Trio Read online

  Sitting on her bed later on, in her eyrie, feeling light and contented, she gazed down on the house of drunken violence, all quiet now, with one of their two kittens sitting on what was possibly a borrowed motorbike, all shiny and hardly ever ridden because, she suspected, they didn’t have the money for petrol. The kitten, squatting on the saddle, was scratching the black leather, eyes closed in rapture. Celia should get a photo of that. The young boy leaned over the balcony unperturbed and looked at the cat, making that lip-pursing sound that people all over the world make to animals. They were rough and uneducated that family, but they were not cruel to their cats. In Marcia’s eyes that was a mark in their favour.

  In the street below with people strolling past, she thought that Celia was right: the show is the thing. How very well the people dressed here, even in this humble place: all spruced up and with their clothes nicely pressed, so many with brushed, abundant hair, even elderly men. Fulvio had very good hair and not too much of it on his body. It had been a very agreeable interlude, tantalising hors d’oeuvres – he sure knew what he was about – followed by the main course of good, juddering sex. She still hadn’t told Celia about this afternoon but quite likely Cele had guessed now with her uncanny intuition. It was an episode, that’s all. One of many that she’d tell no one because it hardly mattered; it had been good but it didn’t count for very much in the long run. She called to mind her years of experimentation, she supposed it was. To see if she was normal, whatever that may be.

  It was evening: she’d have a shower and enjoy the solace of lying down here on clean white sheets, her mind doing a final flick back to her afternoon – where the state of the bed linen was the last thing on her mind. What had been on her mind then? Her need or his? His, more likely. She wanted to console him on the loss of his bitch’s honour. A good, sensitive man. She yawned and stretched and knew she’d not see him again or give him more than a passing thought when she got back to London.

  Perhaps the interlude would pop into her mind when she was on the point of giving Mickey up, which was, as far as she could see, the only way she could continue loving him.

  Celia, downstairs lying on her double bed, reviewed her own day which she hadn’t yet told Marcia about, but would. They liked to share daily trivia and pull it apart, laugh over it. God knows what Marse had got up to with someone else who had a dog. But Celia had enjoyed her own peculiar company; had tried to look down the centuries at the monastery, had wandered into the fusty old church and knelt down near the altar, had taken photographs of the monument and written some postcards.

  At the post office – difficult to find because it looked from the outside like a warehouse and had no sign to declare its function – she entered the cool interior and nodded to the elderly women who were seated around the wall as though in a doctor’s waiting room. Celia, needing stamps, bowled up to the window in her Australian way, where there was just one person ahead of her. She was aware of a particular quality of silence over her shoulder while she waited, and began to wonder if those ladies were in fact in their own kind of queue sitting down? In tune with this thought a small woman appeared at her elbow and said politely: ‘Excuse me signora, I was here,’ to which Celia ceded immediately with apologies. Everyone smiled and understood that she didn’t know their ways, and now exhorted her to take a place in front of them. The woman at the window obligingly held out her hand for the postcards, to which Celia replied that she merely wanted a few stamps.

  ‘Oh we don’t have stamps, signora,’ said the woman.

  ‘You don’t have stamps.’ Celia said it more in sorrow than surprise.

  ‘But I do have my machine,’ (this said with a certain pride) ‘so I can frank your cards and send them off, if you want to leave them with me.’

  Celia paid her money and departed, smiling her thanks to the patient old women on the way out, pondering whether human nature the world over was like this: once you had taken their point, they would overlook your mistake.

  Here she was called voi for you as a mark of respect, rather than the Lei of Rome and northern Italy. And she remembered how Mussolini, who hated the French, nevertheless issued an edict, during his reign, that all Italians must use the form voi, the equivalent to the French vous; henceforth Lei was forbidden. This might have had the supporting rationale, in his mind, that Lei was too deferential? Perhaps he had been against any signs of class.

  She looked around her at the hilly streets, many of them cobbled from centuries ago, knowing she could never capture on her little camera the way things looked here. The tattered buildings, on the outside that is, others with their makeshift repairs. An enormous earthquake had taken place in 1783, she’d been told; it took the whole of southern Italy and shook it almost to death (the way in her imagination that a monster shark or crocodile took a human body and thrashed it till it drowned) so that rivers changed their course and the topography of the country was altered forever.

  Beside the road on a seat was an old woman who greeted her with a resigned air, as if nothing could ever surprise her again. Her features almost mirrored the town: a weathered and worn face with teeth missing; a bit of remedial work done. The houses behind the old lady had sustained a few daubs of mortar here, a stretch of iron railing there, a little outhouse tacked onto the front – a kitchen, or an outdoor loo. Successive generations had added their needs to the inherited building so that the subsequent impression was of one storey falling upon the other like misshapen blocks, to make a statement about their history, of being beaten about by everyone and everything, including World War II Allied forces who had put paid to anything that was left.

  The next day Sandrina and Mario met them at the church to celebrate the feast of San Rocco with a Mass, followed by a grand procession through the town. On the way to the church, walking through one of the main streets in town Marcia touched Celia’s arm and nodded towards the ubiquitous washing, across the road, hanging from lines suspended between rooms and balconies above, unashamedly on show, the poor, modest smalls, centimetres above the heads of passers-by. Despite evidence like this of less-than-glamorous clothes and humble living quarters, they saw no one who was poorly dressed.

  Celia pointed out the occasional small shop or door which had the key left in the lock. Sandrina had told them: ‘Stealing is practically non-existent here because we all know each other. You can’t get away with a thing!’

  In the distance San Giovanni and Cosmolino were burnt: stricken and sullen from recent fierce bushfires.

  The villagers, given the excuse, dolled up in their best for the feast day and there were not one but two priests at the fore, followed by altar boys in full regalia and a brass band, as before, blasting its way through hymns and old Calabrian airs. Everyone finished up in the Piazza del Popolo, a small-scale version of Rome’s vast public square where Mussolini had delivered his rants.

  These were the two focal points in town: the church and the larger of the two squares. After the festivities in the late afternoon Celia spied her neighbour Cristina the elderly widow, who in her accustomed way was twittering at her. Celia heard the bird-like noises from above as she slowly walked up the steep road towards the house with some food. Looking up she saw that Cristina, in her nightdress from an afternoon nap, hair still tousled, was addressing her, making gestures of welcome, inviting the foreigner to come up and enjoy a cup of coffee. The older woman was still grieving for her husband who had died several years ago. When she met you in the street she picked at imaginary threads from the front of her bodice, as she spoke, straightened her spectacles and related her suffering from this or that malady and Dio mio, the medico never came when she needed him. Cristina wanted Celia to know that there was a funeral on the following day at the church at sixteen hours and Celia and her friend must come along.

  ‘But we don’t know the man, Cristina,’ said Celia, overwhelmed by the plethora of rituals. She normally didn’t attend the weddings or funerals of people she did know.

  ‘It makes
no difference, cara, everyone will be there. He will be a splendid corpse.’

  Earlier in the day Celia had seen the widow talking animatedly with a well-turned-out older gentleman and she caught a glimmer of the maiden who was once Cristina: full of guile, uttering the right phrases in a girlish way, making little flirting sounds that are part of a young woman’s conversational repertoire. Now Cristina’s mannerisms had descended into cheeps and flutterings. Celia had asked Sandrina over a cup of coffee recently about the widow, how unfortunate it was that Cristina appeared to have no one, and Sandrina said:

  ‘She complains constantly, yet she has everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Consider it, put it on a tray.’ Celia looked at the kitchen table where they had had their coffee and cornetto from a tray.

  Sandrina continued in a conversational way, almost smiling:

  ‘She has health, yet eats from morning to night – look at the size of her; she has family, children and grandchildren. Friends, money – what more can you possibly ask for, to make you happy?’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Love! She had a husband, now he’s dead and she mourns him constantly but they quarrelled all the time.’

  Celia weighed it up. ‘Some people, I suppose, are better than others at being happy.’

  Clouds appeared from over the mountains bringing a wind, and she just made it inside before the deluge descended and washed the town hard for about an hour, before easing off. She wondered where you could buy an umbrella in a place where there was only a handful of food shops; for other goods most people relied on the Saturday moving market. As today was Wednesday Celia asked her favourite beautiful woman in the bar, the thin one with black hair and black eyes, where one could buy an umbrella. The woman directed her to the tobacconist’s, where else? ‘It’s Tuesday so he should be open, signora.’

  Despite these vagaries, the lack of public phones or a bank, a post office that had no stamps, buses that had no printed timetables – for Marcia had told her about the bus stop that wasn’t there – and the pharmacy that was out of tissues, there was a hit-and-miss rhythm and civility to daily life. Tradition was served, art was served and family and religion above all were served.

  On the second-last day in Sanlorenzo there was a strong earth tremor felt in the straits of Messina, not far from where they were, measuring five on the Richter scale. The townspeople talked about it in a matter-of-fact way, though not with any disrespect, the two women noticed. They went to the trattoria opposite the house with the pink garden, where they were served exquisite food by a large ungainly man who moved with great delicacy and had a shy manner. He placed everything they wanted in front of them, for he knew their needs by now. They passed on the wild boar in favour of grilled king prawns, and raised their glasses happily. As they left and stood on the cobbled street sniffing the air like dogs, Cristina spotted them and went into her choreography, extending the hands particularly to Celia, palms up, then made a sweeping to the side with her arms as though ushering her somewhere – upstairs to her house, or inviting her to dance. Celia knew that if they went upstairs she’d tell them all her woes again. Yet the widow was all smiles, as she did a little two-step with welcoming gestures, making soft murmuring noises of encouragement. It was a display of the utmost good will and Marcia smiled at the older woman while Celia explained that they had to start packing as they were leaving tomorrow. She hoped they would meet here again, another time.

  ‘If not here cara, then we will meet in Paradise,’ rejoined the widow.

  ‘The very place, Cristina.’

  They were tired and went to bed thankfully, but the wild family across the road went into another bout of roaring, followed by a cacophony of metal being beaten with a heavy implement. Marcia reckoned it must make them feel they’re alive, with so little to amuse them, or worse, no means of knowing how to amuse themselves. But when it had all died down she heard the wife calling to her beloved cat in the sweetest accents, all trace of the raucous gone.

  5

  Perth, 1981

  Italy had been an idyll, and with revelations. Times were good and bad in London. It was life, it was living. But now the Mickeys of the world were not going to be indulged by Mrs Thatcher’s England. No longer could he recline in bed half the day reading (working, bejaysus!) and draw unemployment benefit without questions. Marcia’s career had stalled in a minor part she’d had as one of the nuns in The Sound of Music for the past three years. Yes, she admitted, she did sing a little. And she finally confessed that she could lose her senses altogether doing this show for much longer. With the years rolling past Celia was yet to decide on her calling.

  ‘It’ll be a great day when you decide what you want to be,’ Mickey had said one day, sinking a scotch, giving her a grin.

  ‘Well I know I want to be warm,’ said Celia tartly. ‘And I can at least be that in Australia. I think I’m going back there.’

  They all thought about it. Mickey said he’d had it up to here with the present bloody mood and Madam Lash in charge, in a place that was increasingly called the Yew Kay. It was currently being bruited about among their friends that there was a lot of theatre happening in Perth; this was according to Celia’s sources. Setting up house there, all three of them, seemed like a possibility. They sat up straight and talked deep into the night.

  The move to Australia affected them oddly. Unlikely though it was, Mickey fitted in well. It seemed so. This new place, dressed down rather than up, in short sleeves and skimpy tops, meant for Marcia that she became easier in speech with strangers. In a shop or at the park in this small city, people exchanged a smile and even a conversation. The mood was more like Calabria, though you didn’t get invited to everyone’s rites of passage. Marcia was able to be more private in big cities, where strangers couldn’t afford to make too much contact. Mickey said that such populations are not only afraid of giving away something of themselves; it could be risking danger. The three of them plundered these depths.

  In a place called Daglish, near Perth – ‘How can we not rent a house in a suburb called Daglish!’ said Mickey – they found an enormous, spreading, timbered house with a wraparound verandah, a shed-cum-dunny down the back that stood in a corner minding its own business. The house, at No. 11 Wilbur Avenue, had large high rooms with vaulted ceilings, fireplaces, a huge kitchen and three enormous jacaranda trees out the back. Impossible to resist, continued Mick. Look at the hammock.

  Each of them had a favourite place to rest or work; the luxury of space they’d never had in London. Marcia fell in love with the rotary clothes line and Celia tried, through rediscovered poetry writing, to express her re-attachment to the smells and sounds and sights of Australia. Birds shrieking, wild fennel growing, heady jasmine.

  It was Celia who climbed up to the roof to remove the leaves from the guttering while Mickey, reclining in his hammock, unemployed, grumbled about Malcolm Fraser’s unfortunate turn of phrase regarding dole bludgers: ‘Bloody nerve, calling people names like that.’ While Marcia tempted them with new dishes Celia decided on rooms to be painted, She got the brushes, organized the procedure. Where Marcia and Mickey were happy to let things slide, she instead wanted action. Not content with the performance of the washing machine on her clothes, Celia preferred to do her shirts and indeed most of her washing by hand.

  ‘Wash day on the Ganges is it?’ cried Mickey. ‘You’ll find a couple of good smooth stones down the back you can use darlin’ ’ – as he sipped coffee laced with whisky. Undeterred, Celia hung out her gear having a little sing to herself, the portable radio on for company. Happy days and she didn’t even know it.

  The pale purple jacarandas flowered faithfully every November. The ducks bred reliably in the nearby park and waddled into the dusty back yard in Daglish. It was transformed by now with flowers planted by Marcia and yielded vegetables under Celia’s fingers. Actors and artists, friends of Mickey’s, visited – some in work, some talented, and others merely clingin
g to the idea of a calling. Some brought wine, salads and chicken and their goodwill, others fell over drunkenly and damage was felt to be done to more than the flowers and vegies. And there too the trio became friends with James.

  As they got to know him, they saw that he was more than a teacher of music; he was a musician in both his mind and his soul, who revered music in all its varieties. In earlier days James had been a solo pianist, accompanist and adviser/mentor to singers. When he was feeling kindly towards everyone he liked to give a party, especially at Christmas.

  James had arranged his large living room so that a few students, representing a strings trio and a woodwind player, were at one end, near the piano. This group of youngsters were the first turn on the programme, performing several pieces before the general singing of the Christmas carols. The old musician had arranged photocopies of all the carols for them. ‘These are not just your carols, some are Christmas motets, hymns,’ he explained sternly – though he wasn’t the slightest bit religious – to the small audience. He gave a précis of each piece and its country of origin, and they commenced.

  Men and women’s voices lifted, turn-about for the various verses, then together. Strong voices were instructed to use their descant, those who hadn’t got a voice were given a frying pan and spoon or rice in a tin – something to rattle – and told by James the exact tempo and rhythm to be sustained. It wasn’t unlike having a music lesson but the guests, many teachers themselves, obediently gave it their all.

  ‘Toscanini couldn’t have been more rigorous,’ muttered Celia.

  ‘Nor the Royal Philharmonic more lively,’ smiled Marcia.

  And James the conductor beat time, benevolently fierce, with his schnauzer features: beard and wiry side whiskers, the brown, knowing eyes of that breed. No one smiled, this was work, and at the same time pleasure. From child to grandfather they complied with every wish, wanting to do it, pleased to be invited to James’s annual party.