Authors: Maris Morton
‘I had a phone call.’ His expression was grim. ‘Young Martin was driving home late last night and ran the bloody ute into a ditch. Neither of them was wearing a seatbelt, of course. Paul hit his head on the windscreen. Cracked the glass and his head. Martin probably broke a rib or two on the steering wheel. No airbags in that old ute.’
‘Shit!’ Mary said. ‘Are they all right?’
‘Pair of them are in Glendenup hospital, feeling sorry for themselves. Serve them right, too. Probably hungover to buggery.’
Mary smiled agreement. They’d had a lot to celebrate.
‘Martin phoned to get me to take the tractor and pull the ute out of the ditch, and organise for the panel shop in Glendenup to tow it. That took all morning. I just got back.’
It wasn’t like Garth to be so cross but she couldn’t blame him. She wondered when the men would be able to come home, and how they’d get here if the ute was out of action; but it wasn’t her problem. At least they wouldn’t be demanding that she go and fetch them.
When she took Clio some dinner — a tiny amount of a spicy Indian lamb dish — she broke the news. Clio hardly looked up from eating. ‘I didn’t even notice they were gone. The fools ought to know better. Garth said it wasn’t serious, did he?’
Mary was struggling to remember his exact words. ‘I think so. Would you like me to phone the hospital?’
At that suggestion Clio raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’
Late in the afternoon Martin appeared, unshaven, embarrassed and sorry for himself. He’d managed to get a lift from a neighbour.
‘They’re keeping Dad in another day,’ he told Mary. ‘It looks like quite a bad concussion. He was out to it till they got him to the hospital. Bled like a stuck pig, the ute’s covered in it. Will the panel beaters clean it up? Or will we have to get Garth to do it?’
‘I doubt the smash place will. Why don’t you do it? How long before it’s fixed, anyway?’
Martin looked blank. ‘No idea. Probably be weeks. Dad’ll give me a hard time over it.’
‘You were driving, were you?’
‘Dad was way too pissed, the only reason. He made me.’
Mary made no comment, wondering whether this was a good time to ask Martin to go and see his mother. There might never be a better one, so she plunged in. ‘How are you feeling?’ Martin looked surprised at her concern, but it was no use sending him in to Clio if he was feeling rotten.
‘I’m okay. It only hurts when I laugh’ — he managed a feeble grin — ‘or breathe.’
‘Did they strap you up?’
‘No, they don’t do that any more. I’ve just got to put up with it for two or three weeks while it fixes itself. It’s just one rib cracked and the rest badly bruised, they said. I’ve got pills.’
Mary took her chance. ‘Your mother was talking about you the other day. She’d like you to come and have a chat with her.’
Martin’s face lit up with a childlike eagerness. ‘Did she? Does she really want to see me?’ Then he remembered, and frowned.
Mary understood. ‘Your dad’s not here, and I’m not about to say anything. Would you like to go in now? I’ll check to see if she’s awake …’
‘I better have a shower and shave first,’ he said.
‘Good idea. While you’re doing that, I’ll tell her you’re on your way.’
Clio insisted on putting on a clean nightgown and brushing her hair, but there was nothing she could do to make herself look less ill, and Mary had a sudden insight into the shock Martin would feel when he saw her for the first time in months. She could try to warn him, but that was all.
When she heard him come out of his room, damp from the shower and reeking of expensive aftershave, she intercepted him. He was wearing his cashmere sweater and brogues, not the usual ugg boots. He’d dressed up to visit his mother; Mary was touched.
‘Just a word before you go in,’ she said. ‘If you’re expecting her to look the same as she did when she went up to Perth, you’ll … you’ll get a shock. She’s not well, and she’s terribly thin. Try not to let it show, eh?’
Martin nodded, licked his lips and swallowed, and knocked on the closed door of his mother’s room.
W
HEN CLIO SAW HIM
standing there, she thought for a moment he was Paul; they were so much alike, even more so now than when she’d last seen her son. But when Martin walked over the polished floor to the blue chair, she could see at once that he’d never have his father’s grace of movement. She felt a pang of compassion that took her by surprise.
She was surrounded by white pillows in a pool of light from the bedside lamp, and once Martin was settled, self-consciously crossing his legs, she could see on his face the look of shock she’d half expected.
‘As you see, Martin, I’m still far from well, which is why you haven’t seen me running around the place.’ She gave him a little smile and folded her hands on the turndown of the sheets. ‘But there’s nothing I need you to do. I asked you to come and see me because’ — she searched for the words that would express what she felt a great need to say — ‘because with you getting married so soon I’m concerned that you and Alyssa have different expectations of married life. If I can help you to resolve those differences, I’ll feel I’ve been a real help. I want you both to be happy.’
She could see from Martin’s face that he’d tuned out. So she tried another approach.
‘Alyssa came to see me in hospital, did she tell you? I thought it was very nice of her. She’s lovely, and I can understand why you want to marry her.’ She was encouraged to see from his expression that he was listening again. ‘She told me about her singing. Do you know when the performance of
Carmen
is scheduled? Has it happened yet? They usually have long rehearsal periods for a student production.’
‘It’s going to be on next week, during the Show. She’s still got rehearsals all the time. I have a hard time getting her away.’
This was what she’d been fearing. ‘I expect it’s very important to her. Micaela’s a small part, but a very important one, so I hope you’ll give her all the support you can.’
Martin looked uncomfortable and uncrossed his legs, scraping his brogues on the polished floor. ‘It’s only music,’ he muttered.
Clio made a herculean effort to stifle her anger. ‘But it’s important to her,’ she insisted, keeping her voice calm. ‘Vitally important. She loves it. Can you understand that?’
Martin looked into her face, puzzled. ‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that about anything. I love Alyssa, and she says she loves me. So how can she be like that about music, too? I don’t understand. When we’re married she’ll be giving all that up, anyway.’
Clio had been right to worry. But she knew her son well enough to understand that there was no point in going head-to-head with him. ‘And what did she say, when you told her that?’
‘Nothing.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘But it’ll be okay. Soon as she’s got a couple of kids to chase after, she won’t have time to think about singing.’
Clio was fighting back tears. Poor wretched girl! ‘Do you have any idea how things will change at Downe when she comes here to live?’
‘She’ll fit in okay.’ He didn’t look as confident as he sounded. ‘Dad likes her, and she gets on really well with —’ he stopped himself, and Clio waited — ‘with all my friends.’
Clio abandoned the subject; she wasn’t going to get anywhere with it. ‘Mary tells me you’ve been in an accident? Are you all right?’
‘Just a bent rib and a few bruises, nothing to worry about.’
‘And your father? He’s not too badly hurt?’
‘Far as I know. They’re keeping him in till they’re sure his head’s okay.’
Clio sighed and relaxed against the pillows. ‘I still get the horrors when I hear about any of you being involved in a car accident.’
After a long pause, Martin said one word: ‘David.’
‘David’s dead, but you’ve never been the same since the accident either.’
‘David was your favourite.’
‘And you were always your father’s favourite, Martin. Fair’s fair.’
Clio watched him, proud of his good looks, comparing his face to that of the boy David’s, as he might have looked if he’d had the chance to grow up.
‘You always blamed me for David,’ Martin blurted out.
‘No, Martin, I never blamed you. If anything, I blamed your father. You were just a little boy.’
‘Dad said …’ Martin was looking down at his shoes. ‘You would’ve been right to blame me. It was my fault.’
Clio was getting impatient with his raking over of ancient history. ‘Nonsense, Martin. You were nine years old.’
But Martin was in confessional mode and sat up straight, clamping his hands over his knees. ‘It was my fault,’ he said loudly, ‘because I was picking on David. He was being a terrible little sissy and I was punching him and pushing him and generally acting like … like a real shit.’
‘As you so often did,’ Clio said, her voice neutral.
Martin flushed. ‘I wasn’t nice to him, was I. He wasn’t really that bad, but you liked him best and I wanted you to like me best. I’d have done anything to make you like me best.’ Clio was uncomfortable with this display of neediness. ‘I was being such a shit that Dad stopped the ute and made David get on the back. He must’ve had a hangover or something because he was really pissed with us that morning.’ He took a deep breath and let it out. ‘So it was my fault David was on the back of the ute, when Dad was in a snit and driving like a maniac … and David fell off. It was me that started picking on David so it was me Dad should’ve made get in the back.’ Relieved to have unburdened himself, he sat back and crossed his legs again.
Clio was appalled. This explained a lot. No wonder Martin had kept aloof from her all these years. Bearing guilt like that, it would’ve been strange if he hadn’t. Could she offer him absolution and hope to heal the breach now that he was grown up and getting married? It would be easy to offer glib forgiveness that might make him feel better but wouldn’t do a thing for her.
‘Thank you for telling me that, Martin. It can’t have been easy. You were both to blame. But your father was an adult and you were just a child, so he must still bear most of the responsibility.’ She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the pillow. ‘Now I’ll have to ask you to leave me. I’m very tired.’
M
ARTIN WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY LATE
for breakfast. When he finally came, slow-footed, out of his room, he sagged into his chair and buried his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ Mary asked.
He stared up at her, his eyes puffy. ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I know you told me Mum was crook but … I didn’t think she’d look god-awful as that.’
Mary put a plate of hash browns with scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him. It was dry from being kept warm. Martin poked at it, but once he’d tasted the first bite he ate with his usual appetite. She poured a cup of tea for each of them and sat down opposite him.
‘I’m quite worried about her,’ she said. ‘She isn’t picking up like I expected. Do you have any idea what her illness is?’ Martin shook his head, his mouth full of food. ‘It doesn’t look as if she’ll make it up to Perth for the wedding.’
Martin swallowed and stared at her. ‘Not make it! But she’s got to. She’s my mother!’
‘I think you’d better start getting used to the idea, Martin.’
He shook his head again. ‘She’s got to be there! I know her and Dad don’t get on, but she’s still my mother.’ He scraped the last of the egg with a crust of toast. ‘I want her to be there. I was thinking about the wedding last night. Alyssa’s folks have got a nice garden. I’ve always seen Mum running the show, in a long dress and a big hat, being proud of me and wanting me to be happy …’
‘I’m sure she does want you to be happy, Martin,’ Mary said quietly, ‘even if she can’t be at the actual wedding.’
Martin pushed his empty plate aside and reached for the marmalade. ‘It’s all going wrong,’ he muttered, querulous as a child, then looked up at Mary, his eyes filling with horror at the thought. ‘She’s not going to die, is she? She’s not old! She can’t!’
C
LIO HAD SLEPT BADLY
, too: slow to get to sleep, and slow to wake up. The return to consciousness had been like entering a nightmare of pain. She must have slept in a bad position because her left shoulder was in agony, and the muscles in her back complained every time she tried to move into a more comfortable one. Confronting the pain seemed too hard, so she made an effort to drift back into sleep.
And she remembered the last time she’d experienced pain, just like this.
Years ago, when she still had her music, Richard had come to visit: Richard, the sceptic of the Tartini Quartet. Richard had his own quartet by then and was touring the Great Southern for the Arts Council. He’d written to say that they were scheduled to have three days off and could they come and stay with her on her grand stud farm and make some proper music, not the pap they were being paid to serve up to the peasants? She still played, didn’t she? They were travelling in campervans, so accommodation wouldn’t be a hassle. Tony, their violist, had his own fish to fry in Albany, so there would just be the three of them — and she remembered Justine, didn’t she? They were married now.
Once over the shock, Clio had been delighted, her pleasure only slightly tarnished by worry about Paul’s reaction. She’d never understood why, but he invariably flew into a temper if she was ever careless enough to let him overhear her playing. But as the visit would be happening on a weekend, when Paul would be in Perth and Martin away at school, this wasn’t likely to be an issue. She told Paul she was expecting a visit from old friends, but carefully didn’t say anything about music.
In the days leading up to the visit, Clio cooked like a demon, so that when they arrived her time would be free. She’d had no idea how much she missed having people to talk to who knew and loved music as she did.
When the vans finally bumped in over the sandy track, and Richard got out, bearded now, and wrapped her instantly in a bear hug, it was hard not to cry from wonder and happiness. He looked around at this strange place and shook his shaggy head. Still with an arm around her, he said, ‘God, Mario, you’re a long way from home.’