The Rustle of Spring

The North Shore bush rang with the sound of currawongs. Spring sunlight turned the tree-tops a brilliant green. The tang of eucalyptus sharpened the breeze stirring the foliage. Yet to wheelchair-bound Craig MacDonald, settled on the front porch of the house, it was a matter of indifference whether the sun shone or not. Every day was the same to him.

His mother appeared at his elbow.

“Your lunch is in the fridge, Craig. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Yes, Mum, I’ll be OK.”

His words barely concealed his irritation. His dependence on his mother for his most elemental needs was the cruellest part of his affliction. The sight of her leaving to catch the bus to work only intensified his bitterness. It should have been the other way round. He should have been the one taking care of his mother instead of being a burden on her.

Hours passed. He had done all the things that constituted the routine of his daily life, submitting to the ritual of assistance in the shower, getting dressed, and finally accepting the necessity of being left alone. He had never become used to the need for dependence on those around him, especially his mother.

Someone was walking down the path from the front gate, hidden from view by the row of crab-apple trees in bloom. Craig leaned forward, alert. Not many of his old friends visited him these days, since the car accident that had wiped out the band. Few of them could handle the sight of him disabled. It was easier to stay away.

The mystery visitor proved to be Kathie, the girl from down the street. She must be looking for his sister Robyn. Didn’t she know Robyn would be at work at this time of day? But it was not Robyn she was seeking. She had come to see him.

“Hi, Kathie.”

“H … H … Hi!”

She presented him with a small rectangular package, wrapped in gift paper and tied up with blue ribbon. Craig’s eyebrows rose in surprise. It was some time before Kathie found it possible to explain the purpose of her visit. Spastic from birth, with a severe speech defect, few there were who could understand her contortions and efforts to communicate.

“How … hu … h … hav,” her face contorted in a grotesque attempt at expression. She tried again. “Hawara … ha … har … happy b … b … birthday!”

She grinned suddenly, in triumph at her success in finally getting it out.

His twentieth birthday! Why would this friend of his sister’s remember and think of him at such a time? He opened the package slowly, his brow creased in silent thought. The package contained a DVD, one of those crazy mock thrillers that made you laugh at the antics of the comic villains and their pursuers, something to take your mind away from the boredom and loneliness of wheelchair life. Craig gazed at it in wonder, astonished at the thoughtfulness of this friend of his sister’s.

He looked up into her eyes, and saw that they were brown. He had never noticed her eyes before, though she had been to their house many times. When she had come he had acted as if barely aware of her existence. As she was spastic, and unable to join in the usual conversation you had with girls, he had treated her as he would a neighbour’s dog or cat. He had never thought of her as a human being.

His mind went back to his school days, remembering how they all used to make fun of her, how they had stood behind her, secretly imitating her flailing arm movements and the contortions of her face. How could they have been so callous? And why, after all that, had she come now to visit him when he was at the very bottom of the pit of despair? Almost choking with emotion, his words were mumbled.

“Kathie, that’s fantastic. I don’t know what to say. Just … thanks!”

There was a stiff silence between them. He had never learned how to converse with her. He repeated his thanks for the gift. For a time he could think of nothing else to say. Then an idea occurred to him.

“How about we celebrate? Why don’t we have a party?”

He cogitated carefully the problem of how to transfer bottles, glasses, biscuits and cake from the kitchen to the front of the house. Then he looked at Kathie keenly, wondering if she could do it, being powerless to conduct such an enterprise himself.

“Dad must have some booze stashed away somewhere in the house. What do you say, Kathie? Do you reckon you could find it?”

Kathie nodded. She rose to her feet immediately. In a short time she was back. Craig watched in alarm as he saw the wine bottle sailing through the air at the end of Kathie’s obstreperous limb. It took only a moment to realise that she was in complete control. Years of practice had taught her how to correct for the lawlessness of her spastic muscles, just as a pilot adjusts the trim for crosswinds when landing an aircraft. It took her three times as long as another person to transport plates, cake and cutlery, but in the end she did it without any assistance. Craig filled the glasses, passed one to her, and watched her as she took it up without spilling a drop.

“Cheers!”

She was two years his junior. Despite her physical disabilities, she was adept at secretarial work. Early in her schooldays her parents had encouraged her to study, and had given her a course in typing because she couldn’t write. She had learned to use a laptop PC with one finger, and had acquired speed with it. In the classroom the sight of Kathie’s one-finger typing was familiar to everyone. In Year 11 she had taken the biology prize for an essay on the evolution of snakes. Craig had felt jealous of her success, even though she was in a class below him. It had seemed unfair that such a wreck of a person could outdo everyone else in such a subject. Now deeply ashamed of his past behaviour, he wondered how he could possibly make it up to her. Her presence today only intensified his feelings of guilt.

He remembered now that she had left school. She worked as a volunteer, without pay, in the local municipal library, tidying up the shelves and tracking down missing books. She lived on the invalid pension with her parents. She would never get a paid job.

He wondered how she could remain so cheerful. She would never have a professional career, she would never marry, she would never dance, or sing, or play a musical instrument, she would never know the joys of riding the waves, she couldn’t even write. Even the most elementary acts of daily life such as eating, washing and getting dressed were immense tasks that could not be understood by anyone who hadn’t experienced such disablement. And yet she radiated such a sense of joy in life that was almost beyond comprehension. What was her secret? How could he tell her of his remorse? How could he convey to her his regret for the past?

There was a way.

“Kathie,” he asked her, after studying her face for a long time. “Would you like to hear some music?”

Kathie nodded.

Music had been his life. There had been his public appearances with the rock band, and then there had been his own secret passion, something about which he had been too sensitive to reveal even to his closest associates, his love of the classical guitar he played purely for his own pleasure in the privacy of his room.

The road up the glass mountain had not been easy. The world of professional entertainment was diabolical in its exaction of tribute. With that sublime faith in their purpose known only to the young they had reached for the stars, trying to put together a group that was commercially viable, one that could rise above the level of the local pub on Saturday nights, one that could follow in the footsteps of the Rolling Stones. In a few short seconds that dream had been shattered, in those brief moments the transformation from a life of hope and promise had turned into the long, slow spiral journey down to Hell. Now, with the band destroyed, existence was nothing but a living death. His friend Jason, the driver of the car, had a lucky escape, but their lead singer Kerry had been killed. The band had been wiped out. Craig had survived, but for months now he wished he had not. He had instructed his mother to put away his guitar, and never to mention the band again. Now, in the presence of his solitary listener a fragile flicker of hope returned.

“Kathie, in the store room downstairs there are a couple of guitars, and I think there might be a folded-up music stand and some sheet music in a bag alongside it. Do you reckon you could manage to bring me the Spanish guitar? Not the electric one. Do you understand?”

Kathie nodded once again. Her nods and shakes of the head were her most rapid means of communication. In a few minutes she was back, lurching from side to side as she lugged the huge instrument case. Craig closed his eyes, expecting any moment to hear the crash of the guitar breaking against walls or furniture.

But Kathie delivered the instrument in one piece, making a second trip to deliver stand and music books before seating herself to face him. The guitar was out of tune, and needed new strings. He spent minutes getting it ready, strumming to overcome the stiffness of hands that were so out of practice. But soon he was ready, turning the pages of the music on the stand as he looked for something suitable.

What would she like? He had no idea of her tastes. He would begin with something simple, something everyone loved.

“I’m going to play you a piece by Francisco Tarrega. It’s called ‘The Little Musical Box’.”

He began plucking the strings, hesitantly at first, then more confidently as he began to get the feel of the instrument.

When he had finished, Kathie clapped her hands. “More!”

He sipped his wine in silence, considering what to perform next. He played the habanera, a fandango, and a barcarolle. Then he stopped, running his fingers up and down the chords, deep in thought. Even though I’m in a wheelchair I can still play. Perhaps someday I might perform in a band again after all. People might think it a bit wacko turning up to a gig in a wheelchair, but they’d just have to get used to it, wouldn’t they? He looked up then, and placed another piece of music on the stand.

“I’m going to play you something special, Kathie. It’s a little dance, the chaconne. It’s known as the Great Chaconne.”

He loved this work more than anything else he had ever heard. As bass guitar player he had become enamoured with its marvellous quiet bass rhythm that was barely audible but which formed the foundation of the whole work. How many hours had he spent in solitude, practising its difficult passages, how much labour had he expended trying to master the complexities of all its variations? At times it had seemed torture, yet he had been unable to resist the compelling desire to master this seminal work that held him in its thrall and dominated his private existence.

He was out of practice, yet he knew this work well enough to have played it without the music. Every chord, every phrase, every melodic passage, every arpeggio had so burned itself into his soul that he could never forget a note.

Kathie settled back in her armchair, clutching her glass of wine with both hands as Craig struck the powerful opening chords of Bach’s masterpiece. And with the strong, vibrant rhythm that set the tone for the intricate variations to follow, he recalled its rendition by master guitarist Slava Grigoryan, the one he had tried so hard to emulate in presenting this work as an expression of joy. And, as his fingers ascended the scale to its triumphant climax he felt a vague stirring within, an indefinable nascent sense of renewal, the first faint glimmer of a ray of hope.

A sudden silence descended at the conclusion of the performance. Craig remained still, head down, motionless for several seconds. When he looked up, finally, Kathie was smiling, and in her eyes he saw the light of a new understanding between them, something that needed no words of communication.