Song for Emilia Page 13

The dogs were chained to their kennels again. At least that was normal. Mr Morgan hadn’t returned by the time Nick brought his ute to the garden gate.

  ‘You’ll let me know about your mother?’ Sandra’s question at the airport, spoken into Nick’s ear as she planted a kiss on his cheek, his own dry kiss in response.

  ‘Sure. Have a good flight. It won’t be so bumpy today.’

  ‘I’ll write—’ her words melted into the hot tarmac with her lack of resolve. The old refrain: What for?

  A final glimpse of the hard-baked inland before the DC-3 was winging over the green of the Blue Mountains, the red tiled roofs, tennis courts and blue swimming pools of Sydney, to land at Mascot.

  Two weeks later, the letter arrived: the long-awaited word from Nick. Quickly Sandra slit open the envelope, unfolded the crisp white page, hardly daring to think what he might have written. If the news about Beth was serious, wouldn’t he have telephoned?

  Wilga Park. 2 February, 65.

  My dear Sandra,

  ...That was a good start, although Darling would’ve been better ...

  Finally I get to write to you as you asked. Mum had a stroke & is still in hospital. Her right side isn’t much good but she can talk alright. We’re very lucky it was a little stroke or I don’t know what would have happened. Dad is having a bad time over it so just as well I’m here.

  There won’t be any lambing this year. Finally the government has set up a Drought Watch, whatever that does for the farmers.

  Sorry you had to leave in a hurry. Good luck with everything,

  Yours, Nick.

  If she’d tried to imagine a worse letter, she couldn’t have done better than this. It was a shock that dear Beth was sick, but Nick’s letter was so matter-of-fact, so impersonal, it was all she could do to walk into the house before bursting into tears. Shut in her bedroom, frustration and sorrow mixed together, to pour weeping onto her pillow.

  The night that Nick came to her bedroom to talk about his mother she’d returned his affection, his kisses, and there were nights when she lay on her pillow and wished she hadn’t stopped his fingers as he stroked her skin beneath the nightdress, given in to what he seemed to want. Would it have changed anything?

  What’s love, anyway – a figment of the imagination, she cursed. All a delusion. Safer to turn away from the edge.

  The next day she wrote a crisp little note, telling herself: keep to the point, this is all about his mother.

  9 February ’65.

  My dear Nick,

  ...well, that’s what he wrote ...

  Thank you for writing to me about your mother, I was very sorry to read of her stroke. I wish her a very good recovery and that she will soon be back home. Please thank your father for having me to stay and especially your mother the next time you speak to her.

  I hope it’s rained and you won’t get another dust storm. I feel sorry for the poor animals.

  So hard to find the right words instead of dry phrases like a greeting card. She finished it with a few more trivial lines, signed it Yours sincerely, Sandra, and sealed the envelope. Should she have written poor farmers?

  Billy had turned twenty in December and registered for the new compulsory National Service ballot. Jubilant when he missed being called up in the January ballot, he’d crushed Sandra in a hug. ‘I’m not soldier material. Someone must’ve guessed and fixed the lottery!’

  During the last of the summer holidays, Sandra’s old school friend Carol had turned up, and occasionally they met to go to the beach or to the pictures. Better to sit in the dark of the cinema, because Sandra found now they’d both left school there was nothing much to talk about.

  In April, at America’s request Australia sent a battalion of troops to Vietnam. Already there were scattered protests against Australia being drawn into the war. Carol’s brother was conscripted, and after Carol joined the Save Our Sons protest movement, Sandra hardly ever saw her.

  At the club, she and Billy continued to play their favourites: the usual songs which always included Winter’s Day. Billy was superlative and when his sax carried the melody in Walk On By, a woman seated near the stage threw a flower, which he scooped up with a grin and stuck in his hair. After the show, he kissed the woman goodnight, with a ‘See you next week.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Sandra asked, as they left the club.

  ‘No idea.’ He grinned, the same grin he’d flashed at the woman with the flower. ‘Are you jealous?’

  For her answer, Sandra gently swiped his arm. Almost at the corner, Billy said, ‘There’s a couple of strangers I’ve seen twice now. They sit at the back and leave before we finish.’

  Sandra feigned interest. The club was small enough to see many of the faces: the ones who came more than once, the regulars, the one-offs. ‘Well, if you’re that curious, go and say hello.’

  They parted, with Sandra seeking a taxi, only recalling later, that Billy hadn’t said if the strangers were men or women. Billy certainly had a following among the women. Tall, attractive, with such a cheeky smile, she was lucky to have him. On stage, she knew they looked good together. Billy continued to wear his narrow trousers and a jacket over his shirt, but Sandra occasionally switched to black slacks and a velvet top, easy and elegant.

  Walk On By continued to sing in her head on the way to the taxi rank – impossible not to sing the lyrics. It made her feel like crying – better to hum it – but I’m done with crying, she told herself.

  She wished she could have loved Billy, but their friendship was good, and that was better. Yes, she was lucky.

  ♫

  With time, the drowning dreams disappeared. Thank goodness. Sandra wondered what had caused them to vanish. Perhaps it was her nineteenth birthday last April, or perhaps only one year left to graduate, or maybe the continuing pleasure of playing at the club and composing her music. Her tutors at the Con were extremely pleased, and told her so.

  Ideas for her compositions flowed from every direction. She heard music almost everywhere she looked: the swing of a dress, the hurrying footsteps; children playing in the park; sharp agitato as a car skidded to a halt on a corner; Billy on the sax, eyes half- closed. A man on horseback, covering the ground in an easy canter. Like taking too many photographs, she thought: after a while, you see everything through a viewfinder. Or writing a poem – when you’ve written the umpteenth verse, everything you write begins to rhyme.

  She knew from the TV news that it was terrible out west. Crops had failed. Yet another year too dry to plant winter wheat, some farmers gave up, putting their properties on the market. Who would buy a dust bowl? Sandra wondered.

  What of Wilga Park? Since Nick’s letter in February about his mother, there had been nothing more, and no answer to her reply.

  Sandra tried her best to be cheerful, and wrote another short letter:

  10 July ’65.

  Dear Nick,

  I guess you’re still at Wilga Park. This is just a note to let you know I’ve read in the papers and it’s on TV how dry it is out west. I hope it rains soon.

  I have been wondering if your mother is home again, and how she’s getting on?

  My music studies are going well. Only one more year and I’m finished. I still play at the club and I love doing that because I can mix my own work with ...

  No good. She screwed up the note and began again, finishing with the question about his mother.

  Please pass on my regards to your parents. Give the horses and Trix a pat from me.

  Let me know when you come back to uni.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sandra.

  After she’d posted the letter, she wished she’d written a better one, wished she’d said, I miss you, and I hope you’re okay. Love from Sandra. Never mind that Nick hadn’t written it first.

  But he’d said, I wish it could be different. And it wasn’t. The idyllic dream was extinguished with those few words.

  She phoned once, hesitantly, but there was no answer when the excha
nge tried the Morgans’ number. She still hadn’t heard from Nick and he’d forgotten her birthday. Regardless of her deep suspicion that it was a waste of time, Sandra chose a birthday card for him. If she posted it tomorrow, it would get there by the twentieth of August.

  It depicted two horses, obviously a mare and foal beneath what might be a gum tree. If nothing else, it was nostalgic. Where was Toffee, and had Nick sold Honey? Was Mrs Morgan better, and how about Nick’s father? She wrote her questions in a hurry, before she could change her mind, dropped the card in the post box on her way to rehearsal. Uni break would be a relief, before the year’s final exam.

  A white envelope lay on the kitchen table, addressed to Sandra. Emilia’s handwriting. Wondering what she would find, Sandra slit the envelope with a butter knife.

  Inside, a flowery card, with a note.

  6 August, 65.

  Dear Sandra,

  I got your letter in November last year about going to stay with Nick after Christmas. You told me you would be too busy to visit me so I didn’t want to write back to you, not even when Mrs Morgan got sick and came to live in Melbourne with her family. That was very sad for Nick and Mr Morgan.

  Nick’s granny helped me to find a nice boarding house for girls until I finish college next year. It’s OK because there’s only 5 girls plus me, the lady’s Greek and she cooks very good dinners.

  Now I know for sure you and Nick love each other. I always find out later when you’ve stay there and I bet you see him in Sydney too.

  I think both our lives have gone very strange. Lofty and I are going together and he said it was always me he liked but I thought it was always you. That’s funny, isn’t it! He gets called Warwick at teachers college but in Curradeen he will always be Lofty. I am making my debut next year and Lofty is going to be my partner. I’m already planning my ball dress.

  I hope you will write back to tell me what you’re doing and what will Nick’s father do when Nick goes back to university? You are still my best friend, whatever happens.

  Love from Emilia.

  XOXOX

  Oh Emmy, if only you knew how seldom I ever see Nick in Sydney. Undecided about replying, Sandra knew that to answer Emilia’s card was the only way to keep their fragile friendship, at the same time wondering if it was worth it. But as she wrote, the old warmth gradually returned, and she knew she could write pages and pages.

  10 August, 65.

  Dear Emilia,

  Thank you for the pretty card, I know you like Mrs Morgan too. It was an awful thing to happen but maybe she’ll be well enough to go home soon. Nick has deferred uni because he needs to help his father. I hope you’ll be all right in your boarding house, at least it’s all girls! You’re lucky to get dinners too.

  After your first letter I was so upset and angry, I wrote a song except it hasn’t got words. I called it “Song for Emilia” and it started off being very “ furioso” because that was how I felt, but in the end it turned into something else, and it’s sort of about you and me, all our ups and downs and about our long friendship.

  Aunt Meredith and Eric (I call him Eric now) really like my Song, and I play it at the club where I play piano on Friday nights (yes, I know, I’m performing!).

  How are your parents and Nonna, is she still knitting? Please write and tell me more about everything and about Lofty, it’s nice you’re going together and so exciting you will make your debut.

  Everyone is well here, write again soon.

  Love from Sandra xox

  She would have liked to write more about Nick, but what was there to say?

  Meredith and Eric came to the club one evening, discreet as only Meredith knew how. Sandra didn’t know they were there until she and Billy played their last number.

  Meredith kissed her, declaring, ‘I knew you’d be terrific, dear Sandra, and you look stunning. Midnight-blue suits you.’

  Filled with surprise, Sandra introduced them, and Billy kissed Meredith’s cheek, shook Eric’s hand.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Eric said, enveloping Sandra in a surprising hug. ‘For someone who didn’t want to perform, you’re brilliant.’

  With a quick smile at Sandra, Billy clipped shut his sax case. ‘She’s wonderful – we do a good set.’

  Meredith glanced from Sandra to Billy and back again, seeing the affection between them. The next band began playing, so they left to say farewell out in the street.

  On the drive home to Sandra’s, Meredith said, ‘Billy’s superb. You’ve worked up a great duo together.’

  ‘He’s in love with you,’ Eric announced, matter-of-fact. ‘It shows a mile off.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Sandra protested. ‘We’ve talked about it. It’s only the music—’

  ‘Maybe for you,’ Meredith replied.

  For a few minutes they sat in the car outside the Abbotts’ house.

  ‘Have you heard from Nick?’

  Sandra ignored Meredith’s question. ‘Goodnight, thank you for coming tonight,’ she said. Relenting, she bent to say through the window, ‘You know I haven’t, or I would’ve told you.’

  Eric switched the subject, ‘How about some Otis Redding? I think his music would suit you both. And come with us one night to El Rocco. Think about it.’

  As they drove away, Sandra shut the gate more firmly than usual. Why does everyone care what I do? I go along calmly minding my own business, I’m doing well at the Con, I’ve got lots of compositions that my tutors are happy with, I enjoy performing in ensembles ... will you all just leave me alone!

  At rehearsal, Billy said, ‘Otis Redding? Sure. We could do Try a Little Tenderness.’

  ‘I don’t like the words much.’

  ‘Hey,’ Billy said, irritated. ‘We’re not singing.’

  ‘Okay, if we can play it without sounding desperate.’

  Sandra kept thinking about Eric’s comment: ‘He’s in love with you.’

  She spread her scores on the piano: only one new song this afternoon. Good, she could escape early. Don’t spoil everything, Billy. The flashes of irritation were more frequent lately, though at the club, Billy was always excellent – his laconic manner, his light blue eyes flashing around the audience.

  Meredith and Eric stayed away from the club after that evening. Sandra was pleased – she’d rather play among strangers. Even the flower woman was welcome. Jealous? No, she wasn’t.

  Another smoky night: a good crowd, hard to see across the room. They left the club later than usual, into misty rain.

  ‘I’ll drive you home,’ Billy said. ‘You’ll be absolutely safe,’ he added.

  ‘Thanks, that’d be good.’ Sandra wondered how long they could continue their music partnership with this imbalance. One day, Billy would walk away ...

  ‘They were there again, those two blokes,’ Billy said. ‘On the right side. See if they turn up next week. They left again before we finished.’

  The following Friday night the crowd was thinner. Halfway through the set, Sandra saw the two strangers come in, their faces shadowed in the low lights. As Billy predicted, they got up to go before the final song.

  ‘I think,’ Billy said, ‘there’s something odd about those two.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Sandra pulled up the collar of her coat, hugging her bag to her chest.

  ‘After we play Winter’s Day they leave. It was the same last time.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve had enough by then.’

  ‘Can we try something next week? Play Winter’s Day last. If that’s why they leave, then we’ll see who it is. Could be they’re talent scouts?’

  ‘Why would they keep coming back?’

  ‘You’re cynical sometimes, do you know that?’

  A taxi cruised past and Billy waved his arm at it. As it parked by the kerb, he kissed her goodnight. ‘Sweet dreams, see you Tuesday.’

  Sandra never told Billy that she’d phoned his home once. And once was enough. He might love her, but it didn’t stop him seeing someone, going to bed with someo
ne else. She wasn’t jealous, but there was a sensation like a stone lodged in her stomach when she thought about him, about Nick. Ha, she told herself, I should write a song about it, call it Disappointment.

  They didn’t see the strangers again. Oh well, it was hardly a mystery, probably visitors to Sydney – they’d heard the music and wandered inside, listened to a few songs, got up and left. So what?

  Next rehearsal, as Sandra met Billy at the entrance to the club, he took her arm, saying, ‘I’m curious. I know where some of your pieces come from – the Mountain Valley Blues and Mermaid Rock, even variations on Song for Emilia, and of course, our spaghetti blues—’

  Here was the question she had always hoped to avoid, didn’t want to answer. She shook off his hand with a non-committal shrug.

  He left the question hanging as they made their way inside. Then as Sandra sat at the piano, he pounced.

  ‘Tell me who you wrote Winter’s Day for.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

  ‘It was for a friend,’ she answered, blurring the edges.

  ‘I think you wrote it for someone special and that’s why you want to play it every bloody night.’

  ‘I told you, I wrote it for a friend. For a special place, if you really want to know.’

  Billy gave one of his smirks. ‘Nup. I bet you wrote it for some bloke.’

  ‘Don’t be funny.’ She drowned any further comment with the beginning of their first piece, gratified to hear the sax come in on the beat. She wanted to tell Billy, Shut up! bothered at the same time if his question really mattered. It was beginning to feel like history.

  Rain fell for several days and fewer people came to the club. So much for spring, Sandra thought, as she set up her music. The table on the right was already occupied by someone, face in the shadow.

  Billy’s questions at rehearsal had unnerved her, and his remarks about the two strangers who’d sat at that table a month ago, were distracting. Breathe in, she instructed herself. Count one-two-three on the breaths. Relax your shoulders. Begin the first piece ... Fine.