Authors: Maris Morton
‘How marvellous! And what happened?’
‘Why am I still here, you ask? Well, I’d decided to go with them. I wouldn’t have had to leave for months, plenty of time to make arrangements. It wasn’t as if I was bolting over the hills with a gypsy lover. I would be leaving Paul, though; there was no question about that. And Martin, so a lot of people would have said I was a monster. If David had still been alive … but by that time the marriage wasn’t bringing me any joy, and the thought of walking away from it gave me a feeling of … I don’t know … of relief.
‘I can remember, very clearly, that as a kind of joke Richard insisted on that last morning we play Schubert’s
Death and the
Maiden
, because he said I had a weighty decision to make and he thought that music was suitably dramatic. And we were playing it, out on the verandah with the wisteria in bloom, and I was feeling totally elated because I’d made up my mind to go. The galloping, exciting rhythm of the music had me in its grip.’ She stopped and looked up at Mary with desperate eyes. ‘And Paul walked in.’
Clio bowed her head, and the deep waves of her hair fell forward, masking her face. ‘For some reason, he’d flown home early that day, and of course with all the noise we were making I didn’t hear the plane.’ She raised her head and took a draught of her wine; her good hand was trembling. ‘He appeared like the demon king. We were sitting facing the garden. I still don’t understand why he was so angry, maybe he’d had a row with Monica, but he was beside himself.’
She sighed, from the depth of her body. ‘So … he reached over my shoulder and wrenched the viola out of my hands. I still had the bow in my right hand’ — slowly, she raised her right hand, steady now, wrist cocked as if she were playing the instrument; she was speaking very slowly, and deliberately — ‘and he threw the viola down on the concrete … and he stamped on it.’
Her face contorted at the memory. She dropped her arm, then raised both hands in a brief gesture of abandonment. ‘The beautiful wood smashed and splintered. The strings twisted and snapped, and he ground it into the concrete with the heel of his boot. I sat there while he did it — we all just sat there — not believing our eyes.’ She let out her breath in something like a sob. ‘And when he’d finished, he turned around and walked away. Back through Ellen’s room to his own room. He didn’t come out again for hours.’
Clio’s sigh this time was almost one of relief. ‘So of course that was the end of my escape. Without an instrument, I couldn’t join the others. A decent viola costs thousands of dollars, and I had no hope, not even the ghost of a hope, of ever finding that kind of money.’ She hesitated. ‘And mine was a good instrument, an old Italian one.’ She paused again for a long moment. ‘It was a part of me. My heart and soul.’
Mary was appalled. No wonder Clio was hostile towards Paul.
Clio picked up her glass of wine. ‘This must be a truth drug, Mary,’ she murmured, looking at Mary over the rim of her glass. ‘You’re hearing all the ugly facts now. Can you handle it?’
‘That’s a dreadful story, Clio. I had no idea.’
‘Well, that’s why I gave up playing my viola. I didn’t give it up voluntarily; it was taken away from me.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘It’s difficult to imagine isn’t it, when you meet Paul? So handsome and charming, the master of Downe, all that money.’
‘But why do you think he did it?’ Mary could hear the plea in her own voice.
Clio gave a twisted smile. ‘As you know by now, my husband is a man of few words. He’s never said anything about it. No apology — heavens, no! — no explanation, no excuse. No offer to buy me a new viola.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And I was so stunned that I didn’t even try to demand an explanation. Well, I knew I’d be wasting my breath. So that’s how it stands: an unresolved tragedy, if that’s not too strong a word; a festering sore, an unscaleable barrier between the two of us that will be there until the day I die. Though I very much doubt that he sees it that way. I’m sure he thinks what he did was entirely justified. A bit of a slap to bring the little woman back into line.’
The two women sat quietly, each with her own thoughts.
‘Was he jealous, do you think?’ Mary suggested at last.
‘Possibly. The music was a part of me that he could never own, and I always knew, intuitively, that it bothered him. It was a world he couldn’t enter and had no hope of ever mastering, and I think that bothered him just as much. All his money and status among his peers might seem unimportant to you and me, but it’s terribly important to Paul. That carapace of self-regard I mentioned the other day … To be reminded that there’s a world where he counts for nothing must have been unbearably galling.’ She managed a small smile. ‘Not that any of it matters, here and now. Next time you’re dusting my room, you can get out the viola case and have a look. For a long time, I used to have silent grieving sessions over it. The bow’s still all right. But it’s a tragic sight. Anything beautiful that’s been broken is tragic, even when it’s an accident. Much worse, when …’
Silence hung between them. Embers in the firebox fell with a soft sound, and the kettle started to sing.
‘You must have felt as if it was you that he’d smashed,’ Mary said quietly.
‘Yes, Mary. It did feel like that. It does — still — feel like that. Just like that.’
‘And you don’t hate him?’ It was hard to believe.
‘No … No, I’ve never managed to hate that poor damaged … bastard.’
O
N
S
ATURDAY, GAYLEEN CAME OVER EARLY
.
‘The kids have shelled heaps of walnuts, so when can we make that cake?’
Clio spoke from her chair. ‘I’ve been thinking. Would it be a good idea to invite your mother and Janet to afternoon tea?’
Mary was astonished. ‘Why not.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Gayleen said.
‘We can’t do cucumber sandwiches,’ Mary said, only half joking.
‘Cheese straws for something savoury, a fancy cake, and the last of the honey kisses,’ Clio said. ‘We’ll keep the slices for next week.’ Next week Paul and Martin would be back and their holiday would be over. ‘Mary, can you invite the two ladies?’
‘Sure. If we do the baking tomorrow morning we can have tea in the afternoon. All right, Gayleen? And bring over those walnuts.’
Janet and Gloria were surprised at the invitation but eager to come. Mary guessed they were curious to see Clio and make their own assessments of her health. She didn’t mention the mastectomy: if Clio wanted them to know about it, she’d tell them herself.
G
AYLEEN ARRIVED ON
Sunday morning with more eggs and a bowl full of walnut pieces. She had a big white apron tied around her waist that made her look thoroughly domestic. Mary had the ingredients they’d be using set out on the table again, and the scales that weighed in ounces. When the morning was over, the table bore the results of their efforts, and the air in the room was heavy with the warm aroma of sugar and spices.
Janet was the first of the guests to arrive. She was wearing her going-out-to-tea clothes, with pearls at her throat, and she’d taken the trouble to set her hair and lacquer it into place. It looked a bit like the Queen’s, Mary decided, except for the colour. Gloria was wearing make-up. In honour of the occasion, Mary had made a token effort, too, with a denim skirt instead of jeans and a dark blue t-shirt that matched her eyes, with tights and high-heeled court shoes. Her exposed legs were chilly. Clio had stayed in her nightgown and woolly robe, but had showered and washed her hair; the loose, abundant waves of it accentuated her gaunt beauty, its smoky darkness defining her pallor.
Mary had found the ‘company’ tea set and spread one of Ellen’s embroidered tea cloths. Clio had taken the seat nearest the window, the light behind her concealing the lines of stress engraved on her face. Even so, Mary observed the shocked expressions of her guests. Once the opening courtesies were done with, Janet and Gloria ignored Clio. Perhaps this was the only way they could deal with the situation.
‘Well, I must say, Mary, you’ve done us all proud!’ Janet scanned the laden table as Gayleen offered her tea. ‘White, please, dear. Goodness, you’ve grown. Quite the young lady!’ While Gayleen smiled politely, Mary knew that the instant she was out of Janet’s sight she’d roll her eyes, and it was hard not to giggle. Janet turned her attention back to the food and leant forward, the better to choose. ‘What have we got here?’
Mary gave her the guided tour. ‘Cheese straws, a chocolate cake that’s got no flour in it, just cocoa, ground walnuts and grated apple.’
‘That sounds healthy,’ Janet said. ‘A bit like a carrot cake.’
‘The one with the toffee on top is a Hungarian specialty called Dobosh Torta.’ Mary chattered about her Hungarian mother and her cooking triumphs, talking into the void of the other women’s silence. Clio’s whole attention was absorbed in the task of eating a cheese straw.
Eventually, Janet took over the conversation. ‘I heard from my hubby yesterday,’ she said, as if this were an event of major importance. ‘All the rams sold, and for very good prices.’ She took a slice of the cake and laid it on her plate, where she contemplated it for a moment before breaking off a corner with her fork and daintily nibbling at it. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s been seeing something of young Martin. Apparently Martin went to hear his fiancée … Alison, is that her name?’
‘Alyssa,’ Clio said. Her voice was slow and deep in comparison to the others.
‘Alyssa. She was singing in some opera, I think he said?’
‘She was rehearsing for
Carmen
,’ Clio said.
‘
Carmen
?’
Mary could tell from Janet’s tone that she’d heard of the opera, and it wasn’t good news.
‘She was singing the part of Micaela,’ Clio said. ‘It’s not a big part, but it’s important.’ She smiled at Janet. ‘Micaela’s the good girl, in contrast to sexy Carmen.’ She’d finished her cheese straw and surveyed the cakes. ‘Alyssa came to visit me in hospital. She’s quite lovely.’
Now that Clio had mentioned her stay in hospital, Janet was agog to discover more, but Clio quietly fobbed her off, looking so pale and tired that even Janet wasn’t thick-skinned enough to press the point.
Mary cut the Dobosh Torta. Clio held out her plate. ‘A sliver, please, Mary.’
Janet was holding out her plate in both hands. ‘I don’t know if I dare,’ she said, greed in every syllable. ‘It looks dreadfully fattening.’
‘It is,’ Mary told her. ‘All cake is. But it won’t poison you.’ Without waiting for further argument, Mary slid a fat piece onto Janet’s plate. ‘You could have cream with it, if you like.’ Janet held her hands up defensively and shook her head with closed eyes.
Gloria was sampling the Torta, too. ‘This is divine.’
‘Gayleen did most of it,’ Mary said. ‘She can probably make it for you some time.’
Gloria looked at her daughter. ‘Did you really? Clever old thing!’ She turned to Mary. ‘This is the one your mother makes, didn’t you say?’
‘That’s right. I always liked it when I was little. It’s the hint of bitterness in the topping contrasting with the sweetness.’
‘It’s good to make the things your mother made,’ Gloria said, licking chocolate filling off her finger. ‘A kind of link, isn’t it, with yourself when you were young … don’t you think?’ She looked anxious, as if she might have spoken out of turn, but Mary was quick to agree with her.
After that, the conversation died. Mary and Gayleen handed around more cake; Gayleen offered more tea, with Clio presiding over the table like a dark goddess, implacable, but drooping with fatigue.
It wasn’t long before Clio struggled to her feet. ‘I’m sorry …’ Mary went to give her a hand. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have to lie down.’
Mary helped Clio back to her room and settled her in bed. ‘I’ll be all right now. You’d better go back.’
When Mary returned to the kitchen, Janet, Gloria and Gayleen were sitting in silence, waiting for her to deliver news of Clio. But when nothing was forthcoming, they rose to take their leave.
L
YING AGAINST HER PILLOWS,
Clio put the last couple of hours out of her mind, wondering briefly why she’d thought the tea party would be a good idea.
She was glad she’d told her story to Mary. It had been bottled up for so long that it had felt strange to hear her voice saying the words. Finding the right words had been easier than she’d expected. Telling somebody, at last, had brought a measure of peace. Mary had been quite right: it would have been easier still with music, especially the deep, expressive tones of the viola.
Her mind flitted back over the afternoon’s conversations. So Alyssa’s performance had finally taken place. She searched her memory, following the scent of violets to her meeting with Alyssa, and looked for insights into Alyssa’s character, and any signs that she’d be able to cope with life at Downe.
Seeing the way Alyssa’s eyes had shone with excitement when she’d talked about her singing, Clio had felt kinship with her. She could visualise Alyssa singing Micaela’s lovely arias, her slenderness and white skin adding to the poignancy of the role. In her imagination, Clio heard her voice soaring, holding the high notes without strain, her heartbreak clear, and her docile acceptance as the man she loved rejected her in favour of the tart, Carmen.
Was Alyssa really a gentle girl, pure in heart like Micaela? Whatever her nature, it seemed unlikely that her future here would be free from heartbreak.
M
ARY PUT THE GLASS
of juice on the bedside table and went to open the curtains. Overnight, the rain had vanished, and the sunshine was catching the drops trembling on the cobwebs, turning them to tiny prisms that sent out a dazzle of coloured sparks. She couldn’t help smiling at the sight and turned to tell Clio.
‘Clio …’ But Clio’s eyes were shut tight as if she was in pain. Mary went over to the bed. ‘Are you all right, Clio?’
With too much effort, Clio turned her pale face towards the light and blinked. ‘Mary?’
‘Are you okay, Clio? Can I get you anything?’
Clio closed her eyes again. ‘No.’ She sighed, a breath that hardly stirred the air. ‘No. I’ll be all right.’