabs it? Such delicate skin,’ said Mrs Wills.

  ‘Oh,’ said Klara. ‘I never thought.’ She had been drinking tea at home because coffee was unavailable; there was only an insipid chicory-flavoured substitute. She drank while breastfeeding, all the time putting Frankie at risk. She had believed parenting to be instinctual, that once she gave birth, she would unplug a spring of baby-related knowledge, but it wasn’t the case. She couldn’t even remember the lullabies her mother had sung her. How she longed for her mother now, when she could have taught her such things.

  ‘Babies shouldn’t be handled very much anyway,’ said Mrs Davies. ‘Or else they become soft in the head.’

  Klara looked at her in horror. But there was nothing Frankie liked more than to be held. At home, she tied him to her front in a sling like she the ones she saw women in Chinatown use. Holding the back of Frankie’s head, she laid him on the rug next to Patricia. The little girl was gnawing on her fist, as if she were about to swallow it whole.

  ‘I was just showing the other women my new dress when you came,’ said Mrs Wills. She held it up against the light: a red velvet with a beaded bodice. ‘It’s just the thing for my Marsden Old Girls’ ball. It was sent to me by my school friend Judith, who has gone on to marry the Lord Mayor of London. She needs a new outfit every week and has to send her cast-offs to me because it wouldn’t do to wear the same dress more than twice. It’s lucky we’re the same size, although I haven’t quite regained my figure after Margaret.’ Mrs Wills didn’t look plump to Klara; in fact they looked a similar size.

  Frankie was crying, little limbs thumping the air around him, hitting the placid Patricia, who howled in surprise. Klara could feel her milk letting down; it had been two hours since he last fed. It was blooming at her nipples, running down her bra, first warm, then cooling. What should she do? Could she feed here, among these women?

  She would, preferring potential humiliation to the stress of the whine, which made her body hum a tone that might drive dogs crazy. Unbuttoning her jacket and blouse, she unhooked her bra, peeking her nipple out of the gaps between buttons. Frankie covered the offending flesh, but not quickly enough.

  ‘You’re still breastfeeding?’ said Mrs Proctor. ‘Gosh, I thought that formula was better for babies.’

  ‘Would you like this to cover you, dear?’ Mrs Wills handed Klara a muslin. ‘I’m still breastfeeding Margaret, only in the mornings and at nights, but she does take comfort from it.’

  ‘My mother breastfed me, and Frankie seems to like it.’ She squeezed his plump forearm in emphasis. As comforting as it was, something about that gesture always disturbed her, as if she were the gingerbread house witch, fattening Hansel up to eat, but shoved into an oven before she had a chance.

  ‘Did your mother move to New Zealand with you?’ asked Mrs Davies.

  ‘No, my mother didn’t come. She passed away.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. What about your father?’ asked Mrs Wills, nosily, hungrily, Klara thought. She fought the urge to tell her to shut up, to gather up Frankie and run out of this uncomfortable house, the muslin flapping behind her.

  ‘My father passed away too.’

  ‘During the war?’ persisted Mrs Wills.

  ‘Yes.’ She hoped she sounded firm enough to deflect prying. People in New Zealand were aware of the millions of Jews that died, but it was abstract, a fact unrelated to themselves. What they knew about was their own lost brothers, fathers and sons. They knew Italy, El Alamein, Dunkirk.

  Also, if she talked about it, she might cry. As if knowing her thoughts, Frankie bit down on her nipple. Stop. Honeysuckle, please.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without my mother,’ said Mrs Davies. ‘She’s such a help, even though she drives me crazy with all her advice. She looks after Patricia when I need to pop down to the butcher, or if I’m tired and need a nap. It’s so good for children to have their grandparents around. I feel sorry for the ones who don’t.’ She looked pleased with herself, as though she had been particularly careful.

  Klara felt the hot tears welling again, and cursed under her breath. It seemed she couldn’t staunch them, or the snot bubbling out of her nose. Frankie had fallen off her breast, and he was bellowing too, her nipple crying white tears which she hurriedly covered.

  ‘I am sorry to hear about your parents,’ Mrs Wills said, and her grey eyes seemed kind. ‘It must be so hard for you.’ Placing her arm gently on Klara’s shoulder, she offered her a handkerchief.

  The others acted as if nothing was happening, turning to each other to compare night wakings and when was a good time to introduce solids. Klara had to leave; this wasn’t working at all. She stood, buttoning her jacket, securing her hat, pulling her left glove back on. She wrapped Frankie tight, as if he were pancake filling.

  ‘Thank you for morning tea, it was delicious,’ she said, still unsure of New Zealand etiquette.

  But she must have said the right thing, since Mrs Wills smiled at her. ‘But you must come again. Nurse Pringle says you’re a cellist, is that true?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I’d love to hear you play, I adore music. I lined up for every Gilbert and Sullivan show as a girl, getting seats up in the gods for a ha’penny. I could hardly see, but I could hear, their voices filled the opera house.’

  Klara didn’t much care for shows, but maybe Mrs Wills hadn’t heard the real thing. ‘Come to visit me. How about next week? I’ll play for you.’

  ‘That would be lovely. I’ll fetch my diary so that we can arrange something.’

  And among Mrs Wills’s appointments, her hair setting
and her church flowers, her morning teas with other neighbourhood ladies, they found a date and time that accomodated their babies’ naps.

  Klara pushed the pram back up the hill, her brown pleated skirt bouncing behind her, the sharp sunlight sloughing off her sadness.

  CHAPTER 16

  New York, 2003

  Toby is ironing his shirt. The phoenixing web design company called back. They want him to come in again, to meet the third creative director.

  ‘This is so great. I’m so excited,’ I say.

  The iron breathes steam, obscuring his face. ‘They haven’t actually offered me the job yet, Beck. What if the other creative director hates me?’

  ‘He won’t hate you.’

  ‘It’s a she, actually. She only works three days a week because she has a baby.’

  ‘So if they do hypothetically offer you a job, will they be sponsoring your work visa?’

  ‘I think so. At the last meeting, they said they’d got heaps of H1B visas for all the foreigners they hired during the dot com bubble.’

  ‘You’ll be safe. No orange overalls for you. I’ll be in the detention camp alone, picking cotton and learning Spanish.’

  ‘We could always get married, Beck. Then you’d be legally entitled to stay here.’

  ‘Is that a proposal? Wow, that’s romantic.’

  ‘You could get your own social security number, buy a cellphone, get covered by my health insurance. It would just make things a lot easier.’

  ‘But don’t you want to get married for love?’

  ‘I do love you, Beck. I wouldn’t be thinking of accepting this dull corporate job otherwise.’

  ‘But the way you’re offering, it’s so, I don’t know, technical.’

  ‘You know me, I’m a computer geek. It just seems like a good algorithm to me. Okay, how about this?’ Toby kneels down and puts on his best Three Tenors voice. ‘Re-be-ccaaa, amore, marry me! Come, vieni a Vegas, we’ll find an Elvis impersonatore to marry us and we’ll make love till the sun comes up on a heart-shaped bed. Then I will dangle from an olive tree yelling Truth! Beauty!’