by Pene Henson
The owner lives below and has taken over a room upstairs, leaving a living-dining-kitchen with a sink and stove top, a room about the size of a large wardrobe that will fit a bed, and a bathroom. The owner has a huge dog, an Irish wolfhound-Doberman mix with a bit of border collie. The dog takes to Claudie. Claudie takes to the tiny place.
She doesn’t need a removal truck to move in. She barely owns anything. She buys a decent futon, a small sofa, and a new fridge, and has them all delivered. She hangs her guitars on the wall.
The bedroom and living room are divided by a large arch. At night, through the windows or standing on the fire escape, she can see the few stars that are visible in the city. Orion’s there, of course. Even in the city it’s huge and bright, the one constellation Lien recognized when they stood together on Claudie’s deck.
It’s early evening by the time she’s all moved in. Claudie eats pizza perched on a stool at the tiny kitchen bench. The traffic noise isn’t friendly the way the wind and burbling creek were up north, but there are voices from the back of the house next door, and someone’s playing Kylie Minogue’s early tracks. Humanity is close by, for better and for worse.
She hasn’t told any of the band kids that she’s back in town. She hasn’t told anyone at all apart from her parents. Claudie eyes her phone where she left it on the sofa. It’s time to call Mercy.
The phone rings and rings and goes to voicemail. Obviously Claudie should have called earlier. She should have called when she decided to move, on the trip down, in the weeks it’s taken to arrange everything since she got here.
She stands to wash her plate and glass. Her phone rings. Mercy’s name runs across the screen.
“Hello.”
“Claudie?” Mercy’s American accent is familiar. It’s been too long since Claudie’s heard it.
“Hi, Merce.” She takes a long breath.
“How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m—” Claudie pauses. “How are you?”
“Are you back in Sydney?” Mercy asks. And it’s like the old days—she always knew. Lou and Claudie told one another everything—well, almost everything—but Mercy knew what was going on without ever asking.
“Yeah. I am. I know it’s been a long time. I’m sorry.”
Mercy says, “You still don’t need to apologize, Claudia.” Her voice is soft with sympathy.
The phone line is silent. “Can we meet?” Claudie asks.
“Of course,” says Mercy. She doesn’t hesitate, but her tone is wary as she goes on. “You want to meet up at a café? Or you could come to mine? We could pull out some instruments if you want.”
“I’d love that,” Claudie says. Her stomach is tight with nerves.
It’s afternoon and warm. Claudie’s sweating. She holds her guitar and bag in one hand and rings the bell at Mercy’s house.
Mercy opens the door. “Hey.”
Mercy never changes much. Her smile is soft; her eyes are large behind her glasses and bright against her dark brown skin. Her curly hair is tied in a topknot at the crown of her head. She’s wearing olive green. She probably wore the same shirt the last time Claudie saw her.
“Hey. God, it’s good to see you.”
“You too.” Mercy’s smile widens. “Come in. Mary’s not here; she’s teaching a late class.” It’s good to hear Mary’s still around. She and Mercy have been dating since years before the band split up.
Mercy’s place has a music room out the back. Claudie follows Mercy down the narrow hall. A fat orange cat walks with them.
“It’s damp so I don’t keep much in here. But it’s soundproof,” Mercy says. She uncovers a solid looking keyboard.
It’s uncomfortable at first, sitting together after so long without really knowing what to say. Mercy’s never talked much about herself without prompting and Claudie hates the thought of asking things she should know about one of her closest friends, things such as how everything has been in the past three years.
“Are you working on anything?” she asks instead.
Mercy turns on the keyboard. The cat leaps to the windowsill and stretches out there. “Sure. Just some stuff for me, really. I don’t play out in the wild at the moment.” She smiles crookedly.
“Can I hear it?”
Mercy hesitates. “You can play with me, if you like.” She nods at the guitar in Claudie’s hand. “You didn’t bring that along to look at, did you?”
Claudie huffs out a laugh. “No. Of course not. But you should start.”
It’s been a long time since Claudie played with someone else, but this is Mercy. They were in a band together for years. Claudie will always know how she plays. Mercy warms up with a couple of arpeggios, then plays. Her music has more layers than it did before. Claudie can tell it’s written for solo work.
“Okay,” Mercy says, too soon for Claudie’s liking. “You need to join in. I’m not suited to solos.” She shifts her glasses.
“Okay.” The trouble is, Claudie’s stagnated. She’s spent the past three years playing to herself and then the past two months playing covers in a tiny local pub.
“Go on,” Mercy says.
“I haven’t played much in a long while.”
“You’re not going to disappoint me, Claudie. Things are quiet for me too.”
“Why?” Claudie asks the question she hopes people won’t ask her.
Mercy looks at her directly. “I don’t know. I never found a fit. Not a lot of bands are looking for the kind of loops and electronic work I do. And I never had confidence in my solo efforts. They don’t quite work.” She doesn’t sound as though she’s accusing Claudie, but Claudie feels as though she’s wronged her anyway.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey. It’s my job to find myself a creative outlet. And you’re here now. It’s time to hit me with something.”
Claudie pulls over a sheet of music paper and scrawls some chords. She slides it to Mercy. “And you can put some Mercy loops and stuff in here. See?”
Mercy nods.
They start roughly but it comes together for a time, then dies as Mercy adds a new loop and misses the repeat. They try again. It comes together.
“I like this,” Mercy says. She waves her hand at a section. “Do you have any lyrics?”
Claudie nods and adds a vocal.
Between songs they talk about where Claudie’s living and Mercy’s job in accounting. They don’t talk about starting the band again.
“I miss her,” Mercy says, out of the blue.
“Me too.” She hasn’t talked about Louisa in three years, but missing her is huge in Claudie’s head and tangled with anger and about a million other things she can’t say. “I didn’t think I’d still miss her.”
“Yeah. I doubt it’ll ever go. Especially when we’re playing.”
“So,” Mercy says as they pack up hours later. “Here’s the thing. They’ve got an open mic at the Corner every Wednesday night. Usually you need to sign up weeks in advance, but one of the performers dropped out and suggested I could fill in. Next week. Maybe we could do it together.”
After she drops the guitar at home, Claudie walks to the grocery store. It’s open late. She buys too much to fit everything in her backpack, so has to take two carry bags. Outside, the sky is gray and the evening is cooling. The handles on the plastic bags dig into her hands as she walks.
She tends to walk through the curving backstreets rather than going the slightly shorter but infinitely more crowded distance along Oxford Street. The route is even longer carrying the groceries.
She opens the building door and lugs the bags upstairs. She unpacks in the kitchen. The room fills with the scent of ginger and lemongrass. It was impossible to resist, even though it takes her straight back to that day with Lien.
It would be weird to call Beau now. It would be weirder to do noth
ing. She holds her breath as she sends a text.
Hi Beau, this is Claudie the park ranger from up north. I’ve moved back to Sydney and wanted to pass on my thanks to Lien for the CDs she sent up. Thanks.
Claudie’s cooking when she receives a text from a different number.
Hey. I’m so glad you got the CDs and hope the move to Sydney went smoothly. Cheers! L
Then a second later her phone buzzes again.
Let me know if you want to meet up.
Claudie does want to meet up but she’s not at all sure what to suggest.
I’m playing at an open mic next Wednesday.
Lien’s response doesn’t settle Claudie’s nerves.
The one at the Corner? Sounds good. Might see you there.
Claudie squares her shoulders as they head into the Corner Café. Her lungs feel tight. The place isn’t a café at all. It looks like a hole-in-the-wall bar from the outside, but it opens up into a back room and performance space. It’s designed for casual shows and is the kind of room where Claudie has always been at home. Claudie and Mercy find a table in a corner. They can’t see much of the room except one corner's wallpapered walls and mismatched chairs. Claudie keeps an eye out for Lien but it doesn’t look as if she’s here.
It’s almost eleven by the time Claudie and Mercy get up to play. While Mercy plugs in her array of pedals, Claudie scans the room from the tiny stage, which is set inches above the floor. The open mic is popular; the little room is full. People sit around tables, and others lean against the bar or the wall. Claudie’s heart seizes. Lien.
This time it’s an actual, real-life Lien. She’s leaning into a conversation, there at a round table, among friends. Her shining hair swings forward and catches the low light. Lien lifts her gaze and sees Claudie. Her eyes open wide. Then she smiles, and Claudie forgets what she’s about to play.
Mercy starts with a winding melody. Claudie shakes herself. She lets her fingers find the strings and press down, taking the weight of the chord. She plays by muscle memory alone. As soon as she hits the verse, the words will come. The songs go well. She only meets Lien’s gaze between fifteen and three hundred times.
Afterwards the next band moves around Claudie, setting up their stuff and blocking her view of the tables.
“Great show!” says a kid with a scraggly beard.
“Thanks.”
“You used to be with that band, yeah?”
He doesn’t look old enough to remember. But sometimes she forgets it was only three -and-a-half years ago. It seems like a lifetime. “Grand Echo. I sure was.”
“You were my sister’s favorite local band ever. She’s not here anymore.”
“You mean?” Claudie frowns.
“London,” says the kid. He gives a gloomy sigh as if his sister’s lost to him forever.
“Damn. That’s rough.” It’s nice he misses his sister.
Claudie glances past his head. Lien’s friend, Beau, is standing. Annie too. Some of the others stand. The group is obviously leaving. Some women walk past. When they clear, Lien is still there. Claudie’s heart stutters. She looks back at the tiny stage. The next performer’s almost up.
“Least you have somewhere to stay,” Claudie says to the kid. “There are some top venues in London.”
“True,” he says. Someone calls out to him. “Good talk,” he says to Claudie and wanders off.
Claudie walks directly to Lien’s table. “Hey.”
Lien half stands. She’s wearing a short dress in blocks of color: blue and teal and yellow. Her hair is shorter than it was and is streaked with a greener blue. She looks adorable. As she stands, her chair scrapes the floor. She sits back down. “Hi,” she says. “Do you want to join me?”
Claudie does want to join her. She sits.
Lien says, “Hi. I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Yeah. Nor can I, most days.”
Lien takes her in. “So. You decided you’d move back.”
“I did, yeah.” Claudie’s tongue won’t move properly in her mouth. She toys with the seam of her jeans hen flattens her hands on the table top.
“Right.” Lien takes a mouthful of her beer. “How’s that working out?”
“Good. It’s nice to play with Mercy again.”
Lien goes on, mild and cheerful and infuriatingly unreadable. “You guys were fantastic up there. It was awesome when you started on ‘Suddenly.’”
Claudie grins. “I know. It was the perfect choice for that spot.” She pauses and Lien flicks her a glance. Claudie says, “I’m getting a beer. Can I get you one?”
Lien shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one who owes you a beer. What are you drinking?” While Lien’s at the bar Claudie tries to remember that she’s nothing to Lien. She’s the weird four-day-long cabin fling who took ages to get back in touch. Minus the cabin bit, Lien probably has heaps of those.
Lien slides the beer across the table. “Oh, hey, I have the best story for you,” she says. Someone yells, “Bye, Claudie!” from across the room. Claudie holds up a hand and barely looks away from Lien’s face. It’s as easy as it ever was between them. They talk about Claudie’s job and Lien’s newly dyed hair, about Claudie’s growing potted plant army on her fire escape and how Lien fixed a leaking tap in the kitchen.
Claudie only looks up to say goodbye to Mercy.
Once the pub’s cleared out a little, Lien says, “I heard about your friend, Louisa. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful for you.”
Claudie nods. She doesn’t say anything. She’s glad there’s a band on stage to keep them both diverted.
Eventually Claudie fades. She scrunches up her nose. “I’m working tomorrow,” she says. “And I’m tired. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
Lien blinks, surprised as though she’s just woken up. “It was good to see you.” She looks at the time on her phone. “Oh, gosh. You’re right, it’s late.”
“It was good to see you too,” says Claudie. She reaches across the table, intending to squeeze Lien’s hand. She stops herself.
Lien blurts, “I might get in touch now I’ve got your number. We could maybe hang out sometime. As… I mean, we could be friends.” She gives a half shrug.
“Yeah.” Claudie swallows. “I’d like that.” She can imagine that. She can do friends. With Lien it’s not simply that she’s gorgeous. It’s not simply chemistry. They always have so much to say.
“Can I help you get your gear out of here?” Lien asks.
Her tone is hopeful. Claudie wants to hug her. “It’s only my guitar,” she says. She smiles. “I can handle it.”
They walk out together. The traffic has eased. The streets are washed greenish by the light from the streetlights and gold from the open doors and windows of bars. They walk half way home before they go their separate ways.
15
It’s a few days before Lien gets up the nerve to contact Claudie, and even then it’s not about getting together as friends. It’s for a piece she’s writing.
There are a hundred good reasons to write an article about the lost talents of the Australian music industry. Lien’s not only writing because of Claudie, whatever Beau insinuates. It’s an interesting subject; it’s different from her usual material. If Lien takes her time with this, she’s sure she can get one of the serious music mags interested.
She works hard on the groundwork. She arranges to talk with a couple of solo artists who threw in the towel and a couple of bands that collapsed; she sets up meetings with a psychologist and a music history expert. She researches and plans.
But the fact that she hasn’t talked to Claudie, not even to tell her what she’s working on, sits heavily in her chest.
She doesn’t think too hard about the text to Claudie.
Can we meet up? I want to chat about something professionally.
&
nbsp; The response comes ten minutes later.
Sure. I’m working today. Tomorrow?
They meet at a narrow cafe with stools and tall, dark wooden tables. The place serves excellent coffee and tea, but nothing much else. Claudie orders a long black. She’s wearing a tight band T-shirt and acid-washed 80s jeans that she’s somehow making work. She seems to belong in Sydney, more than Lien thought possible. Lien spent weeks after the cabin convincing herself that Claudie would never be able to live in the city. So seeing her here, and comfortable with herself, is confusing.
“How are you?” Lien asks once they’re both sitting. She swings her legs back and forth under the stool.
Claudie manages a careful smile. “Good. Fine. Working, playing. I’ve been writing some music.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Claudie exhales. “You know, you were right. I didn’t like hearing it at the time, but I do need to be making music. I’m not myself without it. So I wanted to say thank you.” Lien imagines the admission costs Claudie something.
“Honestly, you’ve got nothing to thank me for. I said what I felt in the moment. I could have been more careful. And I sent those CDs because I wanted to hear you play again.”
Claudie’s expression is warm. “Well, looks like you’ll get your wish. You can’t stop me appreciating it.”
Lien shifts on her chair.
“So, is something up?” Claudie asks. “You seem on edge.”
“I have to ask you about something.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Lien sits back under Claudie’s cool gray scrutiny. “I hope you’re not angry.”
“I hope so too.” She’s not joking.
“So, I’ve been doing a bit of investigating and pulling together an article, something longer and hopefully more consequential than my usual work. I’m getting a sense of the music industry and how it kind of spits the most interesting people out sometimes. I want to write a long piece about musicians who left the big smoke or broke down and their bands folded.”