Song for Emilia Read online

  The plan to ask about sharing the flat with her faded away. Face it, she admitted, there’s no room for us both – or for two pianos. And if Billy leaves, who knows what will happen with the club.

  ♫

  A telephone call, early enough on Sunday to wake up all the Abbotts. Don’s footsteps hurrying down the hall, the muted conversation, and her father calling, ‘Sandra? It’s for you.’

  Nick’s voice distant on the line: ‘Do you want to come for a visit? We’ve had a rotten Christmas, we could do with someone to cheer us up.’

  All week, a hot wind had been blowing from the south-west, stirring dust in the paddocks where grasses no longer anchored the soil. Each afternoon, clouds built on the horizon: thunderclouds, heavy and promising, split by slashes of lightning. But each time their hopes faded as the clouds dispersed. Mrs Morgan and Sandra swept the veranda clean after breakfast, only to sweep up dust again in the evening.

  Since early morning, the wind had got up stronger, whipping trees and scrub, sending the dogs into their kennels. Nick’s horses in the house yard turned tail-on to the increasing dust that invaded everything.

  Harry Morgan stood on the veranda, eyes searching for a positive change in the weather. ‘It has to break soon,’ he muttered, more to himself.

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ Mrs Morgan insisted, taking his arm. ‘It’s not the first dry spell you ever saw, and it won’t be the last.’

  ‘Not a drop for months,’ he said, letting himself be persuaded to go inside with her.

  Again the clouds built up, the fifth day in a row. Sporadic lightning flickered.

  Something about this cloud was different. Seated in the lounge room after lunch, they could see it through the window.

  ‘Is it going to rain this time?’ Sandra searched their worried faces.

  Mr Morgan stroked his moustache, peering at the clouds. ‘I reckon it’s dust. What do you think, Nick? Will we batten down the hatches?’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘I left the chooks locked up this morning,’ Mrs Morgan laughed – an anxious little sound. ‘In case they got blown away.’

  The cloud appeared to roll. As if drawn to the earth, it flowed and billowed, splintered by lightning. They remained at the window, enthralled, horrified.

  ‘It’s more brown than grey,’ Sandra said. ‘Look how dark the sky’s getting.’

  Suddenly Nick bolted from the room, shouting over his shoulder, ‘The dogs! I’ve got to let the dogs go.’

  For one paralysed moment, Sandra stared through the glass. Then she cried, ‘I’ll help you,’ dashing after him, heedless of Mrs Morgan beseeching her, ‘Sandra, stay inside! You don’t have to—’

  As Nick raced out of the house, Sandra followed the slam of the back door. A shock of hot dust hit her face like a million pinpricks, whipping her hair. She wiped her eyes. Which way? The kennels were near the machinery shed ... already the dust was blinding her. Damn it, wish I had a handkerchief, she cursed, all in a rush. Wish I wore more than a stupid shift. Too late to go back. With her hand across her face, eyes squinted, she ran towards the shed, but when she’d run twenty steps, the shed wasn’t where it ought to be.

  In those few minutes, darkness covered the sky as the dust cloud enveloped the house, obliterating everything.

  Where was the damned shed? Hands around her mouth and trying not to cough, she shouted into the wind, the words blown away as if she’d shouted into a blanket. A flicker of lightening set her heart racing in fear.

  Another few steps and she touched a corrugated iron wall. Fingers spread, she stepped close, feeling her way to where the door of the machinery shed had to be. Touched wire. Small sounds came to her: the soft, worried clucks from Mrs Morgan’s chooks.

  Somewhere out there muffled by the storm she heard Nick yell to the dogs, ‘Here, Trix. Here girl!’

  Barely able to see, Sandra tried to follow his voice. Dimly aware of bumps and scrapes on her knees, head down, she crawled to where she hoped to find the shed ... falling on her face when she bumped into Nick.

  ‘God! Sandra—’ Pulling her up by the hand, doubled over, they ran. The house was invisible, but Nick knew which way for the shed. Inside, he swiftly pushed shut the door.

  ‘What were you doing?’ he panted, almost shouting. ‘It’s dangerous out there.’

  ‘I got lost ... ’ thankful tears came. ‘You’ve got two dogs – I wanted to help.’

  In the gloom of the shed, Sandra saw their refuge contained a tractor and Mr Morgan’s truck, plus other indistinguishable machinery. The noise was deafening as the storm raged, and she flinched whenever something crashed into the wall.

  ‘Loose bits of iron from the tip,’ Nick said into her ear. ‘Cut your head off if you’re unlucky.’

  ‘Where are the dogs?’

  ‘They’re okay. They’ll get under the house.’

  ‘Will we be safe? What about the roof?’

  ‘Built to last. It’s seen plenty of storms.’

  Together they slid down the wall to the concrete floor, while the storm boomed and banged around them.

  ‘Not sure how long we’ll have to stay here,’ Nick said. ‘I hope the folks realize we’re in the shed.’

  ‘Your mother told me not to go, I’m sorry if it makes trouble.’

  ‘No trouble,’ Nick said. ‘You’re pretty brave coming out in this.’

  Another long silence as time lapsed between gusts. Finally, Nick said, ‘It’s gone a bit quieter, we can make a run for it. Hold my hand.’

  He opened the shed door and they stepped into the afternoon. But the wind blew thick and red, hiding the house behind a gauzy curtain.

  Nick turned back to the shed, coughed and spat, banging shut the door behind them. Filthy with sweat and dust, Sandra wiped her face with the back of her hand, wanted a hanky to blow her nose. All of a sudden, his hands holding her shoulders, Nick kissed her swift and full on the mouth, then stepped back just as suddenly.

  ‘God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’

  Without thought, Sandra rested her head on his chest, felt his hand tentatively caress her face. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, stunned by her words. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘That night by the fire, I didn’t think you wanted—’

  ‘I was in your mother’s nightie!’

  ‘Ophelia by the creek,’ Nick said. ‘But I’d never let you drown. Or suffocate.’

  Barely able to see Nick in the half-light, heart beating hard, Sandra linked her arms around his neck. Eyes closed, she offered up her face – for the kiss on her forehead which she knew would come. Now, her heart said: kiss me now or kiss me never. Her breath a whisper.

  Held in Nick’s arms, she smelled his skin against her cheek, felt the tremor in his limbs as he touched his lips first to one eyelid, then the other, kissed the tip of her nose. Pressed against her, their gritty skins stuck with sweat, at last he kissed her mouth, a taste of dust, then long and sweet ... and in the softness of his lips she felt herself dissolve into this kiss, the heat of his mouth, his hands holding her close.

  Nick found cushions in his father’s truck. In the gloom, leaning together without speaking, they sat on the concrete floor, waiting for the wind to drop. Sandra closed her eyes, re-living the moments from Nick’s first hesitant touch to where she’d clung to him, swept away with emotion. She heaved a sigh and Nick gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Confused, mystified, she could have almost laughed. More like never ...

  They discovered an eerily quiet land when Nick opened the shed door: strangely still, the air laden with its fog of dust from the inland. Several stringy belah trees lay fallen, and Mrs Morgan’s old tamarisk, broken across the garden fence.

  The dogs crawled from beneath the house, ran to them, tails wagging, snuffling around their feet. Nick patted their heads briefly, commanded, ‘Down, down,’ and the kelpies bounced away, glad to be free.

  Mrs Morgan was crouched on the back veranda. A scarf across her head, f
ace streaked with dirty tears, she rested against the wall.

  In a stride, Nick leapt up the steps. ‘Mum! What are you doing outside?’

  ‘I told your father, I’m not coming in till you and Sandra are home safe.’ She struggled to stand, failed, slumped down on the boards again.

  Harry Morgan slammed the door behind him, his face blotched with anger. ‘I had to drag your mother back to the house from the paddock—’ he shouted.

  ‘Stop it, Harry. I’m perfectly all right, as you can very well see.’

  ‘You’re not, Mum.’ Nick helped her up, his arm around her, allowing her to lean on him.

  ‘She was out searching for you.’ Mr Morgan wiped his face, calmer now. ‘Your mother’s not young like you. We weren’t spring chickens when you were born.’

  ‘It’s just a bit of dust,’ Mrs Morgan answered. ‘Nick, when Sandra ran after you, I was so afraid. What if we’d lost her?’

  Sandra wondered at it, watching as Nick helped his mother inside, remembered on her first visit how Mrs Morgan had happily declared, ‘Another girl in the house’. She realized these people were important to her: Beth, Harry Morgan – and Nick, who linked them all together.

  ‘Look at you...’ Mrs Morgan touched a strand of Sandra’s hair. ‘It’s gone quite red.’ Her voice was shaky. ‘One of my shoes is out there somewhere.’

  Doors and windows remained closed, and would remain shut until enough dust settled to open them again, letting in clean, dry air – until the next dust clouds inevitably blew across the country, loaded with sorrow.

  Fresh from a shower, having done her best to wash her hair in a bucket, Sandra wore a new shift, her hair damp and curling down her back. She joined the family in the lounge room and Mrs Morgan poured tea. Holding their cups, they sat quietly, the only sound the whirr of a fan.

  Never, Sandra reflected, do I ever want to see another dust cloud, in all my life. But if it took a dust storm for Nick to kiss me, then something was accomplished. She allowed a secret smile and catching Nick’s glance, saw the same smile lift the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Enough for now,’ Mr Morgan said. ‘I’ll leave you all to your cups of tea.’

  They watched him go, Mrs Morgan’s face wearing a certain grief. ‘I’ll just go and see what Harry’s up to,’ she said, following him with her cup and saucer.

  Nick emptied the pot into their cups, commenting, ‘I can’t drink enough, how about you?’

  ‘Altogether, a new experience,’ Sandra said, leaving her answer hanging.

  ‘Definitely,’ Nick said. ‘What next?’

  What next? She wanted to get out of her armchair – be finished with drinking endless cups of tea. She wanted to get moving – away from Harry Morgan who no longer had anything to say, Beth’s anxious face behind her cheerfulness. The entire house was descending into gloom. The day after tomorrow, she would be catching the plane to Sydney.

  She wanted to go, she wanted to stay ...

  An idea occurred to her. ‘Remember that time we came to your place, the night of the party?’

  ‘Yeah, I won’t forget. Another drunken night with Angus—’

  ‘And you told me back then how you wanted to be an architect?’

  ‘Sure. I spent every spare minute drawing plans for houses. It drove my father mad.’

  ‘Have you still got them?’

  ‘A few, some are pretty crazy. I can show you, if you like.’

  Nick led the way down the hall, past the guest room and study. ‘In my bedroom,’ Nick opened a door, ‘if you don’t mind the mess.’

  Expecting what she pictured a boy’s bedroom to look like, with clothes dropped on the floor and sports pennants strung along the walls, maybe a row of trophies on a shelf, Sandra was surprised at the sparseness.

  Large, like all the rooms at Wilga Park, a single bed covered in a sheet was pushed near one wall. Under the window squatted a large desk, an enormous lamp beside it.

  ‘My so-called drafting table,’ Nick explained. ‘Great- grandfather’s desk – mahogany and heavy as lead. I got the light from a local workshop that shut down.’

  Several drawings were stuck on a wall: pen and ink horses in flight. Sandra peered closely at the flaring nostrils, wind in their manes and tails, pebbles kicked up by flying hooves. Fine details, a wash of blue.

  ‘You drew these beautiful horses?’

  Nick nodded, ‘Old drawings.’

  ‘This one’s new, it’s got a date.’ She was transfixed by the picture, the deftly wielded coloured pencils: two silhouetted figures, outline of a house on the horizon – and like boiling soup, a gigantic multicoloured cloud hung over them as the little figures scampered towards the house, pursued by the cloud.

  ‘Our dust storm,’ Nick gave a lop-sided smile. ‘I drew it when you were in the shower. It’s just a quick sketch.’

  Deeply absorbed, Sandra continued to stare at the drawing. ‘Nick, this one, all these drawings – they’re awfully good! They’re really beautiful.’

  He shook his head and Sandra wandered to the window, orienting herself. Nick’s room opened to the same veranda as the guest room, with similar french doors. There was a lowboy, a map cabinet, a bookshelf. Nick’s polocrosse helmet and racquet hung on a hook behind the door. Sparse, she thought. Nothing surplus, rather like Nick.

  He took a sheet of paper from a drawer of the cabinet, spread it on the desk: floor plan of a simple house, accompanied by an isometric interior drawing, and a third, realistic sketch that depicted the exterior fabric of the building, exactly how Nick imagined it. A house designed for a hot landscape, angles of the sun indicated by degrees. Exquisite in its minute detail, bending close, Sandra saw how myriad fine lines captured almost the feel of the house, its papery spirit.

  ‘Coloured pencils again – I like the way you blend the colours.’

  ‘Thanks. I did this one at school. I always drew the sort of house I’d like to live in. Life changes of course. One day I might design houses for cold places. For cities, perhaps.’

  He slid the papers back into the cabinet. ‘Now you know how I waste my time here.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It’s a beautiful house, and maybe you should build it.’

  She scanned the bookshelf, investigating titles: worn childhood novels, Biggles Flies East, and Biggles Defies the Swastika. Shakespeare’s plays. Mountaineering and prisoner of war stories. Volumes of design: Frank Lloyd Wright; a 1950’s Lloyd Rees Sketchbook; and many titles she’d never heard of. She opened a novel called Flamingo Feather, flipped the pages to read a few lines.

  ‘Take it, if you like. Laurens van der Post,’ Nick said. ‘South Africa years ago.’

  ‘You like adventure stories,’ Sandra said. ‘And your designs are adventurous too.’

  ‘I like that for an opinion. My father never comes in here.’

  Although he smiled, Sandra thought he seemed sad beneath it. The weight of Nick’s heritage: a father who loathed his son’s dream because it didn’t reflect his own.

  Thankful not to be burdened by a similar load, she pondered on Nick’s complicated future.

  A still, hot night – worse with all the windows and doors shut. Mr and Mrs Morgan had gone to their room after a dinner of cold meat and salad, followed by icecream and jelly with the usual jug of homemade custard sauce.

  Nick said goodnight and disappeared. Sandra thought she heard the back door close, but no bark of a dog broke the silence.

  Her bedroom was stuffy but she dared not open the doors to the veranda. She threw off the top sheet and lay spread-eagled across the bed, one foot dangling over the side for a semblance of coolness. Sleep seemed a long way off as the hours ticked by, until finally she slept.

  A click of a door handle, the french doors swung open, and she woke to a whispered, ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Gosh, Nick,’ was all she managed to say as he sat beside her. In the ghostly light of the room, she saw that he was fully dressed.

  ‘It’s two o’clock,’ Nick
said. ‘I thought I’d better wake you. Mum’s ill. Dad’s taken her into hospital.’

  ‘Oh. What’s wrong, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I’ll take you into town for the early flight. We can change your ticket at the airport. I’m sorry about this, Sandra.’

  ‘Never mind ... I’m really sorry your mother’s sick. And it’s time I left—’

  ‘I’d like you to stay,’ Nick said. ‘I’m a selfish bastard. It’s difficult.’ His voice cracked and he stretched his length on the bed.

  Sandra shifted aside, allowing her own length to rest beside him. She felt his hand tighten on hers.

  ‘Mum can’t speak properly. Maybe it’s a stroke.’

  He turned to face her, his breath hot in the oppressive bedroom. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back in Sydney. Who knows how long I’ll be stuck here. You need to get on with your music – no point hanging around any longer.’

  Sandra felt the familiar thickness in her throat as tears seeped from her eyes, running into the pillow. This was Nick saying goodbye again. Nick letting her know there could be nothing more in their friendship. Hundreds of miles would remain between them. Their kisses floated above her like wraiths, to vanish quickly.

  Nick wiped her wet cheek with his finger. ‘Ah, my pretty piano player, my Sandra,’ he whispered. ‘I wish it could be different.’

  He swung his feet off the bed and they stood together, staring into the bleak night.

  A last kiss was all she wanted. The way he’d kissed her in the shed meant something, she’d been certain, but now ...

  ‘Kiss me goodbye here, right now, before we get to the airport?’ she asked. ‘Please?’

  Nick’s expression was hidden, but his hands gently cupped her face, held her so tenderly she felt her heart might break. Nothing comes from nothing, her head was telling her. His lips on hers, maybe for the last time. She took his hand, placed it on her heart, let his fingers slip beneath the soft cotton. So much longing. Again, the heat of his mouth, his gentle hands.

  Her voice soft: No, no more.