A Darker Music

by Maris Morton

  Mary could feel anger mounting. Only yesterday, Clio had been lamenting her own son’s accidental death.

  Clio must have read some of this on Mary’s face. ‘You probably think I sound heartless. But I never met Jamie. I can’t get emotional about the death of a stranger.’ Clio turned her attention back to her music, slipping a fresh CD into the player. ‘Don’t be sad. It wasn’t your fault.’ As she adjusted the earpieces, she smiled at Mary. ‘What’s for dinner? Call me when it’s ready, won’t you, and I’ll come out and eat at the table like a proper grown-up lady.’

  After dinner, Clio wandered back into her room. Mary was still feeling downcast over Jamie’s death and Clio’s indifference grated, so she wasn’t sorry to see her go.

  Later, Garth came to the back door, wiping his feet on the mat with elaborate care. ‘Thought you might be needing some more vegies,’ he said. ‘How’s the meat supply?’

  ‘I’m getting low on everything.’

  ‘Didn’t know what you’d need. You want to come and pick for yourself ?’

  Mary walked back with Garth to his place. The black cats were basking on the short grass but skittered out of their way. ‘Are those your cats?’

  ‘They’re Downe’s cats, pretty well feral. They hang around our house because young Glen gives them milk. He’s the only one can get near them. They do a good job on the rodents, though.’

  ‘How’s Gayleen?’

  Garth’s face was troubled. ‘She’s too young for this.’ He gave her an oblique look. ‘We never should’ve taken him on, really. It was the boss …’

  ‘Gayleen was fond of him, though.’

  ‘Fond! Silly kid doesn’t know what fond is. That age, it’s all hormones.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  Garth let her go through the gate first. ‘There’s a nice caulie, carrots, parsnips. What do you want, Mary?’

  ‘The cauliflower would be good, and half-a-dozen carrots. I’ve still got a few parsnips so you’d best leave them in the ground. Are there any peas? And a cabbage?’

  Garth was gathering the fresh vegetables and loading them into Mary’s arms. ‘I’ll get a bag for the peas,’ he said and ducked into the garden shed, to reappear holding a plastic bag. ‘These are the first. They’re sugar snaps, so don’t go shelling them! What about meat? You need any extra mutton?’

  ‘I got extra beef, and used stuff out of the freezer, so that’s all right. It’s just one more dinner, isn’t it.’

  ‘And cake and sangers. Just as well it’ll all be over tomorrow or I’d be putting on condition.’ He helped her carry the harvest back to the homestead.

  ‘Will you get somebody to replace Jamie?’ Mary asked.

  ‘That’s up to the boss. He wasn’t all that useful, poor little bugger. We’d probably manage without.’ He paused for a moment to ponder the coming workload. ‘Lambing’ll be starting in a week or so. Then Cec’ll be taking the rams up to Perth for the Royal so we’ll be one short. School holidays, the lads can help out, and Gayleen. Even Glory, if need be.’

  ‘Then there’s the wedding in October,’ Mary said.

  ‘That’s nothing to do with us peasants.’ He grinned at her. ‘Thank God!’

  ‘Do you know where Cec and Janet are? When I took that policeman there this morning, there was nobody home.’

  ‘I think they went out fossil hunting. If Cec manages to find something he’ll be over the moon all week. If not …’ He pulled a long face that for a split second made him look amazingly like Cec, and they both laughed.

  Once the vegetables were cleaned and stowed away, Mary mixed bread dough and put it to rise. Some crusty little rolls would be nice for tea tonight, and she could make a focaccia for morning smoko tomorrow. She’d retrieved a big packet of beef mince from the freezer to make a meatloaf for dinner, laced with bacon, garlic and breadcrumbs, and some of Clio’s excellent vintage plum sauce. She could make cauliflower cheese, and bake jacket potatoes and pumpkin. For dessert, there were still bottled peaches, plums and apricots in the pantry.

  CLIO WAS BACK in bed. Listening to CDs made the time pass swiftly. Mary had cooked her a delectable meal of honeyed prawns, and she could still taste the subtle flavours. While she’d been up, she’d sorted out a handful of fresh CDs. Today, at last, she was feeling strong enough for Schubert, and one of the discs she’d selected contained the piano quintet The Trout.

  The Tartinis had played this, once, with Margot brought in to take the important piano part, and Eric for the double bass.

  After they’d run through it a few times, they’d discussed it; a vital part of the process of familiarising themselves with the music and forming a collective interpretation of it.

  That was the weird thing about playing chamber music: you developed a kind of group consciousness, a bond so strong and yet elastic that the tiniest gesture or flicker of the eye could let you know exactly what each player was about to do. So they’d sat around, still holding their instruments, and talked about the music, with Tallis as ever their leader and master.

  ‘The main melody,’ he’d said, his face alight with the love of it, ‘is carried by the piano. Even the violin is more like a descant than a leading voice. It’s called The Trout because in the fourth movement Schubert has written a series of variations on one of his songs, the one called The Trout or, in German, Die Forelle: a much prettier title. Even so, the whole piece reminds the listener — and the players — of the young Schubert, with his friend Johann Michael Vogl, on a long summer walking tour around the Austrian countryside, pausing beside a woodland stream and experiencing a moment of perfect harmony with nature.’ He’d stopped here to give them time to imagine the scene, before going on.

  ‘In the Allegro vivace, after the opening chord, the very first notes of the piano suggest the purling water of a shallow stream, with the higher strings like a lazy breeze stirring the green leaves overhead. There are times when the strings do little more than buzz around the piano, like a cloud of mayflies. Even when the violin initiates a theme, the piano takes over, leaving the strings to play like the fickle wind, hum like insects darting over the busy water — the piano — gurgling over a pebbly bottom, with the double bass mumbling along in the background.’

  ‘The murmur of innumerable bees.’ Eric liked to quote poetry.

  ‘The changes in mood and tempo are analogous to the course of the stream, hurrying through narrow places, slowing down to spread out in sleepy pools, but singing all the way.’

  Richard, as always, played devil’s advocate: ‘But it’s just notes of music; mathematical, abstract …’

  Alison, the studious one: ‘But if Schubert called it The Trout ’ — she glanced through her eyelashes at Tallis — ‘Die Forelle, then surely he meant it to remind people of a trout stream?’

  Richard wouldn’t let this pass unchallenged. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird how we always have to look for stories? Something to hang our emotions on? As if sheer aesthetic pleasure can’t ever be enough?’ He’d shaken his head, pretending to be genuinely puzzled, but Tallis had his number.

  ‘You’d better be sure that you’re all telling the same story then!’ He gave them a quick frown then went on. ‘The Andante is calmer.’

  Clio had spoken up, her eyes fixed on Tallis’ face, trying not to stammer. ‘Like a drowsy summer afternoon …’

  ‘It’s pensive, too, though, isn’t it?’ Margot added.

  Tallis had agreed. ‘With moments of infinite tenderness. The Scherzo, now, although it’s violent to start with, steadies and fades quite soon to something that can sound’ — he’d raised an eyebrow and nodded to Richard — ‘like rain falling on leaves.’

  Predictably, Richard protested. ‘Of course, it doesn’t actually sound like rain at all!’

  ‘Ah,’ Tallis said, ‘but neither does a painting of a tree fool us for a moment that it’s actually a tree. We recognise it as a tree, though. It reminds us of a tree, we accept it as a version of a tree, an avatar,
perhaps.’ He’d glanced around at them all, one by one.

  ‘Then we come to the Theme and Variations, which starts out slow and calm, with the violin buzzing like a dragonfly flitting over the water. Then it gets faster, like birds bathing, splashing, fluttering out to shake their feathers, perch on a leafy branch to preen, then a heavy, emphatic, wakening call — and the viola: you, Clio, slow as you like, then you again with the piano and violin, and then the finale, Allegro giusto, contrasting passages that are quite boisterous with those that are calmer.’

  ‘With that funny little phrase that sounds like distant church bells.’

  ‘I think it’s more like a children’s game.’

  ‘It’s repetitive, though,’ Richard objected. ‘The whole thing’s so damned repetitive!’

  Tallis ignored him. ‘So here we are, children, sharing the intimate experience of a man, not much older than you are, who went walking with a friend through the picturesque Austrian countryside in the summer of 1819.’

  Clio could remember feeling optimistic about playing the piece. For one thing, without the usual second violin, the viola got to play a more prominent part, and the whole tone of the piece was mellow, very much to her taste. Margot had fitted in well, with a sunny temperament impossible to dislike, ready to put her whole heart into playing this music so that, for however long it took, she would be part of the group.

  It was strange how hearing the music brought the memories back so vividly. Tallis always said that music was like food: we can’t do without it. It’s something that’s eternal, true, and totally honest.

  And I’ve been trying to do without it for far too long, was Clio’s thought. Starving myself. And now I’m paying the price.

  16

  THE LAST DAY OF SHEARING was like the others. At dinner, Cookie beckoned her over. ‘See here, Cookie Two.’ He was grinning. ‘We all think you’re a reasonable sort of a bloke, so are you coming to the cut-out?’

  ‘The cut-out?’

  Cookie shook his head at her ignorance. ‘A few beers when it’s all done. Traditional. Only the best cooks get invited.’

  The prospect of drinking beer with these men didn’t enchant her, but she was pleased to have been invited nonetheless, taking it as a sign her cooking had passed the test. Garth was giving her the nod so she accepted.

  ‘Good!’ said Cookie One. ‘Garth can come and get you when we’re ready.’

  Paul and Martin had flown in while the men were eating and were now changing into their farm clothes. Mary wasted no time clearing up after the meal, mildly annoyed that she’d have to serve Paul and Martin in a separate sitting. By the time Garth arrived to collect her she had only their dishes left to wash, and dropped them into the sink to soak.

  ‘You did the right thing, accepting,’ Garth said. ‘Would’ve hurt their feelings if you’d said no.’

  ‘I won’t stay long.’

  ‘Probably best.’

  As they walked up to the shed later, Cec came hurrying past, carrying a clipboard and looking preoccupied.

  ‘Hi, Cec,’ Mary greeted him. ‘You find any fossils?’

  ‘A couple! Come and have a look later on,’ he called as he went past.

  ‘What’s he doing that looks so important?’ Mary asked.

  ‘He’s taking the tallies in so Paul can sign the cheques.’

  ‘Oh.’ Simple when you know. She remembered Young Dave and his hand. ‘Did Young Dave manage all right today?’

  ‘Yeah. He only shears part-time, like a lot of these blokes, so he’ll get over it.’

  The pens outside the shearing shed were filled with snow-white wethers, milling around and bleating anxiously. Angus was in the process of getting them out of the unaccustomed bright sunshine and back into their shed.

  ‘Here she is!’ The men were sitting around in exactly the same places they’d sat for smoko during the week, but this time they were dragging on stubbies of beer, using the empties as ashtrays. Martin wasn’t there, and Paul was down in the office.

  ‘Give the lady a beer!’ someone called. ‘Come on, lunkhead, give the lady a chair!’ Mary had no choice but to sit on the vacated chair and accept the stubby, beaded with condensation. ‘You need a glass?’ Mary shook her head and tilted the bottle to her lips. ‘That’s the way.’

  They sat around making lame jokes, all of them relatively clean in deference to the lady in their midst; they were tired, so it wasn’t sparkling company. Angus came in and grabbed a beer out of the esky, gurgling half of it down instantly, making up for lost time. His gaze fell on Mary, and he gave her a grin, saying something she couldn’t hear. Mary smiled at him and nodded, concentrating on what was going on nearer to where she was sitting: a post-mortem of the shearing, and a guessing game about how much the best fleeces would fetch when they were sold. She sensed that Angus was still watching her. When she’d finished the stubby, she made her excuses, knowing that the party would liven up once she’d gone.

  It was good to be outside. Good that shearing was over. Sad about Jamie, but it wasn’t as if she’d known him. Saddest of all for Gayleen, but Gloria would be relieved.

  The day was coming to an end, the shadows stretching across the vivid green of crop and pasture. The willy-wagtails were flirting their tails and chirping: they might have a nest in the peppercorn trees. The oak tree was almost fully in leaf now, casting a wide pool of dappled shade and giving quite a different look to the back of the stone house.

  Cec came out of the main house, carrying a sheaf of papers — the shearers wouldn’t be leaving until they’d got their cheques. She wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that they were cash cheques, and the black economy was alive and well.

  In the homestead garden, more spears of asparagus were breaking through the thick mulch. Further on was the violet patch. The fairy scent was coming in waves, sweet and refreshing. She picked a couple of dozen, nipping them off low to keep the stems long, and selected a few leaves to encircle the posy. Clio would be pleased.

  It was getting dark when she went out to the verandah for firewood and found Cec coming up the steps.

  ‘Mary! Come and see what I found!’

  She dropped the pieces of wood and followed him down the steps, skipping over the bottom one. She was still feeling the end-of-shearing euphoria; it must be the beer.

  ‘Janet’s not home yet,’ he said as he held the back door open for her and reached over her shoulder to click on the light. He sat at the kitchen table, shining a torch on a piece of rock, turning the fragment about. ‘See this? I’ve never seen one of these but I think it’s a different kind of araucaria. This area was all tropical once, in the Eocene. Covered with forest and swamps.’ Cec was almost crooning at the sliver of rock. ‘Can you make out the little fruiting body? Like a tiny cone?’ He pointed gently with a grimy thumb.

  ‘How long ago was this Eocene?’

  ‘Millions of years — 45 to 38 million, to be as precise as we can be. The whole of the Bremer Basin was under the sea then. Those odd mountains sticking up’ — she remembered the misty blue hummocks that had reminded her of a herd of brontosaurus when she’d flown in with Martin all those weeks ago — ‘they used to be islands, part of the same system as the Recherche Archipelago, further east.’ He gestured with both hands, still holding the piece of rock.

  ‘What about the Stirlings? Are they part of it, too?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said.

  Mary smiled at him, loving his enthusiasm and knowledge. Under the overhead light, the tight crimp of his hair glistened, not a hair out of place.

  Janet bustled in through the back door. ‘I thought I heard voices. Oh, it’s you, Mary.’ There was a definite chill in her voice, and she passed through the room to put down her bag and keys in the hall before coming to stand in the doorway. ‘I see you’re taking up palaeogeology.’ Her tone this time was condescending, but Mary wasn’t in the mood to worry about Janet’s state of mind.

  ‘Am I sitting in your chair, Janet?’<
br />
  ‘No, no; stay there.’ Janet rustled behind her, bumping the back of the chair.

  ‘Had a good day, dear?’ Cec asked, the dutiful husband.

  ‘I’ve had better.’ She was busy filling and plugging in the kettle, making more of a clatter about it than seemed reasonable. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Mary?’

  Cec was contrite. ‘No, Mother, let me.’

  ‘Too late! I’ve already done it!’

  Cec gathered up the pieces of rock and wrapped them in tissue paper. Janet advanced with a cleaning cloth and swiped away the grit and dust they’d left on the table, leaving a grimy smear.

  ‘Did you finish shearing?’

  Cec was absorbed in his fossils so Mary answered for him. ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Oh!’ Janet said, as if this explained everything. ‘Then you’ll have been drinking.’

  NEXT TIME she saw Garth, Mary asked after Gayleen.

  ‘She’s taking it hard,’ he said.

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Give her time. She’ll get over it. ’

  ‘I was thinking of asking her to go to Beelyup Pool again. The flowers might be out by now.’

  ‘Not a bad idea. I’ll see what she says.’

  Gayleen must have liked the idea because as soon as she arrived home from school on Tuesday, she came knocking at the back door. ‘Can we go tomorrow?’ she said.

  ‘Is there time after school? Don’t you have a heap of homework?’

  Gayleen shook her curls emphatically. ‘I can do that after tea. It doesn’t get dark for ages now. Can we, Mary?’

  Mary smiled at the girl. Gayleen’s eagerness to spend time with her was flattering. ‘Okay, Gayleen, you’re on! But you’d better get yourself over here soon as you get off the bus.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And with a smile and a wave she was gone, leaping across the ground like a young gazelle.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON was overcast, and Mary worried that it might rain and put a stop to the excursion. But by the time she was cycling over the bumpy ground behind Gayleen, the cloud had broken up into layers, letting the sun shine through.