1. But the melody was light, uplifting even, and the sample
over the top, taken from one of those old Ealing comedies
her gran loved, made her smile. “Could I trouble you for a
light, Squire?”
The door opened with a knock. “All right, sis. Got any
matches?”
“What’s the point of knocking if you’re going to come in
anyway, Sam?”
“Ha. Were you dancing? Ha ha ha. Hands in the air cos
you just don’t care!” He copied her, exaggerating the sway
and skip, the praise-be arms that combined to create the
drum and bass regulation move. He was good at it.
“Shut up,” she said, swiping him with her hand but
missing as he dodged her. He had good reflexes for someone
who spent so much time asleep, or hungover.
“If Hoggsy could see you now, eh?”
She pretended not to hear. She’d have to see him soon
enough, her brother’s best friend.
“Sorry about that, yeah? I heard. Shouldn’t you be
listening to Joni Mitchell?”
It was unparalleled: that ability of his to irritate and crease
her up at the same time. She was laughing, now, in spite of
herself and dancing again. The music was building as they
danced together. Sam’s gangly arms took on a life of their
own. He looked like one of Grandpa’s dusty old puppets, the
ones they used to play with when they were little.
She closed her eyes, breathing in deep. She could feel her
heart expand and lift. In the air, the slight hint of the
sandalwood incense she’d burnt earlier was still there.
Bong, Bong, Bong. It was the gong, not cutting across her
music, but mixing with it. That lovely sound of the copper
vibrating, filling the whole house, punctuating the end of the
chanting: 30 voices, fervent and relieved. The music too was
fading out, sounding suddenly tinny. In the end, the brittle
rhythm of the hi-hat was all that was left.
He hugged her and her nose reached his neck. That family
smell, mixed with the ghost of rollies, and aftershave.
“Owwww! What are you? Twelve?” She rubbed the back
of her head where his knuckle had given her a friction burn.
“You needed that. Best way to deal with pain: get yourself
a new one.”
Her brother was off and out of the room before she could
get him back.
M oo d M u s ic
A short story by ZoË McDonald
Illustration:©Monkeytwizzle
S
he turned the ghettoblaster up, but the sound
of the gong and the hum of the chanting was
still there, like audio underlay: the familiar
white noise of the house on a Saturday.
Comforting, really, though she complained
emphatically about it if ever the olds asked,
grumbling about the status of their house as a ‘designated
site of spiritual enlightenment’, as Sam put it, which meant
all sorts of little pleasures were verboten: weed, parties,
sleepovers. What was the point of having liberal parents if
they didn’t let you do anything?
Sometimes she joined in with the meetings, sitting at the
back. It was pretty good, being part of all those voices saying
the same thing, over and over again. The neighbours called it
‘um diddle i’, and used to wind them up: “um diddle i, um
diddle i….”
But today, she’d melted off to her room on her own. She
wasn’t in the market for communal enthusiasm. Freshly
dumped after a giddy end-of-summer romance. She had
known it wouldn’t last, of course. Should’ve got in there first.
The bassline was dark and chimed with her melancholic
mood. It was the sort of music she loved to dance to when she
was out and even at its weedy volume on her Woolworths
machine, it went straight to the pit of her belly. Moody.
ZoË McDonald is a writer and journalist who blogs on family
life at www.kidsgowild.wordpress.com. She’s working on her
first novel, which was shortlisted for the 2013 Marie Claire/
Harper Fiction Debut Novel Award.
bedtime story
Illustration:©ChristineRösch
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