by Maris Morton
‘Schubert was a master of silences. There’s a feeling sometimes that his energy’s exhausted, and he has to rest before the next bit. You’ll feel a moment like this, too, when you come to the end of the Adagio. You’ll want to stop and regroup. But you mustn’t. You must jump straight into the Scherzo, with a Trio that harks back in tone to the Adagio, a contrast that’s really intense.’ He paused. ‘Then there’s the last movement, dancing helter-skelter from one key to another. When you come to that final note, it’s like a knife going in, and suddenly you understand that the dance that has seemed so light-hearted has, in reality, been the dance of death.’ He looked gravely at each of them.
‘When you’ve finished playing it, I expect you’ll find, as most players do, that you deeply and passionately don’t want to play anything else; not right now, not for a long time.’
Clio smiled as she played this scene in her head. Tallis’ face was so real that she could almost touch him. The music — ah, the music! — had been just as wonderful as he’d said. Unexpectedly, the five of them had fallen into accord about their reading of it quite easily, even though the combination, with the extra cello, had been a new sound for them.
Tallis was quite right about the sunshine and shadows. The version of the quintet that she had on disc brought this out very clearly, although she might have preferred to hear the Adagio played a little more slowly.
Now, of course, it was the shadows she heard; back then, when they were all young, it had been the sunshine.
She had become an expert on shadows. Pleasure came only in fleeting moments: looking at her garden and smelling the flowers; eating something Mary had made for her; listening to Mary while she moved around the house, played the piano, looked after everything … Was this the kind of thing Schubert experienced, she wondered, that made it possible for him to create that sunny music, even when things were black? Did he experience kindness — love, even — that lit the shadows and chased away the clouds?
Clio became aware that Mary was in the room with her. Time. She made an effort to focus, to brush aside the fog, and try to grasp the passage of time. There was something important she needed to think about. Something dark, that made her afraid.
MARY WAS WIELDING a dry mop across the polished floor, moving quietly, trying not to disturb Clio. With Clio staying in her room this weekend, there’d been no opportunity to clean in here, and she’d noticed some dusty footprints — her own, no doubt — marking the shining boards.
‘Oh, Mary,’ she heard Clio murmur.
‘You’re awake? Can I get you anything?’
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Saturday. Paul and Martin are at the pistol club.’
‘Mm. Good, they’ll be staying for a barbecue.’
‘I was wondering what you’d like to eat, if anything?’
‘Are there any prawns left?’
‘Sorry.’
Clio sighed. ‘Mary, could you get me that little gold diary?’ Mary went to fetch it. Clio levered herself up higher against the pillows and opened the book, steadying it in her left hand while she flicked the pages over with her right. ‘What day is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Mary said, surprised that Clio had forgotten.
A frown briefly creased Clio’s brow. ‘Yes, but which Saturday?’
Mary had to think; she was losing track, herself. ‘It must be the ninth. Next Saturday will be the wedding day.’
‘As soon as that?’
‘Yes. The sixteenth.’
Clio found the right page and extracted the tiny pencil from the book’s spine and was writing, laboriously, the book pressed flat against her raised knee.
‘And I’ll be leaving as soon as I can after Paul gets back from the wedding.’ Clio looked up with an expression like horror, and Mary tried to soften the news. ‘Probably the week after, if he goes to Perth the way he usually does.’ But Clio’s face had paled so that it was even whiter than usual, and her lips had folded in a grim line. ‘I’m sorry, Clio, but I can’t …’
‘No, you must go. It’s just that … that I tend to forget.’
‘I’m sorry, Clio.’
She was still writing, frowning with the effort. ‘So, when did you say Paul and Martin are flying up?’
‘Tuesday.’ Mary was relieved that Clio had moved on. ‘So we’ll be on our own after that for’ — she calculated — ‘about a week, I suppose. I’ll dream up some delicious treats for us.’ Clio was concentrating on what she was writing. ‘I can bring the chair out from Ellen’s room for you. It seems ages since you sat in the kitchen.’ She could hear herself chattering and stopped. Clio shut the little book and laid it carefully on the bedside cabinet beside the CD player.
‘Is there anything I can get you, Clio?’
‘Not now, Mary. Thank you.’
IT WAS ALMOST DARK before Mary heard the vehicle bringing Paul and Martin back from the pistol club. When they came in, the procedure was exactly the same as it was on a normal weekday: silence from both men, padding up the passage in their socks to their rooms, the gurgle of water in the stove’s heating jacket, and after the best part of an hour, their re-emergence in clean clothes, drinking cans of beer from the fridge in the front room.
‘How did you go?’ Mary asked, hoping for good news; she didn’t need any more gloom from the Hazlitt family. Paul merely grunted and settled at his place at the table. Martin said ‘Okay,’ but didn’t elaborate. Mary dished up beef sausages and potatoes baked in a garlic, cream and cheese sauce, accompanied by Garth’s peas. It smelt delicious, and she was looking forward to her own meal.
Mary waited until the men were finishing before bringing up what she knew would be a difficult subject. ‘Paul, we need to discuss the end of my stay here.’ He didn’t look up but merely nodded while he continued spreading jam on a slice of bread. She pressed on, talking into his silence. ‘I don’t think Mrs Hazlitt ought to be left here on her own. I could stay until you come back after the wedding.’
He stared at her with cold eyes. ‘Why does she need you to run around after her? What the fuck’s the matter with the woman?’
Mary flinched. How could she explain, when it was clear he didn’t want to hear? ‘She’s not getting any better, Paul. She’s weaker every day.’
He turned his attention back to his bread and jam, and his mouth was set in a sneer. She could see out of the corner of her eye that Martin was bracing himself for trouble. At last, Paul looked up at Mary again. ‘Do what you like, but I’m not paying you for any extra time. I’ll pay you up to the wedding but not a day longer.’
The words were bad enough, but his tone shocked her. ‘Fair enough,’ she said, holding his eyes with an effort. ‘The other matter is how I’m going to get back to Perth. I was wondering whether you’d be flying up while Martin’s away on his honeymoon? If you’ve got an empty seat, would it be possible to get a ride with you?’
He kept her waiting while he buttered and spread another slice of bread, methodically cut it into squares, and conveyed the first of them to his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Mary. I’ll have to think about that.’ He gave her the benefit of his smile, but it was without any vestige of warmth.
Mary set about cleaning up. She wouldn’t get any more out of Paul tonight.
As soon as her back was turned, Paul spoke to his son, his voice at normal pitch as if Mary was no longer in the room. ‘I’ve had about all I’m going to take from that bloody woman. What the fuck does she think she’s playing at!’
‘She’s really crook, Dad,’ Martin said quietly.
‘How the hell would you know? She hasn’t poked her nose out of that bloody room since she’s been back.’
‘I went and saw her.’
Curious, Mary turned to watch this exchange. Paul was regarding his son with deep displeasure.
Martin had visibly braced himself. ‘She asked me to come.’
‘Oh yes? And what was that all about?’
‘We talked abou
t Alyssa … but she looked dreadful, Dad. About a thousand years old. I got a shock.’
Paul was staring into his son’s face as if trying to assess his credibility. Then he addressed Mary. ‘You! I suppose you’ve been running around after her, holding her bloody hand!’
‘Yes, of course. That was part of the job, wasn’t it?
‘Do you think she’s sick? Or is she swinging the lead?’
‘No, I think she’s really very ill.’ She could see that he didn’t want to hear this, and elaborated. ‘There’s no way she’ll be well enough to travel for Martin’s wedding.’
Paul took this on board in silence. He finished eating the last of his bread and jam, swallowed his tea and got up from the table. ‘Just as well,’ was all he said, and without his customary nod to Mary he headed to the front room where the television was playing.
Martin stayed at the table fiddling with the crumbs on his plate. Mary came over to clear away Paul’s dishes and smiled at him. It was an effort, after Paul’s rudeness, but Martin was looking thoroughly uncomfortable and she felt sorry for him. ‘How did your shooting go?’ she asked him.
‘Not that well. There’s a crowd from Albany and Perth clubs, and they’re pretty hot. Still, it’s good fun.’
‘Well, better luck tomorrow,’ she said.
31
CLIO’S LONG NIGHT WAS TROUBLED BY DREAMS. At some point, she got up and went into her bathroom to swallow another painkiller. On the way back to bed, she paused at the french doors and pushed aside the curtains. It was cold out there. She opened the doors and stepped out onto the chilly tiles. The scent of the wisteria was transmuted by the alchemy of night into something sharper, cleaner … There was moonlight out there, and a vast silence, and the smell of the earth. She’d miss it. She’d miss all of it.
Once she was back in bed, and her feet were thawing out under the duvet, she ran through the dreams that she could remember, dreams that were curiously mixed up with what passed for reality these days. In some ways, this slipping from one dimension to another was rather pleasant, giving her a luxurious feeling of irresponsibility. With Mary there to look after her, she didn’t need to cope.
In one of the dreams she was playing her viola — miraculously intact, which was how she knew it must be a dream — the notes flowing out without any thought or plan, as if they’d been in there forever, simply waiting for her to let them out. Somehow the rich tone of the viola had been mingled with the clear sound of a soprano voice, singing like a descant, as light and pure as the song of a bird, and the two strands of melody had woven around each other without effort, in perfect harmony. A lovely dream, and one she’d experience again, if only she could.
Some of the dreams had been less pleasant. One had been a surreal montage of images: the cluttered office where the specialist had confirmed the sentence, with the fluorescent light glinting on the lenses of his glasses, making him look like an alien; the shiny machines; the drips in her hands; the drains in her chest that were so repulsive, and so painful. Not that she hadn’t known what they’d say; she’d been able to feel it, in the substance of her body, the army of foreign cells taking over. She’d endured as much of the radiation and chemo as she could, knowing it was pointless. That had been when she’d made the decision to come home. And found Mary here, cleaning the carpet in the passage, and she’d wondered who on earth this woman was, some bimbo of Paul’s, was her first thought, that he’d had the nerve to bring into her house.
No, it was bad enough that those memories sneaked back in her dreams; she had no wish to visit them voluntarily.
The painkiller started to work, and she felt the beginning of the euphoria that the cessation of pain brought. She climbed out of bed again and made her way to the door to switch on the overhead light. Nobody would notice the spill of light on the verandah outside. She opened the wardrobe doors, ruffling through her clothes. It had been such a long time since she’d worn any of these things that they seemed unfamiliar, as if a stranger had taken over the space.
Her hand found the base of the drawer, and she pushed her fingers into the far corners. Yes, there it was, just where she’d remembered: Steve’s Webley, inside a pink silk scarf, with the little box of ammunition. She could remember Lyla, her kind old face creased with embarrassment, handing it to her. Steve had died, and Lyla was leaving Downe to go and live with her daughter. The gun had been wrapped in an oily piece of hessian.
‘This is for you, Missus,’ Lyla had said. ‘Steve wanted you to have it. It’s no use to me. Ain’t nothing to shoot where I am now.’
Clio rattled the box of ammunition and opened it: there were only half-a-dozen brass-cased bullets remaining, but that was more than enough.
AFTER A LATE BREAKFAST, Paul and Martin left for the final day’s competition. Mary offered up a silent prayer that Paul would be more successful and come home in a mellow mood, ready to negotiate.
Clio was still deeply asleep, her hair in a dark tangle over the pillow. The overhead light had been left on; Clio must have stayed awake till late. Mary clicked it off and walked quietly across the room to draw back the curtains and open the french doors.
There was nothing she needed to do until Clio woke up. Since she had no idea when that might be, Mary was reluctant to go far from the house. Instead, she went out to her sleepout and sorted through her clothes: she’d do a load of washing, and that would occupy a small part of the morning.
After she’d hung out her washing, Mary went in again to check on Clio, but she was still sleeping. To fill in more time, Mary made up a batch of crêpe batter and left it to stand while she tried to think of a delicious filling for the crêpes. When Clio woke up, she might want something to eat, and Mary certainly would.
CLIO CLIMBED GRADUALLY out of her long sleep, slipping back into the dreams and then hauling herself out again, each step bringing her closer to full consciousness. When she was finally awake, the pain was savage, and she lay without moving, gathering the will to get another tablet. She could use the orange juice Mary had left to wash it down.
She managed to reach for the glass; the tang of the juice was like a shot in the arm. She drained it and lay back, fully awake at last, and waited for the narcotic to send the pain back to that dark cavern where she imagined it lurked when it wasn’t sinking its teeth into her poor flesh. While she waited, she searched back through the memory traces of the dreams. Some of them had seemed familiar, but one had felt new, and she groped through the fragments to piece it together.
There had been music. She tried to identify it … it had sounded like Puccini, but which opera? Then, above the rich orchestral sounds, the soprano voice had started.
Remembering that moment of the dream, Clio felt her blood run cold: it was Madame Butterfly’s final aria.
Nobody but Puccini could convey such a sense of doom. Now she knew why her face had been wet with tears when she’d first woken up, her heart in a flutter of panic and hopelessness. The dream had been so vivid.
An image of Richard’s young face came into her head. ‘But it’s just notes of music,’ he said, his tone dogmatic. ‘It’s nothing but pure mathematics.’ But even Richard couldn’t fail to be moved by a Puccini opera.
Within the mists of the dream, she’d glimpsed the figure of the singer in her formal kimono: the soprano whose lament had so moved her hadn’t been some nineteenth-century geisha, but a modern girl, with Alyssa’s slim figure and glowing red hair.
Alyssa. Alyssa, who loved music as she did. Clio drew a deep breath, her hands clenched on the turned-down sheet.
Alyssa must not lose her music, as she had lost hers.
WHEN MARY WENT IN, Clio was staring out through the french doors as if her thoughts were miles away. She was pale, the translucence of her skin revealing the shadows beneath. ‘Can I get you anything, Clio?’
Slowly, Clio came back from wherever she’d been. ‘Could you find me some paper? I thought I had a notepad in here, but …’ She shook her head. ‘And a pe
n.’
‘I can do that,’ Mary said. She’d have a look in the office, or there might be something in Ellen’s room. ‘And would you like some lunch? I’ve made some crêpes, with asparagus and ham.’
‘A tiny amount, yes. Thank you, Mary.’
Mary straightened the bedclothes. ‘If you feel like getting out of bed, I’ll give it a shake-up.’
Clio was drifting away again. ‘Mm? No, don’t bother.’
There was nothing but copy paper in the office, so Mary went hunting in Ellen’s room and at last found a pad of bond paper under Ellen’s diaries.
When she took the meal in, Clio was looking more alert and started eating with what was, for her, a good appetite.
After Mary had finished her own meal, she went back for Clio’s dishes. Clio’s plate was empty and she was listening to music, her eyes closed. ‘That was very nice, Mary.’ Clio seemed more relaxed. Maybe it was the music.
‘Clio, will you be okay if I go out for an hour? Gayleen wants us to go for a bike ride before she goes back to school tomorrow, and it’s a beautiful day for it.’
She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, all right. You should get out while you can, before Paul gets back. What sort of mood was he in last night?’
Mary paused, remembering Paul’s bad temper. ‘He wasn’t happy.’
‘You don’t have to spell it out, Mary. Let’s just hope he has a better day today.’ She looked vaguely around.
‘What do you want?’
‘The gold diary …’
Mary found it on the bedside table.
Clio took the little book and flicked through the pages. ‘When did you say the wedding is?’
‘Next Saturday, the sixteenth.’