Chimney Soot

Author's Note: This story was inspired by the poem 'Suburban Sonnet' by Gwen Harwood. Enjoy!

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Ms Annabelle Morrison enters the hall, holding an envelope and a page of handwritten notes. It is her sister, Margaret’s funeral. This is Belle’s speech.

Margie and I were three years apart, and because we resembled each other closely, we were always dismissed as sisters. I do not see it as a dismissal to have Margie as my sister…and now I find myself sisterless.

The three years made the difference between us comfortable. I prefer the practical sciences, have always thrived with textbooks and the long Latin names of flora and fauna, so like clockwork, Margie decided she disliked all those things.

Music. Music was Margie’s passion, and she always said she loves to pick it apart like a hem…You grow up a little, and the song has to grow up, too. You find more notes and learn more of the song. That was Margie’s way.

I remember her saving coins for the old piano; she wheeled it home one day. She’d tell everyone she was practising non-stop, but one night she whispered and promised to only ever practise “‘fore the tutor-man get here!”

Her cheekiness, her love…

(she gives up on her written words, talks to her family instead)

See, it’s the things you said; it is unfair that she didn’t believe that she would unstitch the hem of the world and discover every note of its song. That’s because of you. You unstitched her and let her fall, and you aren’t meant to do that to your family. When I said something about the chimney, and you turned AWAY?!

I am heartbroken at how easily you watched as she fell.

I remember that when Charles and Laura were born, their cries did make her world brighter. But I’ll always think of her behaviour around them, as if her very being was torn between her dreams and theirs. Not fair, I say. You forced her to live in a life she would never suit. She felt trapped in that kitchen, lost without her music. And you just watched while it gnawed away at her joy.

I would say I’m an empath. But you…You enjoyed seeing her unhappy?

(beat)

There are no words that can make me understand this.

(A shift; she is defiant now)

I have a letter here, from Margie, that I’m going to read now. She wrote it to me, and not to any of you. It was delivered to me on the day the dears found their Ma dead on the floor; the day the doctor declared it was heart exhaustion but mumbled that it was deeper than just Margie’s heart. It was sealed with the soot that stained her heart and soul.

Dear Belle,

Please read this out loud when I’ve finished climbing the staircase. Look them in the eyes, because in you, they’ll always be reminded of me.

(Beat; a shaky breath)

Charles, Laura – Ma loves you. Ma loves you SO much, and you’re small still, but you’ll be big and brave and strong soon. You can be everything you want to be.

George, I loved you once, yet I’ve realised how you lie. I am not a mouse slowly rotting the family from the inside.

Let these words sink into them, Margie. Let them gasp and weep politely but wait until they’re ugly. Then say it all:

The mouse who walked to the mousetrap only wanted a scrap of bread.

The musician who walked to the piano only wanted a scrap of joy.

I am both the mouse and the musician; I crave the crumbs of bread and the ashes of pianos.

I have one final request before I go for good. Move the piano away from the wall – don’t mind the floorboards; do it anyway. Dust the cobwebs until she shines. And however you can, carve the following words into the backing. Then let her burn.

Missus Margie Morrison.

‘I died of a gnawed away heart.’

(A breath, she continues)

My sister is not someone who gave up easily. Like a starved mouse, she was fed brick and mortar, expected to ignore the smell of bread. I do not see Margie’s death as an ‘unexpected tragedy.’ I see it as a message sent from the Heavens landed upon our family. A warning: You may hate the starving mouse, though you will be blind to the stitched-up songs that explode from its corpse.

Margie’s songs made her powerful. More powerful than any of you.

(Blackout)

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