by Maris Morton
Those years were magic. The days were never long enough for all the study and practice she longed to do. She was living and breathing music, no longer limited to just two lessons a week and only as much solitary practice as she could fit in with school work. Now, the viola was no longer just an extension of her body but an integral part of it, of her, of her soul. With the viola, she could at last hear her own voice. A darker voice, they said, than the violin or cello, and that was fine, because she was a dark woman.
Then Tallis had come, and she’d fallen in love all over again.
Tallis Elkins was a professional violist with an international reputation, and she was lucky enough to have him as one of her teachers.
Tallis was tall — taller than she was — and fair and angular, and rather plain until he played, when he seemed to take flight, fuelled by the music, his body possessed by the sounds he was making. She’d listened, entranced, as he’d coaxed tones from his instrument that she’d never imagined.
Up till then, Clio’s ambition had reached no further than a place in one of the local orchestras, but in his first term Tallis formed a string quartet, with a changing group of senior students, and thus opened a door into the lavish sounds of the baroque composers, and Mozart and Schubert. He called the group the Tartini Quartet and set about creating a repertoire that would stretch them all. For Clio, it was the challenge to reach for a standard she’d scarcely believed possible, but the pleasure of making music on this intimate scale was compelling.
To spread the lessons among as many of the students as possible, Tallis often sat back and gave the viola part to one of them. He taught them Mozart’s string quintets, with two violas, and the wonderful Schubert C-major quintet that had two cellos but only one viola to take the middle road and hold the rest together. There was so much to learn, all of it full of wonder and delight.
The experience of playing in the group had been a revelation, too: a closeness that was like love between the four or five of them that made it possible to anticipate each other’s moves, cover up one another’s mistakes, all without missing a beat. It was an abstract love, though, belonging only to the making of the music.
Whether he was playing or just overseeing, Tallis was their leader. His interpretation of the music seemed intuitive and flawless, his mastery of them all complete.
Lying there, so long afterwards, Clio was overcome by a feeling of loss so devastating that her body tightened with a spasm and she rolled over in bed, ignoring the pain in her side, and buried her face in the pillow, letting its softness absorb the sound of her weeping.
12
ON MONDAY MORNING, THE RAIN WAS STILL FALLING. Paul and Martin arrived back in time for dinner. Mary gathered up the clothes they’d worn in Perth and washed them, festooning the kitchen with them afterwards. She could see Paul didn’t like the kitchen looking like a Chinese laundry, but this rain could last for weeks; if she waited for it to clear, nothing would ever get dry. If Paul didn’t like it, he could invest in a tumble dryer.
The rain did persist through the week, but it didn’t keep Paul from his midweek golf.
‘A bit of rain never hurt anybody,’ he said.
‘And it doesn’t rain at the nineteenth hole,’ Martin added.
With Paul gone, Mary hoped to get a conversation going with Martin. She’d forgiven him for his lack of manners on her first day, putting it down to his youth, while conceding that his redemption might have something to do with his healthy appetite for her cooking. Today she’d made a steak-and-vegetable pie that she knew he’d like, and he was waiting at his place while she served it.
‘Why don’t you have yours now?’ he said.
‘Your father’s never asked me.’
‘Well, he’s not here, and I’m asking you. I hate eating by myself.’
Mary dished up her own portion and sat down opposite him. ‘Is your fiancée a good cook? I’ve forgotten her name.’
‘Alyssa.’ Martin flushed. ‘Her name’s Alyssa. Isn’t that a great name?’
‘Yes, it’s lovely.’ Alice, she mused; sweet alyssum. ‘But can she cook?’
Martin was silent for a moment then gave her a rueful grin. ‘Damned if I know. She can make toast all right, and coffee. We always go out or get takeaway.’
‘Do you stay with Alyssa when you go up to Perth?’
‘Dad’s got a unit in Crawley. She comes and stays with me there.’
‘She must get on well with your father, then.’ Mary tested the quality of the pastry crust and judged it acceptable. ‘Just as well, if she’s going to be living here when you’re married.’
‘We don’t see much of Dad. He drops me off at the unit then picks me up on the Monday morning. He stays with —’ Martin looked slightly embarrassed, then went on. ‘Dad stays with friends. Can I have more pie?’
‘Sure, help yourself. So, what do you and Alyssa get up to in Perth?’
Martin thought while he cut another slice of pie and slid it onto his plate. ‘We go out with guys I know from boarding school. Watch a rugby game on the Saturday. Sometimes we go to a show — sorry, performance — at the Academy, some of Alyssa’s mates.’ He made a face. ‘A bit arty-farty, some of them. I never know what they’re on about.’ He took a bite of pie. ‘See a movie. Go out for a meal. You know.’
‘A bit like married life, in fact.’
Martin grinned. ‘I suppose.’
Mary finished her pie, considered taking another slice and decided against it. ‘Then if Alyssa doesn’t cook, who’s going to feed you after you’re married? I take it you’ll be living here?’
Martin’s face showed momentary confusion, as if this was a new idea; then he brightened. ‘Mum’ll be better by then, won’t she? She’s a great cook. She can teach Alyssa.’
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your mother’s a long way from being well yet.’
There was the first hint of anxiety on Martin’s handsome face. ‘She’ll be okay by then, though.’ He read the doubt in Mary’s expression. ‘Won’t she?’
‘I don’t know, Martin. But I think you ought to be making alternative plans in case she’s not.’
Martin frowned down at his plate, then his face cleared. ‘You could stay!’
She’d been expecting this. ‘No, Martin. I can’t.’
‘Please?’ Martin was using his charm. Mary hated it when a man tried so obviously to manipulate her.
‘No, I’m committed to another job. They need me, too.’
‘But you could get out of that, couldn’t you?’ He was giving her his best, most confident smile. ‘You’re a terrific cook!’
‘I couldn’t do that, Martin. You’d better give some thought to Plan B.’
THE RAIN PERSISTED till Friday, when Paul and Martin flew off into the teeth of the wind. All afternoon, flurries of sleet spattered against the kitchen window and slid down the glass, and when she went to collect the grocery order from Gloria, Mary learnt that more snow had fallen on the Stirlings.
During Sunday night the bad weather vanished as if it had never been, and at 7.00 a.m. on Monday shearing began. Unfamiliar vehicles had been passing the house since first light, and the sounds of sheep and dogs formed an accompaniment as Mary worked. The sun was shining, and the breeze carried the scents of grass, wet earth and sheep.
When Garth arrived at the door just before nine to collect the mound of toasted ham sandwiches she had ready, Mary asked if she could come to the shed with him.
‘Why not? Have to walk back, but.’
Mary climbed in beside him, nursing the platter of warm sandwiches on her lap. ‘I just want to have a look.’
The ute bumped past the peppercorn trees and the killing tree, heading for the big corrugated-iron sheds. One of the black cats skittered across the track, and a pair of willy-wagtails flirted their tails above the bright grass. Garth stopped the ute next to a building that was set high. The timbers supporting the slatted floor were draped with cobwebs; beneath them a crowd of sheep milled, their
yellow eyes peering anxiously from the shadows.
In the sunshine beside the shed were parked a dented blue Falcon, a couple of dusty Toyota utes, and an aged brown Corolla wearing a bent wire coathanger in place of a radio aerial. Mary could hear the sound of men’s voices and the buzz of machinery, the yapping of dogs and the brittle rattle of sheep feet on wooden slats.
Mary followed Garth up a flight of wooden steps into the shed. On a table just inside sat an urn, quietly steaming beside an array of mugs. A few mismatched chairs and stools cluttered the space. Garth pushed mugs aside to make room for the sandwiches.
Mary stared down the length of the shed. Sunlight streamed in through high windows, illuminating a fog of dust. There were no sheep this end, just a huge table, its top made of slats — or was it rollers? — and a big iron contraption painted green that must be the press. Cec was at the table, tearing pieces from a fleece, dropping the torn-off bits on the floor. A thin dark boy was sweeping the scraps into heaps. The place reeked of sweat and hot machinery.
One by one the shearers switched off their handpieces and effortfully straightened their backs before making their way over to where the tea things were set up. They filled their mugs, grabbed a stack of sandwiches and sat on a chair or stool, or just on the floor, backs against the wall.
‘Guys, this is Mary, our cook,’ Garth said, then introduced them with a wave of his hand. ‘Bluey, Cookie, Jacko, Young Dave and Lizard. You haven’t met Jamie, either. Cec you know, and Angus and me.’
‘Hi, Cookie.’ There were a few grins and waves.
‘That your missus, eh, Cookie?’ One of the men nudged his neighbour.
The other Cookie looked her up and down. He was an older man with grizzled iron-grey hair and big muscles showing through his navy singlet. ‘If only,’ he said, and the others laughed.
‘Mary’s never seen shearing before,’ Garth said.
‘No kidding?’
‘True?’
‘Never cooked for shearers neither, I betcha. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of us blokes.’
Mary smiled. ‘I expect you’ll tell me if I get it wrong.’
‘Damned right,’ said one.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said another.
The men concentrated on eating and drinking their tea. Angus and a couple of the others lit up cigarettes, and the ripe smell of smoke mixed with the stink of sheep. A few flies were zooming around, waved away from sweaty faces. One of the men took his handpiece apart and honed the blade. When all the eating and drinking was over, Mary picked up the empty platter and headed for the bright rectangle of the doorway.
‘Good sangers,’ one of the men called after her.
‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Soup, roast beef and veg, pudding. Okay?’
‘You little beauty!’
‘See you down there,’ Garth said.
Mary was using both stoves for the midday meal. A big piece of beef was roasting quietly in the oven with heaps of potatoes and parsnips and onions. She was cutting up cabbage when she sensed Clio’s presence. It would be an hour or so before the Piper was due back, but she was surprised all the same: on Monday mornings, Clio rarely came out of her room.
‘Clio, are you okay?’ The older woman was leaning in the doorway, her face in shadow, watching her.
‘I thought I’d see how you were getting on. I’ve missed you this weekend.’
‘Sorry. You know how it is. I’ve been trying to get as much as I can done ahead of time.’
Clio accepted this without argument but stayed there, watching.
Mary remembered a question that had occurred to her. ‘I was wondering, should I dish it all up or would they rather help themselves?’
‘Dish it up. You can put extra on the table for the hungry ones. Anything left over goes to Garth’s chickens.’
‘What would you like to eat?’ Mary wasn’t inclined to make anything special, not with ten men to feed.
‘What is there?’
‘Pumpkin soup, roast beef, vegies, steamed ginger pudding and custard.’
‘God, I wish I had an appetite. But … some soup, and a very small serving of meat and roast potatoes … Can I have some of the brown outside? And maybe a spoonful of cabbage. Then I could have some of the pudding later, for tea?’
Mary was glad that Clio was being so accommodating. ‘That sounds fair enough. I’ll bring it in before I feed the horde.’
They could hear the Piper approaching; Clio lost her smile and disappeared back into her room.
AT THREE MINUTES past twelve the men filed into the back verandah. Their bodies were varnished with dust and sweat, but they’d washed their hands, and a couple of them had run wet combs through their hair. They settled around the table in an order dictated by some tacit hierarchy, leaving a place at the head for Paul, and one at the foot for Martin, both of whom were changing into their farm clothes. When they came out to join the others, their cleanliness was a shocking contrast to the grime of the shearers, the quality of their clothes out of place among the jeans and singlets and ragged t-shirts around the table. As they sat down, the joking died, and there was a silence while Mary took around the bowls of soup.
They ate fast, and Mary didn’t pause before taking out each course. In no time at all, the men had gone. Mary looked at the clock: it had taken them twelve minutes to devour a three-course meal. The plates were clean, except for one man who evidently didn’t like parsnip. Commonsense told her that the shearers would rather have their tea and a smoke without the boss looming over them. In their place she would, too.
By the second day, she had a feel for the job and was less anxious about getting it right. It was a bonus that there were plenty of leftovers for tea.
Shearing was such an integral part of Australian folklore that it would be a pity to miss out on this opportunity to experience it at first hand, so after her contribution to the day’s work was done Mary wandered up to the shed to watch.
Angus was shutting a mob of sheep under the shed.
‘Hi, Angus. What are you up to?’
‘I’m penning. Making sure there’s enough to keep those blokes busy till knock-off time.’ Close up, the sheep were big, very woolly, and grey with dirt. ‘We put them under here to keep dry. Shearers won’t touch wet sheep.’ He took hold of her arm with his grubby paw and guided her around to the back of the shed. He wore his aura of sheep and tobacco and sweat like a garment. ‘See that ramp? They go up to the holding pens inside. When they’re done, they push ’em down the chute, see? A pen for each man.’
A couple of startled sheep came skidding down the wooden chutes and staggered to a stop, blinking, at the bottom. They were stark white, trickles of blood where they must have been nicked. Without their wool they were leggy as greyhounds.
‘The boss counts ’em out at the end of each run, keeps score of each man’s tally so he knows how much to pay him. Then I take ’em back to the paddock and get the next batch in. That what you wanted to know?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Angus. What about the ewes and rams?’
‘Ewes are ready to drop. We shear ’em before joining, around April. The rams? After the Show. They get shore twice a year, before joining and after the Show. Can’t have all that wool getting in the way of true love, can we?’ He leered at her, and for an instant Mary thought he was going to nudge her in the ribs; she stepped out of range.
Inside the shed it was even dustier than yesterday, and noisier and busier. Cec beckoned her over. ‘Always faster on the last run of the day,’ he said, a smile belying the lugubrious cast of his features. Garth came and tossed another fleece in front of him, using a deft motion that made the fleece unroll in mid-air and fall to the table flat, like a rug, clean-side up.
‘Tell me what you’re doing, Cec?’
He was tearing pieces of wool away from the edges of the fleece. ‘Skirting. Taking away the daggy bits. They get baled separately. I class the fleece. You know what that means?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘The wool’s baled in batches, like with like. Each bale’s marked with the grade of wool that’s inside. Different qualities fetch different prices.’
‘How many fleeces to a bale?’
‘About fifty of these. Our Merinos are on the small side. These ones’ — he waved in the general direction of the shearers and the sheep they were handling — ‘these aren’t our top wethers. You know what a wether is?’
‘A de-sexed ram.’
‘Right.’ He rolled up the fleece and tossed it into a half-full bale; Garth was on his way over with another bundle. ‘Our top wethers we do last. We keep them shedded.’ He nodded to his left. ‘Those two elevated sheds. We built them high so we could get the dingo in and keep the dung cleaned out. That goes back on the pasture.’
Cec couldn’t be talking about a wild dog. ‘The dingo?’
Cec grinned. ‘Handy little machine for shovelling sheep dung. Bit like a bobcat, only smaller.’
‘Thanks, Cec.’ Mary had learnt enough for one visit, and the smells and choking dust were getting to her.
Outside, the sun was shining, a crisp breeze blowing. Small clouds were skidding playfully across the sky and the willy-wagtails were still at their courtship games.
On her way back to the house, Mary was aware of the scent of flowers, sharp and clean after the stench of the shed. The jonquils must be out. She’d been so busy these past few days she hadn’t noticed.
When she offered to pick some for Clio’s room, Clio shook her head. ‘They’re too strong for inside,’ she said. Then, after a pause: ‘There’s a patch of violets around the other side … if they’re still there. A few violets would be lovely.’
CLIO DIDN’T START the music again straight away. She was surprised to hear that the jonquils were blooming so soon. When she’d gone up to Perth, the autumn had barely begun, with neither the apples nor the pears anywhere near ripe enough to pick. It hadn’t seemed all that long ago. God! At this rate, the wedding would be upon them in no time.
It was an uncomfortable thought. She could find no way of imagining what life would be like with Alyssa living here. Assuming that’s what they were planning. Come to that, it was a struggle to imagine what life would be like without Mary. Was there any chance that Alyssa could take Mary’s place? It seemed unlikely.