Song for Emilia Read online

  An envelope in the letterbox with Emilia’s handwriting – after the last letter, why would she write again, why write at all? The same tissue writing paper, the violet ink: Sitting on the fence, Sandra read it at the letterbox.

  1st November, 1964.

  Dear Sandra,

  You never wrote back after I sent my letter about Nick and I don’t blame you. I knew you would hate me for what I told you.

  I have thought a lot about you and me and him. We’ve been friends since 4th class but I only know Nick since I met him with you at polocrosse and then not much. He comes in the shop on holidays with his Mum’s order and I sell him vegies.

  Nick must like you lots because you stayed with Morgans. I know because Mrs Morgan came in the shop and talked to Mamma but mostly about the weather.

  I went to mass in my holidays and made confession to Father Thomas that I told a big fib to you about Nick and me because I made it all up. I won’t try to see him again because I think it is more better I am your friend.

  If that’s OK with you please write and tell me.

  love from your oldest friend

  Emilia xxxooo

  A hot anger brought tears to her eyes. Fib was too polite. Emilia had lied about Nick. She’d told big, whopping great lies. As for confession... that must’ve been hard for her, as Emilia hated going to mass, and hated confession. If her parents and especially her granny didn’t make her go, Emilia would happily have skipped it, regardless of the bleeding-heart Jesus cards and saints cluttering her dressing table. Sandra remained sitting on the fence until she felt better; Emilia had been stupid, but at least she’d written to say sorry.

  15/11/64.

  Dear Emilia,

  I got both your letters. We were best friends and your letter about your feelings for Nick made me cry, as if my own feelings didn’t matter.

  Now I know Nick definitely doesn’t think of you that way. In October I stayed a few days at Morgans and he asked me to visit again after Christmas. There won’t be enough time, so I won’t get to see you.

  You always hated confession but I’m pleased you made yourself go. We can be friends and write to each other again, if you want.

  Love from Sandra.

  The Song for Emilia remained stowed beneath several new compositions in the box. A striking mixture of key changes, chord inversions and choruses – the composition had absorbed so much of Sandra’s energy and emotion, caused an argument with her mother, and yet ... there had to be something good about it or why did she feel compelled to keep it?

  Angela disliked the song intensely and never enquired about it. Prue had liked it and asked her to play it again. Her father never heard it because Angela wouldn’t allow Sandra to play it while anyone was at home. Phooey to all of them.

  Billy agreed to work on the piece during one rehearsal, until exasperated, he said, ‘We haven’t got time to fiddle today.’

  Sandra was annoyed to hear her composition described as fiddle. And Angela had accused her of faffle. Honestly, did he think it was a waste of effort? Phooey to Billy, too.

  Doubts assailed her every night in bed – hours when she lay awake revisiting Song – constructing an analysis of everything that anyone had ever said about the composition.

  Suddenly, the best way to solve the dilemma burst on her like a thunderclap. Yes! She would ask Aunt Meredith to be the adjudicator.

  Mister L’estrange’s car was parked next to Meredith’s. For once she didn’t mind. In fact, that was good. Within the subtlety of his teaching, he’d acknowledged her skill in composition, supported her abandonment of the old dream to be a concert pianist, calmed Angela’s objections with his persuasive arguments. Of all people, as his student, he’d given her huge encouragement.

  ‘The decision must be yours,’ he’d assured Sandra, knowing she had already made the choice.

  Seated at the piano, Sandra found it all rather curious. The last time she’d played this piano, it was in Mister L’estrange’s flat. Now his Feurich was in a room of its own at Meredith’s. This was where he gave piano lessons now, and this was where she sat.

  Meredith and Eric occupied a couch, a table in front of them with pens and paper. They waited with expectant faces and Sandra turned away, lest her old nervousness return.

  She placed her pages for Song on the piano, regarded the scatter of notes for a moment, remembering her confused emotion when she’d first imagined the melody. She loved the darker tones of C minor – it was right for this piece.

  Steadying herself, she began the introduction – slower than her original score: adagio for five bars, leading to the melody which would sing above the strong bass line. The chorus came in with a swirl of semi-quavers allegretto furioso ... her fingers flying in a crescendo of dark, rippling chords ... then a return to the melody, but leggierissimo on a higher octave. Emilia was in all of this song, in her sweet, annoying way, and Sandra knew that today she played not just for Emmy, but also for herself... a key change to repeat the chorus, her hands reaching for three quiet A Major chords to finish.

  Shaking her fingers as if to loosen the joints, she turned to them, eyebrows raised, questioning.

  ‘I was waiting for some extended drama,’ Eric said. ‘It’s hardly Mack the Knife. I wanted more.’

  Sandra felt aggrieved to have disappointed him. ‘I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. Anyway, my mother thinks Mack the Knife’s about sharks,’ she said. ‘She can’t listen past the first words.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. I disagree, Eric,’ Meredith said. ‘Your song has such tension, maybe there is indeed a shark inside it? I found the opening bars misleading, as if you’re creating a trap of some kind, then the piece develops a sudden lyrical tenderness.’

  Sandra played the first bars again. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said, ‘but that’s how I felt when I composed it.’

  ‘And how was that,’ Eric asked.

  ‘At first I was angry—’

  ‘Maybe you should explain why,’ Meredith suggested, ‘so Eric knows the roots of the song?’

  ‘It’ll sound silly. Okay. Last June when Dad and I went to Curradeen, I stayed with Emilia, and I went to have a day with Morgans—’

  ‘Nick Morgan being the reason for Sandra’s visit,’ Meredith added. ‘Eric doesn’t know all that.’

  ‘Well ...’ Sandra hesitated to begin – how much to tell, how much to keep secret from Mister L’estrange?

  ‘Well,’ she repeated, ‘I had a crush on Nick since I started high school and he was a senior. After he left school I got to know him a bit, and I think we liked each other. Then, when I got older—’

  ‘But Nick got older too?’ Eric said, hiding a smile.

  ‘Yes, but the older you get, the less a few years matter.’

  As Sandra said this, she noticed quick glances between Meredith and Mister L’estrange, remembering that of course, Auntie was five years older than him.

  ‘Emilia was furious because Morgans invited me to stay the night so that I could play the song I’d composed for Nick—’

  At this point, Eric stood up, excited and laughing. ‘You wrote a song for Nick, too? My god, this is all about music! I should’ve guessed.’ He sat down again, still occasionally shaking with suppressed laughter as he scribbled a note.

  Undeterred, Sandra continued: ‘Emilia wrote me a letter to say she and Nick had something going on between them. And although I didn’t want to believe it, and Nick had kissed me one night—’

  ‘Aha, a kiss,’ Eric nodded.

  ‘There’s more ...’ Sandra said. ‘Emilia wrote another letter to say she made it all up and she’d confessed to the priest.’

  ‘A priest, too,’ Eric murmured, scribbling again.

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ Meredith said. ‘Your song has sprung out of such marvellous passion. I think it’s wonderful.’

  ‘And so do I,’ Eric agreed. ‘It’s a tremendous piece. But I want it to be longer. Can you build on it with variations – perhaps fift
een, twenty minutes?’

  ‘I guess so. And I might write a part for strings, a trio.’ Hardly realizing this thought had lain deep within her, she already heard the cello join with her adagio piano opening, a violin entering to carry the melody above the bass line as the song progressed.

  Eric regarded her quizzically. ‘A song for Emilia and for you too? Like a conversation in counterpoint, a fugue – the strings are the light and shade of your friend, at first in opposition, then coming together in the chorus. Bittersweet, hmm? You’re full of surprises today. But no, I shouldn’t be surprised, because you’ve always had the spirit to compose.’

  He joined Sandra on the piano seat, ‘Move up, and let’s look at this ...’

  Sandra’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Thank you, Eric. I was so afraid you and Auntie wouldn’t like it, and you’d think I was stupid composing a song like this.’

  Over his shoulder, he winked at Meredith, both of them noticing that Sandra had unconsciously used his name for the first time.’

  ‘Now,’ Eric instructed. ‘From the top.’

  ♫

  Meredith dropped a bomb that no one was expecting.

  She arrived by herself one evening, bearing an armful of yellow roses and a basket of Christmas presents. The family was in the lounge room to watch Homicide, and Don reluctantly turned off the TV.

  ‘Ooh, Dad, I was watching that,’ Prue grumbled, but her father shushed her with a warning finger. If Meredith was visiting at this comparatively late hour, it must be important. The room became charged with an expectant hush.

  ‘We’ve shared Christmas together for years and years,’ Meredith said. ‘And this year, because my life has changed so dramatically, I’ve persuaded Eric that we should do something different. I do hope you won’t be hurt.’

  When Meredith didn’t immediately continue, Don insisted, ‘Come on, sis, out with it.’

  ‘Sis!’ Angela said. ‘You haven’t called her Sis for years. What’s happened, Meredith?’

  ‘We’re going to stay at a guest house in Austinmer for Christmas,’ Meredith blurted. ‘Don’t try to talk me out of it – because I know you will. But it’s time to bury my ghosts, and Eric and I think that returning to Austinmer where I used to go with William, is the very best way to do it.’

  ‘Kind of paint over the cracks?’ Prue suggested, to be shushed again by her father.

  ‘Meredith, we’ve had Christmas together for so many years, how can you—’ Angela objected.

  ‘Please don’t. We’ve decided. The room’s booked. We’ll be gone for two weeks, and it’s going to be wonderful.’

  Don reached for his pipe and tobacco. ‘I suppose, whatever’s best for you and Eric.’

  ‘I’ve brought you each a present and there’s a bottle of champers and a plum pudding in the basket too, just so you don’t miss me.’

  ‘Gosh, Auntie, I love the puddings you make every year,’ Sandra said. ‘But it won’t be the same without you.’

  ‘Come and have Christmas drinks with us soon,’ Meredith said. ‘We’ll fix a date.’

  Until Meredith announced her holiday down the coast for Christmas, Sandra had scarcely recognized the huge significance of Aunt Meredith in her life. She had run to Meredith for companionship, run to her whenever she was in trouble. Christmas without Auntie was unimaginable.

  Sandra knew the photograph of William no longer stood on her aunt’s dressing table. So, is this what happens when someone new comes along? Like cleaning out drawers and cupboards, she imagined Meredith’s new life: her letters and photos, cinema tickets; clothes lovingly stitched with happy memories; pressed flowers from a book – all hidden or thrown away.

  And what about Nick? In her drawer beneath scarves and hankies, she’d kept his letter to say he’d be enrolling at university, and the letter enclosed with his drawing. Two years between letters! Nothing since her last visit.

  Was she being greedy – could two people truly love each other and still be their individual selves? She’d been carving Nick’s name onto her heart for so many years, wishing and wanting. While he was out of reach, almost intangible, she could get on with her work. Even when Nick lived in Sydney, he was a rarity. She’d worked hard to keep him in sight.

  But Billy was right there. He helped with her compositions. Playing saxophone regularly beside her, he took a lot of her thinking time – entirely related to the music. She recalled their spaghetti dinner, his urgency. But the niggling little question remained: was their friendship more than her piano and the saxophone?

  It was late, but Sandra was sure he’d be home, probably playing records, amusing himself – no more assignments from uni.

  The phone continued to ring ring and ring, until a sleepy voice answered – a woman’s voice.

  ‘Billy’s just popped out,’ the voice said. ‘Who’s calling?’

  Sandra put down the phone, cursing herself for being so stupid.

  Taking a chance, on the way home from her job at the newsagency, Sandra veered into Eric’s old street. Irene must be thoroughly settled into the flat by now. With no phone number, there was no way to warn Irene of her visit.

  Up the familiar stairs – stairs that she’d climbed each week for more than a year. How she’d loathed Mister L’estrange in the beginning: his long, black hair and darker than dark eyes, the way he called her Sarn-dra, taking half a minute to drawl her name, his silver earring that had so startled her mother. Toujours Fidèle.

  Irene opened the door almost immediately. ‘Perfect timing,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve just made a cuppa.’

  A relief to walk inside, to discover the flat was almost unrecognizable. A large batik cloth hung as a curtain over the window. Two armchairs in a corner, shawls thrown over their raggedy corners; posters and paintings stuck on the walls.

  Sandra strolled about the lounge room: inspecting family photos, lifting the lid on a tiny pot, reading titles on the bookshelf; missing nothing. ‘You’ve made it all so lovely. And the paintings?’

  ‘A friend’s work.’ Irene beckoned, ‘And this is my bedroom—’

  Irene’s room was a dazzle of colour, far from Eric’s quiet blues. A floral quilt lay across the bed, another batik curtain splashed with green, brown and purple; on the floor a purple rug.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ Gazing about, Sandra sat on Irene’s bed – all that remained in the room was a faint, sweet remembrance.

  ‘I’ve been told all this flamboyance will keep me awake,’ Irene chuckled. ‘If it does, then I’ll get up, light a candle and make a cup of tea. I don’t care what time I go to sleep.’

  ‘That’s a nice free life,’ Sandra said. ‘I wish I could do that. I can’t right now. But it’s okay ’cause I’ll be finished at the Con next year and it’s easier to stay at home until then.’

  A narrow shape wound its way into the room, and Irene scooped up the grey cat, nuzzling the small triangular face. ‘Mimi’s happy here. She likes to sit on the balcony and watch the birds.’

  Sandra reached out her hands. ‘Can I have a cuddle?’

  While she played with Mimi, Irene made tea, carrying the tray of cups to the lounge room. No coffee table, so she put the tray on the floor. ‘Tell me all your news,’ she said, pouring milk and tea into each cup. ‘I want to know everything.’

  Sandra told her about the songs she composed and her studies at the Con, while Irene elaborated on her writing, the tedious jobs at the real estate agents, awkward tenants behind with the rent.

  ‘I’ve got a piano!’ Irene suddenly announced. ‘Come and see.’

  A faded piano sat in the same room where Eric had given lessons – that much was the same. The lid wore a crazy pattern as if it had been sunburned, and when Irene opened it, a keyboard with yellowed ivories greeted them.

  ‘It’s ancient, and obviously no one cared for it. I got it for nothing.’

  ‘How was that?’ Sandra ran her hand gently along the keys, felt the slight concave on each ivory.

  ‘I was walking
home the other day and I saw some men put it on the footpath. It looked so sad, I stopped to give it a pat, and they said, Hey, you can take it!’

  ‘Naturally, I said yes, and they drove it here in their van and carried it upstairs. Isn’t that fantastic?’

  Yes, it was. Sandra sat on a box to play an arpeggio, the piano replying in a tinny treble. Given the tone, she broke into a boogie tune that had them both laughing until tears came. ‘I love it,’ she cried. ‘No other piano could possibly sound like that – like something from a nineteenth century music hall.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it. I’ll get it fixed, if the piano tuner doesn’t throw a fit.’

  As they drank their tea, Sandra described her nights at the club with Billy. When Irene questioned her about him, she brushed it aside.

  ‘We play really well together, but I don’t know how long he’ll stay. I think he’s getting restless.’

  Irene told her more stories about life in Taree: the clingy ex-boyfriend, her ferret-loving brother. Expeditions to Saltwater beach, where you could swim without another soul in sight. The claustrophobia she’d felt in a small town. ‘My parents live near the railway line. At night you can hear the freight trains.’

  After they’d twice-drained the teapot, Sandra said goodbye. She felt satisfied that the flat was no longer where Mister L’estrange used to live. Its previous ambience had been replaced by a warm- hearted young woman called Irene.