Duet. Carol Shields

my miraculous clarity; my idea had softened, lost shape; everything was blurring.

      The third day I wrote ten pages and, for the first time, sat down to read what I had written.

      Appalling, unbelievable, dull, dull. The bones of my stolen plot stuck out everywhere like great evil-gleaming knobs, accusing me, charging me. The action, such as it was, jerked along on dotted lines; there was no tissue to it. It was thin; worse than thin, it was skinny, a starved child.

      Always when I had heard of writers destroying their manuscripts or painters shredding their canvases, I had considered it inexcusably theatrical, but now I could understand the desire to obliterate something that was shameful, infantile, degrading.

      But I didn’t tear it up. Not me, not Judith Gill, not my mother’s daughter. I wrote a quick concluding chapter and retyped the whole thing before another Wednesday afternoon passed. I even made a special trip to Coles to buy a sky-blue binder with a special, newly patented steely jaw. And I carried it on the bus with me and delivered it to Furlong’s office.

      ‘But I don’t want to read it to the class,’ I told him firmly. ‘Just do me a favour and read it yourself. And let me know what you think.’

      He nodded gravely. He consoled me with his tender smile. He understood. He would take it home with him. I got on the bus and came home and started cooking pork chops for our dinner. And it was then, with hot fat spattering from the pan and the pale meat turning brown that I lurched into truth.

      Six-thirty; the hour held me like a hand. Doors slamming, water running, steam rising, the floor tiles under my feet squared off with reality. The clatter of cutlery, a knife pulling down on a wooden board, an onion halved showing rings of pearl; their distinct and separate clarity thrilled me. This was real.

      I flew to the phone. My fingers caught in the dial so that twice I made a mistake. Please be home, please be home!

      He was.

      ‘Furlong. Listen, this is Judith.’

      ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

      ‘My novel. The Magic Rocking Horse.’

      ‘But Judith, I just got home. I’ve hardly had more than a few minutes to glance at it. But tonight –’

      ‘The point is, Furlong, I’ve decided not to go ahead with the novel.’

      ‘What do you mean – not go ahead? Judith, my girl, you’ve already done it.’

      ‘I mean I want you to dispose of it. Burn it. Tear it up. Now. Immediately.’

      ‘You can’t be serious. Not after all your work.’

      ‘I can. I am.’ Christ, he’s going to be difficult.

      ‘Judith, won’t you sleep on it. Give it some thought.’

      ‘I really mean this, Furlong. Listen to me. I mean it. I’m a grown-up woman and I know what I’m doing.’

      ‘Judith.’

      ‘Please, Furlong.’ I was close to tears. ‘Please.’

      He agreed.

      ‘But on one condition. That you at least let me finish reading it. You may not have any faith in it, but I think, from the little of it I’ve seen, that it’s not entirely hopeless.’

      ‘I don’t care, Furlong, just as long as you keep your promise to get rid of it. And please don’t ever discuss it with me. I couldn’t bear that.’

      ‘Oh, all right. I promise, of course. But what are you going to do, Judith? Try another novel? Take another tack?’

      ‘I’m going to write a biography.’

      ‘Who this time?’

      ‘I was thinking of Susanna Moodie.’

      I had said it almost without thinking, only wanting to reassure Furlong that I wasn’t mad. But the moment I uttered the name Susanna Moodie, I knew I was on my way back to sanity, to balance. I was on the way back to being happy.

      The very next morning I began.

      

      Sunday afternoon.

      We are late, but since it is icy and since Martin is reluctant to go at all, we drive very slowly down the city streets to Furlong’s party. I feel under my heavy coat for my wrist watch. We should have been there at one-thirty, and it’s almost two now.

      I am sitting in the front seat beside Martin, and through my long apricot crepe skirt the vinyl seat covers feel shockingly cold. Because of the snow I have had to wear heavy boots, but my silver sandals are in a zippered bag on the seat.

      Meredith is in the back seat and she is leaning forward anxiously, concerned about being late and concerned even more about how she looks. She has been invited at the last minute. Mrs Eberhardt phoned only this morning to suggest that she come along with us. I had hung about near the telephone listening, knowing for certain that she was being invited to replace some guest who was not able to come, knowing she would be filling in as a fourth at one of the inevitable little tables set up in Furlong’s dining room. I had been to Furlong’s parties before and knew how carefully the glasses of Beaujolais were counted out, how the seating would have been arranged weeks before and how the petit fours, the exact number, would be waiting in their boxes in the pantry. I would have cheered if Meredith had refused, if she had said she had other plans for this afternoon, but of course she didn’t, nor would I have done so in her place.

      Under her navy school coat she is wearing a dress of brilliant patchwork, made for her by Martin’s mother last Christmas and worn only half a dozen times. She has done something marvellous and unexpected with her hair, lifted it up in the back with a tiny piece of chain, her old charm bracelet perhaps, and her neck rises slenderly, almost elegantly, out of the folds of her coat collar. But her nervousness is extreme.

      Martin brakes for a red light and comes slowly, creepingly to a halt. I see his jaw firm, a rib of muscle, he wants only for this afternoon to be ended, to be put behind him.

      Now is the moment, I think. Right now in the middle of the city, with apartment buildings all around us. I should ask him now about the eight bundles of wool that had been in his drawer. The fact that Meredith is here with us will only make it seem more normal, just a matter-of-fact question between husband and wife.

      ‘Godamn,’ he mutters. ‘We should have bought those snow tires when they were on sale.’

      I sit tight and don’t say a word.

      Furlong and his mother live in a handsome 1930s building built of beef-red brick encircling a formal, evergreened courtyard. There is a speaking tube in the walnut foyer, rows of brass mail boxes; and today the inner door is slightly ajar, propped open with a spray of Christmas greenery in a pretty Chinese jardinière. We make our way up a flight of carpeted stairs to the panelled door with the brass parrot-headed knocker. Beyond it we can hear a soft rolling ocean of voices. Meredith and I bend together as though at a signal and exchange our boots for shoes, balancing awkwardly on each foot in turn. Only when we are standing in our fragile sandals does Martin lift the knocker.

      It seems miraculous in all that noise that we can be heard, but in a moment Furlong throws open the door and stands before us. He is flushed and excited, and only scolds us briefly for being late. ‘Of course the roads are deplorable. Meredith, we are delighted, both of us, that you were able to come. You must excuse our phoning you so late, but it just occurred to us that you were a grown-up now and why on earth hadn’t we asked you earlier. But give me your coats. I want you to taste my Christmas punch. Martin, you are a man of discernment. Come and see if you can guess what I’ve concocted this year.’

      He leads us into a softly lit living room where small circles of women in fluid Christmas dresses, and men, darkly suited and civilized, stand on the dusty-rose carpet. It is a large pale room, faintly period with its satin-covered sofa, its brocaded matching chairs, a cherry secretary, a Chinese table laid