Authors: Maris Morton
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.
C
LIO 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 have 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.
‘Schubert was a master of silences. There’s a feeling sometimes that his energy’s exhausted, and he has to rest before the next bit. You’ll feel a moment like this, too, when you come to the end of the Adagio. You’ll want to stop and regroup. But you mustn’t. You must jump straight into the Scherzo, with a Trio that harks back in tone to the Adagio, a contrast that’s really intense.’ He paused. ‘Then there’s the last movement, dancing helter-skelter from one key to another. When you come to that final note, it’s like a knife going in, and suddenly you understand that the dance that has seemed so light-hearted has, in reality, been the dance of death.’ He looked gravely at each of them.
‘When you’ve finished playing it, I expect you’ll find, as most players do, that you deeply and passionately don’t want to play anything else; not right now, not for a long time.’
Clio smiled as she played this scene in her head. Tallis’ face was so real that she could almost touch him. The music — ah, the music! — had been just as wonderful as he’d said. Unexpectedly, the five of them had fallen into accord about their reading of it quite easily, even though the combination, with the extra cello, had been a new sound for them.
Tallis was quite right about the sunshine and shadows. The version of the quintet that she had on disc brought this out very clearly, although she might have preferred to hear the Adagio played a little more slowly.
Now, of course, it was the shadows she heard; back then, when they were all young, it had been the sunshine.
She had become an expert on shadows. Pleasure came only in fleeting moments: looking at her garden and smelling the flowers; eating something Mary had made for her; listening to Mary while she moved around the house, played the piano, looked after everything … Was this the kind of thing Schubert experienced, she wondered, that made it possible for him to create that sunny music, even when things were black? Did he experience kindness — love, even — that lit the shadows and chased away the clouds?
Clio became aware that Mary was in the room with her. Time. She made an effort to focus, to brush aside the fog, and try to grasp the passage of time. There was something important she needed to think about. Something dark, that made her afraid.
M
ARY WAS WIELDING
a dry mop across the polished floor, moving quietly, trying not to disturb Clio. With Clio staying in her room this weekend, there’d been no opportunity to clean in here, and she’d noticed some dusty footprints — her own, no doubt — marking the shining boards.
‘Oh, Mary,’ she heard Clio murmur.
‘You’re awake? Can I get you anything?’
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Saturday. Paul and Martin are at the pistol club.’
‘Mm. Good, they’ll be staying for a barbecue.’
‘I was wondering what you’d like to eat, if anything?’
‘Are there any prawns left?’
‘Sorry.’
Clio sighed. ‘Mary, could you get me that little gold diary?’ Mary went to fetch it. Clio levered herself up higher against the pillows and opened the book, steadying it in her left hand while she flicked the pages over with her right. ‘What day is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Mary said, surprised that Clio had forgotten.
A frown briefly creased Clio’s brow. ‘Yes, but which Saturday?’
Mary had to think; she was losing track, herself. ‘It must be the ninth. Next Saturday will be the wedding day.’
‘As soon as that?’
‘Yes. The sixteenth.’
Clio found the right page and extracted the tiny pencil from the book’s spine and was writing, laboriously, the book pressed flat against her raised knee.
‘And I’ll be leaving as soon as I can after Paul gets back from the wedding.’ Clio looked up with an expression like horror, and Mary tried to soften the news. ‘Probably the week after, if he goes to Perth the way he usually does.’ But Clio’s face had paled so that it was even whiter than usual, and her lips had folded in a grim line. ‘I’m sorry, Clio, but I can’t …’
‘No, you must go. It’s just that … that I tend to forget.’
‘I’m sorry, Clio.’
She was still writing, frowning with the effort. ‘So, when did you say Paul and Martin are flying up?’
‘Tuesday.’ Mary was relieved that Clio had moved on. ‘So we’ll be on our own after that for’ — she calculated — ‘about a week, I suppose. I’ll dream up some delicious treats for us.’ Clio was concentrating on what she was writing. ‘I can bring the chair out from Ellen’s room for you. It seems ages since you sat in the kitchen.’ She could hear herself chattering and stopped. Clio shut the little book and laid it carefully on the bedside cabinet beside the CD player.
‘Is there anything I can get you, Clio?’
‘Not now, Mary. Thank you.’
I
T WAS ALMOST DARK
before Mary heard the vehicle bringing Paul and Martin back from the pistol club. When they came in, the procedure was exactly the same as it was on a normal weekday: silence from both men, padding up the passage in their socks to their rooms, the gurgle of water in the stove’s heating jacket, and after the best part of an hour, their re-emergence in clean clothes, drinking cans of beer from the fridge in the front room.
‘How did you go?’ Mary asked, hoping for good news; she didn’t need any more gloom from the Hazlitt family. Paul merely grunted and settled at his place at the table. Martin said ‘Okay,’ but didn’t elaborate. Mary dished up beef sausages and potatoes baked in a garlic, cream and cheese sauce, accompanied by Garth’s peas. It smelt delicious, and she was looking forward to her own meal.
Mary waited until the men were finishing before bringing up what she knew would be a difficult subject. ‘Paul, we need to discuss the end of my stay here.’ He didn’t look up but merely nodded while he continued spreading jam on a slice of bread. She pressed on, talking into his silence. ‘I don’t think Mrs Hazlitt ought to be left here on her own. I could stay until you come back after the wedding.’
He stared at her with cold eyes. ‘Why does she need you to run around after her? What the fuck’s the matter with the woman?’
Mary flinched. How could she explain, when it was clear he didn’t want to hear? ‘She’s not getting any better, Paul. She’s weaker every day.’
He turned his attention back to his bread and jam, and his mouth was set in a sneer. She could see out of the corner of her eye that Martin was bracing himself for trouble. At last, Paul looked up at Mary again. ‘Do what you like, but I’m not paying you for any extra time. I’ll pay you up to the wedding but not a day longer.’
The words were bad enough, but his tone shocked her. ‘Fair enough,’ she said, holding his eyes with an effort. ‘The other matter is how I’m going to get back to Perth. I was wondering whether you’d be flying up while Martin’s away on his honeymoon? If you’ve got an empty seat, would it be possible to get a ride with you?’
He kept her waiting while he buttered and spread another slice of bread, methodically cut it into squares, and conveyed the first of them to his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Mary. I’ll have to think about that.’ He gave her the benefit of his smile, but it was without any vestige of warmth.
Mary set about cleaning up. She wouldn’t get any more out of Paul tonight.
As soon as her back was turned, Paul spoke to his son, his voice at normal pitch as if Mary was no longer in the room. ‘I’ve had about all I’m going to take from that bloody woman. What the fuck does she think she’s playing at!’
‘She’s really crook, Dad,’ Martin said quietly.
‘How the hell would you know? She hasn’t poked her nose out of that bloody room since she’s been back.’
‘I went and saw her.’
Curious, Mary turned to watch this exchange. Paul was regarding his son with deep displeasure.
Martin had visibly braced himself. ‘She asked me to come.’
‘Oh yes? And what was that all about?’
‘We talked about Alyssa … but she looked dreadful, Dad. About a thousand years old. I got a shock.’
Paul was staring into his son’s face as if trying to assess his credibility. Then he addressed Mary. ‘You! I suppose you’ve been running around after her, holding her bloody hand!’
‘Yes, of course. That was part of the job, wasn’t it?
‘Do you think she’s sick? Or is she swinging the lead?’
‘No, I think she’s really very ill.’ She could see that he didn’t want to hear this, and elaborated. ‘There’s no way she’ll be well enough to travel for Martin’s wedding.’
Paul took this on board in silence. He finished eating the last of his bread and jam, swallowed his tea and got up from the table. ‘Just as well,’ was all he said, and without his customary nod to Mary he headed to the front room where the television was playing.
Martin stayed at the table fiddling with the crumbs on his plate. Mary came over to clear away Paul’s dishes and smiled at him. It was an effort, after Paul’s rudeness, but Martin was looking thoroughly uncomfortable and she felt sorry for him. ‘How did your shooting go?’ she asked him.
‘Not that well. There’s a crowd from Albany and Perth clubs, and they’re pretty hot. Still, it’s good fun.’
‘Well, better luck tomorrow,’ she said.
C
LIO’S LONG NIGHT WAS TROUBLED BY DREAMS
. At some point, she got up and went into her bathroom to swallow another painkiller. On the way back to bed, she paused at the french doors and pushed aside the curtains. It was cold out there. She opened the doors and stepped out onto the chilly tiles. The scent of the wisteria was transmuted by the alchemy of night into something sharper, cleaner … There was moonlight out there, and a vast silence, and the smell of the earth. She’d miss it. She’d miss all of it.