Alex is waiting for me just inside the school gate. I practically fall into her arms. School no longer feels like a jungle with her beside me. I can forget about the girls who gossip behind my back, the boys who taunt me with my lyrics. Even Lukas, even Joey. I can forget them all because I have my best friend back, and she’s better than all of them combined.
‘I have an idea I wanted to run by you,’ Alex says, linking arms with me. ‘It’s for my next portrait.’
‘Sounds exciting.
‘Yeah, it’s . . . I want to paint your mum.’
My step falters momentarily.
‘Do you think she would sit for me?’ Alex asks, and I can hear the fear of rejection in her voice. ‘We were told to choose someone famous.’
‘She’s not –’
‘She’s any painter’s dream – the set of her face, fine-boned, but strong. It tells her story better than any words can.’
I think of the distance in Mum’s eyes. The way she pointblank refused Robbie. The way she spoke about going public.
‘I can ask her,’ I say. ‘She loves your art. She’s just not big on anyone around here knowing who she is. Don’t hold your breath, okay?’
‘I know what she’s like,’ Alex says. ‘And I still think she’ll say yes. But speaking of holding your breath . . .’ she drops her voice. ‘Any sign of a period?’
I shake my head.
I shouldn’t be able to forget a worry so big. Not at all. But since Nan died, I’ve been waking every morning knowing that something is chronically wrong, and forgetting what it is. Then the flood of grief comes knocking through me when I remember. She’s gone. The wrongness of losing Nan hides all the other wrongs behind it until I suddenly remember to be scared and the curdling in my stomach returns with a vengeance.
‘I’ll pick up a test for you. After school. I’ll go with you to do it.’
I shake my head. Awful things are best left undiscovered. I don’t want anyone hearing a word, especially not the twins who’d paint the school with it.
‘It’s too soon,’ I say.
But it’s not. My period was due yesterday.
On the bus home, the fear of pregnancy grips my stomach. I shove my earphones in to shut out the noise of everyone else.
I can walk away from Lukas and Joey, but I can’t walk away from my own body. If I’m pregnant I either have to have an abortion or wear what happened while everyone casts judgement on me, then raise a baby on my own. And Joey will sit back and let me take the fall for it. Just like Mum took the fall for a one night stand – having me meant the end of a dream for her. Goodbye adoring crowds, goodbye new stages under new skies. If I have a baby now, I might as well forget I ever had a voice.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, get off the bus and round the corner.
I stop short when our house comes into view. Robbie’s car isn’t here. Not exactly a surprise after last night, but some part of me hoped that maybe he and Mum had made amends and she had agreed to perform at the Entertainment Centre and we could all get as far away from the forest as humanly possible. Then Mum would fall in love with the limelight again and decide to move back to Sydney, and we would never, ever return.
As if.
Trudging up the steps and pulling back the screen door, I tell myself that I no longer care about Mum’s fight with Robbie. Or her past. It’s none of my business. I’m the last person in the world who has the right to ask her.
Mum starts when she sees me. She’s sitting at our dining table with a half cup of tea in front of her. Old newspaper clippings are spread out across the table. It’s been years since I’ve caught her poring over them. Torturing herself with them. She keeps them stuffed in a trunk at the base of her bed, but every so often, she brings them out.
‘Ruby!’ she says, swiping the clippings into a pile. ‘What are you doing home?’
‘Uh, I caught the bus,’ I say.
She glances at the clock. ‘Of course you did.’
‘You okay?’
She forces a smile onto her face that nobody would buy. ‘Yeah, of course.’
Her eyes are rimmed red and she turns her face away, bundling the newspapers into her lap.
‘Let me just get rid of these,’ she says, turning for her room.
‘Wait,’ I hold out a hand. ‘Can I see them?’
‘Oh, Rube, it’s yesteryear stuff. Silly, really.’
‘No,’ I say gently. ‘Show me. Show me who you were.’
Mum blinks hard a few times, and I sit down at the table.
Then slowly, hesitantly, almost mistrustfully, she places the articles on the table, one by one. Some of the clippings are yellowed around the edges, and others could have been printed yesterday.
I pick up one of the yellowed clippings. It’s a photo of Mum in a long dress, her hair falling in ringlets down to her waist, sitting behind a piano at the front of a posh-looking stage. She’s frowning as she plays.
‘That was my first recital,’ she says.
‘Twelve-year-old Celeste Matthews delivered a recital at the Sydney Opera House,’ I read. ‘Wow, you were twelve?’
‘That was my first performance in front of a crowd that large,’ she says.
I read on. In a program, which included the Bach Fantasy in C Minor and a Chopin group, she showed an attractively forceful method of approaching the music. Her chord playing was particularly rich and fine, and if the young player can further cultivate the virtues of repose, she promises the Australian music scene many years of delight.
I pick up a later article, in colour – my mother on stage in a glittering green gown that contrasts perfectly with her long, red curls.
Celeste Matthews set the night ablaze, starting with the ‘Appassionata’ Sonata of Beethoven. Her exciting interpretations of the classics are bringing the music of her predecessors into the modern age with verve. Ms Matthews is being lauded as a virtuoso who is redefining classical music with her unique sound.
I pick up article after article of praise. Words like trailblazer, passionate, evocative, disciplined, pulsing, alive, focused. This is who my mother was.
‘You were amazing,’ I say, and when I look at her, the same mother I’ve seen every day of my life, I see new worlds inside her.
‘This one’s when we formed Celestial Vendetta. It was the third time they’d asked me,’ she says with a hint of pride. ‘Robbie’s persistence paid off.’
‘Why’d you say no?’
‘Because I didn’t want to be stifled. Fenced in. But it was tempting, because they were a hybrid – you know, classical and rock in one. Breaking new ground in the industry, making fresh sounds. Getting mainstream gigs and popular press that classical performers usually miss out on. So the third time, when they told me I could compose, write my own music, I agreed.’
Mum fishes an article out of the pile and hands it to me. The headline reads: Robbie Vetter and Celeste Matthews Join Forces.
The Australian music scene is holding its breath to see if these two musical powerhouses can create magic when they blend their unique sounds in Celestial Vendetta.
A shiver runs the length of my spine. ‘I can’t believe this was your life. How old were you?’
‘Twenty-four. The world at my feet, as they say.’
‘Till you had me.’ I shock myself by saying it.
Mum sighs. ‘Ruby, I’m not going to sugar coat it for you. Being a mother was hard. Incredibly tough. And hitting the road, playing every night, breastfeeding . . . it wouldn’t have been possible. Touring saps every drop of energy you have. You come home needing to curl up in a dark corner and regroup. That’s not the sort of mother I wanted to be for you. Besides, Celestial Vendetta had moved on by the time you were born. They were climbing the mainstream charts in the UK, and I’d gone back to being a soloist. It suited me better to run my own show.’
‘They’d already left before I was born?’
Mum nods.
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
She thinks about this for a while. ‘Well, I was pregnant, for one. When you were very young, I needed your Nan, my friends, support. It wasn’t going to work for me in the UK. And it was the right choice,’ she says firmly. ‘Nan got to spend time with us in Newtown and we had wonderful summers with her here, didn’t we? You were never lonely as a kid. Not with Alex and her family.’ She smiles. ‘And then when we moved here for good, Nan and I would play for hours and never grow tired of it.’ Mum smiles at the memory. ‘It was definitely the right choice.’
I sift through more articles on the table. The most recent ones are still crisp, and Mum’s smile fades as I pick one up.
Celeste Matthews’ performance left many in the crowd disappointed, with some labelling her sound flat and lacking precision. While her story is one of impressive tenacity, her trademark magic was missing from her much-anticipated return to the stage.
Mum takes the article gently from my hand. ‘It was commonly understood in the music industry that my classical career was over. At least they said it kindly.’
But no matter how kindly they said it, it was still an unkind thing they were saying.
‘After the surgery and the rehab, I had a low day. Very low. A no music kind of day. I thought the magic was gone, and I thought about ending it all. But there was you. And you were perfect.’ She smiles at me. ‘And I realised it came down to a choice: watch my career crumble slowly, or end it myself. Get it done. I couldn’t bear the slow version, so I left. Left the city, and the concert halls and everyone I’d known and everywhere I’d played, and all my friends. And that’s how I found my music again.’ Her smile is big and sad. ‘Here with Nan, in the most lonesome place I could think of. I could play with abandon, free from judgement. For the sheer joy of it. For no one but myself. And I could be spared the pity, because here, nobody knew or cared who I’d been or what I’d lost. I burned my bridges when I left here the first time. People barely remembered me when I came back. It’s the way I wanted it. And I’m happy here, Ruby, I am. Really. I don’t want to go back.’
I sit at the table, staring blankly at all the articles. After Kyle posted my clip, after the unkind comments I read about my singing, I understand why she doesn’t want to put herself out there again. And I understand why she doesn’t want me to take up Robbie’s offer. Why she thinks I need a safe, private place to heal. And yet, the pain in my chest is fierce. Because I want none of this for her. I want her to have what she deserves.
‘Now how about a fresh cup of tea?’ Mum says. ‘You and me, out on the deck?’
Mum gathers the articles into a bundle and takes them back to her bedroom while I hit the kettle.
When I come out onto the deck, she’s serene again and looking across the yard to the thick forest.
‘Isn’t rugged beauty the best kind?’ she breathes, as I hand her a mug.
I look at the scraggy trees, dusty from the heat and the dry. ‘I’m guessing Robbie’s not coming today?’
‘No.’ She shifts in her chair.
I don’t tell her what I heard, though I wonder if she guesses by my silence.
‘I know you’ve been through a real trauma with that Joey boy,’ Mum says slowly. ‘And you’re probably wondering why anyone would ever want to fall in love, or make love, or have any kind of relationship with a man. Am I right?’
‘I can’t imagine wanting any part of it.’
Mum nods. ‘I thought as much. But you’ll probably change your mind in time. With a bit of healing. One day, you’ll meet someone who seems to fit you in all the right ways. Someone who lights you up inside and makes you smile just by thinking of them. Who brings you joy and happiness, and inspires songs. And it will be fun. Perhaps even magical. And you’ll want to lose yourself in the glory of it all. But even then, Ruby, even then, you need to remember something . . . about men.’
She takes a small sip from her teacup. Her hands are trembling.
‘Some men can be charming as all get out, like Robbie. Charming, right?’
I shrug, but I guess he is.
‘The problem is, you can never completely count on them. Not even when you’re in love. Never let yourself become so reliant on a man that you don’t know how to survive without him. Don’t you ever. Because even if they have the best of intentions, they will let you down. It’s what men do. They make promises, and they leave. So you need to be able to go it alone, look after yourself, be your own hero. You need to find that strength inside yourself.’
She’s not looking at me as she says this, and I wonder if she’s even talking to me.
‘Robbie’s the type that loves you with all of himself, then leaves in the middle of the night. Without a word or a follow-up call. It’s the way he’s always been.’
It turns out I don’t need to interrogate Mum for answers. I just have to wait for her to give them to me.
She and Robbie were a thing. And now he’s driven back into her life, promised something and left again.
I rest my hand on Mum’s. I want to tell her that I’ve learnt that lesson already, but she squeezes my hand. She knows.
On Saturday morning, my phone lights up on my bedside desk. I stretch over and reach for it.
Alex.
SOS from party land. Desperately in need of assistance. Any chance you’re free?
Today? I type.
Yesterday. We’ve been slightly ambitious with our plans. Can you come?
My plans today consist of two things: waiting for my period and studying. Neither have inspired me to get out of bed.
What should I bring? I text.
Two hands. Two feet. Old clothes.
Done.
I get out of bed, grab some clothes and head for the bathroom. Still no period. I shower and try to forget what that small fact could mean. I dry myself and look down at my stomach. Slightly bloated maybe, but still slim. It doesn’t look like it could be harbouring a horrific secret.
I pull on a singlet and old jeans short. In the mirror I see the light dusting of freckles across my nose, my messy ponytail and slightly crushed clothes. Every bit the teenager. No part of me says mother.
By the time I’m ready to go, Mum’s sitting at the Steinway, sifting through sheet music. ‘Where are you off to?’ she says, looking up.
I’m nervous to admit where. It’s been so long.
‘Well, Alex texted this morning.’
‘Oh!’ Mum pivots so her full attention is on me.
‘Yeah, we’re kind of . . . friends again,’ I say lamely.
Mum smiles. ‘Good for you.’
‘Grandad’s having a party actually. His seventieth. That’s what I’m going over for. To help them get organised. Actually, we’ve both been invited. I meant to tell you . . .’
‘That sounds good. I told Susan we’d catch up again soon.’
‘I haven’t said yes.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I just . . . I know how you feel about parties.’
Except it’s my own feelings that are the problem.
She smiles quizzically at me. ‘Ruby, I don’t hate parties. We should go. Alex’s family are great.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
Alex’s place is set back off the street down a long dusty driveway. Modern and cream-rendered, her house is bathed in morning light as I stop out the front. Everything looks the same as it did a year ago, the kangaroo paws in bright orange bloom along the pavers that lead to her front door.
It’s hard to believe the earth has completed a lap of the sun since I was here last.
There’s the sound of old country music, and as I lift the worn brass knocker a swarm of nerves buzz in my stomach.
I knock.
A flurry of movement inside, a faint voice. ‘There in a sec!’
Susan pulls back the door, and the sweet smell of baking washes out.
‘Oh, Ruby. Thank god.’ She gives me a hug and leads me inside, past brick walls lined with paintings, mostly Alex’s. ‘We’re lite
rally drowning in jobs.’
Alex’s dad, Hal, is in the sunroom blaring the music. He looks up as Susan leads me through.
‘Just who I need!’ he calls out as if I see him every day. ‘Hey, Ruby, what do you think of “The Gambler”? A bit of Kenny Rogers. Classic or too old?’
‘Classic. Definitely,’ I say. ‘Kenny Rogers is king of the story song.’
‘A girl after my own heart. My thoughts exactly!’
A phone rings and Susan digs inside her pocket on our way out the sliding door to the yard.
‘Damn, that’s the caterer.’ She gestures for me to head outside. ‘They’re down the back. So sorry, Ruby, I have to take this.’
Susan heads back inside as I follow the winding timber staircase to the paved garden below.
Alex and Erik are standing either side of a sculpture, paintbrushes in hand. It’s an archway around Erik’s height with an eagle perched on top, wings outstretched. The golden eagle, only half painted so far, looks like it’s about to take flight.
‘Hey,’ I say.
Alex spins around. ‘Oh, perfect!’ she says.
‘Hey, Ruby.’ Erik stops painting, his brush dribbling a gold streak down his arm.
‘I conned Erik into helping too,’ she says smugly. ‘Many hands make light work.’
Alex rests her brush on the paint can and takes me by the hand to stand before the arch. ‘It’s for the photo booth,’ she says. ‘I wanted something different to the usual. What do you think? I’ve gone a little bit Louise Bourgeois.’
Louise Bourgeois is one of Alex’s favourite artists. Her most famous sculpture is a giant spider. It represents her mother, a weaver.
‘I’m glad we’re not painting Grandad a giant funnel web.’
Eric laughs. ‘And I’m glad someone gets her weird arty references.’
‘No funnel webs for Grandad,’ Alex says smiling at us. ‘Or redbacks.’
‘I’d forgotten the number of things that can get you killed down under,’ Erik says.
I walk around the arch, studying it. ‘An eagle is perfect,’ I say. ‘What’s it made of?’
‘Papier-mache and chicken wire.’ Alex grabs her brush from the gold paint tin by Erik’s feet and hands it to me. She picks up a new brush for herself. ‘The first coat needs to be on by midday.’
Ruby Tuesday Page 14
