Fifteen Love by R. M. Corbet

am aiming for his head – I want to hit him, even hurt him. Cheezels sees the ball coming and gets his racquet up just in time. He is protecting himself, more than playing a shot, but the ball rebounds off his racquet and somehow goes over the net. It’s a no-brainer – impossible to get – so I don’t even try.
    Cheezels goes down on his knees in victory – the biggest cliché in the book. His family runs onto the court and lifts him up – the second biggest cliché. I feel like going over and reminding them that it is just the first round of the tournament, after all.
    It’s the first round of the tournament and I am already out. When I look at how happy the crowd is, I feel like crying. Everyone loves a winner. No one loves a loser.
    â€˜Useless!’ I shout in sudden anger, smashing my racquet hard against the ground.
    MIA
    It is eight o’clock and my father has just come home from work. He is late, as usual, because he was having a drink with his colleagues, he says, which of course means he’s been out with her , as usual. Have they been out for a drink or off for a quickie at the local motel? It doesn’t matter which. Mum is acting as if nothing strange has happened and I am expected to go along with it.
    After a hard day of cutting people open and stitching them back up again, a round of drinks with his colleagues and/ or a hot half-hour in the motel spa, my father is knackered. After briefly consulting his wine guide, he descends into the cellar and emerges with a bottle in his hand and a glint in his eye. He comes into the lounge room, where I am practising my viola. He slumps down in his chair, loosens his tie and uncorks the bottle. He pours himself a glass, holds it up to the light, sniffs it and takes a cautious sip.
    â€˜Mmm . . . Good drop, this,’ he says.
    I continue to practise while my father sits in his chair, sipping and nodding. Pretty soon he has kicked off his shoes and is staring into his glass.
    â€˜Excellent drop, this.’
    I smile at Dad and he smiles at me.
    â€˜Vivaldi,’ he says. ‘ Danza Pastorale ?’
    â€˜ Allegro non molto .’
    He smiles sentimentally. ‘It’s been a few years since I played it.’
    I nod uncertainly and my dad’s smile fades.
    â€˜Would you mind terribly if I put on a disc?’ he says. ‘It’s been a long day.’
    â€˜Are you saying you want me to go and practise in my room?’
    â€˜Would you mind, darling?’
    I pack up and leave. My father is already scanning his CD collection. As I shut my bedroom door, I hear the music start. It is fast and loud – too fast for my dad. He must have got it from her .
    I want my bedroom to be a cold dark cave. I want black walls, black curtains and black windows. I want to paint the glass to keep out the sunlight. I want headless dolls, shredded books and a pillow stuffed with magpie feathers.
    I set up my music stand and open my sheet music. The second movement of ‘Spring’ sounds so stupid and pointless. Ms S says the viola part is meant to sound like a dog barking – how offensive! It says pianissimo sempre but instead I play matali – attacking the strings until the bow is shredded horsehair. Outside my window, Harriet starts barking – Ms S would be impressed. As her barking gets louder, so does my playing. I am not listening to the notes anymore, or even to the rhythm. All I can hear is the sound , getting louder and wilder. It’s all about spring – paranoid magpies, protecting their nests, and bitchy Vanessa, flirting with Will. And I am a mad gypsy woman, dancing on hot coals – molto espressivo – faster and faster, wilder and wilder . . .
    Then I hear my father, knocking on my bedroom door.
    â€˜Mia! Can you tone it down a bit? It sounds like a cat fight!’
    I stop playing. With tears in my eyes I stand there with my viola tucked under my chin, listening to his