listen

Listen

Lois Eaton

6/11/2021 Broken Hill Australia

‘Listen to me,’ I screamed.

But she didn’t.

I burst into tears and ran inside the house.

What was I to do?

It was with the very best of intentions that I had agreed to become a foster mother for abused children. I dreamed of how wonderful it would be – all those grateful children appreciating just how loving I was, and revelling in their new security.

That now seemed like a sick joke.

Grateful? Ha ha!

I started by taking in teenagers. They broke my best china, my favourite lemon tree, the beds they were given to sleep in, the school bags I bought them…

It never seemed to end.

What was wrong with them that they could not see how hard I was trying to help them?

So I gave up.

For a while.

Then I agreed to take children again – but not teenagers.

At first things seemed OK. Not good, but OK.

Then along came Serina.

She was five – or so the doctors had said. She had been found wandering alone in the bush. No-one knew anything about her background. She was pretty in a gentle, quiet way. But something was wrong.

She never spoke. Never cried. Never laughed. Never seemed to react in any way. Just ignored everything around her. I thought she must be deaf but was assured all the tests indicated that there was nothing physically wrong.

Tears started down my cheeks. I felt such a failure.

I looked out the window to see what she was doing, wanting to scream at her again but knowing nothing would come of it. Couldn’t she see I wanted to help her? She would be starting school soon. How was she to cope with that?

I felt that desperation was going to push that screaming voice out of my throat again, whether I wanted it to or not.

Serina was wandering aimlessly around the back yard.

But then suddenly she stopped and looked up into the trees along the back fence. All natives.

Grey headed honey eaters were common in our area. Sometimes I admired the delicate yellow colour of their breasts, but mostly I took them for granted. Just part of the background.

The honey eater song rang out - pretty chirruping whistles that seemed to roll along like little waves. Then a short silence followed by a sudden loud squawk that made me want to laugh. Then the pretty whistles again. I had not listened to them properly for a long time.

SERINA WAS LISTENING! It was the first time I saw her listening to anything.

She seemed entranced.

Then the bird stopped singing and flew away. The enchantment was over. Serina reverted to her usual self. She wandered slowly around the yard again, not showing any signs of noticing anything. How could a five-year old be like that?

I felt a pain well up inside me – a pain I had not felt for a long time. Not since the love of my life had run off with a younger, slimmer, more glamorous girl. Why did I feel that now? Didn’t I have enough pain to carry without that one coming back just when I did NOT need it?

I turned away from the window and found myself staring at my piano. I had not played it since he had run out on me. So why did I suddenly feel the need to play it now?

Something inside me was yelling at me to run away and never touch it again. But I found myself sitting on the piano stool and reaching for my favourite music book – a compilation of Chopin’s nocturnes.

The piano was out of tune. My fingers were stiff. I found I had forgotten the faster, rippling sections that I once played by memory, so there were quite a few wrong notes. But something of the old magic was there, and I felt I was being lifted up into a higher world. I was playing with the depth of feeling only Chopin had ever been able to ring from me. The tears started again and I began to sob as I played. My man had never appreciated my music. I remembered how he made it clear – without saying anything – that it was my job to wait on him, not make stupid music. How had I ever loved him?

The door to the yard opened and closed behind me. I felt annoyed. It was enough, surely, that she was breaking my heart. Could she not now stay away from me while I was crying? I wanted to scream at her again.

But then she was beside me, staring at the piano keys with a longing in her face I had never seen before. Tears started rolling down her face. Another first.

And then the biggest shock of all. She looked at me – right into my eyes. Another first. Both of us stared into one another’s eyes for a while, ignoring the tears that just kept on falling from both of us.

After a bit I picked her up and sat her on my lap, at the piano. Gently I took her hand and guided her fingers to play a short but deeply moving melody from the piece I was playing. When I stopped she looked anxiously at me – another first – and grabbed my hand then placed her fingers inside mine. I led her through the melody again, and again.

This time, when I stopped, she reached out to the piano and tried to play it on her own. She played a few notes correctly then a wrong one. She cried out a terrible cry of pain (another first) then tried again – and got it right. I could hardly breath. I forgot my own pain now, as I was submerged in her.

But now I knew how to help her.

I kept a careful record of her progress. It amazed me. She learnt very quickly. Just playing by ear at first. Learning to read music was slow, but then suddenly it came together. She began to wander around the house with her beginner music books in her hand, studying the pages. Then she would drop the book, run to the piano and play the short, mostly one-line pieces – perfectly.

But she had still not spoken a word.

I started singing to her. I was horrified when I realised that she had never heard me sing before.

Then that glorious moment when I heard her singing along with her playing – not proper words, just ahs and oohs. I cried a lot that day.

I kept on singing simple little songs. At first she just listened. Then she started running to the piano and playing the melody with me.

Then the shock as I heard her sing along to her own playing: “Tinkle tinkle tittle tar”.

She still had not spoken a word. But we sang, and sang, and sang.

The one day I heard the honey eaters singing again: little rippling chirrups of sheer joy. Serina ran up to me and we stood side by side listening to them. Then the sudden silence followed by that loud squawk. Serina laughed – another first. She took my hand and pointed to the birds, and said, “Listen!”

THE END

1209 words