Classical Music

by Cowley, Joy

  ‘At the beach at Waikiki, just my little honey bunny and me …’

  Dad brought out the forks made from twisted number eight wire and they put sausages on the end. The fire had burned down to an orange lumpiness which was very hot. Uncle Jack said it was a good thing that the forks were long or the sausages they’d be eating would be called princess fingers. He and Dad served up the potatoes and corn and salad and handed around the serviettes.

  ‘– telling my love with a ukulele tune, under a honey bunny Honolulu moon.’

  The girls dropped two sausages into the fire and Mum said wonderful, only two? Everyone dropped sausages. The important thing was did they have enough left over and yes, they had, so who cared?

  ‘Everything’s hunky-dory,’ said Uncle Jack.

  Beatrice and Diddy dipped sausages and potatoes into the tomato sauce and drank lemonade straight from the bottles and then Diddy wanted to tell ghost stories. Dad said, ‘Why not just listen to the music?’ Diddy said they always told ghost stories when they had a bonfire, that was part of it. The grown-ups took no notice. Uncle Jack put on one record after another and Diddy didn’t like to argue too much with Uncle Jack.

  When the fire got right down, Dad threw on a couple of bits of wood and they played some dance music. Uncle Jack bowed low in front of Mum’s chair and asked her if she would like to do a turn around the dance floor. She shook her head. ‘Go on,’ said Dad, but she still said no. So Uncle Jack bowed in front of Dad and Dad got up. They had an argument about who was going to lead. They couldn’t get started. They had arms on each other and arms stuck up in the air. Diddy said they looked like a teapot. The music finished and Uncle Jack wound it up again.

  ‘You’re bloody useless,’ he said to Dad and they laughed and laughed.

  ‘Dance with me!’ cried Diddy, jumping up and running to Uncle Jack.

  They danced, the four of them, Diddy with Uncle Jack, Beatrice with Dad, on the cold dark sand at the edge of the firelight. It was thumpy music that made Beatrice’s feet stamp up and down, sometimes on Dad’s toes, and her head wag from side to side. When the music got faster, Dad picked her up and hugged her and twirled her so her face was on his shoulder. She looked to see if Diddy was being twirled by Uncle Jack. She wasn’t. Diddy was doing real dancing, with Uncle Jack telling her what to do with her feet. Then the music and dancing stopped and Mum clapped, crying out, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’

  Dad said it was time to go. The tide was coming up. Mum folded her chair and blanket. The plates were scraped onto the fire and stacked inside the pot. Bottles were picked up. Serviettes and sauce. All of it went back in the boot of the car with the gramophone which once more looked like a small suitcase.

  Uncle Jack got in the car and started it. It moved forward, then back and the wheels spun. He got out and looked. ‘I need your help, Frank. We’re in a bit of loose sand.’

  Dad bent over to look at the back of the car. ‘A push should do it. Agnes, you get in. Put it in second and use the clutch. We’ll rock it out.’

  Dad, Uncle Jack, Diddy and Beatrice, put their weight against the back of the car. The engine made a loud noise as though it was hurting and the wheels spun, throwing sand back at them. Then the car sank down, even lower than before.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled Dad.

  ‘Too much bloody throttle,’ muttered Uncle Jack. ‘We’re really stuck.’

  ‘What do you want me to do now?’ Mum called.

  ‘Nothing, dear,’ said Dad. ‘Just come out. We’re right down on the axle. We’ll have to think of something else.’

  Mum stood with Diddy and Beatrice while Dad and Uncle Jack went around the car, bending down, looking, talking about the tide.

  Uncle Jack said, ‘I’ll whizz back to the camp. There’ll be someone there to pull us out.’

  ‘Not with this tide,’ said Dad. ‘They wouldn’t risk it. It’ll have to be a tractor.’

  Uncle Jack began to roll a cigarette. ‘Where the blazes do you get a tractor this time of night?’

  ‘There’s that bloke,’ said Dad. ‘He launches boats.’

  ‘Not at night,’ said Uncle Jack.

  ‘He’s got a farm down Beach Road. He’ll come. He does this sort of thing. Skipper, his name is. Skipper Emanuel. It’s a bit of a walk.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘Tell me where it is.’

  They argued for a bit. Dad said he’d go because he knew the farm. Uncle Jack said, no, he should go because he’d got them in this shit, pardon his French. Dad said it would be better for Jack to stay with the car. Agnes and the girls could go back to the caravan. No, said Mum, she didn’t fancy the idea of going through the sandhills in the dark. They would all stay at the car. Then Uncle Jack asked, was Dad sure they couldn’t get a tow from the camping ground and Dad said with what? Look at the tide.

  ‘Well, I’ll get the bloke with the tractor,’ said Uncle Jack, ‘and that’s final. A man should stay with his family.’

  ‘You don’t know where it is,’ said Dad.

  ‘Then bloody tell me,’ said Uncle Jack, and Dad said, ‘Where’s the torch, I’m going.’

  Dad walked away, the light at his back quickly fading so that after a while all they saw was the occasional sweep of the torch. They sat on the log, Diddy, Uncle Jack, Mum, Beatrice, and it was so quiet they could hear the breathing of the sea and the small noises of the collapsing embers. The fire was dying and the darkness was huge.

  Mum looked first at Beatrice, then at Diddy. ‘What dirty faces! And your hands! Have you two seen yourselves?’

  Beatrice studied her hands. She wiped her mouth with her knuckles.

  Mum went to the car, opened and closed a door and came back with a towel. ‘Now. Go down to the edge of the sea, both of you. Dip the corner of the towel in the water. Wash your faces and hands, then dry yourselves with the rest of it.’

  ‘I’ll do it back at the camp,’ said Diddy.

  ‘You’ll do it now,’ said Mum. ‘You’re filthy. I’m not having you in the car like that.’

  ‘We haven’t got the torch,’ said Beatrice. She looked to Uncle Jack for support but he was just smoking and looking at the fire.

  ‘The tide’s half in,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not very far.’

  ‘But it’s dark!’ she cried.

  ‘Go on,’ said Mum. ‘Diddy’ll be with you.’

  Diddy snatched the towel from Mum and walked ahead towards the sea. Beatrice ran to catch up before the dark grabbed her. She reached for Diddy’s arm but Diddy shook her off, so Beatrice hung onto the end of the towel. The sky, sand and water were all as black as black and she couldn’t even see where she was putting her feet. Diddy was scared too, because she was walking slower. The only way they knew there was water in front of them was the breathing noise which was getting louder, waves going in and out, in and out. Beatrice was filled with the fear of yesterday, the sensation of falling and the sea rolling her back along the rough sand. When she added that to the darkness, she knew she could not go any further. She stopped and began to cry. ‘Dad told me not to go near the sea!’

  ‘Dad did say that!’ said Diddy. ‘He did. I heard him.’ She grabbed Beatrice’s hand. They turned and ran back towards the small glow of the fire, the towel trailing in the sand behind them.

  Mum and Uncle Jack were not on the log. They were not anywhere. Diddy walked to the car, pulling Bea along with one hand, the towel with the other. That’s where they found them. Mum and Uncle Jack. They were leaning against the other side of the car and they were kissing. Mum’s hands were on the back of Uncle Jack’s head and neck and his arms were around her. It was a long kiss.

  Maybe there was a noise. Perhaps Mum saw the girls. Suddenly, she pushed Uncle Jack away and turned, one hand holding the car door. ‘You didn’t wash!’ she said to Diddy.

  Beatrice thought that Diddy would explain but Diddy didn’t say anything. She just stood there, the towel hanging in the sand.

  Uncle Jack rubbed his eye. ‘Well, I reckon tha
t’s taken care of it. Can’t feel anything.’ He looked at Diddy and Beatrice. ‘I got a bit of sand in my eye. Your mother was just getting it out for me.’

  Mum said, ‘These two are always getting things in their eyes. They know what it’s like.’

  ‘Sure feels better,’ said Uncle Jack, blinking one eye, then the other in a way that twisted his mouth.

  Still Diddy did not speak.

  Beatrice said, ‘I was scared. Dad said don’t go near the water.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum. ‘Of course!’ She took the towel from Diddy, shook it and folded it. ‘I’m sorry, Bea. I was forgetting. You can wash back at the camping ground.’

  ‘When is Dad coming?’ Beatrice wanted to know.

  ‘He’ll be a little while yet,’ said Mum. ‘He has to go to Mr Emanuel’s farm. Why don’t we sit on the log and have a singsong?’ She held their arms and guided them back to the fire and they sat down on either side of her. ‘Who wants to start?’ she said.

  ‘I know an old lady who swallowed a fly,’ said Beatrice.

  Uncle Jack stood behind them. He put his fingertips down hardly touching Mum’s shoulders. He said, ‘Sure as eggs, there’s someone at the camp can give us a tow. I’m going to ask.’ Then he turned and walked towards the sandhills.

  Beatrice started, ‘I know an old lady who swallowed a fly. I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.’

  Mum stood up. ‘I’d better go too. You know what Uncle Jack’s like. He’ll probably get lost. Listen. I want you two to sit in the car. All right? Stay in the car and don’t get out. Your Dad’s right. No one at the camp will come to our rescue. But that’s Uncle Jack for you. We’ll be back before you know it.’ She opened the door, guided them into the back seat and gave them her blanket. Diddy promptly pushed it onto the floor.

  ‘If Dad does come back first, just tell him what Uncle Jack said. We’re looking for help.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t get out of the car, whatever you do. I won’t be long.’

  Beatrice sat forward to watch her walk quickly, awkwardly through the sand in her wedge-heeled sandals. Further over, almost hidden in the darkness, stood Uncle Jack.

  It was cold in the car and Diddy had thrown the rug on the floor. Beatrice leaned over to the front seat and got Uncle Jack’s flying jacket. She pulled it over and draped it across her shoulders, chest and stomach. ‘I’m having this,’ she said.

  For once, Diddy didn’t argue. She just sat there, hitting the back of her left hand with a bit of shell or stick. Beatrice couldn’t quite see what. It must have really hurt, but Beatrice didn’t say anything because that would only make Diddy do it all the more. So she said, ‘Do you want to sing?’

  Diddy didn’t want to sing. Hit, hit, hit.

  Beatrice sang all the verses of ‘I Know an Old Lady’ and she was starting on ‘Coming Round the Mountain’ when Dad arrived. They didn’t see him come back. He gave them a fright with the sudden sweep of his torchlight over the car.

  He tapped on Diddy’s window and she wound it down. ‘We’re in luck,’ he said. ‘The tractor was on the beach and Mr Emanuel was in the store. He’ll be down soon.’ He pulled his head out of the window and looked to left and right. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Camping ground,’ said Bea. ‘They went to get a car to tow us.’

  Dad waved his arms about. ‘What did they do that for? I told Jack. It’s a tractor or nothing. They shouldn’t have left.’ His hands opened and closed. ‘Well, I’d better get back. Mr Emanuel will be waiting for me to show him the way.’ He took a couple of steps backwards. ‘Are you two all right?’

  Diddy had not said a word but now she opened the car door and got out. She walked to the front of the car and stood, her hands on her hips, facing Dad. He stopped. Beatrice could see them both, dark shapes with just a ribbon of pale firelight on them. She heard Diddy say, ‘They were kissing. Dad! They were kissing!’ Then Diddy turned and got back into the car.

  Dad took another two steps backwards and stopped. He put his head down and kicked the sand, one foot, then the other, kick, kick. He walked over to the fire for no reason, kicked more sand, and walked back again. He leaned on the front of the car as though he was going to push it backwards and then he turned and marched towards the sandhills.

  Beatrice slid down under the leather flying jacket and rocked from side to side. ‘He got sand in his eye. He got sand in his eye. He got sand in his eye.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Diddy.

  It was a long time. Or was it a little time? Beatrice didn’t know. The fire was almost out, just a bit of orange here and there winking like goblin eyes, and someone was running in the darkness, out of breath. Beatrice thought it was Dad opening the driver’s door. But she saw the outline of hair and it was curly. And it was a different smell. Strong. Like the farm dogs. He was breathing really hard. His hand was going over the front seat and floor, touching things. Then he reached up and switched on the inside light. Beatrice made a quick hup noise. She couldn’t help it. Uncle Jack was hurt. He had black stuff coming out of his nose and more black on his lip and chin. One eyelid was right down over his eye and he looked awful. Just awful, awful, awful.

  ‘Sorry, Buzzy Bea.’ He didn’t even sound like Uncle Jack. He took the flying jacket off her, put out the light and closed the door. Everything was dark. She didn’t see where he went.

  ‘Diddy?’ she said. ‘Diddy?’

  Her sister was not moving. She was singing very softly, ‘I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.’

  There were other things about that day that Beatrice could not remember. Later, she put it down to the near-drowning and thought that oxygen starvation probably caused some kind of short circuit. She didn’t remember her parents getting into the car. She didn’t remember the tractor arriving. It must have come and obviously they were towed off the beach without any damage to the old Chevrolet. It must have taken them a while to get back to the camping ground and pack. All of that was missing. The only other thing she remembered was the road to Napier and the way it flowed like a river towards the lights of the car. They were driving slowly, the caravan bumping along behind them and no one was talking. Mum sat straight and still in the front passenger seat. They couldn’t even see her breathing. It was Dad who was crying. His big hands held onto each side of the wheel and every now and then a terrible noise came out of him. It was different from the way Mum or Diddy or Beatrice cried. It was bigger. Like someone dying. It shook him through and through.

  Diddy lay in the backseat corner, the rug pulled over her head. Maybe she was asleep. Beatrice sat with her thumb in her mouth, watching the river of road. It seemed as though the holiday was over. No one had said so. No one had explained anything and it was all too big for questions.

  13

  Delia

  It’s the first time Bea and I have talked about it. Really talked.

  We are sitting on the beach not far from Bea’s back fence and it’s dark enough for the lights of Wellington to twinkle like fireflies across the water. The sea and hills, sliding into evening, have an edge to them that suggests they are one step removed from reality. It would take an artist like Jackson Pollock or maybe the composer Erik Satie to trickle the melting colours and shapes into an abstract composition.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Bea asks.

  We have a wine bottle anchored in the sand and a couple of glasses carried from the house, sheer excess because we have already had wine with an excellent dinner.

  ‘Why did I do it? I’m not sure, Bea. It could be that I don’t want to know, but I think I genuinely don’t know. Children are not reflective. They don’t analyse and name their emotions. My feelings as a child were like strong winds. They seemed to come from nowhere and go nowhere, battering me in passing. That night I had a tornado inside me. That’s all I can say for certain.’

  ‘The thing is,’ says Bea, ‘we all loved him so much. Both Mum and Dad. She must have all the time she was ignoring. And you and I. He was such. I think he was the most lovable
man I have ever met.’

  ‘I could call it jealousy.’ I tell her. ‘But that’s too simple. Emotions are rarely as distinct as our rational evaluation makes them. Do you realise that it was almost exactly forty-five years ago?’

  She sips her wine in silence and I suspect that we are both wondering how an event that old could happen only last night in our memory. If we lived for another forty-five years, I guess it would still be as recent.

  ‘The silence was the worst thing,’ says Bea. ‘Like a great black hole in the house. You felt you always had to watch. It was always there. You were scared it would swallow you up.’

  I too, remember the silence and how careful they were with each other. ‘I suppose you realise that if it happened now, it wouldn’t even be worthy of gossip?’

  ‘I asked them once,’ she says. ‘When you were in Auckland. It was one of those awful silent dinners and I asked. “What became of Uncle Jack?” I said. No one said anything. I asked again. “Dad, what happened to Uncle Jack?” He said, “We don’t talk about that.” “Why?” I said. “We just don’t,” he said. She didn’t say a word. But I remember. I remember this. They both looked terrible. Not angry. More like I’d just given them a death sentence. Diddy, are you hot? Or is it just my flushes?’

  ‘It’s a warm night.’

  ‘Once,’ she says. ‘Once when Dad was in town at the saleyards. I came off the school bus. I heard her. She was playing that music.’

  ‘The “Moonlight”?’

  ‘No, no.’ Bea clicks her fingers. ‘“Black and White Rag”. But she stopped when she saw me walk past the window. I never heard it again.’

  ‘Did they ever mention him in later years?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I really don’t think they talked at all. You know, between themselves. If they did they might have. It went on for so long. They seemed stuck. Heck, it’s hot. We should have a swim. Not that they ever really talked to us, either. Mum said more to Mrs Rawiri than to me. Maybe that was because Mrs Rawiri didn’t understand much English.’ She laughs, then says, ‘You still haven’t told me about your Italian dressing gown. Your robe.’