Song for Emilia Page 4

  ‘A few days away might help you decide. Talk to Mum and me about it.’

  Don started the car and they drove up the hill to the township, and on to the highway. ‘Next stop Blayney. Do you think we can find our favourite café again?

  ‘You know,’ he said, the lines around his mouth framing a smile. ‘I feel better already. Your mother was right, I needed a holiday!’

  A lowering sun dazzled on the windscreen as they began the last long miles of their journey. Wallaby grass grew by the roadside, eucalypts and casuarinas. Drought was creeping across the countryside, and beyond the boundary fences, paddocks were brown with winter grass; here and there the dark shapes of cattle. Soon they would be in sheep country. Soon they would arrive at Curradeen.

  Don parked at the gate to Ferrari’s Farm as Emilia came running out the door, curls bouncing.

  Squeezing Sandra tightly, she cried, ‘Sandy! I’m so happy you’re here, I could burst.’

  Mrs Ferrari gathered Sandra into her arms, exclaiming, ‘Ooh, look at you, bella, bella ragazza, all grown up, such a long time since you visit.’ She kissed her on each cheek. ‘I miss my girl, too, now she is so clever to study in Melbourne.’

  Don shook his head at the offer of a cup of tea, and as they waved goodbye, Emilia took Sandra by the arm. ‘Come and say hello to Nonna. She’s been waiting to see you, and she’s cooked a real nice dinner especially.’

  Emilia’s grandmother sat in her usual chair in the kitchen, exactly as Sandra remembered her: the same black scarf covered her hair, the familiar long skirt. She put down her knitting with a happy sigh. ‘Benvenuta, mia cara.’ Eyes shining, she clasped Sandra to her, adding many more indecipherable words to her greeting.

  ‘She says, Welcome, dear,’ Emilia translated. ‘Plus some words I couldn’t understand, she’s very glad you’re here.’

  ‘Tell her I still wear the scarf she knitted for my birthday.’

  After a voluble translation to her grandmother, Emilia said, ‘Now you’ve got to come and see my bedroom. It’s always real messy, but I fixed it up for you.’

  The bedroom wasn’t as crowded as when Sandra last stayed, and an extra bed easily fitted in. Emilia had tidied away ornaments that previously overflowed from every available space – china animals, toys, comics and holy pictures; bangles and beads. Sandra picked up a framed photo of them both in their school uniforms. ‘That was in second year,’ she said. ‘I was so skinny.’

  Emilia sat on the bed, brushing her long, thick gloss of black curls. ‘Sit next to me and I’ll brush yours, too,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, and we’re going to have so much fun just like we used to do.’

  Sandra sat beside her, yielding to the gentle brush. ‘Your hair’s real pretty,’ Emilia said. ‘Do you remember my visit to you after the Intermediate, and all those icecreams your auntie bought us? I came home so fat.’

  ‘We ate so many pastries,’ Sandra said. ‘But now Aunt Meredith’s going with Mister L’estrange, I don’t do things like that any more.’

  As if reading her mind, Emilia asked, ‘Do you still like him?’

  ‘You know I don’t. That was just dopey. A stupid crush.’

  ‘Ooh, but you were mad about him. He’s very attractive, like a gypsy. I’d have gone for him too.’ Emilia hugged herself. ‘I would’ve eaten him all up.’

  Looking at Emilia curled on the bed – her rosy lips, her round white knees – Sandra didn’t doubt it. As for herself, her bedroom mirror informed Sandra that she looked quite pretty, but she felt sure her face was never going to launch a thousand ships, and although she’d grown, she still felt a squib beside other girls.

  ‘So it’s all about Nick now?’ Emilia persisted.

  What could she say? When she phoned Nick to say they’d arrived in town, he’d immediately invited Sandra to visit, and her father would drive her out to Wilga Park in a day or two. Late in the afternoon, Nick would take her back to the Ferrari’s. Maybe then, she’d finally discover how Nick felt about her. If not, she might as well forget him.

  Emilia continued to tell her stories: ‘I told you Lofty’s in Melbourne—’ When Sandra didn’t immediately answer, waiting for more, she said: ‘He’s nice, now that he’s older.’

  ‘He was so annoying the way he followed us around at school, making silly faces.’

  ‘Because he liked you,’ Emilia giggled. ‘But after you left town, he used to walk me home from school, and he’s taller now.’

  ‘Lofty will always be Lofty, even when he wanted to get called Warwick.’ Sandra said, tired of hearing about Lofty. ‘What about Roger, who worked on your father’s vegetable garden?’

  ‘Roger joined the army.’ Emilia gave a snort of laughter. ‘It was funny how he kissed me when I wasn’t looking—’

  ‘How can anyone kiss you when you’re not looking?’ That was too silly to contemplate, and they collapsed in a fit of giggles.

  Emilia borrowed a bicycle for Sandra, and they cycled in all the old, familiar directions: the pioneer cemetery where they wandered among the weather-worn gravestones, and to the creek a few miles out of town, but dry weather had sucked up all the water and only stones remained beneath drooping trees.

  ‘Miss Brooks might be home,’ Sandra puffed, as they pedalled back to town on the dirt road. ‘I know last time her house looked like she’d gone for good, but can we see?’

  On her last visit, Sandra had discovered her unopened letter lay eaten by snails in the letterbox, and only weeds choking the garden. Her old music teacher was such a treasure, and Sandra had been deeply disappointed not to be able to talk about her new teacher, perhaps even to play a new piece for her.

  They cycled along the road leading to the row of weatherboard cottages. The front door was open, letting in morning sunshine. Poppies flowered scarlet, pink and yellow along the path to the veranda. Miss Brooks was at home!

  ‘Dear lass,’ Miss Brooks spoke in her soft northern English accent as she embraced Sandra. ‘I said I’d never go back because all my family there were dead, but you know, that’s just what I did – one last visit to my old home.’

  Sandra and Emilia followed her along the hallway, past the music room where she’d taught Sandra for five years, and into the kitchen. Miss Brooks put on the jug to boil, setting out fine china tea cups patterned with roses and violets.

  ‘Now you must tell me what you’ve been up to,’ she said.

  As they sipped their tea, Sandra told her about the pieces she’d studied. ‘I didn’t like my new teacher at first, he was so rude,’ she said. ‘I kept thinking of you, and wishing you could still teach me.’

  ‘I got lots of letters grumbling about him,’ Emilia joined in.

  Miss Brooks tut-tutted. ‘You’re a lovely pianist, Sandra, any teacher would have recognized that.’

  ‘He was so different with his long hair and he’s got an earring – it gave Mum a shock – but he’s such a good teacher, now she likes him too. And he encourages me to write my own compositions.’

  As Sandra rambled on with interruptions from Emilia, Miss Brooks nodded, making a remark now and then: ‘I see,’ or sometimes, ‘Well, well, well.’

  Finally, she said, ‘You must play for me, Sandra. Why not Clair de Lune,’ like you played at our concert? I’d love to hear that again. I’ll find my music—’

  ‘I don’t need the score,’ Sandra said. ‘Since you taught it to me, I practised and practised.’ Settling herself at the familiar piano, Sandra played the quiet opening bars ... the brilliant arpeggios unfurling as her fingers flickered up and down the keyboard, to end with an echo of the first pianissimo notes, then the final, wonderful chord.

  ‘I remember that tune,’ Emilia cried, breaking the spell.

  ‘Better than ever,’ Miss Brooks said. ‘Now, dear lass, I must tell you something.

  At Miss Brooks’ request, Sandra poured more tea, emptying the pot. Her music teacher smiled, but there was sadness in her face. To Sandra, Miss Brooks had alwa
ys been old, but today she noticed the deeper lines, and on her neck, veins showed blue beneath her papery skin, as if she was slowly becoming transparent.

  ‘I’m going quite deaf.’ Miss Brooks gave a little sigh. ‘First it was just my left ear, but now I have great trouble hearing people speak, and I’ve lost all the top notes in my music.’

  Sandra didn’t know what to say. Miss Brooks, deaf? Her life had been immersed in music, and now, to lose all that, bit by bit? So she couldn’t have properly heard Clair de Lune. Near tears, her throat ached, and she impulsively reached for Miss Brooks’ hand, felt the strong, bony fingers return her warmth.

  ‘Could you hear anything of what we said?’ Emilia asked.

  ‘A little, my dear,’ Miss Brooks answered. ‘It’s better when only one person talks, but you two, so excited ...’ her voice trailed off. ‘I’m very glad to see you, Sandra, and to know that although you may not want to be the concert pianist you always aspired to being, you are composing your beautiful songs. Play one of those for me now, lass, and Emilia and I will sit quietly and listen.’

  ♫

  Wilga Park... Gosh, Sandra could scarcely believe it as they drove towards the homestead, settled in its garden behind the line of peppertrees. Her hands were sweaty, and she felt a trickle of nervous perspiration under each arm. It’s weeks since you’ve seen Nick, she told herself – crazy to worry about what he thinks or what he feels ...

  Don glanced at her with a wink as he turned the wheel and the tyres crunched on the driveway. He turned off the ignition. ‘Here we are. And there’s Nick, waiting for us.’

  Nick stood on the veranda, shading his eyes against the morning sun. Sandra glimpsed sun-browned face, tousled hair, the sweater and moleskins, then he’d swung down the steps, full of smiles.

  ‘You made it! Good to see you both.’

  Greeting them with a swift shake of her father’s hand, Nick dropped a kiss on Sandra’s forehead, sending a tiny shock-wave down her spine. She wanted to stare and stare, fall into those grey-green eyes, soak him up. She smiled back at him then tore her gaze away.

  He surprised her with a quick hug. ‘It’s a great day for a ride, and we’ve got the perfect horse for you.’

  Don looked around the garden, appraising the dry conditions. ‘Looks like you could do with a drop of rain?’

  ‘It’s dried off all right. Farmers need a good fall for the winter wheat.’ Nick’s glance swept across the garden, the yellow grass. ‘An early frost’s burned it off.’ He led the way to the veranda steps. ‘Come on in, Mum’s got the kettle on already, I’ll bet.’

  Mrs Morgan came hurrying out the front door, dusting her hands together. ‘I’ve made scones,’ she said. ‘You’ll stay for a cuppa, Don, won’t you?’

  Nick lifted the stock saddle onto Paddy, the sturdy bay horse he’d brought in for Sandra to ride.

  ‘Paddy’s too fat,’ he remarked, tightening the girth with difficulty, dodging the horse’s playful attempt to knock off his hat. ‘He was my first horse. Now he’s about twenty-five, and he hasn’t done any real work for years, lazy old boy.’

  Nick had retrieved Toffee from his friend’s farm, and together they would ride out across the home paddocks. ‘Maybe we’ll go as far as one of the creeks on our place,’ Nick said. ‘Okay with you?’

  Sandra could only nod in agreement, with no idea how a few hours in the saddle would feel, as she’d never ridden a horse before. Hair tied in a bunch on her neck, she wore her jeans, boots, and a sloppy joe, and Nick had found her a felt hat.

  ‘You’ll be plenty warm enough,’ he said. ‘This time of year, it’s the nights that are cold.’ He held Paddy’s bridle, as with her foot in the stirrup, Sandra hauled herself into the saddle. ‘Put some weight in the stirrups,’ Nick said, adjusting the lengths, ‘and don’t be nervous. I’ll put Paddy on a lead rein till you get used to the saddle.’

  They ambled through the home paddocks, on through another gate, leaving behind a chorus of barks from the two working dogs, resigned to their chains today. Paddy was indeed fat, but comfortable to ride – rather like an armchair, she thought – the horse big and solid beneath her.

  Trailing behind Toffee with no need to direct the old horse, she could observe Nick, liking the easy way he sat in the saddle, brown curls overlapping the collar of his rough wool coat, the battered felt hat; his hands firm on the reins keeping Toffee at a gentle pace. Now and then he turned to see how she was getting on.

  ‘Toffee’s foal just turned three,’ he said, letting Paddy come alongside. ‘Honey’s grown into a beauty, with a nice temperament like her mother. I’ll probably sell her – I’m not often here, so there’s no point having another horse.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad, selling her.’ She remembered on her last visit to Curradeen how she’d unexpectedly run into Nick and his mother in the main street, and his story of the new foal – as yet without a name.

  ‘Maybe you can think of one?’ Nick had suggested.

  It had burst past her lips, unbidden, miraculously: ‘Honey! ’ she’d cried.

  And Nick had given a thumbs up, saying, ‘Perfect for a sweet little foal.’

  ‘Will I get to see her?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll see how time goes,’ Nick answered, but Sandra guessed that this probably meant No.

  Dismounting to open another gate, Nick followed a meandering path across a paddock where numerous sheep grazed, fussily nibbling at the short grass. Beyond, rolling acres of saltbush merged with the blue of the sky.

  ‘These are some of Dad’s best ewes,’ he explained. ‘They’ll drop their lambs in a few weeks, so I hope we get a decent fall of rain soon.’

  He unclipped the lead rein, saying, ‘See how you go on your own. Don’t worry, Paddy won’t take off, he’s too lazy, and he’ll stick by Toffee.’

  Holding the reins the way Nick had showed her, they rode towards a line of trees and presently came to a creek. Nick pulled up his horse in the shade of the casuarinas and swiftly slipped down from the saddle. Sandra swung her right leg over Paddy’s rump, but it seemed a long way down and she hesitated to jump.

  To her surprise, Nick put his hands around her waist and easily lifted her to the ground. Just like in a film, Sandra thought, except in a film, that’s when the boy kisses the girl ...

  ‘Your legs might like a rest,’ Nick said, securing the horses.

  In fact, her legs felt like jelly, and where her jeans had bunched up by the stirrup leathers, little blisters rubbed raw.

  ‘Are there any snakes?’ she asked, peering about suspiciously.

  ‘Not this time of year. There’s mostly black ones around here, the odd brown.’

  Sandra was pleased to hear it, not sure how she would react if she startled a snake.

  Nick tossed her an apple from his saddle bag, and they sat on a fallen branch angled toward the creek. Several wood swallows dipped and soared above them. Near some scattered shade trees, two grey kangaroos raised their heads to stare inquisitively, ears twitching. Sandra took off her boots so she could stretch her cramped toes, first adjusting her jeans so that he wouldn’t see the sore on each calf.

  Nick nodded towards the kangaroos. ‘The last of the tribe,’ he said. ‘Most of the ’roos have moved on although some still hang around the water troughs.’ He munched his apple, while the kangaroos resumed their rest. ‘How are you getting on with Paddy?’

  ‘I love it. My first ride, and all I ever wanted growing up was to have a horse.’

  ‘Well, Paddy is most honoured.’ Nick chucked his apple core, watched it bounce across the gully. ‘I’ve never seen the creek so low. It’s a bad sign.’

  ‘What will your father do if it doesn’t rain?’

  ‘Move some sheep off the property to better grazing. Apart from his breeders, he’ll sell any surplus before the market falls.’

  ‘Lambs, too?’

  ‘Some. He might have to make a few tough decisions.’

  This was a dismal conversation and
she couldn’t contribute. Nick hadn’t said anything about university and she was dying to ask. She watched as he lit a cigarette. ‘How’s uni going?’ she tried.

  ‘Uni’s great.’ He turned to smile at her. ‘I’m so lucky to be there.’

  ‘What’s the best part, do you think?’

  ‘Probably drawing and modelling, and we study the relationships of people to their environments ... right up my alley for designing homes.’

  ‘I remember you told me that in the kitchen at Wilga Park.’

  ‘Really? You funny thing. What a good memory.’

  Sandra held back a giggle. ‘What else do you like?’

  ‘Oh, the history and philosophy of architecture, getting ideas across, team work. But drawing is my favourite. And I knew I’d like Lloyd Rees’ lectures – he’s Dean of the Faculty now.’

  It all sounded very grand to Sandra. Nick was quietly achieving his ambition, but there was a shadow in his face when he finished speaking.

  ‘It’s all good,’ he went on, gazing into the distance as he drew on the smoke. ‘It’s what I always wanted, but I know Dad’s feeling it. It’s not just the place, his stud merinos... you know I’m the only son, and I feel the weight of it, the obligations.’

  ‘To take over Wilga Park?’

  ‘Be a partner with him to run the place and eventually take over. Part of me wants that too, and part of me runs like hell away from it.’

  She pictured Nick as she’d first met him, dressed in polo shirt and moleskins, the white helmet, at ease with Toffee. ‘Do you miss polocrosse too?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. My team mates, and old Angus. No one in Sydney knows what I’m talking about – it’s all rugby. I couldn’t play football even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Your bad back—’

  ‘Yeah, I still have to be careful.’ He grinned. ‘Good thing I can ride okay.’

  Rummaging in her brain for something else to say, impulsively she asked, ‘When’s your birthday?’

  ‘Me?’ Nick laughed with surprise. ‘August the twentieth.’