The Sparkle Pages

by Meg Bignell

  ‘It’s not hilarious,’ I said grumpily.

  ‘Oh, come on, Helen. It sounds like a brilliant extended family holiday. I’m so bummed I wasn’t there too. Think of the memories. And you got depicted as an albatross! That’s all romance.’

  ‘Ria, an albatross is a metaphor for burden or a curse. I looked it up. Coleridge.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful soaring beast of flight, over the sparkling sea. That’s what he meant. Hugh doesn’t know the first thing about Coleridge.’

  Except I’m almost sure he does. All those times when Hugh and I were meant to be studying in the library, he was quite fascinated with the poetry section, and Coleridge was there, wasn’t he? I could be wrong; I was very busy pretending not to be impressed.

  Anyway, the albatross thing has prompted me to delve back into our story again, so I’m here in the wardrobe again … And thinking back, it was, despite my yearnings and pretending, actually very nice being just friends with Hugh …

  Hobart, 1993

  Ria and I discovered quickly that we weren’t at all intriguing or unusual on the touch footy field. Everyone had something interesting to offer, from all sorts of backgrounds. I perhaps stood out more than others because I was utterly hopeless (very long limbs are easy to get tangled up in) so any awe I inspired in Hugh via music was quickly neutralised by my bumbles on the oval. His good-humoured coaching style just gave me a new dimension to adore, but I had Ria close by to keep me grounded and, anyway, I was having way too much fun to get too bogged down in heartache.

  After a while, Hugh stopped hurrying off after training or lectures and would hang around a bit more. He teased us incessantly. He and Ria squabbled like siblings. I mostly laughed. By the time second semester rolled around and the touch footy season ended, we were studying together, eating together and drinking together. Hannah sometimes joined us but she was mostly too busy with her advertising job to hang with us, which suited me perfectly. To her credit, she didn’t appear cross, and she could have. I suppose she didn’t feel threatened; she was attractive and together and secure in Hugh’s love for her. Ria and I ate Wizz Fizz and laughed at farts. They were proper sweethearts, had grown up together, knew everything there was to know about one another. That’s what she used to tell me. Sometimes I had terrible urges to smoosh strawberries into her perfect face or throw her shoes over fences. These were unfair. She was always kind. That was the year Ria’s mum died. Hannah was so grown-up about it. She was the one who knew all about funeral arrangements and who to call to find two of Ria’s brothers in the WA mines. I was the one who checked Ria’s face for breakages so often that she had to tell me to ‘please fuck off, for the love of God’. Yes, poor Hannah, she tried to be our friend, but she bored us and we irritated her, so it never really worked. I didn’t like myself much when she was around.

  It was fun, but it was also very hard work. I had to be carefree and lighthearted all the time and pretend that Hugh’s opinions didn’t matter that much, that his touch didn’t burn my skin and his casual, see-you-when-I’m-looking-at-you goodbyes didn’t have my heart sinking back to its usual lowly position in my chest. Sometimes at night I would sob, and then have a look in the mirror to see what limerence and heartache looked like. The friendship without the yearning love would have been even more fun.

  Oh, but sometimes I yearn to yearn. These days I’m either harried or weary; neither are emotions, just physical effects. I must sleep. It takes me a whole week to recover from hangovers these days.

  SUNDAY 23rd APRIL

  I’m very down in the dumps. Post-holiday blues? Bound to happen when there’s a butler involved.

  I’ve just hung the washing on the line and had to unroll Hugh’s work-shirtsleeves so they’d dry properly, then noticed that I’d hung the shirt next to the expensive silky stockings I wore on our date. (‘You can’t skimp on hosiery,’ said Ellie.) I felt suddenly very pointless. When did I last roll up my shirtsleeves? I thought. I pretend I’m productive and hardworking because I’m raising four children, but in all honesty I’m pathetic. Women through the ages have raised children AND handwashed the sheets, ironed everything, grown their own food, ground their own grains, made their own clothes and so forth. I never roll up my shirtsleeves. I make gravy from a packet and complain about having to move the wheelie bins.

  And then, I sold my viola for vanity and luxury. I sold my viola.

  And there under the clothesline, my pointlessness got underlined. The weight of my recent indulgences fell down on me: while Hugh was sleeves-up and providing, I was spending money on bullshit. Hairdressery, teeth whitening, hosiery bullshit. I am ashamed.

  The billowing sheets snapped me on the thighs, fresh and flirty. The scream of the mundane was loud and suggestive.

  What am I doing with my life? Mary-Lou is well into Grade One. It’s time I got a job. Or at least joined the Country Women’s Association. Apparently in Tasmania you don’t have to live in the country to join, and they are a veritable hive of industry. A HIVE. (Mustn’t forget honey – apparently a spoonful before bed wards off viruses.)

  SATURDAY 29th APRIL

  Hugh is cross with me. Very cross. He knows about me selling the viola. Everything seems blunted when he’s so annoyed: no point in anything.

  Rafferty noticed that the viola was missing from the wardrobe, and I was forced to tell. (I’ve been working up to it; there just hasn’t been a good time.)

  Hugh was aghast. ‘You did what?’

  ‘You can’t have,’ said Raff incredulously.

  ‘It was mine to sell,’ I said, ‘and I was sick of not being able to afford anything for the family. I want to contribute. Everyone was so sad or upset or stressed, and the viola was just sitting there reminding me of things. The film fell through and Pollyanna couldn’t pay for our holiday so … well, it’s quite a nice story actually …’ I stopped. Hugh’s face was thunderous. My voice turned cold. ‘It was mine. My viola, my choice. No one was angry with Valda for selling the Valiant.’

  Raffy said, ‘Who’s Pollyanna?’ and burst into tears. I’ve never known Raffy to be so sensitive. He’s usually so busy in Rafferty World. Perhaps turning ten has switched something on. I hope this means he might grow a bit faster. He’s starting to look quite, um, nuggety. At least he won’t have my unwieldy build.

  I told them about the Elliot–Eloise Driscoll connection. They were very unimpressed. I tried to dress it up in romantics. ‘Who knows, perhaps Eloise Driscoll was forced to sell the viola, and now that it’s back with its rightful family, she can rest in peace.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘There were probably very good reasons to give away vocations in those days.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Hugh. Music isn’t something I’m duty-bound to do. I wasn’t called to it. No one’s called to anything. We don’t have fates; you are the biggest believer of that. I did astronomy, remember? We’re all here because of a one-in-a-trillion accident. The death of a chancy little star.’ It was the angriest I’ve ever been with him in front of the children. He looked sort of disgusted.

  Eloise watched us, then said, ‘Whoa.’

  Raffy poked out his bottom lip and said, ‘Well, I hope Idiot Driscoll knows to wash his hands before handling the bow.’

  I won’t let them make me feel guilty. NO MORE GUILT. It’s layering up so much that it’ll surely smother me soon.

  Valda got heaps of wheelchair practice, we all got to row a clinker dinghy, Hugh played Roar, Laurence came out of his shell, Raffy had a nice birthday, Eloise smiled a lot, looked up from her books and put us all in one of her ghost stories. It was worth it. Wasn’t it?

  THURSDAY 4th MAY

  For goodness sake, Hugh is still grumpy. So is Raffy. They can’t all expect me to push four people out of my vagina hole, scrub their shirt collars and not make my own decisions.

  And now they’re all playing snakes and ladders. Raffy is all snuggled into Hugh, which is rare. I feel very sorrowful and left out, like when Shel
ly Howard from Grade Three suddenly declared she wouldn’t be my friend any more and ran off with Dearne Wells, who had thick ringlets and a teacup poodle. I’m calling Mum and Dad. They will support me …

  LATER:

  Mum and Dad are furious too. Here’s how that went:

  ‘So, Dad, remember when I was fifteen and I accidentally bought a four-thousand-dollar bed over the phone?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And you know how you still have that bed and you and Mum love it because it has all those bells and whistles you can no longer do without?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done something similar in that it might appear stupid but will, in the long run, work out best for everyone.’

  ‘Did you get one of those massage chairs? Wally got one; said it was a waste of money and he should have bought a machine for beef jerky instead.’

  ‘They’re such ugly chairs too!’ Mum yelled from the background.

  ‘Am I on speaker phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Well, I sold my viola.’

  There was lots of rustling and commotion and then Mum came on. ‘You sold your viola and bought a massage chair? Oh, darling, how could you?’

  ‘No, Mum. No, I sold it and I’m saving the money. Most of it. Perhaps for the children’s education. Something not so selfish as a valuable viola gathering dust. I got forty thousand for it.’

  There was a bit of silence, some muffly phone-to-chest noises and then Mum came back, yelling this time. ‘That’s not the selfish thing.’ More rustling, something muffled. ‘You never played for the children —’

  ‘Wait, Mum, but listen, it was meant to be …’ I told her the Elliot Driscoll bit, adding my theory about Eloise probably being forced to give it up. She listened in silence and when I’d finished, she said, ‘Oh, Susannah, I can’t speak to you. You silly girl.’

  Then she hung up.

  A minute later, she phoned back. ‘Let me tell you something, Susannah. If Eloise Driscoll could have kept playing her viola, she would have. She would NOT have dicked about wondering whether she was WORTHY. She would say, “You spoilt, spoilt woman, with all your CHOICES. Spoilt by your choices.” And she would box your ears, just as I would if I were there and not on the end of a phone line. Goodbye.’

  Mum always used to say that she’d box my ears. She never did. What does it even mean?

  Also, she said ‘dick’!

  LATER:

  A text from Ria! A slightly supportive one. Well, it wasn’t actual support, but she wasn’t angry at least. I’m so sick of angry. I sent her a very long email explaining why I sold the viola and that I didn’t need any more fury directed my way, thank you. She replied with this:

  No fury here. Looks like you’ve well and truly justified your actions. Move on, get a new one. Cut out old wood. Good-o. Can’t write more, busy with ‘I Capture the Castle’ etc. R x

  Ouch. But she’s right. Move on. I read her text aloud to Hugh (leaving out the ‘get a new one’ bit). Not sure I like my viola being referred to as ‘old wood’ but oh well, moving on.

  LATER STILL:

  Another text from Ria with links to violas for sale, no note. Not even a kiss. She’s trying to shake my sentimental bones. I can tell she’s cross.

  Bloody hell, I’m cross too. And I WILL NOT get sentimental and what-iffy. My music is MINE. I’ll show them all that I have made a brilliant decision that will make room for all sorts of shiny bells and new whistles. What is happening around here? Why am I the baddie?

  I think Hugh’s fallen asleep in Raff’s room, which has never happened before, so that’s that, then. The beginning of the end? Separate rooms, separate gonads, separate lives, probably. Where were we in the Sparkle Project? Oh, that’s right, the Very Happy Family Holiday phase. Well, what if there isn’t a happy family?

  Oh, God. What if there really isn’t? I don’t know what the next phase of the Sparkle Project is, but I’m moving into it immediately.

  WEDNESDAY 10th MAY

  Not quite ready to move into next phase. Call this a necessary interval, perhaps? Because, life, you old bastard, I can NOT believe the way you can kick me in the self-esteems right when they’re reaching their lowest ebb. Here’s what happened today, holy GOD:

  Eloise was playing singles against a young girl who reminded me of a gazelle and had a serve like a paper cut. The girl’s mother arrived a little way into the match and I glanced at her just long enough to see that she was very attractive and beautifully dressed. I tried not to look too openly but, let’s face it, a woman with style is infinitely fascinating to other women.

  Anyway, the thing is … it was Hannah!!!!! The mother of the gazelle was HANNAH. Hugh’s ex, Hannah. Hannah of clippy heels and very healthy hair. And she was just as perfect as ever, if not more. In the instant before my memory registered her properly, I sort of waved in a ‘hello, I know you’ kind of way, then I faltered and froze. Ah, there you are, I thought. Of course you’re here, come to join us in the confoundry of blinding disappointments. She looked over. ‘Susannah?’

  ‘Hannah?’ And for the first time I noticed how similar our names are, which is probably another sign of scurrilous happenstance.

  ‘I should have known,’ she said. ‘Your daughter is the image of you. She’s gorgeous.’

  She was so genuine and warm that I felt suddenly like I might cry. A thief atoned? Or something. I went all garbly. ‘Hannah, oh my goodness, you look lovely. It’s been so long. Is this your daughter?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve moved back here from Singapore.’

  ‘Oh, well done. She’s lovely and what a backhand!’ I waffled. ‘I’ve always wanted a backhand like that. Mine is awful, on account of me not playing tennis much at all. Ever. I’m so busy all the time – I have a baby still. Well, she’s six, so not really a baby. I should have time for tennis. Singapore! How exotic. I hope Tassie isn’t too boring for you …’ I went on like that, dear God.

  Then Eloise smashed a ball straight into the Gazelle-girl’s beautiful face and my rattling train of a mouth was brought to a blessed, terrible screeching halt.

  We rushed towards her daughter, who was on her knees with her hands covering her nose. Eloise looked horrified. ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry, I’m so …’

  ‘Show me, Em. Let me see. Oh, darling,’ Hannah was saying, and Em moved her hands. Blood flowed out. We gasped. Em’s eyes rolled, she fell onto me, a dead weight. I lowered her to the ground.

  ‘Emily?’ Hannah was saying. ‘Em?’

  I grappled around in my bag for my phone and called an ambulance. ‘Eloise, get someone from the club,’ I said. She ran.

  ‘Oh, God. Emmy?’ Hannah whispered.

  I put my ear to Em’s pale lips. ‘She’s okay, Hannah,’ I said in a panicky voice. ‘She’s not dead.’

  ‘I know she’s not dead, Susannah,’ said Hannah in a much calmer voice. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Sorry. I mean, she’s just fainted, I think. You’ll be okay, Em.’ I turned her onto her side. Hannah pulled some tissues from her bag and put them to Emily’s face. They were soaked in seconds so I took off my cardigan and put it in their place. Em gave a whimper, opened her eyes and tried to push the cardigan away.

  ‘Leave it, darling. You’re bleeding,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Em,’ I said, ‘can you see us?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can you tell me what day it is?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Can you tell me your mum’s name?’

  ‘Hannah de Montagu.’

  De Montagu. I gulped and said, ‘What?’ like an idiot. The poor girl had to repeat it.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Hannah de Montagu. ‘Darling, can you remember everything that happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Em. ‘She hit me in the nose.’

  It was a petulant teenage voice. Normal. Relief! No apparent head injury. Also, she had a beautiful English accent. I was fascinated. Am I in the presence of nobility? I
thought. Is this blue blood coming from Em’s nose?

  Eloise came back with a tennis coach and a first-aid kit. She moved to apply ice. ‘Don’t touch,’ Em said acidly. Eloise jumped back, stung. I ached for her.

  ‘Darling, you fainted,’ said Hannah. ‘We’re getting an ambulance, okay.’

  Emily turned and vomited a bloody mess into my cardigan and onto the court. Eloise gasped and said, ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry.’ Hannah stroked Emily’s hair.

  There was silence then, while we waited for the ambulance. I thought about making conversation (‘So, what’ve you been up to since I last saw you?’) but it didn’t seem right. ‘You must have a killer serve,’ said the coach to Eloise, which didn’t seem right either.

  Eloise and I stood aside while the paramedics loaded Emily onto a trolley and into the ambulance. I offered to follow them to hospital but Hannah said, ‘No, please don’t worry.’

  ‘We could bring you in some dinner or something?’ I offered.

  ‘No, really. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘I could call your husband to get your car?’

  ‘No, Susannah. Honestly, we’ll manage.’ She put up a hand. It said, leave us alone.

  ‘Okay. So sorry.’ But I thought of something else. ‘Hannah, could I just get your number? So we can check how —’

  ‘No, Susannah, please …’

  ‘Okay, yep, sorry, not the time,’ I stammered.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ said Eloise, stricken.

  Hannah came back and touched her shoulder. ‘It was an accident, Eloise. She’ll be fine, I promise.’ And then they whizzed off, sirens blaring.

  Eloise watched them long after the ambulance had disappeared. She’s now gone to bed early. I’ve never seen her so bothered.