Classical Music

by Cowley, Joy

  ‘You’re all right, Buzzy Bea. You’re all right.’ His words came out funny because his chest was heaving for breath. ‘You’re a brave girl, little Buzzy Bea.’

  In a few minutes Bea’s face had got back its pink colour and she was crying. Uncle Jack handed her to Mum, who was sitting on the sand beside him and Mum held Bea’s wet sandy head against her pink jacket. She looked up at Delia. ‘I trusted you!’ she said.

  Delia glanced quickly around her, at Uncle Jack, at the people who stood watching.

  Mum’s face was pale, her mouth as thin as a bit of string. Her fingers spread around Bea’s head as she stared over them at Delia, ‘You left her to drown!’

  ‘The kid’s okay. That’s all that matters,’ said a man.

  Uncle Jack slowly stood up. ‘It was an accident,’ he said.

  ‘She knew!’ Mum said at Delia. ‘She didn’t want to look after her sister. She argued!’

  Delia tried not to cry but the tears came up by themselves and tipped out of her eyes. It was Dad who put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Diddy was helping us,’ he said. ‘She thought Bea was with her.’

  People were now moving away and Bea had her arms around Mum’s neck. Mum said, ‘Bea can you stand up?’

  Crying and coughing, Bea shook her head.

  ‘Try,’ said Mum. ‘Just see if you can stand up by yourself.’

  Bea shook her head again and burrowed into Mum. ‘My head hurts,’ she said in a croaky voice. ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘Just as far as the car,’ said Mum.

  ‘Give her to me,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘I’ll carry her back to camp.’

  ‘No, Jack,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve already done enough. If it hadn’t been for –’ She stopped when Bea held out her arms to Uncle Jack.

  ‘That’s what Uncle Jacks are for,’ he said, scooping Bea up high so that she was lying over his shoulder. At once she stopped crying and coughing and closed her eyes, her thumb in her mouth.

  ‘She can go in the car,’ Mum said.

  ‘No. Jack’s right. She should go back,’ said Dad. ‘You and Jack take her to the caravan. Diddy’ll help me with the net.’ He ruffled Delia’s hair. ‘We got a sackful of flounder to look after and it’ll take a bit of doing, won’t it Diddy?’

  Delia nodded but didn’t speak. More than anything she wanted her mother to make things right by telling her that it wasn’t her fault, that she hadn’t left Bea to drown, but Mum didn’t say anything. She just turned, eyes down, and followed Uncle Jack up the beach.

  Dad tried to make up for it by saying it was a good thing Bea’d had a scare. She was too impulsive, said Dad. A fright would make her think twice about taking risks. That didn’t help Delia because it made her remember what she’d said to Bea about the best waves being in deep water, the shallows being for little kids. If Bea told Mum that, Delia would be in deep water, right enough.

  She held the net sack open while Dad put the fish in it. They had caught thirty-three flounder, five crabs which Dad threw back, and two gurnard fish which looked like butterflies with beautiful wings. Not bad for one haul, said Dad. They folded the net over the two poles and carried it up to the car. Then Dad said there was really no place at the camping ground to clean a big haul of fish and wouldn’t it be a good idea if they gutted them by the sea? They could use one of the surfboards as long as they gave it a wash afterwards. So with Dad dragging the sand-encrusted sack and Delia hauling a surfboard, they went back to the water’s edge. Delia dug a hole in the wet sand and let it fill up. Dad took the flounder one by one out of the sack and held them flapping on the board while he cut a gash below their gills and squeezed the gut out. They were still wriggling when Delia washed them and put them back in the sack.

  As she was getting into the car, she saw Mum’s book lying open in the sand, its pages bent back. Mum must have dropped it in her hurry to call for help. Again, Delia got that bad feeling at the bottom of her stomach. By now Bea would have recovered enough to be telling tales.

  When they drove up beside the caravan, Uncle Jack came down the steps and stood by the car, his hands in his pockets. ‘She’s right as rain,’ he said to Dad.

  Dad grinned as he got out. ‘You’re a good one, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘Hell, Frank,’ said Uncle Jack and he started untying the surfboards.

  Dad put eight flounder in a bucket and told Delia to take them inside for lunch. She didn’t want to go in the caravan but it was all right because Mum had got over her bad mood and Bea was asleep, curled up with her Marigold doll. The frying-pan was already on the stove, crackling and spitting, and Mum was decorating the top of a salad with hard-boiled eggs.

  ‘I didn’t tell her to go into deep water,’ Delia said. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  Mum smiled and leaned towards her. ‘I know, Diddy. She was running after you and she fell over. A wave dragged her out.’

  ‘Oh.’ Delia felt suddenly as light as a feather. ‘Gosh! Little kids can be so stupid. I’ve told her not to run in the waves.’

  Mum touched Delia’s nose with the flat of a knife blade. ‘Don’t say gosh,’ she said but she was still smiling.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She vomited a couple of times but Jack bought her some lemonade and she kept that down. I’m sure she’ll be fine when she wakes up. We’re going to take her to the doctor this afternoon. Just in case she’s still got some water in her lungs.’

  Delia lifted two flounder out of the bucket. Their bulgy eyes swivelled on the top of their heads and even though they were gutted, they jumped about. ‘Uncle Jack’s taking me skating this afternoon,’ she told her.

  ‘Do you want a flounder?’ she asked.

  ‘Ew! No!’

  She laughed. ‘I thought as much.’ She lifted up a fish and put it straight into a dish of flour where it turned into a ghost. ‘I think we’re all going into Foxton,’ she said, ‘Uncle Jack included.’

  Delia took a breath to say something, then closed her mouth and ran down the steps just as the first flounder hit the hot fat.

  There were far too many flounder for one family. Dad and Uncle Jack took them around the campsite and gave them to people, including Mr Ewing, who had the beach store and the house next to it.

  Mr Ewing looked at Delia. ‘Is this the kiddy who got into difficulty this morning?’

  ‘Nah!’ said Uncle Jack. ‘This young lady can swim like a dolphin. It was her little sister. She’s okay now.’

  ‘You have to watch that undertow,’ Mr Ewing said. ‘Nice fish. Are you doing anything tonight?’

  Uncle Jack and Dad looked at each other.

  ‘There’s a party on at the house,’ said Mr Ewing. ‘Just the usual Saturday night affair. Men bring a bottle, ladies bring a plate. Kids welcome too. We just sit around, have a few beers and a bit of a singalong around the piano.’

  ‘You got a piano!’ said Uncle Jack. ‘Did you know his missus is a pianist?’

  ‘No kidding!’ said Mr Ewing.

  ‘She plays classical music,’ Dad said.

  ‘All that bloody fancy stuff,’ laughed Uncle Jack. ‘But she can play anything, mate. She can make a piano talk French or bloody Japanese, if you like. She’s a cracker.’

  Delia took a couple of steps backwards. Just as her mother was being nice to Uncle Jack for rescuing Bea, he had to say something like that. If Mum heard about it, she wouldn’t speak another word to him for the rest of the holidays, and that was a fact.

  Mum didn’t hear about it. That afternoon, Uncle Jack didn’t say anything to tease her and she was more relaxed than she had been all holiday. She held onto Dad’s arm and laughed a lot and Delia thought how pretty she looked when she was happy. They were all happy. Every now and then Delia wondered what would have happened if Uncle Jack hadn’t been such a good swimmer or if Bea had sunk to the bottom and he hadn’t found her. When those thoughts came into her head, she said something nice to Bea. She gave her a shilling from her pocket money and told her she would te
ach her to skate. Bea too, was different. She didn’t show off. She didn’t cry or whine. On the trip to Foxton they all sang ‘Old McDonald had a Farm’ and they took turns at being the animals.

  The doctor said Bea was a very lucky little girl. He washed her ears out in case she got an infection in them but said she was the picture of health and he couldn’t find a thing wrong with her. When Mum reported that to Uncle Jack, Dad and Delia, Uncle Jack thought there should be a celebration. They drove down the main street of Foxton, parked outside the milk bar, and he treated them all to peach melbas. They weren’t kids’ size, either. Each dish had three scoops of ice-cream, sliced peaches, whipped cream and pink wafer biscuits and Bea proved she was her old self by eating every last bit of juice.

  Uncle Jack said to the girls, ‘You can put your glad rags on tonight. We’re going to a party.’

  Dad looked at Mum. He hadn’t told her.

  ‘Party?’ Mum said.

  ‘The bloke who runs the store,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘Personal invite for the whole family. I think it’s just their usual Saturday night shindig.’

  ‘He’s asked all of us?’ said Mum. She put her hand on Dad’s arm.

  ‘What do you think?’ Dad said.

  She shrugged and smiled, her head close to his shoulder. ‘It might be all right,’ she said.

  Delia couldn’t believe that Mum had said that, this mother who avoided strangers and even people she knew.

  Dad laughed in a pleased voice. ‘We’ll go then,’ he said, squeezing Mum’s hand. ‘We’ll have a good time.’

  ‘We might as well get a few supplies while we’re here,’ said Uncle Jack.

  ‘Supplies?’ said Mum.

  ‘Grog,’ said Uncle Jack.

  Mum carried a dish of pikelets in one hand and in the other, a plate of hard-boiled eggs filled with curry and onion. Uncle Jack and Dad had brown-paper bags that clinked when they walked. Delia and Bea ran ahead in their best dresses, Delia’s made of pink everglaze and Bea’s a bright yellow seersucker with broderie anglaise trim. Bea had on long white socks and lace-ups. Delia wore no socks at all and hoped that her legs were brown enough to look as though she had on seamless nylons. She hadn’t been to a grown-up party before. She had rubbed her lips to make them pink and put some of Mum’s perfume down the front of her dress, because it was better than nothing. No one else’s mother wore 4711. Other mothers had real perfumes like Pink Mimosa or Evening in Paris or Californian Poppy.

  There were already a lot of people from the camping ground at the house. When they went in, Mr Ewing opened the door to the living room and told them to put their bottles and plates on the table. He said that he didn’t allow anyone else to touch his new stereogram but if they liked they could choose a long-playing record and he would play it for them. Dad had heard about long-playing records but he hadn’t seen any before. He and Uncle Jack bent over the collection and after a lot of discussion, Uncle Jack came up with Bob Crosby and his Bobcats while Dad chose Perry Como. Perry Como came first. Delia sat in a chair and swung her legs while Dad sat on the couch next to Mum, holding her hand, and Uncle Jack poured some drinks. He and Dad had beers. Mum got a glass with some brown stuff and a bit of lemon on top.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, sniffing.

  ‘Pimms,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘A lady’s drink.’

  She sipped, screwed up her face and shuddered, then put the glass on the table.

  Delia thought that Uncle Jack might say something but he just laughed. They all did.

  The sun was coming in soft through the pine trees, no longer bright enough to light the room. Someone switched on a fluorescent light which flickered and flickered and then filled the room with a hard whiteness. Bob Crosby was playing now and several grown-ups were dancing. Uncle Jack, Mum and Dad stayed on the couch and by now Mum was sipping the drink and laughing at their jokes. Delia thought it was a good thing that Bea had nearly drowned. It had made everyone glad they were alive.

  Bea went outside with the little kids. News had got around really fast. When Delia went out, the kids were still asking Bea questions. Did she go unconscious? Did she see her whole life passing before her eyes? What was it like to get your lungs full of salt water? Did the sea get into her brain? Bea kept saying she couldn’t remember much, but they still asked her dumb questions. In the end they got sick of it and someone suggested they play ghosts. The idea was that you ran around the house, jumped up at a window and yelled, ‘Boo!’ If you scared a grown-up you got the ghost of the year award.

  It was a childish game and Delia refused to play it. Instead she sat on the Ewing’s front porch, watching the moths that flew in with dusk, wondering where the big kids were. The sky had that tint of green which comes before true darkness and somewhere, invisible, was the smoke from a wood fire mixed up with the smell of sausages. That was something they hadn’t done yet this holiday, had a fire on the beach, burned driftwood down to embers, cooked potatoes and sausages and told spooky stories with firelight on their faces and darkness at their backs.

  Bea came onto the porch and sat beside her. ‘I’ve got a sore head,’ she said, putting her hand to her forehead.

  Delia didn’t know if it was true, or if Bea had simply run out of attention.

  ‘My brain hurts,’ said Bea. ‘I think I’ve got water in it. Can I stay here with you?’

  ‘I’m going for a walk.’ Delia stood up.

  ‘Good,’ said Bea firmly and stood, too, putting out her hand to be held.

  Down the road a bit, there were wolf whistles, the squeal of bicycle brakes and boys’ half-broken voices, throwing taunts. This is where the big kids were. The boys were in the middle of the road, horsing around on their bikes and teasing a group of girls who sat on the boards outside Mr Ewing’s shop. The girls teased back, laughing, putting their hands over their mouths, touching their hair and leaning together when someone said something particularly funny or shocking. Celia Upton was not with them.

  Delia pulled Bea by the hand. This was no place for little kids, she told her, and she marched her around the back of the shop, in the direction of the house.

  ‘I don’t want to play ghosts,’ Bea said.

  ‘Then you can go in the house with Mum and Dad and Uncle Jack.’

  ‘That’s boring. Why can’t we stay out there?’

  ‘It’s for big kids only,’ Delia said.

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘Don’t whine!’

  They were walking past the storeroom at the back of the shop, when Delia saw Celia Upton. She was against the wall and there was a boy pressing against her. They were kissing.

  Bea stopped, her eyes and mouth all of a roundness. Delia yanked her arm so hard that she nearly fell over.

  ‘That’s Celia Upton!’ Bea’s whisper was high-pitched.

  ‘Will you hurry up?’

  Bea ran and stumbled. ‘Did you see, Diddy? Did you see that boy’s hand?’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘He was being rude,’ she said, her voice half laughing, half scared.

  ‘You shouldn’t have looked!’ Delia snapped. ‘I thought you had a headache.’

  They were now back at Mr Ewing’s house, which was full of light and talk and music. The little kids were still running around, booing at the windows.

  ‘You like Celia Upton,’ said Bea. ‘Celia Upton is your friend.’

  ‘No, she isn’t!’ Delia said. ‘Celia Upton is –’ She looked for a suitable word, could not find it. ‘Celia Upton is worldly,’ she said.

  Mr Ewing’s house was full of people, most of them grown-ups, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. The noise was terribly loud, with everyone laughing and shouting and the stereogram turned up on ‘Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White’. Delia pushed through the crowd, dragging Bea, and they both got beer spilled on them.

  Uncle Jack, Mum and Dad were still on the living room couch. Dad had his arm across the back of the couch behind Mum’s shoulders. Uncle Jack had his arm on
top of Dad’s. In their other hands they held bottles of beer. Mum, in the middle, had both hands in her lap around a glass. She was laughing a lot and there were two pink spots on her cheeks.

  Delia pushed Bea in front of Mum and said, ‘She’s got a headache.’

  Mum went on laughing.

  ‘Bea’s got a headache!’ Delia yelled.

  ‘Gidday, kiddo. Gidday Buzzy Bea!’ Uncle Jack raised his bottle to them. ‘Having a good time?’

  At once Bea lunged at Uncle Jack and tried to get on his knee.

  ‘Bea has got a headache!’ Delia shouted it as loud as she could.

  ‘It’s got better,’ said Bea, leaning over Uncle Jack’s knee. She looked at Delia. ‘The water came out.’

  Delia said to her mother, ‘I think we should go,’ but her mother didn’t move. She went on laughing, although no one had said anything funny and her eyes were strange, kind of wet and slow. Then Delia realised what it was. Her mother was drunk. Delia Munro’s mother who never had anything stronger than half a glass of beer topped up with lemonade, was just like those people you saw coming out of the pub at six o’clock. Dad and Uncle Jack were no better, but it was different for them. They were men.

  Delia took the glass from her mother and put it on the table. She grabbed her mother’s hands and pulled. ‘I want to go home. Mum? Mum? I want to go back to the caravan.’

  About then the music stopped and someone started banging on a bottle with a spoon. The talking noise dropped until the clang of the bottle filled the room. Mr Ewing called out, ‘Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Attention, please. We have in our midst a real pianist. Where is she?’

  ‘He means you, lamb chop,’ said Uncle Jack.

  Mum laughed and shook her head.

  ‘Where is our pianist?’ called Mr Ewing.

  Dad stood up, ‘Come on sweetheart.’

  ‘Sock it to them,’ said Uncle Jack.