Authors: Maris Morton
Mary watched her face. Was Clio worse? She’d seemed to rally yesterday, after she’d left the tea party and gone back to bed, but now she looked dreadful.
What should she do? Who was Clio’s doctor? Where was he? Mary felt helpless.
Slowly, Clio eased her shoulders around so that she was lying in a different position. Judging by the flickers of pain on her face, it had been a difficult business, and Mary was ready to lean over and help her, but then Clio spoke. ‘Are they back yet? What time is it?’
‘No, they’re not. It’s only eight o’clock; we’ve got hours yet.’ Mary realised that Clio must have slept in an awkward position and would feel better when she’d moved around a bit. She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Would you like your orange juice now?’
‘Leave it. I’m not properly awake.’
‘Okay. I’ll come back a bit later to change your bed, shall I?’ But Clio had slipped back into a doze, and Mary tiptoed out of the room.
There wasn’t much for her to do before Martin and Paul arrived, except to get the dinner on. Knowing now what Paul had done to Clio’s viola, Mary dreaded having to be civil to him. Still, her professional pride wouldn’t let her skimp on her work, and today she was going to make a stuffed loin of Southdown hogget. It would take time to put it together; she might as well get started. By the time she’d finished, Clio would probably be awake.
When Mary went in later, Clio was sitting up. ‘Are you feeling better? Should I phone the doctor?’
‘No. There’s nothing he can do. I’ll be all right. I had a bad night, that’s all. I’m not hungry, though, so don’t worry about getting me anything.’
‘Shall I change your bed? Do you feel up to getting out for a while?’
‘I suppose so.’ Clio lowered her feet to the floor, feeling blindly for her ugg boots. Mary went to help, placing each boot where a foot could easily find it. Clio’s feet were almost skeletal, the blue veins standing out through the white skin; her toenails were long, yellowish, and polished by friction with the bedclothes.
‘Thanks,’ Clio said, steadying herself with a hand on Mary’s shoulder before crossing to her blue chair. ‘Could you bring my rug? I’m cold this morning.’ Mary took the landscape rug from the bed and spread it over Clio’s knees. Clio pulled it up till it covered her chest, too, tucking her hands under it.
Mary stripped back the bedding and carried the duvet and pillows out into the sun, shaking the duvet and banging the pillows against the verandah posts until the dust flew. The leaves of the wisteria were unfurling, the tassels of flowers showing colour. She stood for a while with the sun warm on her face, breathing in the scents of the garden: a hint of violets; the elusive perfume of blossom and new growth.
Mary remade the bed with clean sheets. Clio was lost in some inner world, not a happy one if her face was anything to go by. But by the time Mary had finished with the bed and run a duster over the room, Clio had come back from that dark place.
‘I’d like you to see … what Paul did,’ she said. ‘If you open my wardrobe — the left hand door — and look on the top shelf you’ll find it.’ Mary did as she was asked, not sure what she was looking for. ‘There, see? It’s that black …’
Mary’s heart sank. It was the coffin for the dead viola. Did she really want to see it?
‘Bring it over here,’ Clio said, her voice trembling a little. ‘I need to be reminded.’
The case was heavier than Mary had expected, and she laid it on Clio’s knees and stepped back. Clio fumbled to unfasten the catches and raised the lid.
The case was lined with blue velvet, worn and faded and plainly very old. The bow was snug in its own compartment, as was a folded cloth and a little parcel of what must be rosin. But the main part of the interior, that had clearly been constructed to provide a safe nest for the precious instrument, was filled with shards of varnished wood, crowned with a tangle of strings. One glance was more than enough, and Mary looked away as if she’d glimpsed an obscene thing. Clio’s face was white with grief, her eyes like those of a wounded animal.
Clio touched the bow and lifted it out, holding it in her right hand with the elegant cocked wrist of a musician, as if at any moment she might touch it to the strings and bring forth a sound that would be the prelude to some wonderful piece of music. But the strings weaving among the splinters of wood would never again have music drawn from them.
Clio put the bow back and touched the broken wood. ‘He did less damage to the back, do you see? It’s mostly in one piece. The label’s still there:
Giovanni Battista Guadagnini faciebat anno
1763
. When it was whole, I couldn’t read most of that.’
She glanced up at Mary. ‘It was kept safe for more than two hundred years and now look at it!’ Mary watched her hands, moving gently among the wreckage. ‘The belly’s lost, and the ribs; shattered beyond repair — pine is so fragile. The neck’s strong, though, probably maple, like the back, and that survived. It has to be sturdy to take the tension on the strings.’ She flicked her fingers over fragments of wood that were as fine as cord. ‘This is the purfling. Isn’t that a lovely word? It’s made of white maple, or pear wood. It was inlaid around the edge of the belly. The fingerboard … this one’s made of ebony, as are the tuning pegs.’ She picked the piece up and replaced it, then counted the four tuning pegs, still entangled with the strings that they’d kept taut for so many years.
At last, Clio turned away from the debris. Her eyes were full of tears as she slowly lowered the lid and clasped the latches. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ she said, indicating that Mary should return the case to its hiding place. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist, like a child might. ‘Sometimes I think I dreamt it.’
A
LTHOUGH THE MEN HAD ARRIVED BACK
by dinnertime, it was Tuesday before Mary had a chance to talk to Martin on his own. She needed to know the wedding arrangements so that she could make her plans for leaving Downe.
After breakfast, Martin sat slouched at the table as if he meant to stay there all day. In the corner, the washing machine churned its bass accompaniment. Paul and Martin had brought back a small mountain of soiled clothes, and it would take most of the day to put it all through the machine. Mary wondered how they’d manage when she wasn’t here. She was certain Clio wouldn’t be making any offers.
‘And how was Alyssa?’
Martin’s face lit up. ‘She’s good.’
‘I heard she was singing in
Carmen
. What was it like?’
‘She was great. The critic in the
West
said so, too. She was ecstatic.’
‘That’s wonderful, Martin. It’s a great opera, isn’t it. What else did you do? I suppose the Show is a busy time for you?’
‘Yeah. It was full on. We had to do interviews on TV and the radio. Dad made me do the TV bit because of his face, you know. God, that was scary!’ When he said this he looked very young, and deeply impressed to have been on television. ‘Alyssa taped it. She said I did okay, but I thought I looked stupid. Everyone’s going crazy about the price we got for that wool and they all want to buy our rams.’
‘And the wedding? I’ve never been sure about the date.’
Martin’s brown eyes were bright with joy. ‘Saturday the sixteenth. I thought Dad would’ve told you? Do you want an invitation?’ Mary shook her head. ‘You can have one, Mary. I’ll tell Alyssa …’
‘No, thanks, Martin. Someone will have to stay here and look after your mother.’
Martin’s face lost its happiness. ‘I never thought … You don’t mind?’
‘Well,’ Mary said slowly, wanting her words to sink in, ‘the arrangement was that I’d stay until your mother was well again, but it doesn’t look as if that’s going to happen.’
‘But …’ Martin’s expression made it clear that he didn’t want to believe this. ‘But you’ll stay anyway, won’t you?’
‘I can stay till the wedding, then I’ll have to leave. Other people are waiting for me.’
She could see that he was assembling arguments against her leaving, and brought out her trump card. ‘They’re lawyers.’
‘Shit!’
Mary was amused by his reaction. Nobody wanted to quarrel with lawyers. ‘I’ll stay until Paul gets back. When will you and Alyssa be back from the honeymoon?’
‘We’ll be away a week.’
Mary calculated. Clio wouldn’t be on her own with Paul for too long, then. She could leave food ready for her. ‘When are you going up to Perth? Don’t you have rehearsals and things like that? Are you getting married in a church?’
‘It’s in Alyssa’s folks’ garden. It’s going to be the full disaster, with bridesmaids and everything. The rehearsal’s on the Thursday. My buck’s night’s on the Friday. Hope I don’t get too smashed!’
‘I’m sure Alyssa hopes you don’t, too. So when will you go up … for the last time as a single man?’
‘Dad thinks the Tuesday before. I’ve got to have a last fitting for the suit. We’re wearing white suits’ — he looked down and fiddled with his teacup — ‘with green waistcoats and bow ties.’
‘It sounds very elegant, Martin.’ Mary sensed his embarrassment. ‘Where are you going for the honeymoon?’
‘Bali. I have to be back to shear the rams.’
Shearing again, and she wouldn’t be here. ‘How will you cope with feeding the shearers this time?’
Martin gave her a confident look; he was on top of this one. ‘We do the rams ourselves, Cec and Angus and me. There aren’t that many. We’ve just sold everything we could spare.’
‘Good. Well, I guess that means I won’t be seeing much of more of you.’
‘We’ll be staying home this weekend. Dad’s got a big weekend with the pistol club, the Haddleton Cup. He’s been trying to win that for yonks.’
Mary was rethinking her schedule for the coming weeks. She’d have to talk to Paul and make a definite finishing date, not to mention a means of leaving. While Martin and Alyssa were on their honeymoon, there should be a seat vacant on the Piper on the Friday following the wedding, assuming Paul would be going up to Perth as usual. If not, how would she get back to Perth? Cadge a lift into Eticup with Gloria on the bus, then hope to connect with another bus to Berricup, then catch the train or another bus from there? That wasn’t a prospect that filled her with joy.
But beyond that, the thought of getting back to her own house and friends was like a beacon shining in the distance. Away from Downe, away from worry about Clio, away from trying to avoid Paul. And Janet, she realised; and, of course, silly old Angus. And even Martin, who was easier to like than his father, but a chip off the old block nonetheless.
C
LIO DRIFTED BACK
to something like consciousness, aware that the fog blurring her senses was a side-effect of the higher-dose painkillers; she’d have to learn to live with it. Or die of it, she thought. Although she had no idea of the time, the room was full of bright light when she managed to wake up properly.
Mary was in the room. Seeing her stir, Mary came over to the bedside. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ Her voice was muted, as if she was aware of being in a sick room. Well, she was.
Clio tried to find a more comfortable position, but that was getting harder every day.
‘Would you like to listen to some music?’ Mary said. ‘I can get it for you if you like? Or a cup of tea?’
Really, Mary was starting to sound like a nanny. ‘No, thank you. There’s nothing I want.’ Except a new body.
Mary was fussing with the bedclothes, straightening the crocheted rug over the foot of the bed. It was such a familiar thing, that rug; it had been a part of her life here … she could remember how exciting it had been to make it; how she’d driven around Downe with the boys, Martin a toddler in his car seat, David in his carry-cot, strapped into the old Holden, finding new locations, new colours, new patterns. It had been the first time she’d attempted anything like this, but Lyla, in the brief happy days before her banishment, had taught her the basic crochet stitches. On those trips out with the babies, she’d made little sketches, trying out different combinations of colours, working out the stitches, deciding which would work best for a particular place, or season …
Mary was speaking again, and Clio made an effort to understand what she was saying.
‘I was talking to Martin.’
Yes, she knew who Martin was.
‘Do you realise that the wedding’s less than two weeks away? I told him I’d stay till that’s over. I don’t like the idea of you being left here on your own.’
‘They won’t have given a thought to me.’ Stop it, Clio told herself, that sounded horribly like self-pity, and we can’t be having that.
Mary was looking at her oddly. ‘No, I think you’re right.’
Clever woman, Mary.
‘I’ll leave as soon as Paul gets back. At the most, I can wait till he goes up to Perth again, if he’ll give me a lift in the Piper.’
There it was. The words were an ultimatum. Clio took in the implications and tried to work out the dates in her head, but she couldn’t focus on the numbers; she’d stopped keeping track in her little gold notebook, and now she didn’t know what day it was, or even what week. But it’d be enough if she remembered the wedding day plus … whatever Mary and Paul decided. Mary would tell her. Not long, though. A feeling of urgency took hold of her, then faded again. Sooner or later it would come back, and she’d remember what was so important …
It had been agreeable, drifting along. She’d never expected these past few weeks to be so pleasant. Pity her appetite had gone. She wondered what happened to the rest of that piece of steak. Did Mary eat it? Or was it still ageing somewhere in the fridge? How long ago?
Mary was looking at her as if she expected an answer to some question.
‘Mm,’ Clio murmured, hoping that this would do.
‘I don’t like leaving you on your own,’ Mary said. ‘But I can’t stay here forever.’ She came to the head of the bed and clicked on the bedside light; Clio blinked at the sudden brightness. ‘Would you like something to eat later, perhaps? There’s some pumpkin soup, cold meat or chocolate cakes? Can I tempt you?’
Clio tried to imagine the experience of eating any of those things. Having something was probably a good idea. ‘Some soup. Not too much.’