by Maris Morton
She might have made the wrong decision when she’d left Perth to come home. Should she have stayed, and gone on with all the ghastly therapies? Would it have made any difference to the outcome? She hated that term: outcome. It was so much a part of the jargon she’d learnt from the health-care professionals — that was another one — who had deluged her with advice — counselling — and been so eternally bloody optimistic, as if the news that the cancer was already invading her bones and liver was something that could be changed, if only she could harness enough positive energy. And do as they said, however much it hurt, however sick it made her.
No, she’d done the right thing, coming home. Mary had been here, and her music was here. We’re all going to die, she thought, and the best we can hope for is to die with some small measure of grace.
AS SHE PREPARED the evening meal, Mary thought about the things she wanted to do before she left Downe. The wedding was eleven days away, with a week before Paul and Martin would be flying to Perth. Another trip to the reserve would be a high priority. There would be new flowers blooming, and some of the early ones would be over. She wanted to savour the peculiar magic of Beelyup Pool again. Gayleen might like to come with her. She’d take a last look at the champion wethers in their sheds, check the big oak trees for developing acorns, go and see how the lambs were getting on, give the boys a hand with feeding the orphans, find out where the willy-wagtails were nesting.
Going through the list, she felt more cheerful. For these last days, she’d try to put aside her concern about Clio, and her dislike for Paul, and make an effort to please just herself.
29
MARY OPENED THE FRENCH DOORS and swung them wide. ‘Look! The wisteria’s out!’ The perfume was coming in waves, nothing one minute, almost overwhelming the next. ‘Shall I leave the doors open? Do you like the smell?’
‘Yes, leave them.’
Clio seemed brighter this morning, and was sitting up sipping her orange juice. When she’d finished, she set the empty glass down on the bedside cabinet.
‘Shall I make the bed now?’
‘If you like.’ Clio stayed motionless for a moment before bracing herself and swinging her legs out from under the duvet. Mary realised that, in spite of her cheerfulness, Clio was in pain.
Clio crossed to the velvet chair and moved her bare feet into a patch of sunlight, blue-white against the warm brown of the boards. ‘Could you get my hairbrush?’
Mary fetched it from the bathroom, and Clio began brushing her hair with long slow strokes, her left hand lying useless in her lap. The build-up of static from the brushing made her hair fly out around her head.
Mary took the bedding outside. The vigorous shaking and thumping helped to relieve her anxiety about Clio. The lilac flowers of the wisteria were trembling under the weight of bees foraging for nectar. Somewhere close a willy-wagtail was trilling his courting song. She breathed in slowly, savouring the moment, until a stray breeze touched her face with chilly fingers, and she went inside.
‘I ran into Angus yesterday,’ she told Clio. ‘I’m afraid I was civil to him. He’s probably got his hopes up again.’
‘As long as it was only his hopes. I thought you were keeping out of his way.’
‘I came face-to-face with him outside Gloria’s house.’
‘What were you doing over at Gloria’s?’ There was a coolness in Clio’s tone.
‘Just arranging for her to pick up some more supplies from the Co-op. Do you like roast pork?’
Clio looked confused. ‘Pork? I … I can’t remember. I can’t remember … whether I like it or not.’ She seemed close to tears.
‘Never mind, Clio. It’ll come back to you.’
Clio rested the hairbrush in her lap and ran her hand slowly down the length of her hair, taming the flying strands so that they lay close against her head. ‘What are you planning for the weekend?’
Mary remembered that Clio had been told nothing of the men’s arrangements. ‘Sorry, I forgot to mention it, but Paul and Martin are staying here this weekend. They’ll be flying up to Perth on Tuesday, ready for the wedding, so we’ll have to defer our indulgences.’
Clio’s face lost the smile. ‘They’re staying here? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry, Clio. I’d forgotten. Not that it makes much difference: they’ll be away for longer the next week, anyway, because of the wedding.’ She tucked the sheet in firmly and adjusted the pillows. ‘Martin said there was something special on at the pistol club this weekend. Some competition?’
Clio was silent, gazing out at the wisteria. ‘It must be the Haddleton Cup. Paul’s always wanted to win it. He’ll need to get in some solid practice if he’s going to have any chance.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘I used to be better. Paul hated me doing well.’ She carefully made her way back into bed.
‘Are you all right?’ Mary asked. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Clio let herself sink down further into the pillows. ‘I’d like some music. Would you mind? I’m too comfortable to move.’
‘What do you feel like?’
‘Schubert, I think, on such a lovely morning.’ She waved a hand to where the CDs were stored. ‘Anything, as long as it’s Schubert.’
Mary scanned the stack and handed two discs to Clio, following her gaze to the dazzle of sunlight, the dancing shadows of the wisteria framing the fresh green of the fruit trees.
CLIO DIDN’T NOTICE Mary leave. Her world had shrunk to this: her room and its view. It could be a lot worse. Slowly, she breathed in the scent of the wisteria, then gave a little shiver: soon it would be a lot worse.
Thoughts of Paul and Martin at the pistol club drifted through her head. Her gun licence had lapsed years ago, when she’d sold her trusty Hi-Standard. Not that she’d have had the energy for it any more, or the focus … She imagined Martin at the club on a Saturday with everyone gathering around to meet the new bride. Would Alyssa enjoy these country pleasures?
Clio picked up the CDs and peered at the pictures on their covers. One of them had that well-known portrait of Schubert, looking pudgy and shy. Poor Schubert, dead at thirty-one, hardly older than Martin. But what a body of work he left behind!
What had Martin achieved? Nothing that could remotely compare with Schubert, handicapped as he was by poverty and desperate ill-health. Martin had never experienced either, and he was not likely to. Nor was he likely to contribute anything of real significance. He’d never even been much good at sport. A shadow crossed her face. On the contrary: if he forced Alyssa to give up her music, the way Paul had with her, he could be depriving the world of a fine musician.
Clio could foresee the slow unfolding of the young couple’s future. It would be a sad repetition of her own history, with Paul a dark figure in the background, reassuring Martin, if he needed any reassurance, that he was doing the right thing. And there was nothing she could do to change it.
Outside, the sun climbed past the eaves and the room fell into shadow as suddenly as if a lamp had been turned off. Clio closed her eyes. What had she herself achieved, anyway? It was at moments like this that despair almost swallowed her up; when the whole of life seemed pointless, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury but signifying nothing. Was it Shakespeare who’d said that? Probably. He’d had a solid grasp of life’s realities.
She swallowed the tears that were threatening to spill out; it was no use wallowing in self-pity, not now, not when her task was to endure these days with as much dignity as she could manage. Mary was helping, and Clio was beginning to love this woman who had come into her life without any warning, had shown her more kindness than she could have expected, or imagined.
Thinking of Mary pushed back the darkness, and in the dimness of the room Clio opened the CD player. Without looking at the title, she inserted one of the discs.
At the opening chords, Clio’s blood froze: it was the Death and the Maiden Quartet. She’d avoided playing this since that morning, all those years
ago, when Richard had laughed about the drama of it.
The last time she’d played this, with Richard and the others, her joy had overcome the sadness: that had been the moment when she was looking forward to her own rebirth, the start of a new life, a life of music.
That day, thanks to Paul, she’d lost her music, too.
The wisteria had also been blooming then, the first petals drifting soundlessly down as they did now.
That morning came back to her with crystal clarity; it was the reason why she’d been avoiding playing this.
They’d been caught up in the driving rhythm of the Presto, when Paul’s hands appeared over her shoulder. She was intensely aware of the fine dark hairs on the backs of his hands when, as if in slow motion, he ripped the viola from her grasp. Even though she instinctively tightened her grip, she wasn’t strong enough to break his hold. Afterwards she found that her thumb had been cruelly bruised, and the fingernails of her left hand were torn badly enough to bleed.
She could remember the disbelief, and the terrible feeling that the blood was leaving her head and she might faint. She heard the gasps from Justine and Ivor, sitting on either side of her, wondering what in hell this madman was doing and whether he was a threat to them, too. Richard stood up, ready to defend her, bless his heart, but it was too late, the viola was on the ground, the only sound the stamp, stamp of Paul’s feet, in their fine leather boots, smashing it to matchwood, and all any of them could do was weep …
Clio drew in a shuddering sigh. The music was still sounding in her ears, the Scherzo now, full of fury and defiance until the exquisite tenderness of the Trio interrupted it. She was glad she’d looked again at the wreckage; yesterday, was it? Glad she’d told Mary about it. She’d never told anyone else. Who could she have told, who would have had any inkling of the horror of it?
The music proceeded into the final movement, where Schubert used repeated triplets to invoke the image of Death galloping on his pale horse, with its hell-bent acceleration towards that final searing chord, the four bows striking every one of the sixteen strings on the instruments in a desperate cry, allowing no hope.
Poor Schubert. Death had come for him far too early.
Listening to the piece had been cathartic; she felt relaxed, as if hearing it again had made a kind of sense of the whole dreadful business. Not that anything had changed, of course, except the way she felt.
WHEN SHE WAS OUT collecting firewood from the box on the verandah, Mary noticed that Gary had brought his bike back. There was time for a ride before she had to put the rolled pork into the oven, and she could drop the bones off for the dogs on the way.
She stopped at the peppercorn trees, cautious in case Angus was about, and tossed the pork bones to the dogs, who seized upon them with silent greed. She set off down the farm’s main thoroughfare, heading nowhere in particular. The grasses and clovers had grown into a carpet thick enough in places to grab at the wheels of the bike. Mary scanned the cells for a sight of those dancing white specks that were lambs. They were bigger now and were losing the snowy whiteness that had made them show up so clearly against the green pasture. But they were still playing, in the way that had entranced her before, jumping with all four legs together, flipping their tails and then having a little lie-down, all in a group. Those tails were a worry: didn’t they get cut off at some stage? And didn’t the little ram lambs get castrated? With a bit of luck, she’d be gone before that happened.
Each cell was edged with a strip of capeweed in abundant pale-yellow flower, growing along the firebreak that was ploughed every few months during the drier seasons. It was hard to imagine all this green grass turned brown, and vulnerable to fire. She remembered reading Ellen’s account of a fire, when Paul was a child, started by summer lightning. After it was over, Ellen had driven with Steve to assess the damage, and they’d come across a group of wethers trapped in a corner, badly burnt but alive; Steve had used his revolver to put them out of their misery. Ellen’s account was so vivid that Mary felt she could almost hear the agonised bleating of those wethers, smell their burnt flesh and wool.
When she paused, the sun on her back was surprisingly hot; summer wasn’t far away. She could hear the mumble of sheep, the forlorn cries of crows, and the twittering of the ubiquitous willy-wagtails. In the far distance, she could hear the snarl of a chainsaw. The sky seemed to resonate with the sun’s energy like an unimaginably huge and distant bell. Beneath her feet, the damp grasses and clovers quivered with life, growing and stretching and reaching for the sun.
AS SOON AS SHE arrived back at the homestead, Mary went to check on Clio again, but she was asleep.
Paul and Martin came in and went to wash, while Mary dished up their meal, reserving the brown end slice for herself. It smelled wonderful, the crackling crisp and golden.
When the men had finished eating, and Mary was ready to start her own meal, she realised that Paul and Martin were still sitting at the table. They’d spread a grubby cloth and were busy with … with what?
Paul noticed her curiosity. ‘Getting ready for the Cup.’
Mary recognised the sinister shape of a handgun and took a step back.
‘It’s not dangerous.’ Paul frowned at her as if she were a silly female. ‘Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.’
Yes, people with guns kill people, Mary didn’t say, and tried to think of an intelligent question. ‘What kind is it?’
Paul was wiping the thing down with an oily rag. ‘Walther,’ he said. ‘Twenty-two.’
Martin was busy disassembling his own, laying the parts out on another piece of rag. ‘We’re off for a bit of practice down at the club.’
‘Is yours a Walther, too?’ She’d read about these in many a crime novel and had the idea they were highly lethal.
Martin nodded, hands still busy. ‘It’s a good sport. You should try it.’
‘I’d be nervous.’
‘They’re quite safe,’ Martin said. ‘We keep them locked up when we’re not shooting.’
Mary turned away. ‘I’ll take your word for that,’ she said. She went to the sink and ran hot water, collected their dishes and scraped them into the scrap bucket. If she made enough of a song and dance about the washing-up, they might get the hint and go away. After that bike ride, her stomach was rumbling with hunger, while in the warming oven her dinner was drying out.
When Paul and Martin finally drove off to the pistol club, Mary went in to collect Clio’s tray.
‘That was delicious,’ Clio said. ‘I’d forgotten … I managed most of it.’ She’d pushed her tray down to the middle of the bed, and Mary picked it up. With its small weight gone, Clio stretched her feet down under the duvet, rolling her head on the pillow and settling as if she was ready to have a nap.
‘Paul and Martin have gone to practise shooting,’ Mary said. ‘They had the guns out on the kitchen table.’
‘What an alarming sight for you.’ Clio yawned. ‘Did Paul make that speech about how safe guns are?’
‘Yes. I don’t believe it, though. Even if there are hundreds of regulations.’
‘Quite right. They’re made for killing.’ Clio was silent for a few moments. ‘Regulations,’ she mused. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m the owner of an unlicensed firearm. I’d forgotten all about it. Lyla gave it to me after Steve died. It must still be here somewhere …’ She yawned again.
Her eyes were closing and Mary left her to sleep.
30
CLIO WAS LETTING THE AFTERNOON DRIFT BY. As long as she took her tablets the day would be more or less pain-free. She tried not to think about what it would be like when the morphine was no longer enough, lest the terror of it overwhelm her.
Yesterday — was it yesterday? — Mary had brought her roses, and now their scent was mingling with the wisteria perfume drifting in through the french doors. Blackboy, the roses were: velvety crimson, elegantly Edwardian in one of Ellen’s cranberry-glass jugs. The petals hadn’t started to drop yet, so it must h
ave been only yesterday.
She’d been listening to Schubert again: the C-major quintet. She’d played this back in those far-off days, her viola part bridging the tonal distance between the violins and cellos. She could clearly remember Tallis introducing them to the piece.
‘Many regard this as the greatest piece of music ever written. It’s been called a masterpiece from first note to last. See whether you agree.
‘If musicians think about the music they’d like to have played at their funerals, many of them choose this Adagio. Does that sound morbid?’ They’d all nodded, glancing uneasily at each other. ‘But Schubert had good reason. This was written in the year of his death, as far as we know, and he certainly knew he was dying. He wrote to one of his friends: Each night, when I go to sleep, I hope never to wake, and each morning merely reminds me of the misery of yesterday.’
These words, quoted in Tallis’ lovely English voice, got through to the more imaginative of them, though Richard, as usual, poured scorn. ‘The man sounds like a raving neurotic.’
Tallis gave him a long look. ‘Schubert wasn’t imagining this illness. He was unlucky enough to have caught syphilis when he was only twenty-five. In those days, there was no cure.’ And though they could see that Richard was abashed, he simply shrugged.
‘Now, C major is generally regarded as a sunshine key, but Schubert brings to the brightness enough clouds to cast shadows. Some of these clouds are no more than a fleeting dimming of the light, while others … others are so dark that their shadows chill the world: the shadows of death.’
They were listening, enthralled, and Tallis smiled at them. ‘Sunshine and clouds, are what this piece is about. The opening movement is like a dance, with contrasting passages of calm and anguish. You’ll need to play this with an edge, keeping the tempo up to emphasise the contrast with the Adagio. The sunny parts should glint and sparkle; don’t be tentative.
‘The Adagio, now: because of the long, sustained notes, this is difficult to play — it’s impossible to play it too slowly. The theme’s carried by the middle voices — second violin, viola and first cello, with the high and low instruments almost like interjections, the plucked strings moving up and down around the melody. It’s like a mysterious voice from the other side. You can read all sorts of values into this’ — he nodded at Richard, who scowled — ‘and you’ll discover for yourselves how you want to play it.
