Janette Turner Hospital Collected Stories by Janette Turner Hospital Page A

“Can’t quite catch …”
    â€œSays she’s going,” shouted Bessie Cotter. She explained: “Doesn’t have his hearing aid on when he’s gardening, you know.” And shouted again: “She’s going. She can’t stand the Wongs.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe Chinese family!” Bessie Cotter shouted into a sudden lull in the disc jockey’s voice that boomed from the Wongs’ kitchen window. “She can’t stand them!”
    â€œOh no really!” Mrs Phillips was dismayed, glancing over her shoulder. “They’re very nice people. I’m sure. It’s just their radio.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œTheir radio!” she shouted.
    â€œRadio doesn’t bother us too much,” Bessie Cotter said.
    Deafness, thought Mrs Phillips, has its advantages.
    Mrs Phillips was unable to sleep. She understood why the music was called rock. She felt as though an avalanche of impermeable matter were pummelling her nerve ends. She got up and put on her robe, made herself some hot milk with cinnamon and honey, sat in her living-room and tried to think.
    Around midnight, when everything was finally quiet, she tried the harpsichord. It had been jarred badly out of tune. She worked with silent absorption, timing it. She began to play Vivaldi. She began to feel at peace. Life was manageable after all. One simply needed to make adjustments.
    She heard a car swing into the neighbouring driveway, heard a babble of talk and laughter. The son and his wife were given to partying. Mrs Phillips smiled benignly and played Vivaldi. To each his own life.
    Then it came at her again, that intrusive insistent rhythm, that rude music. One o’clock in the morning. It was too much. She put her forehead against the keyboard and wept.
    By dawn, after a tossing dream-riddled sleep, a solution had presented itself to her. She would simply visit her new neighbours and ask them very politely to turn their music down. A reasonable request, surely. People were rational. It was natural to want to get along with one’s neighbours. There was no reason why they would refuse. Why was she shaking so? Why were her palms wet and cold?
    After her second cup of coffee, she put on a light jacket and combed her hair. But her legs felt as though they were just testing themselves after a long illness and she had to sit down again. Too much coffee perhaps. She put on the kettle and made a pot of tea. She drank a cup.
    Now, she told herself firmly, as she did on Sundays before visiting her aunt in the nursing home. This has to be done and that is all there is to it.
    Outside it was clear and sunny and the Wongs’ front path was a curious mosaic of mushrooms and roots spread on swathes of cheesedoth to dry in the sun. The old Mrs Wong, a tiny figure, was sitting cross-legged beside the path, taking up one by one the gnarled root-like things, doing something to them with her fingers.
    â€œGood morning,” said Mrs Phillips hesitantly, disconcerted by new irregularities.
    The old lady looked at her and nodded several times.
    â€œI wonder if I might have a word with your son perhaps? Or is it your son-in-law?”
    The old lady nodded rapidly again and went on doing things to the roots.
    â€œAh, could you … could I? … Shall I go to your front door?”
    She was wondering how to negotiate the mushrooms and reach the front steps without damaging anything. The old lady offered no suggestions. Mrs Phillips tiptoed gingerly between the roots and reached the porch. There no longer seemed to be a doorbell, though a set of wind-chimes dangled down from the door-frame.
    â€œShould I … do I tap the chimes?”
    â€œNo use talking to my mother,” said a voice through the suddenly opened door. “She doesn’t speak any English.”
    â€œOh! Actually, it was you I wished to speak to, Mr Wong. You are the son, I believe?”
    â€œThe son.” He