A Darker Music

by Maris Morton

  ‘Angus?’ She recalled Saturday’s scene. ‘I think Angus misunderstood something,’ she said carefully, ‘and now he’s embarrassed.’

  That was enough for Garth; he didn’t want to know the details. ‘Whatever it was, he’s real dirty on you. Won’t have a bar of you.’

  Mary smiled. That suited her very well.

  BY THURSDAY, there were three orphan lambs living in an improvised shelter inside Garth’s chicken yard. Until school holidays started in another week, Mary had been roped in to help with the daytime feeds. The lambs now understood where their food was coming from and took to the bottles without any preliminaries. Mary was surprised by their strength, both in sucking and in bunting the bottle. The little creatures’ muzzles were masked with froth, their tails like whirligigs; their rich, milky smell mingled with the clean scent of hay. Each lamb had a bright plastic tag weighing down one ear.

  ‘What are the tags for?’ Mary asked.

  ‘We have to know whose babies they are,’ Garth told her. ‘Any of these might turn out to be champions.’

  Warm froth and lamb dribble were running over Mary’s hand. The lamb’s sucking was losing its urgency, its eyes glazing. With her free hand, she stroked its tiny back. The tight curls of baby wool formed little circles all over the warm, wrinkled skin; its sides were moving in and out with each quick breath like bellows. There was no fat on it yet, just skin covering a bony frame, and appetite. ‘Are any of these likely to end up in the wether shed?’

  ‘Could do,’ Garth said. ‘They’re all from top ewes. Only the ram lambs, naturally.’ He remembered something. ‘Hey, Mary! Cec was saying that bale that’s been up in Perth since last year’s going to be sold any minute now. Have they’ — he nodded in the direction of the homestead, where Paul and Martin would be finishing their dinner — ‘said anything?’

  ‘No. I had an idea a bale from here already fetched a record price? Have I got that wrong?’

  ‘Sort of. There was a news report that it was expected to break the record. That was after they ran all the tests and found out it was exactly what Cec said it was — bloody great stuff. The agents decided to sell it by tender, and that takes a while, so we don’t know yet what it’ll fetch. Could be as much as a million.’

  Mary was staggered. ‘A million dollars!’

  Garth smiled at her response. ‘A few years back a bale fetched more than that. Not ours, but; from over east. That one was thirteen-point-three microns, as I recall.’

  ‘A million dollars for one bale …’ Mary was trying to calculate what this meant in real terms. ‘So how many bales do you sell every year?’

  ‘Around eighty. Most of them aren’t anywhere near that quality, though. And the Southdowns …’ He shook his head. ‘Hardly worth shearing the buggers.’

  ‘But you sell those as fat lambs, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure. That’s what they’re for. Southdown rams over cull Merino ewes. Southdown rams are prepotent. That means all the lambs are meaty little Southdowns, no matter who their mothers were.’

  Mary was getting all this straight. ‘So the really top-class wool only comes from the wethers in the sheds?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And it was Ellen who designed the system?’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘Then she must have been quite a woman. I can see why it’s worth looking after the orphans, if they’ve got the potential to earn that kind of money.’

  ‘Come on, Mary! Even if they were ordinary sheep, you wouldn’t stand by and let the poor little buggers die, would you? You’d have to have a heart of stone.’

  Mary had no answer to that. She held out her hands, sticky with lamb spit and milk. ‘I need to clean up. Just call me when you need me again.’

  ‘The kids can cope over the weekend. But thanks.’

  On her way back to the homestead, Mary was still trying to do sums in her head. A million dollars for one bale! She tried to think of things for Downe that the money could buy: some beautiful paintings, good carpets instead of the threadbare ones throughout the house, a repaint, new beds, a tumble dryer … Maybe Paul didn’t know how to spend his money to create a comfortable place to live. There were people who had no notion of it; she’d worked for them before. Then she remembered that Paul had another life up in Perth. Maybe when he was up there, he was more generous with his money.

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Mary went in to check on Clio and found her lying quietly against her pillows. She smiled at Mary. ‘Sorry I wasn’t feeling sociable this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I was sleepy.’ She pushed herself up higher in the bed, and Mary went over to straighten the bedcovers and adjust the pillows. ‘I was going through my things this morning and I came across something I thought you might like.’ She indicated the shelving unit opposite the bed with a languid hand. ‘Over there, on the third shelf.’

  ‘Here?’ There was only one thing out of place, and Mary picked up a folded paper.

  ‘That’s it.’ Clio stretched out her hand, and Mary passed the sheets to her. ‘It’s a song you might like. It was written in the seventeenth century by Henry Purcell. If you read the words you’ll see that nothing has changed. Love hurt in those days, too.’ She held the sheet up and started to sing in a weak, croaky voice. ‘I attempt from love’s sickness to fly … in vain. Since I am myself my own fever, Since I am myself my own fever and pain … Sorry about the voice.’ She held the music out, and Mary had little choice but to take it. ‘I’m afraid my own experiences of being in love were every bit as painful. Even my love affair with the viola.’

  Mary was puzzled by this strange mood of Clio’s, but she had seemed weaker over the past few days, and the last thing Mary wanted was for Clio to spend the weekend drowning in self-pity. ‘My own venture into romance wasn’t all that ecstatic either,’ she said quietly. ‘But I think it’s important to make the distinction between romantic love — being in love — and the other kinds, like love of family, work and so on.’

  Clio was watching her with interest. ‘It’s the falling-in-love kind that’s the monster,’ she agreed. ‘The one the poets go on about. The one that every young girl craves with all her heart.’

  ‘Yes, well … I suspect that’s the one that’s ruled by our hormones.’

  ‘But at the time it’s … it’s irresistible, isn’t it?’

  Mary remembered the dizzy way she’d felt when she and Roy were getting to know each other, and during the first years of their marriage. ‘Absolutely! You haven’t got a chance.’

  Clio leant forward to take the pages from Mary again. ‘Listen to this … no, I won’t try to sing it this time … For love has more power and less mercy than Fate, to make us seek ruin … and love those that hate.’

  Mary considered those words. Purcell had evidently been having a hard time with his love life, and his pain came through loud and clear. She gave Clio a smile. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’ ‘Play it tonight. It’s a lovely melody. You can have that copy; take it with you when you go.’

  WITH THE GRAYSON KIDS home for the weekend, Mary’s help with the lamb feeding wasn’t needed, but she went to give them a hand now and then anyway. It was satisfying to see the little animals growing stronger by the day. The boys showed her how to mix the formula, and by the time Monday came Mary felt like a fully qualified lamb nanny. She also knew the boys much better.

  On the Saturday afternoon, Mary rode Gary’s bike to the reserve to check on the wildflowers. It was a lovely day and hardly worth the bother of getting the ute out of the hangar. She was nervous, anyway, about driving the unfamiliar vehicle.

  Riding along the track was pleasure enough on its own. The sky overhead was like a porcelain dome, the air brushing her cheeks bearing the scent of honey and flowers, the only sound a faint creaking somewhere in the bike’s mechanism, the hiss of her tyres on the sand, and distant birdsong.

  The lambs’ blood leschenaultia was still making its gory splashes on the ground, and all the other colo
urs were more varied and intense than they’d been even on her last visit with Cec, with hardly a bush that wasn’t showing some colour. She’d studied the books Cec had loaned her and could recognise many of the plants, all with curious and brilliant flowers, and foliage that ranged from almost non-existent through toothed and needle-like to leathery; from grey through olive, brownish, reddish, gold and green. Mary stood looking at the ocean of colour, fixing the sight in her memory. In a few short weeks, she’d be leaving Downe. When her senses were sated, she made her way back to where she’d parked the bike.

  Being away from Clio even for an hour had let her step back from the empathy that was developing between them. She didn’t want Clio to become dependent on her. She liked her too much, she realised, to want to make her own inevitable departure even tougher for the invalid to cope with. Some nights, she lay awake worrying about how Clio was going to manage when she’d left, now that she didn’t seem to be recovering from her illness. But Alyssa would be here by then, she told herself. While she knew nothing about the girl, she hoped that Alyssa was a kind and compassionate young woman who would take good care of Clio.

  20

  CLIO WAS GOING THROUGH THE BOOKS AND PAPERS stored in the shelving unit in her room, obeying a compulsion rather like the urge to spring clean.

  Sorting through the dusty papers wasn’t easy one-handed. There were letters and postcards from her sister Penny, one or two notes from her father from decades ago that had enclosed photos of his new family; letters from some of her friends and fellow students. She’d kept the correspondence up for a few years, but inevitably it had petered out in the face of the different lives they were all leading. She’d been busy, too, having babies and learning to be a farmer’s wife.

  This one, though. The creamy paper was covered with beautiful handwriting. The creases in the pages were almost worn through from handling, but it had been years now since she’d looked at them. She settled in the chair to read them again.

  My dear Clio, Tallis had written. This was the letter that had come with the Bach suites. He hadn’t come to the wedding — that would have been too hard, and she hadn’t invited him — but he’d sent the things here so they were waiting for her when she and Paul arrived back from their honeymoon.

  You must know that my best wishes are with you at every moment of your new life. I’m so sorry I had to disappoint you.

  I am sending you these transcriptions of the Bach suites so that if you find yourself isolated from the world of music you will still have the means of creating some very satisfying sounds on your own. Although you have heard these pieces played on the cello, on the viola they can be warmer, and livelier. These suites are playful, because once you’ve learnt the pattern of sounds he’s set up and think you can anticipate what’s coming next, he takes off in another direction entirely, and you can almost hear him chuckle.

  Clio smiled: Tallis never forgot that he was a teacher. She read the words she knew by heart, until she came to the end.

  As you play the notes the music will soar, riding on the silence like an eagle riding a thermal, and you’ll be with all of us again, and not alone.

  Your friend forever,

  Tallis

  Clio let the letter fall to her lap and leant her head back against the chair, blinking away the tears. Tallis had been right about the suites. Playing them had kept her sane through long, lonely years. They were difficult enough to be a challenge, lovely enough to be balm for a soul deprived of music, with the element of mischief that lifted the heart. Each time she played them, it had brought the spirit of Tallis back into her life.

  Reading the letter again after so long, she could see that loving him hadn’t been a disaster, even though the ending had brought her such heartache. It must have been painful for him, too. At the time, intent on her own grief, she hadn’t given a thought to that possibility. He hadn’t done anything to make her fall in love with him, except be himself. And they had grown to have a rapport that embraced more areas of their lives than just music. He’d miss that as much as she did. As much as she still did.

  Lost in a daze of memories, Clio sat without moving. Then, hearing Mary approaching along the passage, she rose to her feet, still holding the letter, and went to the shelf where the other papers were. What should she do with Tallis’ letter? What should she do with all of them?

  MARY WAS PICKING ORANGES when she heard Janet call, and went over to the fence. Janet was wearing a faded mauve chenille dressing gown, and her woolly slippers were getting wet on the dewy grass.

  ‘Mary!’ Janet was beaming. ‘They’ve sold that bale of wool! Apparently it’s made the news in Perth. The local paper’s just rung up. I heard Cec say something like a million four, but I won’t be certain till he gets off the phone. Isn’t that wonderful news!’

  ‘Garth said it could go for over a million dollars.’

  Janet sniffed. ‘What would Garth know? He’s just a mechanic.’ She turned her head, alert and listening. ‘He’s off the phone.’ She was on her way back into her house for the details, still talking, probably to herself as much as to Mary. ‘I wonder why Paul didn’t phone and let us know? He must have realised … the sale must have been finalised on Friday. I wonder why Paul …’

  Mary watched her retreating. She’d quiz Paul when he arrived home from Perth later today. Should she cook something celebratory? No, they would have done their celebrating already in the city, in a fancy restaurant, with French champagne and all the trimmings. It was exciting, though. A record price! And while she was living here!

  Paul must have a network of friends up in Perth that would celebrate with him — not to mention the woman he must surely spend half of every week with. They would be celebrating together, too.

  Then it dawned on her that with Clio not being well enough to make the trip to Perth for the wedding, this other woman would probably take over the role of mother of the groom. Mary wondered if Paul and Martin were so insensitive that they’d allow this to happen. Of course they were. She felt desperately sorry for Clio.

  WHEN HE ARRIVED BACK, a smiling Martin told her that the price achieved for the wool was indeed one million, four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, close to their best-case estimate. Ellen would have been delighted. Paul and Martin stayed in the house only long enough to eat and change their clothes before heading into town to spend the afternoon enjoying the envy of their peers.

  When they’d gone, Mary went to tell Clio.

  Clio was reading and looked up. ‘They’re back?’

  ‘Yes. And there’s some news. They’ve — you’ve — sold a bale of wool for a record price.’

  Clio laid down the book. ‘That would be from last year’s clip. They’d have had to do all the testing … How much?’

  ‘Martin said one-point-four-five million. Could that be right? It sounds such a lot.’

  ‘Did he say who bought it?’

  ‘Yes. Some Chinese buyers.’

  Clio raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know the Chinese were throwing that kind of money around. It used to be the Japanese and the Italians. Well, Ellen would be proud. And I am, too. It’s what we both worked for. I suppose Paul’s taking all the credit.’

  ‘He and Martin went into town.’

  ‘He’ll be wanting to show off in front of his mates. Mustn’t begrudge him his moment of glory, even if he can fairly claim the credit for no more than keeping out of Cec’s way.’ She turned back the bedclothes and swung her legs out of bed. ‘Ah, well … if they’ve both gone out, I’ve got some papers I want to burn.’

  While Clio fed crumpled papers into the stove, Mary set about making tea. Clio moved over to the table and sat down. ‘Just clearing out some old things,’ she said. ‘A bit of spring cleaning. Has anyone said anything to you about the Show?’

  ‘The Show?’

  ‘The Perth Royal. Cec will be taking some of the young rams and ewes, and Paul and Martin will probably stay there for the duration. They always do, and with t
his record price to celebrate there’s even more reason. I expect they’ll be lionised, or find themselves the objects of bitter envy.’ Clio smiled at this thought. ‘Or both.’

  ‘Still, that record price won’t do your sales any harm, will it.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll arrange an auction. That’s what I’d do. Really, the timing couldn’t be better.’

  Mary was pleased to see Clio taking an interest in Downe’s success; she’d half expected her not to care any more. She poured tea for them both and cut small squares of almond and orange cake.

  Clio broke a little piece off the corner and tasted it. ‘What’s this? It’s very rich.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s got almond meal instead of flour.’

  ‘And oranges?’

  ‘Yes, whole ones, boiled to a pulp.’

  ‘I don’t think I can manage to finish it.’

  Mary was disappointed. This cake was a classic from the Middle East. Paul and Martin had enjoyed it when she’d served it to them with cream, so it would be worth making again even if Clio didn’t like it. It was a good way of using up some of the oranges, now that they were fully ripe. ‘So we’ll have the place to ourselves, will we? For a whole week?’

  ‘Probably ten days, counting both weekends. What a treat, eh?’ Her face became serious. ‘But, Mary, I’ve been thinking. I ought to make a last effort to talk to Martin.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About this marriage. I met Alyssa, did I tell you? She came to visit me in hospital. Ages ago.’

  ‘Did she? What’s she like?’

  ‘She’s lovely. Well brought up, I think; she was trying to do the right thing.’

  She paused, and Mary prompted her to go on. ‘And?’

  ‘As far as I can recall — and you have to remember that I was not long out of surgery and far from clear-headed — her expectations of the marriage are a far cry from Martin’s. Not that I know exactly what Martin does expect, but I’m pretty sure he thinks they’ll be living here, and Alyssa will naturally step into my shoes’ — she gave a wry smile — ‘when I’m ready to step out of them, of course.’