from Becoming

by Myra Schneider

 

One

 

Clary

 

So quiet the school could be wrapped

in layers of tissue paper, so quiet

I can hear the emptiness in the corridor.

It even feels as if I'm being watched by the rows

of desks and the mute-mouthed instruments

in the cupboards.

Soon the silence will go

but for the moment I can stare outside –

not at those two girls scrabbling

for God knows what in each other’s hair –

but at the trees rising above the rabble of roofs

and awful Leatherland. They look vulnerable

without leaves and the sky’s sludgy as the river

in the dream I struggled from at six.

Hours I spent last night trying to banish

his face pouched with anger. I made myself

practise my flute, drank a tumbler of wine

but even listening to Gershwin I could hear him

rubbishing me from his hospital bed:

'Clary,

you’ve never once thought how it feels

to be me, your father. Years and years

I spent training you to be a top musician

and you squander yourself on classes of morons

who pack their ears with electronic racket.’

He faded a bit when that guy, Bob, who's moved

into the flat above started up some late

night dance routine.

Imagining him

one-two-threeing with a ghost partner

across the floor finally lulled me to sleep

but only to dream I was on a skating rink trying

to play The Blue Danube with the flute’s holes

icing up. Then he pounced: ‘Don’t give me blue,

the river’s grey as your face, and you're too late…'

Too late was Father’s theme all afternoon,

even while he was gobbling a jammy scone.

 

Oh forget it, Clary, you did shout back

you wouldn't be steamrollered and slammed

from his room… Special Needs first. Push back

the desks and get out the bongo drums,

xylophones and the rest of it. Come on,

hit the Chinese gong, its implacable face...

Now touch the piano’s yellowed keys.

They answer softly.

Music has a life of its own

that's nothing to do with competing or concert hall.

Music happens in this room... I’ll begin

that daybreak idea with tambourines

and chimes pianissimo – the first rifts of light,

and runs on my flute – volleys of birds,

small beaks open, then a car starting up…

'Debra, I didn't see you hiding by the door,

come in.' Arms jerking like a puppet's,

eyes electric with panic. ‘Oh great, coffee,

just what I need!’

Her hair's cut so short

it looks as if someone’s scissored it

in a fit of spite - and why the two purple

plastic butterflies perched on each side

of her head? I can't bear it. She's fifteen,

looks a babyish ten. ‘Sit down, love,

and tell me what's wrong?'

'Spot didn’t know

that M-Mum's new carpet cost a b-bomb.

She said he scratched it, called him a nasty cat

and she smacked and smacked him.’

‘Don’t cry,

I'm sure Spot's forgotten all about it.'

What's that weal on her neck? Dear God,

now she’s gabbling about sploshing coffee,

terrified of catching it if she goes home

with a stained skirt.

Every inch of her

is crying out to be hugged. How to stop

the hand wringing, soothe her lobster face?

'Deb, I'll play a tune on the piano, you choose

a colour that makes you feel good...'

'P-pink like babies and raspberry ripple.

It tings like the triangle I always play…’

 

At last she’s letting go, floating on an air cushion

and I'm floating too but we can’t cuddle

quiet any longer. The playground din’s dying out.

Voices are blooming in the corridor and with them

the clack of shoes and Greta's walking stick.

 

Reprinted with permission of the poet, Myra Schneider ©. All rights reserved.