Stephen & The Larks of Disharmony

The children next door got a trampoline — a school holiday present! Mr Whakapapa, of Maori descent, ought to have allowed his son Stephen to keep playing the banjo. He (Stephen) was coming along nicely for a ten-year-old. Mind you, it was a trifle annoying at the start — a year ago — when Stephen first picked up the instrument and began practising (and misplacing his fingers on the frets) several basic chords. Twelve months on, however, benefiting from persistence, Stephen was up to finger plucking rather nicely, in a style that resembled the late Nick Drake. At least that’s my opinion.

When my ear caught the skilful progress I’d suggested to Mr Whakapapa that Stephen try a few songs by Nick Drake — for example, One Of These Things First. I even provided the lyrics. Young Stephen Whakapapa, however, preferred to gravitate to an acoustic version of Smells Like Teen Spirit, basing it on a Patti Smith rendition.

His two younger sisters, meanwhile, had been working on their harmonies — without any adult guidance. So there have been frequent pitchy, off-register mishmashes as notes collided into each other and wandered off in different directions from the original tune. Still and all, when you’re aged between seven and ten, it’s easy to think you’re the best band in the whole world and everybody within earshot should stop what they’re doing ... and attend!

My bedroom window, sadly, like an open ear sits right there, perfectly placed, above the “concert”. The glazier who worked on these windows ages ago — this is an old apartment — couldn’t have been instructed to soundproof them. As a result the windows are equally receptive to outside sounds closed as they are open.

Then the school holidays arrived. Quite suddenly there was less traffic on the road; more people in shopping malls; more games organised in the local park; a higher percentage of parents with lugubrious looks, signifying the severe, though expected, hit to the hip pocket; and next door — just like that, the music from the Whakapapa household came to a grinding halt.

No early-morning serenade from Stephen & the Larks of Disharmony. Not a note. Not a banjo strum. Finito! A hush hung like a curtain. But only briefly. When the silence did break it was to the sound of wheezing springs — like a mattress next door in a cheap motel. Bursts of glee rent the air and have been doing so ever since.

A quick peek through the window confirmed the worst. A trampoline! Taken over by three bouncing ex-musicians.

“Hullo,” shouted Stephen, nearly at eye level with me before I could duck out of sight, “See our holiday present!”

I saw.

Two days later one of the younger siblings said, “I saw your green shirt.”

“Where?”

“Hanging on your cupboard door.”

“We can see everything in your room,” said Stephen proudly, adding, “depends how high you jump. Mandy can’t see anything yet, she’s still young.”

“But me and Stephen tell her everything we can see,” said the other sister, excitedly.

The bedroom curtains will have to be drawn together, I decide firmly. There goes the view outside! From their perspective I can hear the kids saying the opposite.

When I ran into Mr Whakapapa a week ago he seemed like a man thoroughly content with the world.

“The children! Whole day on the trampoline. Boy do they sleep well! Plus, they’re out of our hair.”

And into my room, I want to add, but that would sound churlish. As Robert Frost the poet said, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.