A Darker Music

by Maris Morton

  It was a happy afternoon. Gayleen was deft and quick to learn. When they’d finished, the scents of honey and cinnamon filled the warm room, and there were trays of Linzer slices and honey kisses cooling on the table. When everything had been cleaned up and put away, Mary made a pot of tea and Clio joined them at the table to sample the results of their efforts.

  ‘These look very chic,’ Gayleen said, as if trying out a new word. She reached for a piece of Linzer slice.

  Clio took one of the little kisses. ‘This is delicious!’

  ‘When can we make a cake, Mary?’

  Mary thought about it. ‘Next weekend before the men come back would be a good time. We can make another Hungarian thing, with ground walnuts. Tell you what, Gayleen, you could shell some walnuts beforehand, when you’ve got some spare time. Maybe you could get the boys to help?’

  ‘Sure. We’ve got bags of them over at our house; don’t give me any from here. I can get the kids onto it — they like making a mess. As long as you don’t want them in ounces!’

  It was good to hear Clio laugh. Gayleen looked at her with disbelief, as if wondering how someone who looked so old and sick could possibly find anything to laugh about.

  They finished clearing up, and Gayleen scampered home.

  When the door had closed behind her, Clio said thoughtfully, ‘I’d forgotten what it’s like to be with normal people. She’s a nice little thing, isn’t she. No wonder that boy was keen on her — she’s growing into a very pretty girl. Can I have another one of those honey kisses? They do sound romantic, don’t they.’

  Mary laughed. ‘That’s Hungarians for you.’

  ON FRIDAY it was still wet, and Mary resigned herself to another day indoors. This would be a good day to spend playing the piano. She might even tackle one of the Chopin nocturnes that she’d found among Ellen’s music.

  The morning passed quickly, her playing interrupted only by trips to the kitchen to rotate the damp washing in front of the stove, and ended by preparations for the midday meal of leftover chicken warmed in a cream sauce, with more asparagus.

  Clio came out to join her. Mary sliced the chicken, and Clio managed it easily, picking up the asparagus spears in her fingers. When she’d finished, she went over to her chair by the stove.

  ‘I heard you playing this morning. Was that one of the Chopin pieces?’

  Mary was running hot water into the sink. ‘Yes. You recognised it? That’s a good sign!’

  ‘It was the B-flat minor, wasn’t it? I opened my door so I could hear you.’

  Mary slid the plates into the hot suds. ‘I’m flattered, but I’m not really worth listening to.’ She swiped the dish mop over a plate and placed it on the rack to drain. ‘It’s like trying to learn a second language.’

  ‘That’s a very perceptive remark, Mary. Music is like another language, and if you love it enough it can be the one you use for your most important … communication. The most meaningful, if you’ll pardon the overused word.’

  Mary glanced at her. Clio was more animated when she talked about music. ‘Yes, I can see what you mean, I think. If you work hard enough at it, or if you’re blessed with a natural gift like a Menuhin, then I imagine that music could be your primary means of communication.’

  ‘Except for mundane things like ordering a meal …’

  ‘Or negotiating a bank loan …’

  ‘Or asking the way to the railway station.’ Clio laughed. ‘But for all the really important things, yes. Words are so easily misunderstood and, in the end, mostly inconsequential. With music, you can say what’s in your heart.’

  ‘Yes, I think I can see that. From heart, direct to heart.’

  When she’d finished cleaning up, Mary came to sit near Clio and take up the conversation again. She was feeling bolder since Clio’s revelations about her cancer and asked a question that had been on her mind ever since she’d learnt that Clio was once a musician.

  ‘You’ve never told me why you gave up playing?’

  Clio looked down at her hands, the weak left one hidden under the still-serviceable right. ‘No, I haven’t, have I. You must be curious, after all my talk about how wonderful it was. It also explains … the problem I have with … with my husband. With Paul. But if I’m going to tell you about it, I’ll need lubrication.’ She smiled across at Mary. ‘No, not tea. I’d like some of that wine, please.’

  Surprised, Mary did as Clio asked. It must be a grim story to justify drinking wine at this time of day, but then again, why not? Especially on a wet afternoon when neither of them had anything pressing to do.

  Clio took a big sip and set the glass on the edge of the stove, close to hand. ‘I kept up my music for a long time. Paul expected me to put all my energy into this place, and him, and in due course the children. But even though I did everything he expected of me, it was still possible when he was out playing golf, or just in town, to practise, or play the Bach suites. It didn’t need much time, as long as I could manage to do it regularly. I soon realised that even though Paul had pretended to like my music when we were courting, he really hated it. I don’t know why that was — maybe he’s simply tone-deaf. It was my secret life, only a hobby, really, with no hope of ever going any further, but it was my lifeline. David knew, when he was old enough, but he never said anything to his father. He loved the sound of the viola. I was going to leave it to him …’

  She took another sip of her wine, licking the taste of it from her lips. ‘Then, one day, out of the blue, I had a letter from someone I used to play with at the Conservatorium in Sydney. Richard. He was touring with his quartet in this area and asked could they come and stay for a weekend. Of course I said yes. Paul would be in Perth. He’d started the affair with Monica by then — that was when I moved into the other room — and Martin was away at school … so there was no reason why they shouldn’t come.

  ‘So they did. Three of them, Richard’s wife Justine and a fellow called Ivor who played cello. Richard, who was always a bossy-boots, insisted that they were here to play, and we went through some Mozart and Schubert quartets.’ Clio’s gaze became fixed on the distance. ‘It was all very intense. Of course, as soon as I knew they were coming, I started practising like mad.’

  ‘It must have been exciting. Terrifying, too?’

  Clio smiled and reached for her wine, draining it and holding it out to Mary for a refill. ‘Yes, it was terrifying. Richard was never one to suffer fools gladly, and I wasn’t looking forward to one of his tongue-lashings. But I needn’t have worried. It was wonderful.’ Her voice grew soft. ‘It was … like coming back to life.’

  In the silence of the room, the pattering of the rain formed a gentle background music.

  ‘But the most wonderful part! You won’t believe this, Mary. They’d come because Richard wanted me to join his quartet! Apparently their regular violist was leaving, and Richard had remembered me and thought I was good enough. And after we’d played together for a couple of days, the others agreed and they all wanted me …’ Clio’s eyes were shining and for a moment her pale face seemed to be lit from within.

  ‘How marvellous! And what happened?’

  ‘Why am I still here, you ask? Well, I’d decided to go with them. I wouldn’t have had to leave for months, plenty of time to make arrangements. It wasn’t as if I was bolting over the hills with a gypsy lover. I would be leaving Paul, though; there was no question about that. And Martin, so a lot of people would have said I was a monster. If David had still been alive … but by that time the marriage wasn’t bringing me any joy, and the thought of walking away from it gave me a feeling of … I don’t know … of relief.

  ‘I can remember, very clearly, that as a kind of joke Richard insisted on that last morning we play Schubert’s Death and the Maiden, because he said I had a weighty decision to make and he thought that music was suitably dramatic. And we were playing it, out on the verandah with the wisteria in bloom, and I was feeling totally elated because I’d made up my mind to go. Th
e galloping, exciting rhythm of the music had me in its grip.’ She stopped and looked up at Mary with desperate eyes. ‘And Paul walked in.’

  Clio bowed her head, and the deep waves of her hair fell forward, masking her face. ‘For some reason, he’d flown home early that day, and of course with all the noise we were making I didn’t hear the plane.’ She raised her head and took a draught of her wine; her good hand was trembling. ‘He appeared like the demon king. We were sitting facing the garden. I still don’t understand why he was so angry, maybe he’d had a row with Monica, but he was beside himself.’

  She sighed, from the depth of her body. ‘So … he reached over my shoulder and wrenched the viola out of my hands. I still had the bow in my right hand’ — slowly, she raised her right hand, steady now, wrist cocked as if she were playing the instrument; she was speaking very slowly, and deliberately — ‘and he threw the viola down on the concrete … and he stamped on it.’

  Her face contorted at the memory. She dropped her arm, then raised both hands in a brief gesture of abandonment. ‘The beautiful wood smashed and splintered. The strings twisted and snapped, and he ground it into the concrete with the heel of his boot. I sat there while he did it — we all just sat there — not believing our eyes.’ She let out her breath in something like a sob. ‘And when he’d finished, he turned around and walked away. Back through Ellen’s room to his own room. He didn’t come out again for hours.’

  Clio’s sigh this time was almost one of relief. ‘So of course that was the end of my escape. Without an instrument, I couldn’t join the others. A decent viola costs thousands of dollars, and I had no hope, not even the ghost of a hope, of ever finding that kind of money.’ She hesitated. ‘And mine was a good instrument, an old Italian one.’ She paused again for a long moment. ‘It was a part of me. My heart and soul.’

  Mary was appalled. No wonder Clio was hostile towards Paul.

  Clio picked up her glass of wine. ‘This must be a truth drug, Mary,’ she murmured, looking at Mary over the rim of her glass. ‘You’re hearing all the ugly facts now. Can you handle it?’

  ‘That’s a dreadful story, Clio. I had no idea.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I gave up playing my viola. I didn’t give it up voluntarily; it was taken away from me.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘It’s difficult to imagine isn’t it, when you meet Paul? So handsome and charming, the master of Downe, all that money.’

  ‘But why do you think he did it?’ Mary could hear the plea in her own voice.

  Clio gave a twisted smile. ‘As you know by now, my husband is a man of few words. He’s never said anything about it. No apology — heavens, no! — no explanation, no excuse. No offer to buy me a new viola.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And I was so stunned that I didn’t even try to demand an explanation. Well, I knew I’d be wasting my breath. So that’s how it stands: an unresolved tragedy, if that’s not too strong a word; a festering sore, an unscaleable barrier between the two of us that will be there until the day I die. Though I very much doubt that he sees it that way. I’m sure he thinks what he did was entirely justified. A bit of a slap to bring the little woman back into line.’

  The two women sat quietly, each with her own thoughts.

  ‘Was he jealous, do you think?’ Mary suggested at last.

  ‘Possibly. The music was a part of me that he could never own, and I always knew, intuitively, that it bothered him. It was a world he couldn’t enter and had no hope of ever mastering, and I think that bothered him just as much. All his money and status among his peers might seem unimportant to you and me, but it’s terribly important to Paul. That carapace of self-regard I mentioned the other day … To be reminded that there’s a world where he counts for nothing must have been unbearably galling.’ She managed a small smile. ‘Not that any of it matters, here and now. Next time you’re dusting my room, you can get out the viola case and have a look. For a long time, I used to have silent grieving sessions over it. The bow’s still all right. But it’s a tragic sight. Anything beautiful that’s been broken is tragic, even when it’s an accident. Much worse, when …’

  Silence hung between them. Embers in the firebox fell with a soft sound, and the kettle started to sing.

  ‘You must have felt as if it was you that he’d smashed,’ Mary said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Mary. It did feel like that. It does — still — feel like that. Just like that.’

  ‘And you don’t hate him?’ It was hard to believe.

  ‘No … No, I’ve never managed to hate that poor damaged … bastard.’

  27

  ON SATURDAY, GAYLEEN CAME OVER EARLY.

  ‘The kids have shelled heaps of walnuts, so when can we make that cake?’

  Clio spoke from her chair. ‘I’ve been thinking. Would it be a good idea to invite your mother and Janet to afternoon tea?’

  Mary was astonished. ‘Why not.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Gayleen said.

  ‘We can’t do cucumber sandwiches,’ Mary said, only half joking.

  ‘Cheese straws for something savoury, a fancy cake, and the last of the honey kisses,’ Clio said. ‘We’ll keep the slices for next week.’ Next week Paul and Martin would be back and their holiday would be over. ‘Mary, can you invite the two ladies?’

  ‘Sure. If we do the baking tomorrow morning we can have tea in the afternoon. All right, Gayleen? And bring over those walnuts.’

  Janet and Gloria were surprised at the invitation but eager to come. Mary guessed they were curious to see Clio and make their own assessments of her health. She didn’t mention the mastectomy: if Clio wanted them to know about it, she’d tell them herself.

  GAYLEEN ARRIVED ON Sunday morning with more eggs and a bowl full of walnut pieces. She had a big white apron tied around her waist that made her look thoroughly domestic. Mary had the ingredients they’d be using set out on the table again, and the scales that weighed in ounces. When the morning was over, the table bore the results of their efforts, and the air in the room was heavy with the warm aroma of sugar and spices.

  Janet was the first of the guests to arrive. She was wearing her going-out-to-tea clothes, with pearls at her throat, and she’d taken the trouble to set her hair and lacquer it into place. It looked a bit like the Queen’s, Mary decided, except for the colour. Gloria was wearing make-up. In honour of the occasion, Mary had made a token effort, too, with a denim skirt instead of jeans and a dark blue t-shirt that matched her eyes, with tights and high-heeled court shoes. Her exposed legs were chilly. Clio had stayed in her nightgown and woolly robe, but had showered and washed her hair; the loose, abundant waves of it accentuated her gaunt beauty, its smoky darkness defining her pallor.

  Mary had found the ‘company’ tea set and spread one of Ellen’s embroidered tea cloths. Clio had taken the seat nearest the window, the light behind her concealing the lines of stress engraved on her face. Even so, Mary observed the shocked expressions of her guests. Once the opening courtesies were done with, Janet and Gloria ignored Clio. Perhaps this was the only way they could deal with the situation.

  ‘Well, I must say, Mary, you’ve done us all proud!’ Janet scanned the laden table as Gayleen offered her tea. ‘White, please, dear. Goodness, you’ve grown. Quite the young lady!’ While Gayleen smiled politely, Mary knew that the instant she was out of Janet’s sight she’d roll her eyes, and it was hard not to giggle. Janet turned her attention back to the food and leant forward, the better to choose. ‘What have we got here?’

  Mary gave her the guided tour. ‘Cheese straws, a chocolate cake that’s got no flour in it, just cocoa, ground walnuts and grated apple.’

  ‘That sounds healthy,’ Janet said. ‘A bit like a carrot cake.’

  ‘The one with the toffee on top is a Hungarian specialty called Dobosh Torta.’ Mary chattered about her Hungarian mother and her cooking triumphs, talking into the void of the other women’s silence. Clio’s whole attention was absorbed in the task of eating a ch
eese straw.

  Eventually, Janet took over the conversation. ‘I heard from my hubby yesterday,’ she said, as if this were an event of major importance. ‘All the rams sold, and for very good prices.’ She took a slice of the cake and laid it on her plate, where she contemplated it for a moment before breaking off a corner with her fork and daintily nibbling at it. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s been seeing something of young Martin. Apparently Martin went to hear his fiancée … Alison, is that her name?’

  ‘Alyssa,’ Clio said. Her voice was slow and deep in comparison to the others.

  ‘Alyssa. She was singing in some opera, I think he said?’

  ‘She was rehearsing for Carmen,’ Clio said.

  ‘Carmen?’

  Mary could tell from Janet’s tone that she’d heard of the opera, and it wasn’t good news.

  ‘She was singing the part of Micaela,’ Clio said. ‘It’s not a big part, but it’s important.’ She smiled at Janet. ‘Micaela’s the good girl, in contrast to sexy Carmen.’ She’d finished her cheese straw and surveyed the cakes. ‘Alyssa came to visit me in hospital. She’s quite lovely.’

  Now that Clio had mentioned her stay in hospital, Janet was agog to discover more, but Clio quietly fobbed her off, looking so pale and tired that even Janet wasn’t thick-skinned enough to press the point.

  Mary cut the Dobosh Torta. Clio held out her plate. ‘A sliver, please, Mary.’

  Janet was holding out her plate in both hands. ‘I don’t know if I dare,’ she said, greed in every syllable. ‘It looks dreadfully fattening.’

  ‘It is,’ Mary told her. ‘All cake is. But it won’t poison you.’ Without waiting for further argument, Mary slid a fat piece onto Janet’s plate. ‘You could have cream with it, if you like.’ Janet held her hands up defensively and shook her head with closed eyes.

  Gloria was sampling the Torta, too. ‘This is divine.’

  ‘Gayleen did most of it,’ Mary said. ‘She can probably make it for you some time.’