Song for Emilia Read online

  ‘And you’ve been here all alone, ever since? What about friends, your neighbours?’

  ‘Everyone came. Ladies bearing casseroles.’ Nick wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Dad did everything except bury himself. I did that for him, in the Curradeen cemetery. Oh, he got a good send off, so many people—’

  Still shocked, Sandra saw that Nick’s mouth had set hard. He laughed, without humour. ‘The old man gave me the property, knowing I didn’t want it. How’s that for a bad joke?’

  ‘He must’ve loved you—’

  ‘He loved my mother, I know that. But I took after her, not him, and that was his greatest disappointment. He thought he could change me, until she persuaded him to let me go.’

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘I need to be gone from here. An English company’s buying the place. It’s all but done, thank god.’

  Nick poured another glass and they leaned back on the cushions, listening to the more and more fretful concerto.

  ‘I’ve tried to make a plan. I want to visit Mum again. She doesn’t understand that Dad’s gone. I’ve taken all her clothes to her family, her precious things. I don’t know for how long ... my grandparents are in their eighties.’ She heard his small sigh, his anxiety. ‘I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.’

  ‘You want me to leave tomorrow, you said—’

  ‘No. Please stay. Maybe you can help me.’

  Help Nick? How could she help him? To pack up several lifetimes of the Morgans was impossible. She had to be home by Friday—

  As if he’d read her thoughts, Nick said, ‘You’ve got to get home. Anyway, the sale’s walk in, walk out. There’s debts to settle, the mob on agistment, finalizing the stud records. Antique dealers have already crawled over the house like so many leeches.’

  The record had ended without them noticing. Nick went to the french doors, stepped onto the veranda. ‘Come outside,’ he called. ‘The moon’s up.’

  A sliver of moon illuminated the homestead, the desiccated garden, the bone-dry land magically transformed by shades of silver. Low on the horizon, the Southern Cross pricked the sky. The kelpie snuffled around their feet, licking hands.

  ‘I wanted Trix to come in the house and keep me company,’ Nick said. ‘But she wouldn’t. A working dog, through and through.’

  They meandered through the gate, beyond the rosemary hedge, the peppertrees, and along the dirt road. Sandra breathed in the smell of eucalypts carried on the warm night air, tilted her head to gaze at the bright stars.

  ‘Part of me will always love this place,’ Nick murmured. ‘Part of me will be heartbroken to leave. You see, I could always come home. As long as Mum and Dad were here, it was my home too.’

  She heard the immeasurable sadness in his voice, slipped her arm through his. ‘You’ll make a new home, Nick. You’ll build your house, and it will be yours, for as long as you choose.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’

  Sandra knew where to find the guest room, even in the dark hallway. Her suitcase was there, half unpacked, but she hadn’t done more than wash her face since arriving.

  Nick had kissed her goodnight – almost absentmindedly, she thought, as if he’d got lost down some crevasse of despair. She put her head on the pillow, pulled up the sheet, felt a wave of nausea. Too much wine.

  Overwhelmed, tears trickled down each cheek, tears she’d held onto while she listened to Nick’s story: Harry Morgan’s death, Beth, who she’d never see again. Strange to think about it, she was encircled by people who loved music, people for whom music formed part of their lives ... and Nick, alone for weeks, surviving on his memory of better days. She heard the click and rustle of the dog on the veranda. She was going to be sick.

  Leaning over the toilet, her stomach heaved and she vomited. Rinsing her mouth, she spat into the bowl. A long drink of water made her feel better. Her face in the mirror, tired eyes. You’ve been awake too long, she told her reflection.

  Stretched out again in bed, her head was a jumble of thoughts. Emilia hadn’t written – she must’ve known. Nick had left his father at home and come to Sydney – wanting to speak, misunderstanding Billy. Until the last time. She figured it had to be soon after his father killed himself. She did her best to shut away her vision of Harry Morgan as he levelled the rifle, the ghastly wound for Nick to discover.

  Down the hallway, Nick lay in his narrow bed. Along the veranda ... he’d come to her that night in January, through the french doors, to tell her about his mother’s illness. Tonight she wanted to be close to him. Be brave, she told herself, he can only shoo you away.

  Tip-toeing, Sandra gently pushed her doors open-wide, stepped onto the boards, felt the fine veneer of dust on her soles. Nick’s bedroom doors were open and she entered, dimly focussing on the moonlit outlines of furniture: desk, chair, cupboard, bed.

  Very gently, she sat on the bed, then carefully swung her legs up, to lie beside him. No sheet between them, Nick lay bare- skinned on the bed, wearing only boxer shorts.

  Awake, he put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I was thinking about you. I wanted you to come, and here you are.’

  She kissed his lips, felt his sleepy response. ‘I’m smashed. We drank too much.’

  ‘I just threw up,’ Sandra whispered.

  ‘That’s romantic.’ She felt the tremor of his laugh. ‘Stay here, if it’s not too hot?’

  They heard the heavy sound of the dog as she settled by the door. ‘Trix is happy. I’m happy ...’ his voice trailed off, and she knew he’d slipped into a deep sleep.

  Shifting herself gently off Nick’s arm, she nestled against his shoulder. This is what happiness might feel like, she thought – to find contentment in the midst of sorrow.

  And she realized how deeply she cared for Nick ... she loved this man. Not the childish crush of years ago, but built on a quiet friendship with shared conversations over years. There was a part of Nick that continued to love the bush, his horses, and yet there was the side of him that needed the city with all that it offered. This is what she shared with him too.

  Eyes closed, she remembered words she’d told herself, long ago: we will be like two stars circling about each other, drawn together – a double star.

  But again she heard his words: I wish it could be different.

  Very early in the morning when Sandra awoke, she was alone in the bed, a tangle of sheets on the floor. Distant clattering noises came from the kitchen. This wasn’t how the stories went in books and films. Well, what had she expected? She padded along the veranda to the guest room, filled with conflicting thoughts. Perhaps she was imagining it – perhaps his kisses blew away with the dust. Already she wanted to leave, but she would stay for the allotted time, try to be cheerful, and then ...

  Nick put two plates of bacon and eggs on the table. ‘Sleep well? I didn’t want to disturb you too early.’ He buttered a pile of toast. ‘Thanks for listening last night. It was good to talk about it to someone like you.’

  Someone like you ... ‘But you told me you’ve spoken to friends here, people who know your family?’

  ‘Sort of. But it’s not the same. I told you once, you’ve got an understanding that’s deeper. I’ve never been able to talk to the people around here about anything except sheep and wool and my future on Wilga Park. No one supported me to leave. No one except finally, my mother, and no one could figure out her decision either.’

  ‘It seems simple enough to me.’

  A shadow passed across his face. ‘It’s all over now, this is the end play.’

  When Sandra didn’t speak, he said, ‘Eat up, while it’s hot.’

  Breakfast finished, Nick collected the bucket of scraps saying, ‘Come and we’ll feed the chooks. They’ll be all of a flutter, wondering which one gets her head chopped off today.’

  ‘Noo, please don’t do it while I’m here!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make something else for dinner. There’s plenty of ch
ops in the fridge.’

  Chickens clustered expectantly at the gate – brown, white and speckled heads craning, stepping impatiently on each other’s feet – until Nick threw the scraps among them, sparking a frantic scramble. ‘The company’s bought the stud, so they’re welcome to the chooks too, if they want them.’ He topped up the feed and water troughs, toeing a pushy chicken out of the way. ‘Sorry, girls, I can’t take you with me.’

  Sandra emerged from the tin shelter with several eggs. Determined to make the best of it, she announced cheerfully, ‘More eggs for breakfast!’ She watched as Nick opened the gate for the chickens to roam, his face impassive.

  ‘What’s the next job?’ she offered.

  ‘Checking the pumps, but we’ll have a cup of tea first. I already threw a load in the washing machine.’

  Nick filled the kettle while Sandra set out cups, choosing the blue willow pattern. Concerned that he would be caught between the sale and his purchase of a property, she asked, ‘Where will you go when you have to leave?’

  ‘Well, I can’t go back to the college – I’ll have the horses and Trix, all my belongings. Or ...’ he gave a wry smile, ‘what if the vice-chancellor lets me put my horses on the college oval? I could set up a tent, take the chooks with me. What do you think?’

  She pictured the oval scattered with tents and horses like a little circus. ‘That would be fun, with chickens running everywhere. But seriously, Nick, what will you do?’

  ‘If I can’t buy a place, then I’ll rent somewhere. And if I’m lucky enough to find the right property, I’ll get a caravan while I build my house.’

  Nick drank his tea, his gaze far away into the distance.

  ‘Who’ll live here when the sale’s gone through?’ Sandra persisted.

  He shook his head, ‘I don’t want to think about it. The big pastoral companies put a manager on, unless it’s a family business. A family would be nice, people who’d care for Wilga Park like us.’

  He squeezed her shoulder, ‘I’ll work it out, don’t worry about me.’

  Nick carried the laundry basket heavy with work clothes to the clothesline, draping dozens of socks on the wire fence where in the hot sun they’d be dry in an hour. Later, wearing Mrs Morgan’s straw sunhat, Sandra folded everything into the basket.

  With each shirt she unpegged from the line, she continued to wonder at Nick’s manner towards her. Yes, he was caring, considerate, affectionate. She heard that horrid little chorus I wish it could be different. Clenching her teeth, she resolved to get used to being just a friend, try not to care too much, not to be in love ... sleep in the guest room—

  Carrying the basket inside, she met Nick at the kitchen door.

  Oblivious to her mood, ‘Team work!’ he declared, a shine in his eyes. ‘You’re a good worker.’

  A full day cleaning the house, while music blaring from the radiogram filled every room. Concertos, sonatas, symphonies – Nick played them all, and when he’d exhausted every one, he played them again, throwing an occasional Buddy Holly or Delltones into the mix. From the far end of the house, she heard him singing, Get a Little Dirt on Your Hands, and smiled at the insanity – the pleasure of these final hours at Wilga Park; the small emotional ache in her heart that never went away.

  At the veranda door, Nick, leaning on the broad broom: ‘Mum would love it,’ he said. ‘She always played her records quietly, while she read or sewed. She didn’t want to disturb Dad in his office.’

  ‘Your father didn’t like it?’

  ‘No, he liked other stuff. Military bands, for god’s sake. Really, they were a strange couple. I guess my mother got swept up in the romance of this place, the history. It would’ve been an adventure to come here from Melbourne.’

  ‘When we met, you told me how your great-grandmother arrived, with the first piano in the district on a bullock cart.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory. I better be careful what I say.’ His crooked smile again.

  ‘How did your parents meet?’

  ‘Oh, matchmaking friends. Mum came up from Melbourne for a ball. But they loved each other, all the same.’

  The long hallway seemed surprisingly light, the walls bare. Hands on hips, Sandra surveyed the hall, thinking how strange it looked without the old gilt frames, the whiskery faces of Wilga Park’s pioneers. She shoved the vacuum cleaner into the cupboard as Nick came in from endlessly sweeping the veranda.

  ‘You’ve taken down the grandfather paintings—’

  ‘I got tired of their accusing eyes every time I walked past,’ Nick replied. ‘But it was my father who put the place on the market, not me.’

  ‘Will you keep the willow-pattern china on the dresser? Maybe the dresser too?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll keep Mum’s good china and her crystal glasses. And great-grandmother’s silver.’

  ‘What about the furniture, isn’t there anything you want?’

  ‘Not a lot, there isn’t. My desk—’

  ‘Your house plan has a big kitchen, so you’ll need a table.’ He surprised her with a kiss, one-two on each cheek. ‘And yes, before you ask me, I’m keeping the piano.’

  After lunch, when the temperature edged higher, Nick sat at the desk, his house plans spread before him. Intrigued, Sandra watched as he drew a copy, omitting some details, adding others. His hand was firm, setting the outline of a very old ambition.

  She inspected his original drawings: the detailed design with its satisfying proportions and colourful features, the wide protecting eaves, its northern windows. He’d illustrated the courtyard with flagstones, carefully positioned trees.

  ‘You could be an artist, full-time.’ She tapped the drawing with a fingertip. ‘Like the lovely drawing you gave me and the dust storm picture.’

  Nick gave her a quick smile, ‘I used to think about it, then I got interested in designing houses.’

  ‘Do both? Everyone likes a painting of their own home.’

  ‘Full of ideas, aren’t you. Maybe ...’

  The bobbliejinks had withered overnight. Venturing beyond the garden to the paddock, Sandra discovered white paper daisies for the little vase.

  Tonight Nick had drawn the cork on another bottle of his father’s best wine, filled crystal glasses, held a match to the candles. Sliding their plates onto the table, he announced, ‘Grilled chops and three veg, my mother’s favourite.’

  They’d worked till seven and the evening was warm. Trix settled at the open door, her nose on the step, brown eyes on Nick as he reached now and then to fill their glasses, the wine soft and easy. Sandra felt contented to enjoy this mellow evening, perhaps the last time she’d see Nick before their world turned upside-down. He’d spoken confidently about his plans but she still considered it a gamble where he might be end up with no home and nowhere to go.

  Her thoughts drifted to the club, her music for Friday night. She’d play again the songs that brought Nick running after her that winter night, end with Winter’s Day – no matter what, it would always be his song.

  Nick put on another record, topped up their glasses. A mixture of music played: sonatas, Strauss, Beatles, Billy Holiday. The candles melted and dripped, creating patterns on their silver holders.

  Sandra’s eyelids were heavy and her legs ached from working all day. I must’ve walked a hundred miles – sweeping, dusting, packing Beth’s china into boxes. She had no idea how long they’d sat together on the couch, her legs draped across Nick’s stretched out on the footstool, when from far away she heard his voice.

  ‘Play the piano for me? Play Clair de Lune, play my song, anything you like.—’

  ‘It’s so late—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter ... you’re the midnight pianist, right?’

  Waking up in the guest room fully clothed under a sheet, Sandra couldn’t recollect going to bed, vaguely aware that she hadn’t played the piano.

  Swathed in Mrs Morgan’s dressing gown, she went out to the veranda. Morning sky reflected pale pink, a glow of sun beyond
the rim; then as she watched, up rose the giant fiery sphere like she’d never seen before. Never been so far west.

  Nick handed her a mug of tea. ‘G’day, sleepy-head.’

  ‘Thanks for putting me to bed.’ Sandra sipped her tea, amused at the thought of a tipsy Nick carrying her through the darkened house, tucking her into bed.

  He let down a blind to cut the glare, and they sat in cane chairs sipping tea while the day developed: a brief chorus of birdsong, fading to silence. Trix lay down with a lazy thump, stretched out, nose on her paws, eyes steadfastly on Nick.

  ‘It’s going to be very hot today. Not a good sign for summer,’ Nick poured more tea, then leaned back in the chair, cradling his mug.

  ‘This is my plan, so far. Despite the drought, it’s a good price for Wilga Park, enough to care for Mum and buy me a few acres. Big enough for some horses, somewhere between the mountains and the sea. I’ll build my house, and then I’ll see.’

  ‘The plan you showed me?’

  ‘Teenage dreams ... but I know what I want. And I’ll switch from architecture. I don’t want to build skyscrapers and houses for millionaires, I just want to build homes – comfortable, beautiful homes, and I don’t need a six year degree to do it. My father and I built the stockman’s cottage when I was only seventeen.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Sandra said, watching the sun rise, streaking the horizon with colours. She looked at him, trying to see behind his expression. He was relaxed this morning, his shoulders loose, his mouth without the tightness he’d worn last night.

  She wanted to believe it was because she was here. Like magic, one moment she was playing piano in the club, the next, sitting on a veranda watching the sun come up, watching Nick ...

  Reckless, she reached across to him, touched his shoulder, touched his lean, strong forearm where it rested on the chair, the fine hairs; ran a finger along the veins on his hand. Who cares, she thought, I love him and I can’t help it. It was hard not to cry.