How the Light Gets In

by Hyland, M. J.

  Tom begins to walk backwards, pulling me with him.

  It’s darker in the hall and I want us to stay here. I don’t want him to be in his own room; a boyhood world so utterly owned by him, smelling of him and everything he has done. I wish we were in a neutral, jointly discovered place.

  I guide him towards the banister so that he leans there. He tries to make himself shorter so that I can reach his lips more easily, and in this position his neck seems to have grown long, his back so bent it is as though his excitement has broken him.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, to tell the silence who we are.

  ‘Hi,’ he says back, and we are even.

  I am smiling because he is smiling.

  We kiss for a long time. I push down on his shoulders until eventually we reach the floor. I hold myself up on my elbows and we kiss, then I let myself go onto him and I am lying between his thighs, and rocking, when he stops.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he says and I think I know what has happened.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say as I watch him unzip and reveal, momentarily, the slack-skinned, bruise-coloured thing.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say again as he runs to the nearest of five bathrooms.

  A few minutes later Tom comes out of the bathroom carrying a towel and he stares at me. His face is not as pleasant as it was before, but not unpleasant either. He looks worn out, as though recovering from an illness, and a little resentful.

  He pulls me up to my feet, even though I want to stay where I am, and kisses me on the mouth for a long time. I feel drowsy and want to be unconscious.

  ‘I want to go to sleep,’ I say.

  We walk lopsidedly towards the spare room with the four-poster bed, and when we get inside he pulls back the covers. I am too drugged to have a complete thought in my head. He will think that I have disappeared, and, in a way, I have.

  ‘I’ll tuck you in,’ he says. ‘Do you want some tea or something?’

  His voice is nervous, shaky, smaller.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Stay here. I’ll tuck you in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  In the doorway he stops and comes back, holds my foot and says, ‘I lost my virginity a few months ago with a girl I’ve known all my life.’

  He puts his hand limply and reassuringly on my thigh as though he hasn’t the energy to lie.

  ‘Then I had sex again about a week later with her cousin when we all got drunk at a party and then one more time with my old friend after that.’

  Sure, I think, drifting off to sleep.

  Tom wakes me with a cup of coffee. He sits on the end of the bed with his guitar, finally out of its box.

  ‘How you doin’?’ he asks.

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five o’clock.’

  ‘Should I leave?’

  ‘No. My parents won’t be home till late, and even if they came home earlier, it wouldn’t matter. They’re completely relaxed.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I say.

  ‘Do you wanna hear some songs?’

  His accent suddenly sounds a lot less Scottish and a lot more American.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  Tom isn’t quite the musical fraud I thought he was.

  He plays classical and folk guitar, and sings well. He has a voice of his own, not a copy of somebody else’s, just like his face. He plays some songs I know well, songs I know inside out, songs that pour out of me whenever I’m alone in the flat in Sydney and I’ve had a few drinks.

  But I cannot join in. I barely manage to hum, and even then my throat feels like it’s been rammed with a length of stiff rope.

  ‘Do you have any requests?’

  ‘Not really.’

  There are some songs I’d love to hear; that I’d love to sing with him. My mind reels with instant fantasies of Tom and me singing duets in bars; dressed as sleek as otters, looking alike, passing knowing glances as though we share the secret language of the gifted and urbane.

  ‘You must know this one,’ he says. ‘Everybody knows this one.’

  He starts.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you sing? I bet you can.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but only when I’m in the right mood.’

  ‘Come on, I’d love to sing with you. I’ve been wanting to sing with you since we first met.’

  I sing, quietly at first and then, when he stops looking at me, a little louder.

  But it’s no good. We both know it’s no good. I can hardly believe the transformation; mouth dried up and breathing desperate and shallow. I sound dreadful.

  Tom is embarrassed for me and when the song’s finished he leans the guitar against the bed and looks at it is though to say it is to blame for my terrible singing.

  ‘That was fun,’ he says flatly.

  ‘That was shocking,’ I say. ‘I can’t sing when I’ve just woken up.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says, still feeling sorry for me for being a bad singer; the kind of pity only a good singer can feel. Probably also wishing I had complimented him some more.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ I say, getting up out of the bed. ‘Keep playing. Please. I need a quick shower to wake myself up and then a few glasses of water, then we’ll sing some more.’

  He starts to get up.

  ‘Hey, now there’s something I’ve always wanted to do.’

  I kiss him on the nose. ‘Maybe next time. I feel like showering by myself.’

  There’s a bar fridge in the ensuite in Tom’s parents’ room. I take four miniature bottles of gin and two of whisky – the kind you get on planes. I get under the shower. It’s surprisingly easy to drink alcohol quickly with water running all over your body.

  The water is probably too hot and when I get out, the doll’s-house-size plastic bottles emptied, I need to crouch on the pink fluffy bath mat for a minute to regain my balance.

  I brush my teeth and open the door, and just as I’d hoped, Tom is still playing. Not only that, but he’s playing a song I know well. I sit on the bed and start to sing.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, his mouth, especially the left side, reaching up towards his happy, watery eyes, ‘You sound great. You sound really great.’

  He plays a dozen or more songs and I sing all of them. Sometimes I harmonise, even though I’ve never done it before.

  ‘Wow!’ he says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Sorry about before. Like I said, I can never sing when I’ve just woken up. It’s just one of those things.’

  The guitar is on the floor and we are huddled together in the middle of the queen-size bed.

  ‘Do you think we could pull the curtains around the bed?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I was just about to think of that.’

  Tom pulls the curtains around the bed and we are cast in a smoky blue light as though sitting in a chunk of trapped sky. The world seems utterly irrelevant, as though whatever we do next won’t have happened at all.

  I pull my top up over my head, slowly, so that for a good while I can’t see out, my face covered, and the sense of Tom’s eyes on my breasts ripples through me.

  By the time I pull my top down and look at Tom my nipples are cold and hard.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you’re sexy,’ he says.

  This moment cannot be capsized.

  ‘Let’s see how long we can just stay like this,’ I say. ‘Let’s see how long we can last.’

  After dinner with the Hardings, I decide not to go straight to my room. I’m still softened by the alcohol and feel like talking to them; it’s been a while since we had any kind of conversation.

  I visit Margaret in her study. I put my head in the door, ‘I’m going to bed early,’ I say. ‘But I just thought I should check in case there were any chores you’d like me to do.’

  ‘Hi,’ she says. She closes the lid on her laptop and moves forward as though getting ready for a long chat. ‘How’s school?’

  I
stay in the doorway even though she gestures for me to sit down.

  ‘It’s fine. The teachers are great and I think I’ve chosen the right subjects.’

  Margaret rolls a pen across the desk. ‘Who are your friends, Lou?’

  My heart flickers. ‘Just people in my classes,’ I say.

  ‘These days,’ she says, ‘it’s important to make contacts as well as friends. It’s a tough world out there. You won’t survive on your brains alone.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I know.’

  She smiles. ‘Well, it’ll be getting much colder soon. We’ll have to go shopping for some new clothes.’ She looks me up and down.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, bewildered by this intelligent woman’s obsession with shopping and the clothes that people wear. I wonder if she and Henry ever had that discussion about me visiting their family doctor. I decide to ask her, in spite of my embarrassment, but she opens the lid of her laptop and clears her throat.

  ‘Lou. Don’t forget that you can hang out with Bridget if you’d like to. She’s always there for you. You don’t have to spend time with people who you don’t really like.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Just don’t forget that Bridget would like some of your company. Don’t be a stranger to her. Okay?’

  Bridget doesn’t even like me. I don’t even know how to talk about any of the things she likes to talk about, and yet, I’m flattered.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Bye.’

  I poke my head inside the door of Henry’s den. He’s smoking his pipe and he looks as though the novelty of life has completely run out on him, and yet, as though, if somebody gave him a surprise, the novelty would come back.

  Perhaps he looks sad because he is so fair and because his eyebrows are almost invisible – albino invisible.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Could I maybe sit in here and just read for a while?’

  Henry frowns. ‘It’s probably better if you read in your room tonight. I’ve got a bit to do here.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say and turn to leave.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asks. I turn around. He takes the pipe out from between his lips.

  ‘Excellent,’ I say.

  ‘Have you checked the schedule?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s my turn to make dinner tomorrow night and I’ll have to get home early.’

  ‘That’s the way,’ he says, ending all hope of conversation.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I say.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I go to Bridget’s room and knock on the door. She’s on the phone.

  ‘I’m on the phone,’ she says and I realise I’ve never been in her room with her in it.

  I go to my room, still a bit tipsy, and sing just about every song I know. I sing at the top of my voice. My heart races when I hear noises outside my room, but I don’t stop. My voice is working well and I want the Hardings to hear it.

  It is nearly ten o’clock when James knocks on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  He sits in the chair by my desk. I’m sitting on the bed, cross-legged.

  ‘You sound good,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He looks at the books on my desk; most of them are Russian and Norwegian novels that have nothing to do with school.

  He smiles at me. ‘I think those notes you’ve been sending are really weird …’ He stops but I can tell there’s more he wants to say.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, hangdog as hell. ‘I thought everybody liked them.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I don’t mean weird in a bad way. They’re really good. We were all just talking about them earlier.’

  ‘Really?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, but maybe you should stop now, you know. They’re really good, but maybe there’ve been enough.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, dumbfounded.

  ‘So, anyway,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry about what happened, you know… that night ages ago.’

  ‘Which night?’ I say cruelly.

  He stands up suddenly and moves towards the bed. ‘You know?’ he says.

  ‘On the trip?’

  ‘Yes.’ He stands awkwardly, arms lost by his side. ‘Can I give you a hug?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, but when he presses too hard into my body and we both begin to lean backwards on the bed, I push him away.

  ‘Let’s stop,’ I say. ‘It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘You’re such a tease,’ he says. ‘You’re driving me insane. I wish you’d never come to this house.’

  He walks to the door. ‘And you smell funny,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, about to start crying. ‘I guess you can’t help it.’

  I look away. He recovers quickly and then in a low voice, his back against the door, he says, ‘I came to say I’m sorry but now I want to sleep in your bed …’

  Suddenly he’s crying, snorting back snot.

  I stand up and put out my hand. ‘Let’s just shake hands like you Americans all love to do so much and forget about all this.’

  He starts to cry again. ‘Oh fuck,’ he says.

  I hug him as carefully as I can, my groin held away from his, my right hand stroking his arm.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say, ‘but we have to get on with things. We could both get in heaps of trouble and I could get sent home. We have to forget all about it.’

  He hugs me hard and won’t let go. ‘Have you fallen in love with me too?’ he asks, his wet nose on my neck.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie, ‘but we can’t do anything. We have to keep it all in our heads.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, his hand gripping the door handle. ‘I better go to bed, but if you ever can’t sleep …’

  I just nod.

  James opens the door again. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘the auditions for the school musical are on Friday night. Bridget said maybe you should try out.’

  I can’t sleep. I think about auditioning and it terrifies me. I don’t even like musicals. But if I can do this, maybe I can do other things. Maybe I can learn to be confident. Maybe I will change – if I do this. If I do this one thing – if I can do this one thing right – I’ll change who I am forever.

  15

  The auditions are held in the school’s dark basement, in the vast auditorium, where all assemblies and prize presentations take place. I take a few sips of gin and then sign up at a table outside the entrance.

  The musical is an original called Hippydrome: Hits of the Sixties and Seventies. It’s not so much a musical as a collection of hit songs strung together with a script written by the musical director, David Babbitt, and his drama students.

  ‘Name?’ asks a boy with fat fingers and big ears.

  ‘Louise Connor,’ I say.

  ‘You’re number eighteen,’ he says. ‘You can wait here if you want, or go somewhere else. It’s gonna be about twenty minutes, at least.’

  I sit and wait and I feel sick with nerves. Then I imagine singing on opening night with the Hardings in the audience and I am nauseated, even though one of the reasons I want to do this is to show off to them. I go to the toilet and drink some more gin.

  My number is called and I go into the auditorium. A woman wearing a red poncho waves me over to the piano and I walk with my hand shielding my eyes from the floodlights. Only the front rows of the audience can be seen, but it’s noisy out there. There must be a hundred people or more.

  I don’t care. The alcohol has settled in. I am edgeless, tall, light, quick and powerful.

  ‘What are you going to sing?’ asks a man in the front row.

  I have decided on a song from Annie Get Your Gun. A stupid idea, but I thought they might like it. I’m not even sure I know the right title. ‘“I Can Do Anything Better Than You Can”,’ Isay.

  ‘No you can’t!’ screams a joker in the back of the auditorium. I couldn’t care less who it is. I even think this is a fairly funny remark.

  A man cries out, ‘Keep it down.’


  The woman in the red poncho asks me what key I want her to play in and I don’t have a clue. I want to say, You could play the front door key for all I care but instead I say, ‘It doesn’t matter. You choose.’

  Somebody laughs with a short snort. It sounds like James. Perhaps it is James. I don’t care. I’m indestructible. I’m not even blushing. I’m high as a kite.

  I sing better than I ever have, as though some kind of spell has been cast. It’s a voice I didn’t know belonged to me and I don’t want to stop singing. I don’t have to stop. I get all the way to the end of the song without interruption. From what I know of what happens at auditions, at least in the movies, this must be a good sign.

  I peer into the front row. The director introduces himself. His name is Paul, a skinny man with a skinny moustache. Beside him is David Babbitt, bald, without a moustache.

  David calls out, ‘Okay, we’ll see you back here tomorrow. Six o’clock. Sharp.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘That’s great.’

  The morning after the audition I catch up with Bridget as she is heading out the door to go to the river to hang out with her friends. The top she’s wearing under her jacket is small and tight, like a bandage worn to protect a pair of broken ribs. Bridget and I don’t see each other at school, and she is hardly ever at home during the day on weekends. I want to talk to her; not just because I am convinced that she is the reason Margaret and Henry found out about my smoking, but because it’s making me worry. Without her on my side, I don’t think things will work out the way I need them to. Maybe I just want to be nice. Maybe I would enjoy being nice. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s making me do something.

  ‘Thanks for passing on the tip about the audition,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘What audition?’

  She is still walking. As usual, her body tells me that she’s in a great hurry and that she has somewhere better to be and somebody more interesting to see.

  ‘James said you heard me singing and told him to tell me about the auditions.’