Classical Music

by Cowley, Joy

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asks.

  The suddenness of it makes me jump. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You were making weird faces at the traffic.’

  ‘If you must know, I’m scared.’ I look at her. ‘I think you mightn’t like it.’

  ‘Your restaurant? Why wouldn’t I like it? Bea, my big regret about the last visit was that I didn’t get to see your seafood place. What was it called?’

  ‘La Mer.’

  ‘I knew I associated it with Debussy. We planned it and our plans got changed and I said next time. Remember? Then you wrote you sold it.’

  ‘La Mer was smaller. This is a much bigger building so I. But I don’t do more than twenty tables. Over twenty you get into mass production. Everything’s fresh. No frozen. No convenience foods. Sauces made from scratch. Bread baked on the. We got 8.5 from Cuisine magazine.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she says.

  I doubt if it’s true but I’m grateful to her for saying it like she meant it. She really is trying hard.

  She is gracious to everyone. She likes the decor, she tells me. She says, oh God, she’s forgotten all about things like washboards and butter churns. Where did we get the NZ Rail posters? And that’s appropriate, a Buzzy Bee toy. Not a word of criticism. Not even a suggestion about design. We go out back. She looks in the fridges at the trays of lamb chops and half legs, the boned ducklings, chickens, baby salmon. She tells Margaret. I don’t know whether I want to eat them or paint them, she says. She looks at everything, the pots on the rotating rail, the range of mixers, fish kettles, gas rings, ovens, vegetable bins. I’m relieved it’s all right. I thought that with me being away. But it’s spotless. Margaret’s doing. Diddy talks to everyone. Tells Franz and Peter and Julie that she has culinary thrombosis. I’m a bloody clot in the kitchen she says and they laugh even though it’s an old joke. Now she asks them to explain the marinades and sauces they’re making. She tries so hard. Donald, the maitre d’, thinks she’s darling. That’s the word he uses. Darling. He shows her over the wine stocks. He gives a history of wine-making in New Zealand and she listens. She says generally. Generally, she says, New Zealand whites are better than Californian. Oh whoop-de-doo! Chalk it up. Then the serving staff come in, all young, four of them students. I introduce her. My sister from New York. Hi. Good evening. Gee, I didn’t know you were American. I’m a New Yorker, she says. New York isn’t America. New York is the world. And Donald takes us to the prime table, unobstructed view of the city. No hurry, she says. We’ve got all evening. Then I have to say no we haven’t because Kiwiana is booked out and we eat now or we eat in the kitchen. She is impressed. Booked out? Most nights, I tell her. She likes the menu. She really does like the menu. She orders Pacific oysters with a horseradish dip and a baby salmon with a raisin and almond sauce. I keep forgetting that she doesn’t eat red meat.

  She sips the wine and looks out the window. ‘Tell me about Rawson.’

  ‘Rawson? My chef at La Mer? Why?’

  ‘Well, anyone,’ she says. ‘Any of your men friends. I realise I know so little. We are goddam awful at letter writing, aren’t we? I guess it’s not the sort of thing you put in letters.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about Rawson.’ I start to laugh. ‘The year before I sold La Mer. They asked me to be judge. The Chef of the Year Award. And we went to this big hotel in Auckland.’

  ‘You and Rawson.’

  ‘No, me and the other judges. Oh, Rawson was there too. The five judges were on one floor. The chefs were all on another. And in my room there was this huge king-sized.’

  ‘Bea, no!’

  ‘It was all right. I told him to be very careful. He understood he could be disqualified. I ordered some champagne and canapes from room service. It came on a lovely silver trolley with a little lace cloth and two glasses, red roses. I left the latch over to keep the door ajar and then.’ I look out the window, remembering how he came in, so quickly and quietly, eyes laughing, how he filled his mouth with champagne and kissed it into mine.

  ‘Go on,’ says Diddy.

  But I can’t go on because Margaret has brought out two covered dishes. She takes the lids off some lean lamb chops and a pink salmon with scales still shining.

  I explain to Diddy that we always show the customer the food before it is cooked.

  ‘Does it ever put them off?’ she asks.

  ‘No. Never. We don’t get basic with blood and feathers. People like seeing the quality and freshness. It’s a feature of Kiwiana.’

  Margaret replaces the lids and takes the dishes out back. Diddy leans forward and I go on, ‘I think I told you. Rawson was beautiful. He had these really high round buttocks that kind of jutted out. And he was so sensitive, just so, so lovely. It was a wonderful evening. But later I got worried. He was asleep and I thought. Maybe room service would come back for the trolley. So I got up, opened the door just a bit. There was no one out there. And I pushed the trolley into the hall. The wheel stuck. I was jiggling it. Then the door.’

  ‘Good grief, Bea!’

  ‘Yes. It closed behind me.’

  ‘What were you wearing?’

  ‘Nothing, Diddy. Not a stitch. I didn’t know what I could. I tried hammering on the door. Rawson slept like a log. Then I thought supposing someone in the next room came out. What if? And my room was almost opposite the lifts. Elevators, you call them. I couldn’t stand there. There was only one place. The stairs. Do you like that wine?’

  ‘It’s delicious, Bea, a great aftertaste. The stairs, you said.’

  ‘You know, even in the poshest hotel. Stairs are terrible. Bare concrete. No heat. It was winter and I was shivering. Clothes. Where could I get clothes? I prayed about it. I really prayed. Don’t laugh, Diddy, this is serious. I thought of baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes and I went down two floors, shivering. The cleaners had left one of their carts. It was by the stairs door. You know the canvas bags on those carts?’

  ‘Dirty linen?’ says Diddy.

  ‘Dirty anything is better than nothing. I got two sheets. It’s surprising what you can. One sheet around the waist. Another folded over. It was like a fancy dress costume. I looked quite. Except for my bare feet. Then I went down to the lobby. Well, I had to. I needed to phone my room. You know what? The phone woke Rawson up but he was too scared to answer it. He said he saw I wasn’t there. But he couldn’t. He didn’t. He got dressed and ran. He didn’t work it out.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing is chance, you know, Diddy. Earlier on I’d been talking to a very nice doorman. He was still on duty. He got me another key.’

  ‘What about Rawson?’ she asks.

  ‘He won it,’ she says. ‘He got chef of the year and a big Auckland restaurant offered. But that’s the way it is. The story of my life. Do you like that wine?’

  ‘Yes, I told you. It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Good. It’s private bin and really special.’

  ‘Will you let me pay for it?’ she asks.

  ‘No! Goodness no! Diddy, you shouldn’t even.’

  ‘I was just trying to be practical.’ She raises her glass. ‘As Dad used to say, it isn’t doing much for the economy.’

  ‘That wasn’t Dad. It was Uncle Jack.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘When they were shearing. Lunch breaks. Remember?’

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘It was Uncle Jack. Bea, there used to be photos of him. Did they –’

  I shake my head and she doesn’t take it further.

  She gazes out of the window, her face soft with thinking and then she says, ‘Bea, you know I told you I had never been in love? That’s not strictly the truth.’

  ‘I know.’ I nod the rest for her. ‘I was in love with him too. We all were.’

  We sit there, looking at the sweep of Wellington city, the buildings that tumble like children’s play blocks, right down to the sea, the little boats tucked in against the wharves. In the blue sky above the eastern hills, I
see a small yellow plane. I know she sees it too. It’s in her New York sky as well. That same yellow plane is everywhere.

  12

  1953

  Beatrice thought that the two worst things were getting drowned and getting undrowned but in between it was lovely, a big white light that came around her so soft and nice that she wanted to stay in it always. The next year at school, she told Sister Marcella about it and Sister Marcella said the light was an angel coming to take her to Jesus, but when the angel saw that her Mummy and Daddy were so sad, it took her back again.

  Maybe getting undrowned affected Beatrice’s memory because she never knew what happened the next morning. It was Sunday. They must have gone to Mass in Foxton. They never missed Mass. But she had no recollection of it at all. All she could remember was sitting on the steps of the caravan, feeling pleased that her mother had played her tune at the party the night before. She was hoping that people would look at her and say to each other that she was the child who was nearly drowned yesterday and that was her special music her mother played last night.

  She remembered lunch at the picnic table and Diddy wanting a bonfire on the beach. Dad said, all right, as long as the wind didn’t get up, and everyone sat eating pancakes, looking sleepy and happy, no one in a hurry to do anything. The day was warm and the pine trees smelled lovely. When the men’s cigarette smoke went up into the shadows, it turned blue and twisty like the genie from Aladdin’s lamp and Beatrice thought if she watched long enough, she’d see a face in it. She did see a little green beetle fly into Uncle Jack’s tea. It swam around quickly and then died of hotness. When Beatrice looked next it was gone. Uncle Jack said he drank it. He said it gave the tea a special flavour like a lime green jellybean. Mum laughed and said, ‘Jack you are so silly,’ and Beatrice laughed too. She was happy because everyone was happy.

  In the afternoon they all walked down to the skating rink. The grown-ups didn’t have any skates but they watched how Diddy could go backwards and turn around without falling over. She could even lean forward and put one leg up behind her like a figure skater. Celia Upton was at the rink. But she didn’t talk to Diddy and Diddy didn’t talk to her. All the time they didn’t look at each other. That was because of you know what.

  Mum helped Beatrice to put on her skates. They were ordinary skates with black wheels and silver bits that tightened over her shoes with a key. Mum held her while she stood up and guided her to the bar. Beatrice had to put both arms on the bar because the wheels kept skidding her feet away. But it was all right. She got used to it.

  Dad and Uncle Jack came over from watching Diddy skate backwards. They got on each side of Beatrice and took her onto the rink. She didn’t fall because they held her up. ‘Walk,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘Lift your feet and walk, Buzzy Bea,’ and she did that, clump, clump, clump. After a while, with each clump the wheels went around. She was skating, really skating. Uncle Jack and Dad still held onto her hands, walking beside her while she went clump, slide, clump, slide. She couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Look at me!’ Diddy in front of her, skating backwards, yelled, ‘Mum! Look at Bea.’ Then Mum came down with Dad’s camera and she made them all stand still while she got a picture. It was just lovely.

  After that, she could skate holding onto Diddy’s hand. She fell over only three times and once Diddy fell too. They both laughed because their legs got criss-crossed and the grown-ups were cheering from their seats at the side.

  ‘They look like the three bears,’ said Diddy. ‘Father Bear and Mother Bear and Baby Bear.’

  ‘Which one’s Baby Bear?’ said Beatrice.

  Diddy helped her to stand up. ‘Dad’s Baby Bear. Uncle Jack is taller.’

  ‘But Dad’s wider than Uncle Jack.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Diddy. ‘They can be the Three Billy Goats Gruff.’

  Bea laughed so hard that she fell down again.

  She didn’t know how long they stayed at the rink. The next thing it was late afternoon and they were putting the beach picnic stuff in the car, Mum’s fold-up chair, rugs, jerseys in case it got cold, Uncle Jack’s leather flying jacket.

  ‘I’m wearing this, I’m wearing this,’ said Diddy wrapping it around her until Mum made her put it back. Paper for the fire, cold drink and bottles of beer, boiled potatoes in a pot, sweetcorn, salad, tomato sauce, sausages already cooked. Mum had a loaf of bread in the caravan oven. They were waiting for it.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘The girls and I will cut across through the sandhills. We’ll start the fire. You two drive around when the bread’s done.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Beatrice and Diddy jumped up and down.

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll all go together.’

  ‘It could be half an hour,’ Mum said. ‘It’s a slow oven.’

  Dad nodded. ‘All right. I’ll go with the girls. You and Jack bring the car when you’re ready.’

  The sun was a spinning fireball close to the sea and all the air was golden. When Dad looked out to sea his face was gold-washed. So was Diddy’s. There was gold on everything except for the shadows which were dark blue. Beatrice held a stick up in the air and called, ‘I’m the golden sea fairy with the golden wand.’

  ‘Don’t you go near the sea,’ Dad said. ‘You hear me?’

  He didn’t need to tell her. Nothing would make her go near that hungry horrible sea that had rolled her over and over so she couldn’t breathe.

  There was a lot of dry wood on the beach. They stacked little bits over some paper and Dad set fire to it with his cigarette lighter. In the gold light, the flame was almost colourless. Diddy and Beatrice handed Dad more wood and he added them, one bit at a time, to the pile. When at last the car came roaring up the beach, toot, toot, toot, the fire was huge with orange and green sparks floating up into the darkening sky.

  Mum had the bread wrapped in a tea towel. They could smell it as soon as she got out of the car. She kissed Dad and then broke off a piece of the warm crust and put it in his mouth. He loved fresh bread. He told her to give Jack some too. So she broke another bit off for Uncle Jack.

  Uncle Jack screwed up his face and pretended to cry. ‘Where’s my kiss? I didn’t get my kiss.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ said Mum.

  ‘My kiss!’ wailed Uncle Jack.

  ‘Frank? Tell him not to be so stupid,’ said Mum. But she was laughing and so was Dad.

  The men put out Mum’s chair and told her to sit down. They put a rug over her knees and said she could be the queen and they would be her slaves. They were in a real jokey mood, teasing her and each other. They unpacked the car and set out the food on a cloth. They put the pots of sausages and corn beside the fire. There was nothing for Beatrice and Diddy to do, so they went down the beach and looked for shells until it was too dark to see. Above the horizon, the sky was dark red. Diddy said the day was bleeding to death because the sun had gone. But from a distance, it looked as though a bit of the sun had fallen onto the beach, the bonfire was so big and bright. Beatrice made up a story about the bonfire being a lighthouse saving a ship at sea.

  Then they heard the music. Uncle Jack had brought his little wind-up gramophone. He had it in the boot of the car and was playing a 78 rpm record. It was Gene Autrey or Slim Whitman, one of those, a cowboy song with lots of yodelling. Beatrice thought it was strange for a dark beach to get filled up with music. The fish would listen. The seagulls and crabs. Maybe even the stars would hear it.

  ‘You have my heart, dear, and this you know. So tell me why you treat it so. I gave it to you. T’was my mistake. Remember darling, that hearts do break. Oh-de, oh-de, lay-ee-dee.’

  Mum was in her chair. Dad and Uncle Jack were sitting together on the log, drinking beer and swaying to the music. The firelight on their faces made them look lovely, like the picture of Jesus in The Light of the World.

  ‘Here come my princesses,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘Princess Delia and Princess Beatrice. Come and sit down.’

  Diddy and Bea ran for the sp
ace beside Uncle Jack but Diddy got there first and plonked herself down. She gave Beatrice a ha-ha look. That was all right. Beatrice got between Dad and Uncle Jack and wriggled and wriggled until Dad moved over to let her sit. She leaned forward to smile at Diddy. She had both of them, so there.

  ‘Look!’ said Mum. ‘The moon!’

  ‘About a quarter full,’ said Dad. ‘That should mean good fishing tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s a rocking horse,’ said Diddy. ‘You can’t see the horse though. It’s as black as the sky.’

  ‘I think it’s a smiley mouth,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘Well,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘It’s looks like a bit of toenail to me.’ He got up to change the record and Beatrice and Diddy were left with empty space between them.

  ‘Toenail!’ laughed Mum. ‘How romantic!’

  ‘What do you expect from an old bush pilot?’ said Uncle Jack, winding the handle on his gramophone. ‘You hear that, Frank? Her majesty thinks I’m unromantic.’

  ‘Jack!’ Mum put her hand over her mouth. She turned to Dad. ‘Frank, this terrible man twists every word I say.’

  ‘What will we do with him, eh Agnes?’ Dad reached out and grabbed Mum’s hand.

  ‘I think we should make him get in his plane and fly back to Australia,’ said Mum.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dad.

  Beatrice leaned forward, her chin on her hand. She hated it when grown-ups made pretend talk. She was pleased when Uncle Jack said, ‘Fat bloody chance!’ and put the needle down on the record.