by Caro Soles
After a while I come out, look up the rest of the kings in our History of England and memorize them, saying them over and over, making it a song, giving it rhythm so that it stays in my head. As I do this, I sway back and forth in time to the musical accompaniment in my head. This is the way they used to memorize those long messages in the olden days, visualizing different rooms for each section, everything filed away to be unloosed with a symbol, a sign, a special motion of their body. I’m building my own memory palace, but so far I have only memorized things lasting about four pages, like “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.” But the Iliad? “The two Aiantes fell like twin pine trees, and they bit the dust, and their armor clang upon them,” I declaim. I only remember bits and pieces, colourful phrases that gleam in my brain like shiny pebbles catching the light.
I sit down at the big desk that Mother says has probably lived in this room for many years and wonder about all the other people who have used it. Mother says this house was built by an old Toronto family in Queen Victoria’s reign, just before she (Mother, that is) was born, which was in 1900. The house next door is now Ryan’s Art Gallery, but it was built by the Massey family, too. I guess they all loved each other and didn’t quarrel and blame each other for things turning out badly, the way Mother’s family does. Families are all different, Daddy says.
Seth strikes ten-thirty from his new home on the mantel. The clock is an original Seth Thomas mantel clock, one of the few things rescued from the big house out west where Mother and Daddy used to live before the Crash. They brought it with them as they drove all across the USA in the Model T Ford in the middle of the Great Depression, my brother in the back seat throwing his teddy out the window now and then and making them stop to pick it up. That’s one of the family stories I love to hear over and over. “Teddy gone,” he would say, and then Mother would pause and smile, and Jonathan would sigh, and I would laugh and laugh, picturing my serious brother as a chubby baby doing naughty things.
I get out the duster and the lemon oil and clean the table and chairs, remembering to do the rungs. Always do the rungs first, Mother says, even if you don’t have time for much else. People notice these things. I wonder why. I polish the desk and all the little carved things on the drawers. The whole room smells the way it does when Mother cleans. Outside the door, I hear Mrs. O’Malley. She is cleaning, too, pushing her mop about the hardwood floor that shows on either side of the carpet, running the carpet sweeper, humming tunelessly under her breath. Sometimes she ties a rag around the mop and attacks the cobwebs hanging from the corners of the ceiling. I watch her through a crack in the door. I wonder if Baggy Bones is watching, too. I don’t like the idea that we might be doing the same thing, so I stop watching.
I sit down at the piano to practise. I’m supposed to do at least half an hour every day, but it hardly seems worthwhile since I don’t have a music teacher anymore. All the music money goes to pay for Jonathan’s master classes with Rona Layne, but Mother says maybe next year. I don’t really mind.
When Jonathan does scales, they swoop and sing and growl. When I try, they clump and thump and stumble. No matter how hard I practise, it doesn’t get much better. Sometimes I hate the thing. All my life it has been with us; a big, solid upright grand following us everywhere, constantly a bone of contention to movers, neighbours, landlords. Sometimes a friend, sometimes like the albatross in “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” It stubbornly refuses to disclose its secrets to me; the smooth ivory keys it is my job to clean every day resist all my efforts at the powerful chords my brother coaxes from it so easily. I hear the music inside me clearly, but I feel now that I will never be that good, that talented, that special—not like Jonathan. I feel the tears coming as my hands slide into the Mozart minuet, the notes I know so well. The melody sings so loudly in my head, though what I play is only a pale imitation. Just last night I sat and listened as Jonathan’s long fingers made this same music pour out into the room, and I knew I would never win anything like he did at the Kiwanis every time he entered, and I ached so hard inside that it was all I could do to keep from crying. I had to lie and tell Mother my legs were hurting again, and she sat and rubbed them until I calmed down and told her it was better.
Daddy is still asleep. I creep in, and he doesn’t even stir. I put on the heavy navy-blue sweater-coat Grammy knit me for Christmas and slide out the door and down the hall, being careful to walk on the left-hand side of the runner as I pass Baggy Bones’s door. It doesn’t squeak on the left side. Sunshine pours in through the frosted windows on the landing. No one is around, so I walk over to the glass door and try to open it, but it is locked. Even pressing my nose to the door, I can’t see anything through the milky glass that keeps out everything but the light. Disappointed, I turn back and continue down the stairs, moving slowly through the dust motes, one hand on the wide wooden banister. I’m in a castle; I’m the chatelaine drifting down the main staircase. Maybe today I’ll count all the rooms in my domain.
I stop at the bottom, aware of someone else in the hall. Janey Drew, the child prodigy, is sitting on the bench between the griffins. I wonder how much she practises every day. She’s wearing white knee socks and patent leather Mary Janes. She has a white blouse with yellow flowers embroidered on the collar and a pleated red skirt with straps over the shoulders. Mother told me she’s one year older than I am. Eleven is way too old for straps. Really.
I go over and sit down beside her. I rub the toe of one shoe along the back of my leg, trying to clean it on my sock, make it shine like hers, even though mine are scuffed Oxfords.
“I’m Janey Drew,” she says. “What were you doing up there?”
“I’m Lorna,” I say. Lorna, the chatelaine of the castle, who can go wherever she likes, do whatever she wants to do.
Janey turns towards me and folds her arms across her chest. “You are not,” she says. “You’re Jonathan Dudley-Morris’s little sister.”
I sit up very straight and stare back at her. I feel a faint tingling of fear, as though I’m slipping down an unknown slope. What is she doing? Why? “That doesn’t mean my name isn’t Lorna,” I say, a little too late.
She flounces away from me on the bench. “You’re weird!” she says, tossing a long braid over her shoulder. My braids are too short to toss.
I can’t think of anything to say now, so I just sit there, waiting. I wonder where her mother is. She’s usually not alone like this. I look at her hands, her slender fingers, clean fingernails. I try to imagine them on the keys of the great black Steinway in Miss Layne’s studio. I saw a picture of her on the studio wall when I was there last year with Jonathan and Mother. It shows her making her debut at nine years old with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, a tiny girl in a pink dress with puffy sleeves and a big sash, bent over the piano, elbows out, one braid hanging free as she attacked the keys.
“I’m going to be in the Kiwanis Festival,” I say, pushed by her silence, by her utter disinterest.
Janey laughs. “I used to do that when I was little,” she says. “That’s for babies. Now I’m preparing for my debut in Carnegie Hall in October.”
“So’s Jonathan,” I say. I think of all the talk that’s been going on lately at the dinner table, in front of the fireplace: discussions about what this entails, how much it would cost, whether it would be worth it or whether he should go to university instead. “It’s good to have a second string to your bow,” Mother says. I don’t really know whether he’s going to Carnegie Hall or not, but loyalty stirs. “He’s going too.”
“Really?” She turns and stares at me again with those cool blue eyes, and I stare back, willing myself not to turn away. Then she laughs. “Fibber,” she says. She gets up and shakes out the wrinkles on her skirt.
“Hah,” I say. I get up too and watch her, my face burning. We are the same height. “Shows what you know.” She doesn’t respond. “Aren’t you too old to be wearing a skirt with straps? That’s
for babies.” I turn around and flounce out the front door and down the steps. Too late I realize it’s winter outside. I pause, looking along the path past the wrought-iron fence to the street beyond. I’m not allowed to go there alone. I turn around and head for the back where I left my skipping rope this morning. There is hardly any snow on the concrete under our porch, and I start to skip. My heart is racing and there are tears on my cheeks, but I’m not cold. I’m so upset it takes a few minutes to get a rhythm going with the skipping rope. I begin to chant, “Janey Drew, Janey Doo, Janey pooh, pooh, pooh,” over and over again.
4. THE PROMENADE
JONATHAN AND I ARE IN THE PROMENADE Music Centre on Bloor Street. We are sitting in a small booth with glass windows all around, listening to records so he can choose the one he likes the best. Records are one of the good things in life that Jonathan says we should have, no matter what. We’ve been here quite a while.
“Did you hear where the theme came in?” he asks. “It’s carried by the violins this time. Listen. Here it comes again.”
“I hear it,” I say, but I’m not really sure anymore. We’ve been here for hours, and I’m tired and I keep thinking about the long walk home. I try not to fidget.
Jonathan selects one more record, and as he plays it I’m sure he forgets I’m sitting on this hard chair. I think about the different ways to listen to music. When I listen with Mother, she talks about seeing pictures, imagining things the music brings to mind. Jonathan’s way is harder. You have to think a lot and I’m not sure thinking and music go together for me. Maybe you can listen both ways, depending on the mood.
I’m startled by the door opening and Jonathan talking to the salesman. Finally he has made his choice and buys one record. We walk outside and head towards home.
“Put on your mittens,” Jonathan says. His breath smokes in the air. It’s cold, but the snow is all shovelled away.
“Do you know everyone who takes lessons with Rona Layne?” I ask, thinking of Brian.
“Most of them. We meet at recitals and concerts mostly. And there aren’t that many of us.”
“She only takes Special People, doesn’t she? Like Janey Drew?”
He laughs. “We’re not special. We just want one thing very much and have spent far too much time trying to get it.”
“But if you want it badly, and you work hard, then how can you say—?”
“It’s complicated. Some of them have no life. Take Janey, for instance. What choice has she had? What kind of childhood?” He is walking faster now, and I have to take running steps to keep up with him.
“But she wants to play concerts more than anything,” I pant.
“She thinks she does, yes, but what else does she know? What I mean is, there should be some variety in life. Some balance.”
I stop and want to burst into tears. I’m out of breath. My chest is tight.
Jonathan stops and goes down on one knee like Mother does when she’s worried about me. “What’s the matter? Are you all right?” His face is on a level with mine, and his clear grey eyes stare into mine disconcertingly. “I’m sorry the Kiwanis isn’t going to work out for you this year. Maybe you can enter next time. I could be your teacher and—”
“No! I don’t care about that! I just can’t walk that fast!” I push my glasses firmly in place.
He takes my mittened hand and rubs it as if that will cure what ails me. He stands up. “All right. We’ll saunter,” he says. “Let’s window shop.”
It’s not as good as with Mother, who has stories for everything we pass, but it’s better than running and trying to talk and getting worried about what he is saying. Once we turn down Jarvis Street, there are no more windows. We walk under the naked elms, and he talks about history and how neighbourhoods change over time. This one has apparently gone way down in the world. I let the words flow past and enjoy holding his hand and the soft feel of the sidewalk under my shoes. It’s different from the sidewalk on Bloor Street or Wellesley or Church, where we go to buy milk and vegetables and sometimes a chicken or small Sunday roast for special occasions.
When we’re almost home, he looks down at me and says, “While I’m out tutoring this afternoon, you can play the new record, but only if you’re very, very careful.”
I’m so surprised I just nod my head. Then as we go up the front steps I ask, “May I play the old records, too?”
“Sure,” he says, “but woe betide you if you break any.”
Daddy has gone to his doctor’s appointment, and Mother is meeting someone about a job helping a family with their difficult child this summer. I’m not sure what this means, and Mother isn’t sure either, which is the reason for the meeting, I guess. Everyone talked about it last night at the dinner table, and Daddy didn’t like the idea. Jonathan kept insisting she charge more so they realize she’s not just a glorified nanny. It seems these people will be away, so they’d like Mother to take charge of everything, including the difficult one. All this would happen after her teaching job is over, of course. I was hoping she would come home afterwards and stay with me all day, but meanwhile Daddy is feeling tired at his job and may have to stop soon and Jonathan’s tutoring money isn’t that much. All this flows around me but doesn’t seem to touch me directly. There’s nothing I can do to help except look after myself and not break records or bother people in the Music House.
Before she leaves, Mother says, “Don’t use the telephone.” Her voice is so stern I wonder if she’s found out about my telephone games, when I dial a number and talk to whomever answers. “I am bedridden,” I say and make my voice all quavery. “I need to talk to someone!” Sometimes they stay for a while and I make up stories about my terrible lonely life and my life-threatening illness, but she doesn’t mention any of that so I guess she doesn’t know.
When everyone is out, our space feels different. I talk to my invisible friend Gem, who has been with me for a long time. Sometimes she’s a girl and sometimes a boy, but mostly just a friend I can talk to and tell what’s going on in my world, although she knows already, I’m sure, being with me all the time and seeing everything over my shoulder. I dress the chairs up in my old blouses and a few colourful scarves Mother gave me to play with and drag them around in an awkward, bumping dance. I put on a record—“The Emperor Waltz”, my favourite—and pull my dashing partner around the floor again. The Count is smiling just for me, dressed in a regimental scarlet tunic, a sword at his side. He has green eyes and blond hair, and he looks only at me. I am the centre of his universe. “La, sir, so kind of you to send me flowers. Orchids! My favourites.”
“My only wish is to please you,” he says, and I tilt my head to one side and smile, and fan myself with the folded lined-paper fan.
When the record stops, I am tired. I throw the bedspread over the dining room table and sit underneath, sulking in my tent like Achilles. Sulking is restful but it isn’t much fun, and I wonder how he managed it for so long. I decide to do some exploring. I fill Daddy’s old army canteen with water and hang it from one shoulder so the strap crosses my chest. The water always tastes a little musty, but that has become part of the atmosphere that makes my adventures real.
There are many parts of the Music House I haven’t seen yet. One of them is beyond the frosted glass door on the landing on the main staircase. I creep down and try the door, but it’s still locked. Defeated, I climb the stairs back to my own space, put on my coat, and wander outside onto the porch. To my right is the wooden staircase leading down to the frozen garden. To my left is my horse, Bucephalus. He’s a very uncomfortable sort of horse because the railing that forms his back is only about four inches wide. The post that goes to the roof forms his long proud neck, and Daddy has put a small nail here to attach his reins. His rolling eye looks back at me as I climb into the saddle, an old rag rug that has lost its colours. Sitting here holding the reins and looking out over the porch railings across to th
e garden behind the coach house, I can see forever. On one side is our icebox; on the other is the back door. Today I begin to worry that Baggy Bones might make one of her frequent trips to the garbage can in the corner by the stairs, and I find I can’t let my mind loose or force any adventures to happen in my head. I get down and put away the rope that makes my stirrups and the bit of leather from an old belt that Daddy made into his bridle. The saddle goes on top of the icebox.
Daddy has made the window boxes so Mother can have her own garden this summer. Later on, there will be flowers all along the railing and maybe some runner beans. Then we can sit here feeling hidden from the world. It will be my job to watch over the seedlings and be careful not to water them too much, but so far there is nothing in the boxes but the crusty remains of the last snowfall.
At this end of the porch is the iron ladder going up to the roof on the third floor. One side is loose. At first this scared me, but today I am an intrepid explorer. I take a small drink from my canteen and begin to climb. The ladder shivers, and I stop to catch my breath. Looking down, I realize for the first time that the Music House is shaped like one huge gigantic backwards L, with the Secret Garden enclosed on two sides by the house and the other two sides shielded by fence and bushes. The tenants’ plain boring garden begins at the top of the L and stops at the fence where the coach house is. Behind this wooden barrier lies another hidden garden, but this one looks overgrown and wild, not that I can see much from my perch.
Straight down below lies Miss Layne’s tiny formal space, its red brick paths chipped and uneven, the fountain in the middle silent and streaked with lichen and the frozen black water that makes the small drift of snow look dirty. This garden is outside her studio (the jutting-out bottom of the L) and is off limits to everyone, guarded by high thick bushes and a locked wrought-iron gate. This is the first time I’ve got a good look at it, since it’s hard to see from our porch or the rest of the garden because of all the bushes. The backyard we all can use is barren of anything but grass, which is now sleeping under the snow. Rona Layne’s is a real Secret Garden, like the one in the book Mother read to me last year before we started that awful Pilgrim’s Progress. It’s obvious even to me that no Dickon has been working in this one for a very long time.