by Meg Bignell
My place is here, beside my little boy, so I can hold his hand and stroke his hair when he wakes up not knowing where he is.
It’s quite nice here, actually. I had a meal brought to me and there’s a telly above me and I have my book and no housework to do. And I’m where I’m meant to be.
LATER:
Bit restless. I think I’ve got myself worked up by the thought of Hugh and me living in a sparkle-free marriage. That won’t do. That’s giving up. I will not give up. The best thing I can do for my children is to raise them in a loving household. Actual love, where Mum and Dad are touching each other in loving ways.
So I might use this hospital downtime to continue rummaging through the past for clues. It’s calming somehow, this note taking, as if I’m laminating fragile papers for safekeeping. Where was I? Oh, the bleeding teeth incident.
University of Tasmania, Hobart, 1992
Well, while I reclused myself from further social harm, Ria and her petite, pretty innocence shamelessly scavenged around campus for more Hugh facts.
‘You’re not doing choir,’ she announced a few days after the beer garden episode. ‘You already play the instrument closest to the human voice. You need to branch out.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked nervously. Ria had a worryingly jubilant look in her eye. ‘I’m not learning flute, Ria. I’m staying loyal to viola. You’re the tarty multi-talented one.’
‘No, you’re doing astronomy.’
‘What?’
She talked me into it, of course, after my initial and absolute rejection of the idea. ‘You said you’re worried about composition – no inspiration, you said – so here you go, what better inspiration than the whole fucking universe?’
I decided that she was right, even came up with the idea that I could compose a piece of music for viola inspired by the constellations. Actually, I initially said ‘inspired by the star signs’, which, I soon realised with a cringe, are covered by astrology, not astronomy, and that astronomy was offered by the physics department. This was apt, given my extreme physical reaction in the first class, when I realised that sitting a few rows ahead of me was none other than Hugh Parks. Ria had signed me up not to motivate my music, but to twiddle with my heartstrings.
He saw me in that first lecture, gave me a friendly but distant smiley-eyebrow greeting, which I pretended not to see. At the end he left straight away and I could breathe again. In subsequent lessons, I skulked in the far corner rows and tried to stop gazing at the back of his head.
Things stayed that way for months. Me noticing him, him not noticing me, me noticing him not noticing. It was a one-sided chemical reaction. His ionic structure remained static; he was clearly in class for the right reasons – to get enough units to complete his engineering degree, maybe even to get a better grasp of the Big Cosmic Picture. He was obviously very bright, though he never appeared to look askance at the scattering of my molecules or my cosmic vertigo, even when once the lecturer referred to my ‘interesting idea’ that reincarnation and other assorted higher orders probably shouldn’t be ruled out. He never actually appeared to look at me at all.
As it turned out, I should have known better than to embark on any subject to do with science, no matter the chemistry. I thought we’d be gazing at stars but it was all singularity principles, gravitational collapse and black hole formation. The tutor, bewildered by a rogue music student stumbling her way through his cosmos, tried his best to bend my stubborn right-dominant brain around it all, but I was busy dreaming about Hugh gazing into my starry eyes (and perhaps at a later date inspecting my black hole).
Back then, let me think, what was it I found so compelling? That striking hair, worn slightly longer than most of the boys. Those eyes. That olive skin (now passed on to Raff, Jim and Mary-Lou; poor Eloise). There was something important about him, something more lit up than the rest of us. He didn’t ever loiter like normal students do. He specialised in rapid departures, roaring away in a smart navy Mitsubishi the minute class was over, as if there were more important things than university when, for me, university was my life. The Con, the viola, Ria and Hugh. In bed at night I’d imagine a million different romantic scenarios that ended with Hugh taking me in his arms. All seemed as impossible as me getting a grip on planet classification. It was agony.
Then, in an unguarded moment during a lesson on the age of the universe, I sighed, thought, Crikey, there’s so little time to make a difference, isn’t there? I’m a blip, and then realised with horror that I’d spoken aloud, and that the whole class had heard me, including Hugh.
Our lecturer smiled and winked at me like he would a child. ‘Puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?’ It was a pat-pat comment, which just confirmed my insignificance. My cheeks fired up like a beacon, thwarting all efforts to turn invisible.
Afterwards, I was sidling out when a voice came from behind. ‘We’re all blips, you know. But also very unlikely, very lucky accidents.’ I turned to see Hugh, walking quite close: close enough for me to smell his deodorant and feel wavery. I avoided his face and found myself looking at his crotch, then jerking my eyes away, then blushing again. I moved my viola case into the other hand and tried to hide behind it. He said, ‘And you’re a blip with a violin. That’s something, Susannah.’
I looked at him then, right into his beautiful, mystery eyes. ‘It’s a viola. I’m a violist. But that’s a common mistake so that’s okay …’
‘A violist. That’s really something, then. See ya!’ And he strode away towards the car park.
‘He remembers my name!’ I spouted to Ria as soon as I got back to the Con. ‘He said I’m something, really something! He said “see ya”. What do you think that means?’
‘I think it means he wants to see ya bits’ – Ria laughed – ‘as soon as possible.’
‘I hope I said “it’s a viola” in a kind way, not a grumpy, don’t-call-me-a-violinist way. He’ll think I’m intense. People think all musicians are. Or angst-ridden.’
‘You are angst-ridden. Just look at yourself,’ Ria pointed out.
Gawd, I don’t know how Ria put up with me, when I look back. She didn’t have a father, had a mostly absent mother who worked herself to the bone, was expected to endure three occasionally delinquent older brothers while they tried their clumsy best with her formative years, and was then forced to wear all my petty longings. It’s no wonder she was a bit brusque with my full-of-Hugh heart every time I thrust it into her hands for regular examinations.
He was in my music too. Hugh. It went all anguished and affannato, no matter what piece I was playing. Max Bruch was my new best friend, because his compositions forced some romance upon the sometimes grumpy viola. And I took to playing music written for cello, which seemed to suit my mood, with its greater depth, even transposed for viola. My major composition piece, ‘Starlit Sonata’ was not, in the end (despite its name), inspired by the constellations. Instead it was a direct reflection of my aching heart and fevered imaginings. It was, Mum said, ‘fit for the funeral of an infant duchess’. The piece afforded me a high distinction and an invitation to perform at the graduation ceremony. Meanwhile, the anguish was served by Hugh not speaking to me again for weeks and still rushing off after class while the rest of us idled, procrastinating about study and practice.
Then, a little way into trying to decipher how the Schwarzschild radius relates to black holes, I realised I was truly going to fail astronomy, and that I would have to repeat the unit or choose another elective, which would see me crawling back to the Con to do choir or a music analysis module or some other muso-wankery. I did an involuntary hurrumph.
‘It’s a bastard, isn’t it – old Schwarzschild?’ It was Hugh again, and his voice made me jump, which made me wince, then blush. (Seriously, there isn’t a smidgen of cool in my DNA. If there was, I wouldn’t have just used the word ‘smidgen’.)
‘I think he’s probably onto something,’ I said, in a strange whispery voice that didn’t seem to come
from me. ‘Only I’ve no idea what. I don’t understand a bit of it.’
‘Can I help?’
I gaped at him and tried not to say aloud, Yes, you could just give me a soft little kiss and tell me your secrets.
‘Let’s make a deal.’ He dragged his chair closer. ‘I’ll help you through Schwarzschild in the library if you do something for me?’
I fleetingly wondered if it had anything to do with me fiddling with his penis.
‘This will sound weird, but I am wondering if you’d maybe play your viola for my grandmother. She’s not well and she loves classical music and I don’t know of anyone I can ask … It’s just an idea. No obligations.’
I realised I hadn’t made any semblance of a response. Come on, Susannah. Do something. ‘Um. Okay. That should be fine. But you needn’t help me with the black holes. I’m afraid it’s all too late for that. I’ve barely passed an assignment. I should never have tried.’
But yes, I should, I thought. If only for this moment of me being the centre of your attention, Hugh Parks.
Holy God, I can only imagine the look of love in the trance-like gaze I cast over him. I can imagine my general thought processes too: he’s gorgeous, and smart and thoughtful about old people; next he’ll say he has a rescue dog and a part-time job in a bookshop.
‘Well, let’s work through some mock exam papers and get you at least sixty per cent. I have to do something in exchange.’ He smiled.
Oh, that smile. I wanted to touch it, take it home.
‘Is tomorrow okay, for Gran? We’re not sure she’s going to last much longer.’
‘Yes,’ I said, too quickly, then blushed. Again.
‘Great. Thank you, Susannah. She’s going to love it.’ Then he touched my shoulder.
‘He touched my shoulder, he touched my shoulder,’ I said to Ria later when I found her in my room rummaging in my wardrobe. ‘There’s a very good chance we’ll be married soon,’ and I sang a bit of ‘This Is It’ by Melba Moore and lay on the bed dreaming of being Hugh’s girlfriend, hosting long lunch parties under trees with wine and marinated olives.
Ria put Beck’s ‘Loser’ on the stereo and let herself out, wearing my denim skirt and espadrilles.
Later, though, she helped me decide on a piece for Hugh’s grandmother: Bach’s ‘Suite Number Three’, which we chose not to uplift an ailing woman or comfort her family, but to have a good old show-off. All the Bach cello suites are known to be technically demanding; it is widely assumed that if you can pull one off in an audition, you are home and hosed. ‘That’ll impress them,’ said Ria. ‘But don’t get too caught up in it or your eyebrows will do that thing. Nothing more unattractive than overdeveloped musicality muscles of the face.’
Golly, Suite Number Three. My fingers can’t remember what it’s like to perform with such étude-like speed.
God, I’ve got so caught up in this remembering thing. It’s almost midnight! Jimmy must be comfortable because he’s only stirred once. Perhaps I should have got some of that Painstop stuff years ago when he thought playtime was at two a.m. every night for a year …
It is nice to think back to all those lovely loin-fizzy youthful feelings. How can I make them last? It’s tricky when there are things like grubby ovens and superannuation forms. That’s the problem with domestic life; things get so pedestrian so quickly. I don’t want to be a pedestrian, dammit. I want to be a joy rider, a dancer, maybe even a hoon.
Pedestrians have awnings fall on them.
MONDAY 30th JANUARY
It’s 1.56 a.m. and I CAN’T SLEEP IN HERE. Someone is rattling something at regular intervals and people keep pressing their stupid call buttons and it’s so goddamn HOT. This is torture. Bloody cricket. If Hugh hadn’t been so pushy about Jimmy getting some practice, this would never have happened. Well, okay, maybe Jimmy was always going to be sporty, but he gets that from Hugh. I should have married a tuba player. I suppose we wouldn’t want Jimmy to be like Raffy – not interested in anything much at all.
Why don’t they show some interest in safe things? Then I might be happy to drive them all over the bloody countryside AND no one would get a displaced fracture and end up in hospital with me having to toss and turn beside them. And then tomorrow I wouldn’t have to pretend that sleeplessness is all part of the martyr-y motherhood deal along with a cobwebby vagina and having to use chocolate to get people to read books. I long for the days when parents thought Biggles was trash.
Actually, in Raffy’s case, I’d be pleased if he had some interest in anything.
See, ornery old me is back. So soon into the Sparkle Project. Well, there you have it. That’s why the spark up and snuffed. I’m a crabby old mole. And I’ve failed the project already. Didn’t even get my first assignment in. By this time next week this journal will be stuffed into the pile of my other failures, somewhere near my dusty viola …
Just had a swig of Jimmy’s Painstop. I need sleep to take me. If I fail to wake, this journal will be discovered and everyone will know that I am bonkers with wasted dreams. And a musty growler.
Gawd, no one’s said ‘growler’ since 1997. I must be delirious.
THURSDAY 2nd FEBRUARY
You’d think fathers deserve a medal the way they carry on about everything being so easy on their own. And on the surface it looks as though everything’s tickety-boo, until you move a cushion on the couch and find a scrunched-up school uniform and a cheese stick.
Jimmy and I are home, and the fallout from absent me is extensive. Eloise and Raffy told Mary-Lou ghost stories and now she refuses to sleep alone. No one fed the fish. Raffy is scruffier than ever (he has taken to wearing cut-off tracksuit bottoms) and his bookcase looks as though a vandal’s been in. I am hopeful this means he might have read a book. I suspect it doesn’t. He has a distinctly vacuous, over-screened expression on his smudged face.
They think Hugh’s THE BEST because he doesn’t try to get them to do things that stimulate their brains. He thinks driving them to the shops for the paper and a milkshake is his ticket to clock off from parenting and maybe sneak in a cheeky golf game while the children do whatever the bejesus they want. If I hadn’t snuck broccoli into the muffins, there would have been no vitamins consumed in that house whatsoever. They ordered in pizza. With one of those horrible stuffed crusts. They’ll never eat my homemade ones again.
So, okay, I didn’t actually have to do much in the hospital (and the beetroot salad was surprisingly good – something to do with the sesame seeds?) but it was traumatic and hot and un-bloody-sleepable.
HURRUMPH.
Oh, dear … I should take my malodorous attitude away, give it some deep, fresh breaths and return in the flirty and open-stanced spirit of the Sparkle Project.
WEDNESDAY 8th FEBRUARY
I’m at gymnastics and I’m supposed to be watching but I think that if I stay at the back and look up occasionally, I can get away with diary time. We’re only here because Mary-Lou was all upset about not being able to do a cartwheel. Apparently cartwheels are quite the thing. If you can’t do one, you’re condemned to a life of library lunchtimes. So here we are in this unaccountably creepy (possibly built on a burial ground), smelly hall. I’m distracting myself with some progress notes – because there is progress!
This morning I sent Hugh some flirty text messages (!) i.e: I had a rude dream about you last night. There was no response for forty minutes, so I shunned the feeling of rebuff and sent another: Shall I send you a picture of my boobs? Then I waited. Nothing happened for another hour, so I thought, bugger it, I’ll send a photo anyway. He’s had warning. So I spent the next half an hour trying to take a boob selfie. Easier said than done, especially if you don’t want any wrinkly face or crumply tummy in it. I ended up sending a blurry photo of one boob. I waited for a bit but there was still no reply. So I put my affront into some vigorous scrubbing of Barky, who hasn’t had a bath since we took him to Opossum Bay, where he had a wrestle with a long-dead wallaby.
Three ho
urs later I was in the supermarket queue with my basket of shopping when my phone went ding! I leapt on it because by then I’d started to feel quite queasy with regret about the blurry boob picture. It was indeed a message from Hugh! It said: Where’s the other? Which had a slightly impatient, ‘gimme your body’ tone. Quite exciting. Except then it became apparent that I’d distractedly tipped the shopping basket because a cantaloupe, a tin of treacle and Valda’s prunes fell out at my feet. The man in front of me bent to pick up the cantaloupe just as I reached for the treacle and we cracked heads. (I’d forgotten how much it hurts to bang your head.) We rubbed our respective bumps and the man said, ‘Ohhhh, sorry. Are you okay?’ at the same time as I did and then we laughed and he held out the cantaloupe and said, ‘You’ve probably bruised both your melons,’ and I almost choked because I thought he meant my boobs but of course he meant the cantaloupe and my head. Then he looked at the prunes and I blushed, because prunes, and he said, ‘You don’t see treacle much any more,’ and I said, ‘I put it in the compost bin to feed the microorganisms,’ and he said, ‘Ah.’ Then there was a silence and I realised that he had a lovely round friendly face that made me think of sunny places so I lowered my voice a bit and said, ‘I make a nice treacly gingerbread, though.’
I know! I flirted with a man in the supermarket! So it wasn’t A-grade flirting but at least it was practice. And completely harmless (I mean, gingerbread). He and his sunny face had to pay for the groceries then, so I busied myself with my phone.
