rising above the tropical night chorus, that raucous croaking of frogs and the whistling and screeching of a thousand night creatures that starts as soon as dark descends. There was something so sad in that music, a longing for something unattainable, a mystery that could never be solved. She had not even known that the music came from the Quint house; it seemed to hover over the roofs of Georgetown, without source, played by an ethereal musician floating through space.
And then one Sunday when they were together, sitting on the Quint kitchen steps eating from bowls of grated green mango spiced with pepper-and-salt, Freddy brought out his mouth-organ and played a few bars, and she knew it had been him all along. Her excitement knew no bounds.
‘There’s one tune I love especially,’ she said. ‘Play it for me!’
‘Which one? Hum it.’
And she hummed the opening bars of the melody she loved best. Freddy’s eyes lit up. “Danny Boy!’’ he said. He put the mouth-organ to his lips and played it from beginning to end.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said. ‘It makes me want to cry.’
‘I love it, too. When we were small, Mum used to gather us around the piano every evening and play us songs and we all used to sing along, the whole family. I miss those evenings.’
‘You mean, there are words to it as well? It’s a song?’
In answer, Freddy sang it for her:
‘Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an ‘Ave’ there for me.
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.’
H e had a rich , strong voice, a pure tenor that not only hit the notes but filled them with deep fervour and feeling, conjuring vivid pictures in her mind. She listened, rapt, until he’d finished. He looked up.
‘Don’t cry!’ he said, and wiped the tears away with his fingertips.
‘But it makes me cry! What does it mean?’
He shrugged. ‘There are many interpretations. Ma thinks it’s a father singing to his son going off to war.’
‘That’s so sad!’
‘Don’t be sad! Here, I’ll play you something happy instead!’ And he played ‘Daisy, Daisy’, and she laughed, and sang along, and the sadness blew away.
----
A ll week long she longed for Sunday; in church her heart beat faster, for escape was nigh. The moment her father’s car backed out of the yard she slipped between the palings, ran down the alley and navigated the Quint backyard to run up the kitchen stairs, two at a time. She grew to adore the Quint house and the loud, bumptious life within it, light and joyous, so different from the staid monotony of her own dark home. And she, who had never before questioned Pa’s regime or even knew there could be life without it, felt that new thing growing within her, the thing that had shown its fangs that day on the Promenade; a small wild animal coiled in her bowels which she nourished with crumbs of resentment and even anger, so that it grew big and strong; but, caged as it was, she was safe from its gnashing teeth and scratching claws. She knew it was there, and feared it, for once let loose it would tear apart the only life she knew – and then, what next? So Dorothea learnt the secret art of beast-taming, forced her wild creature into docility, and lived by The Rules as laid down by Pa, but only on the surface. She became a skilled actress, playing the part of obedient daughter,
And then one Sunday when they were together, sitting on the Quint kitchen steps eating from bowls of grated green mango spiced with pepper-and-salt, Freddy brought out his mouth-organ and played a few bars, and she knew it had been him all along. Her excitement knew no bounds.
‘There’s one tune I love especially,’ she said. ‘Play it for me!’
‘Which one? Hum it.’
And she hummed the opening bars of the melody she loved best. Freddy’s eyes lit up. “Danny Boy!’’ he said. He put the mouth-organ to his lips and played it from beginning to end.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said. ‘It makes me want to cry.’
‘I love it, too. When we were small, Mum used to gather us around the piano every evening and play us songs and we all used to sing along, the whole family. I miss those evenings.’
‘You mean, there are words to it as well? It’s a song?’
In answer, Freddy sang it for her:
‘Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an ‘Ave’ there for me.
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.’
H e had a rich , strong voice, a pure tenor that not only hit the notes but filled them with deep fervour and feeling, conjuring vivid pictures in her mind. She listened, rapt, until he’d finished. He looked up.
‘Don’t cry!’ he said, and wiped the tears away with his fingertips.
‘But it makes me cry! What does it mean?’
He shrugged. ‘There are many interpretations. Ma thinks it’s a father singing to his son going off to war.’
‘That’s so sad!’
‘Don’t be sad! Here, I’ll play you something happy instead!’ And he played ‘Daisy, Daisy’, and she laughed, and sang along, and the sadness blew away.
----
A ll week long she longed for Sunday; in church her heart beat faster, for escape was nigh. The moment her father’s car backed out of the yard she slipped between the palings, ran down the alley and navigated the Quint backyard to run up the kitchen stairs, two at a time. She grew to adore the Quint house and the loud, bumptious life within it, light and joyous, so different from the staid monotony of her own dark home. And she, who had never before questioned Pa’s regime or even knew there could be life without it, felt that new thing growing within her, the thing that had shown its fangs that day on the Promenade; a small wild animal coiled in her bowels which she nourished with crumbs of resentment and even anger, so that it grew big and strong; but, caged as it was, she was safe from its gnashing teeth and scratching claws. She knew it was there, and feared it, for once let loose it would tear apart the only life she knew – and then, what next? So Dorothea learnt the secret art of beast-taming, forced her wild creature into docility, and lived by The Rules as laid down by Pa, but only on the surface. She became a skilled actress, playing the part of obedient daughter,
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