Authors: Maris Morton
‘How did it all start?’
‘I pulled a muscle, while I was working in the garden. At least, I thought I pulled a muscle, in my ribs on the left side.’ She touched the spot where her left breast had been, then dropped her hand to her lap. ‘Then it swelled up and got hard and hot, so I drove to Glendenup to the doctor. He thought it was some kind of infection and gave me pills — antibiotics, I suppose — but it got worse, if anything, so I went back, and I had tests and he sent me up to Perth. They don’t mess around when it’s cancer. They had the breast off almost before I had time to think about it.’ She paused, remembering. ‘The worst thing was being wheeled into theatre, with the pre-med making me woozy, knowing that if I never woke up nobody would know, or care …’ She used her right hand to wipe the tears that were running silently down her cheeks.
‘Oh, Clio,’ Mary said.
‘That was only the start of it. There were more tests, liver function, bones, all that. Meetings with people from the Cancer Council, reading the literature, deciding whether I wanted a pros … prosthesis.’ She stumbled over the word, her tongue suddenly clumsy. ‘Learning to walk when you’re all unbalanced because of losing the breast, and the ongoing pain, from the wound, the drains, the damage to nerves that can send agonising twinges almost anywhere, at any time …’
‘It must have been absolutely shattering.’
‘When they let me out of the hospital, I rented a unit nearby. There were weeks of physio and rehab … I charged everything to the Downe account. By that time, I couldn’t give a damn what Paul thought. It was like a nightmare …’ She stared into the darkness outside the window. ‘And then I came home. I’d been away for months, but I doubt if Paul missed me. Or wondered what I was doing. He was probably hoping I’d gone for good.’
‘You came home by yourself ? Paul didn’t bring you in the Piper?’
‘Paul? We haven’t spoken since I left. Of course I didn’t tell him. In spite of seeing the bills arrive I doubt if Paul’s given my health a moment’s thought.’
‘Martin has, though,’ Mary said. This was deeply distressing. ‘He’s quite anxious about you.’
‘Martin’s still a boy. He’s his father’s son. I don’t expect Martin to offer me solace or support.’ Clio gave a grim little smile. ‘I expect he’s anxious because he’ll be relying on me to housekeep for him and Alyssa, if and when she gets here.’
Mary was shocked by Clio’s cynicism. ‘No, I think he really cares about you.’
But Clio simply shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘It’s too late.’
A
LTHOUGH THE RAIN SEEMED MORE LIKE
a mist than real rain, Mary took an umbrella when she went to fetch Clio’s oranges. Wetness was everywhere, drenching her feet and seeping up her sleeves from the wet leaves. Under the leaden sky, the greens of pasture and crop had taken on a weird fluorescence, with the pines and native trees as a shadowy foil. Every day Downe looked subtly different, as if during the night, while the people were asleep, a mysterious shift had been wrought by some celestial stage manager.
During the morning, Gayleen brought fresh eggs and a pick of Garth’s sugar snap peas. Mary was pleased to see her. With the rain, and Clio’s news, maintaining her cheerfulness was an effort. She felt bad about the times she’d been impatient with Clio, but how could she have known?
Since last night, Clio had stayed in her room, and Mary, newly respectful of her welfare, had left her in peace.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’
‘A coffee would be good.’ Gayleen followed Mary into the kitchen.
Mary pushed the kettle onto the hottest part of the stovetop and waited for it to boil. ‘Instant all right? I’ll have one, too.’
Gayleen was looking out at the rain. Water was trickling into the tanks. ‘This’ll be good for the hay. Things were getting a bit dry, Dad said.’
‘Does your dad make the hay?’
Gayleen nodded. ‘They put it through the chaff cutter for the wethers. Mr Melrose decides how much they need, and how much oats and stuff to put in.’ She came over to the table and sat down. Mary had got out two mugs and poured boiling water into the powdered coffee. ‘Milk, please, and two.’
Mary let her help herself while she fetched the cake tin. She offered it to Gayleen.
‘What brand’s that? I haven’t had it before.’
It took a few seconds for Mary to understand what Gayleen meant. ‘It’s not out of a packet, Gayleen. I made it all by myself.’
Gayleen’s face lit up. ‘Really? Can you do that? Will you show me? Mum makes packets, except for her’ — she pulled a comic face — ‘famous sponges.’
Mary laughed at her. ‘Your mother does make fabulous sponges. But sure, if you like. I’ll have to make more before the men get back.’
‘I can do Anzacs and rock cakes.’
‘Right. When do you want to come over?’ Mary felt a lifting of her spirits. Baking was such a pleasant thing to do on a rainy afternoon.
‘Today?’ Gayleen’s dark eyes were bright. ‘Those kids are driving me demented.’
‘Yes, that will be fine. Come over around … two o’clock?’
It would be courteous to check that Clio didn’t mind, so she went to ask. Clio, haloed by light from the bedside lamp, had put on some music. ‘Nasty old day, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘but I expect the pastures need it.’
‘Clio, I’ve invited Gayleen to come and have a cooking lesson this afternoon. Do you mind? I need to do some more baking.’
‘Gayleen? Well, no. I don’t mind at all. I quite like the child.’ Mary was turning to go when Clio spoke again in a low voice. ‘Mary, I’m glad I told you about the mastectomy. I should have said something sooner, maybe.’
‘I was a stranger.’
‘Yes, you were. But I’m glad you know now.’
B
Y THE TIME
Gayleen arrived for her lesson, Mary had everything ready. On the big kitchen table sat Ellen’s heavy cast-iron scales with their brass and iron weights, and a cream-enamelled electric mixer that looked like a relic from the 1960s.
‘Mrs Hazlitt’s going to supervise,’ Mary said.
Gayleen was clearly shocked by Clio’s appearance. ‘Hello, Mrs Hazlitt.’
‘Goodness, Gayleen, I swear you’ve grown into a young lady since last time I saw you,’ Clio said.
Mary was ready to start work. ‘I thought I’d show you a slice my mother makes, and some honey kisses. If we have time we might do a cake, too.’
‘Is your mother a good cook?’ Gayleen asked, tearing her eyes away from Clio.
‘My mother’s Hungarian. Hungarians make the best cakes! Now, Gayleen, first we have to shell some of these walnuts.’
‘I can …’ Clio offered quietly.
‘Not with one hand,’ Mary reminded her, equally quietly, hoping Gayleen missed the exchange, but Gayleen had already picked up the wooden mallet and was vigorously cracking nuts, fielding bits of exploding shell that were flying all over the table top. ‘Don’t worry if they get smashed,’ Mary said. ‘We’ve got to grind them up anyway. Here, put the good bits in the scales and stop when you’ve got two ounces,’
‘Two ounces?’ Gayleen said, with a blank look.
‘They’re old scales, and it’s an old recipe. You can cope with that, can’t you?’ Mary laughed at her confusion and went to fetch more wood for the stove.
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.’
O
N 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.