Zarlok/Arthur: Begone from my court, for you are no true knight unless you manage to do a brave deed to make up for this.
Balyn leaves, riding Slyder.
Ironstrike/Launceor: Your Majesty, I would fain ride after this passing foul knight and seek revenge.
Zarlok/Arthur: I would that you would do this.
Launceor leaves, riding Atrox. Merlin suddenly appears.
Hateshi/Merlin: Hear me, King Arthur. All sorts of terrible things will now happen. But I will follow Balyn and try to fix some of them up.
ACT TWO
The Hills of Wales.
Ironstrike/Launceor: Stop, Balyn! I am going to punish you for what you did.
Fleshbane/Balyn: But the damsel I slew was the evillest damsel in the world, and besides, a madness came over me.
Ironstrike/Launceor: Make you ready, base knight!
They fight. Balyn smites Launceor dead. Enter a damsel.
Crystal/Damsel 2: Oh, Balyn, what have you done? I loved Launceor. I will kill myself.
Damsel 2 takes sword and kills herself. Enter Balan, riding Atrox.
Karkin/Balan: Oh, brother, what have you done?
Fleshbane/Balyn: Well, I didn’t kill her, because she killed herself, and I only killed Launceor because he was trying to kill me, and I know I killed the Lady of the Lake, but she was evil, and also a madness came over me.
Karkin/Balan: And must we now endure further adventures?
Fleshbane/Balyn: Yes, brother, because now I am going to kill King Ryon so that Arthur will forgive me.
Karkin/Balan: And I will come with you and help you, as a brother ought to do.
Enter Merlin.
Hateshi/Merlin: Hold! I have advice for you!
Fleshbane/Balyn: Lo, it is Merlin.
Hateshi/Merlin: Yes, it is me, Merlin, and if you follow me you shall do a passing knightly deed. But woe to you, Balyn, for you will strike the Dolorous Stroke.
Fleshbane/Balyn: But why?
Hateshi/Merlin: Because that is how it must be.
Fleshbane/Balyn: But that is passing unfair.
Hateshi/Merlin: Lo! I cannot help it.
Cross-legged on the floor, I began to despair. There were still many twists and turns to come, and much swapping around of actors. I couldn’t help feeling there was something bizarre about Crystal playing many different damsels, especially when most of the damsels died so rapidly. And Balyn’s continued emphasis on how none of it was his fault was beginning to sound like whiny self-justification, which hadn’t at all been the effect I’d meant to create. These were problems I found hard to solve or circumvent, and there was still such a lot of story to come. The anxiety of it crowded into my throat—the huge furry tennis ball again, blocking everything—and threatened to choke me. I tried to breathe deeply and slowly, closing my eyes, rocking on the floor, concentrating on the calm thoughts my mother had recommended. And I tried to think of words: amorous, dolorous, prodigious, scullion, globular, hospitable, testimony, apparition, distillery, accursed. I murmured these to myself, and by and by I was soothed.
We were back at school by now. I was becoming used to my glasses, and beginning even to enjoy wearing them. Although I still felt some self-consciousness, the girls in my class had ceased giggling at me, and I was able to retreat into the unremarkable state which was my modus operandi for survival.
Coming home on the Thursday afternoon, I realised that my head ached, and I was feeling sick and dizzy. In order to escape visiting the football again, I had said several times (looking melancholy) that the glasses made me feel exactly like this—sick and dizzy—when it was not really true, and I wondered if I were being punished for my deceit.
I stumbled as I got off the tram and Pippa grabbed at my arm. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked. ‘God, Nicky, you’re a terrible colour. You’ve gone all icky grey. Are you all right?’
‘My head hurts,’ I said.
‘Are you having one of your turns?’ I could hear the panic in her voice.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Oh, hell,’ said Pippa. ‘Nicky, listen, I can’t carry you home. You’ve got to walk. Give me your bag. Now, concentrate. One foot ahead of the other, okay?’
It was good advice, but I couldn’t follow it. I stood, holding Pippa’s arm, fighting the dizziness. Two or three minutes must have passed like this.
‘Can you walk now?’ Pippa asked. I could tell she was trying not to sound impatient.
‘I think so.’
‘You can keep on holding onto me, if that helps.’
It helped. Together we tottered along, Pippa carrying my schoolbag for me—for perhaps the first and last time in our lives—until we reached home. I lurched upstairs and promptly fell into the deep sleep I craved, from which I blearily awoke an hour or two later to find my mother with her hand on my forehead.
‘Nicky, darling, you’re burning up,’ she said, running her other hand through her curls. ‘Do you feel terrible?’
‘Mmmm,’ I said.
‘Headache? Tummy ache? Do you feel sick?’
‘Mmmm.’
She gave me some aspirin and sat with me a little while before I fell asleep again. She stroked my hair and sang in her husky voice an old song that she had sung to me when I was little. We used to call it the Magic Sleepy Song: there was something about its rhythms that I’d always found comforting.
One, two, three, four, five,
Once I caught a fish alive.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
Then I let it go again.
Why did you let it go?
Because it bit my finger so.
Which finger did it bite?
This little finger on the right.
She paused and then whispered, ‘Are you still awake, Nicky?’
She sang it once more. I was asleep well before the song’s end.
When I woke late the next morning, after a broken, blurry night, Grandpa was sitting beside my bed, reading.
As soon as I opened my eyes he laid his book aside. ‘Hello, old chap.’
‘Hello, Grandpa,’ I said. I lay and smiled at him, partly because I couldn’t think of anything to say and partly because it was nice to see him there. ‘Am I sick?’ I asked.
‘I think you might be better now,’ said Grandpa, laying his hand on my forehead in exactly the way my mother had done. ‘Yes, I would say you’re a lot better now. How do you feel?’
‘Okay. My head isn’t hurting.’
‘Something to eat?’
‘No, thank you. I still feel awfully tired, Grandpa.’
‘You just snuggle up and stay there. Your mum’ll be home at lunchtime. I’ll be here till then.’
I dozed off again, and woke some hours later to hear low voices in the doorway of my room.
‘Thanks so much, Dad,’ said my mother’s voice.
‘Not a worry,’ Grandpa said, as he always did when thanked for anything. ‘He’s slept most of the time, in fact.’
‘It’s always the same, you know: the sudden high temp, the deep sleep, and then he bounces back. I always wonder, you know, is this the time I should take him down to the doctor?’
‘I think he’s probably fine,’ said Grandpa. And then, ‘Would you like Rose to pop across and see him? Just to make sure?’
‘Rose?’
‘Rose is an excellent nurse,’ said Grandpa. ‘I assume Nicky mentioned to you—ah—’
‘Yes,’ said my mother hurriedly. I could sense the embarrassment hanging thick between them. ‘Yes, um, Nicky did say—’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Of course, I was going to tell you. Eventually. But perhaps it’s just as well it’s out in the open.’
‘But, Dad, what were you going to tell me? I mean, what exactly?’
‘Only that I have formed a loving relationship with Rose. That I care about her very much.’
There was silence. I lay still and breathed as sleepily as I knew how.
‘Dad, it’s
really hard for me to come at this.’
‘I understand that, Jen.’
‘I mean—I don’t want to be—well—Dad, Didie’s only just—’
‘I know what you’re saying,’ said Grandpa tranquilly. ‘And I know you’re probably thinking, silly old fool, what does he imagine he’s doing.’
‘Of course I don’t—’
‘Well, I think you probably do, and I can’t blame you for that. But, Jen, when you get used to the idea, when you’ve had time to get used to it’—his voice quickened—‘well, when you get to know Rose and discover what a truly wonderful person she is, then you’ll understand a little better, and I promise you, Jen, you’ll feel a lot happier about it all. Believe me, you’ll love her. You’ll all love her.’
‘How old is Rose?’ A more direct approach, I thought.
‘She’s a lot younger than I am. I know, dear.’
‘How old?’
‘She’s thirty-one.’ This startled me: thirty-one seemed terribly old to me and I had always thought of Rose as very young.
My mother made a hissing noise that could almost have been a whistle. ‘Dad, it’s not just that she’s younger than you. She’s younger than me. I’m forty-two. Dad, I’m your daughter.’
‘Dear, it really doesn’t have anything to do with how old one is.’
‘It does, Dad. That’s just it. You’re not thinking of—of marrying her?’
‘Of course we’re going to get married. We love each other.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ said my mother, her voice thick with bewilderment.
That evening I came downstairs in my dressing-gown and pyjamas and was installed, wrapped in a quilt, in the sunroom. My mother fussed around and brought me drinks and turned the television on. I was even allowed to have the remote control, a new luxury in our household. I was ensconced and comfortable when my father came home and lounged into the kitchen for his Friday night whisky. I lowered the television volume and strained my ears.
‘He seems okay,’ my father observed. I heard the glug-glug of liquid and then the clink-clink of ice cubes. I could imagine the jerk of his head in my direction.
‘He’s a lot better,’ said my mother. ‘Frank, pour one of those for me, will you?’
‘Bad day?’
I heard glug-glug and clink-clink again.
‘You could say that.’
‘Did you talk to Dan?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘It’s terrible, Frank. Worse than I could have imagined.’
‘Really?’
‘He says he loves her.’
‘Oh,’ said my father.
‘He says she’s a truly wonderful person and that we’re all going to get to love her,’ cried my mother.
My father clinked the ice in his glass. I imagined his perplexed expression.
‘Honestly,’ she went on. ‘It’s as if she’s put some kind of spell on him. He doesn’t see how ridiculous it all is. He’s always been such a sensible man, Frank. What has that bitch done to him?’
‘Did he say anything about marriage?’
‘Yes! Yes! He says they’re going to get married!’
‘Oh my God,’ said my father.
My father had other reasons to be despondent. The Hawks that week were to play Footscray. Judge had been dropped, and it was my father’s opinion that Judge should never be dropped: Judge with a broken leg, he said, was worth three other full-bodied players. On the other hand, Knights, Byrne and Buckenara were back; so was Loveridge, a star rover who had been out with injury all season so far.
I was spared because of my illness from being drafted into accompanying my father on Saturday afternoon, although I knew it was only a matter of time before he demanded that I test my glasses out at a match. So he went off to Princes Park, gloomily, on his own. I spent much of the day in the sunroom, tucked in the warm quilt, reading and dozing, while my mother dragged out her old briefcase and attacked the pile of essays that seemed never to diminish. When my mother marked essays she murmured to herself, and ran her hands through her hair, and occasionally exclaimed softly. I was used to this and found it soothing.
My father’s return was triumphant.
‘We’re consolidating, Nicky,’ he said, rubbing his hands. He always loved it when one of the commentators said Hawthorn was consolidating. ‘Back to the top of our form, and sitting fourth on the ladder.’
‘Is Essendon still on top?’ I asked meanly.
He looked depressed again, but only for a moment.
‘Yes, but, hey, we’ll knock ’em off. You should have seen Knights, Nicky. Dobbed one four minutes into the first quarter. And Lethal kicked six. What a hero! And you should have seen Wallace! Bottom of every pack!’
‘How much did we win by?’ I asked. I knew to say we instead of you.
‘Nineteen points. And I tell you what, Nicky, that Michael Byrne might be a lot better than we thought. Had a couple of excellent moments. Morris and Ayres, too,’ he said, meditatively. ‘Rock-solid defence.’
‘They’ve got what it takes,’ I said. This was an expression my father used to signify the highest possible approbation. Dermie and Judge and Buckenara all had what it took. So did Knights. Leigh Matthews had more of this quality than anybody else. I was never absolutely sure what it was that it took, or how it took it, but I knew it was a telling phrase, and so it proved.
I was back at school the following week. It was the end of autumn, and Melbourne’s wintry days were starting to set in: grey and dark by late afternoon, dismal misty rain, cold dank mornings. What my father cheerfully called good footy weather.
My mother had a sick colleague whose classes she was taking. It meant she was later home than usual, more often than usual. She muttered darkly about this, but not as darkly as my father, who did not regard his responsibilities as extending to the kitchen.
‘How long will this go on for?’ He asked one cold evening when we were all hungry and she didn’t make it home until after seven. She gestured at the refrigerator.
‘It’s all in here, Frank. I told you I’d be late. Look.’ She threw open the fridge door so forcefully that a small jar fell out of it. She lunged at it, but too late: it clattered to the floor and broke. She sucked her breath in. ‘It’s all here; it only needed heating up. Or should I ask Pippa? Or Nicky? I mean, is it too difficult to ask you to turn the oven on and put something in it?’ She grabbed the casserole and lifted it out.
‘How am I supposed to know I’m meant to do this?’ asked my father. ‘I don’t have ESP, you know. I’m not bloody telepathic.’
‘I left you a bloody note,’ shouted my mother, gesturing at the bench. It was true that a note was there, but it was hidden under the lunch boxes Pippa and I had left on top of it when we came home.
Pippa took an almost sprightly interest in these squabbles, but I was unable to feel equally stoical about them. My parents got testy with each other, but they didn’t usually shout. It made me feel sick.
They made up later, in a manner of speaking, while my mother was stacking the dishes. ‘I can’t help it, Frank. They’ve asked me to do it, and I said I would, and I have to. It’s hard for you, but it’s hard for me too.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But for how long?’
‘I don’t know. It looks as if Maddy has to have an operation.’
‘Yes, Jenny, but it’s just not professional that you should keep on taking on her stuff. They have to get a replacement.’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘Couldn’t you do some of the work at home? Why do you have to stay at school?’
There was a clatter of cutlery. ‘It’s quicker and easier to do it at school. All Maddy’s resources are there. And I can concentrate better.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Frank, please don’t keep at me. I’m doing my best.’
‘It’s only you I’m thinking of,’ grumbled my father.
‘I’m sure you are,’ replied my mother,
with no conviction.
My father had a lot on his mind already. Brereton had done a hammy at training. Chris Langford was taking Brereton’s place in the forward line for the game against Carlton. But Langford was a full-back; and in any case, so far as my father was concerned, nobody in the world could replace Dermie.
Now that Hawthorn was consolidating its position, my father was also keeping a weather eye on the progress of other teams and the status of their champions. Neale Daniher was back at Essendon and playing with his brother Terry after a prolonged period of injury: the reunion of the great Daniher brothers struck fear into the heart of all Essendon enemies. Ablett was continuing to wreak havoc for Geelong; Peter Moore at Melbourne had done both back and hammy. These were matters for contemplation.
I had launched my cast of players at a new project, one which I felt would be more achievable than the Balyn fiasco. I wanted something with fewer dramatis personae (a phrase I loved) and a simpler story. I chose Romeo and Juliet.
It might seem an odd choice, but, for a love story, it also contained a heartening number of skirmishes and murders. And it had always been a favourite of mine, despite it being a love story. I was captivated by the passage in which Romeo first catches sight of Juliet:
And they fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor—beauty too rich for use, too dear for earth; like a snowy dove trooping with crows, he said, so richly did her beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her companions.
The first time my mother read this to me she paused at this point. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course we wouldn’t say blackamoor these days, Nicky.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, my head ablaze with sumptuous images of richness and blackness and jewels and snowy doves and black crows.
‘It’s disrespectful. It’s like nigger. Or abo.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Can you go on, please?’
The casting was easy. Zarlok was of course Romeo; Rose was Juliet. Although the play had unpleasant people in it, there wasn’t a villain; and so, thinking I would give him a treat, I made Fleshbane play Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin. Various others played the odds and ends. I thought of identifying Montagues and Capulets with sashes of different colours (rather like opposing football teams), but I recalled my mother’s over-eagerness on the matter of Othello’s cloak and decided not to bother. It was necessary to clothe Rose, however. As Desdemona she had worn a kind of petticoat that I’d found in the bottom of the toy box. This was slightly frayed and in any case did not fit her properly, because it had originally belonged to another doll, but it was all I had. It seemed to me that for Juliet I must contrive something better.
The Starlings Page 10
