Song for Emilia Read online

  ‘That’s a coincidence, mine’s the twentieth of April.’ Already she imagined the rack of birthday cards, the fun of choosing one.

  Nick stubbed his cigarette on the log. ‘Easy to remember the date,’ he said. ‘Come on, we’d better get going. It’ll take a good hour to ride home.’

  Home, Sandra thought – home to Wilga Park. And at last she’d found out the date of Nick’s birthday. It felt so magical. Indeed, the entire day was magical. Here she was, riding on horseback with Nick, not unlike her dreams where they’d ridden their ponies along mountain trails, chasing the elusive brumbies. Poking quietly along, Nick beside her on Toffee, occasionally bumping legs. She wanted to feel his hands around her waist again. His grey-green eyes ...Winter’s Day sang in her mind, riding through winter grass – not the staccato of horses’ hooves but rather a quiet rustle as the horses made their way across the home paddocks, and finally to the last gate.

  Again, Nick reached up to her as preparing to dismount, Sandra kicked her foot from the stirrup, swinging her leg – rather expertly, she thought – across Paddy’s fat rump. Did he leave his hands there a trifle longer than necessary? Was she imagining that he stood a little closer than necessary?

  ‘Yoohoo,’ Mrs Morgan called, banging out from the back door of the kitchen. ‘Oh, my old hat, it suits you. Did you like riding Paddy, dear? I remember my first ride I couldn’t sit down for a week. Nick looked after you though, didn’t you Nick? Not like your father who had me on the horse all day long.’

  ‘It was lovely. Paddy’s a dear old horse, and I wasn’t scared for even a second.’

  ‘Sandra did really well.’ Nick rested their saddles on the pole fence. ‘She’s a natural.’

  He handed her a brush and together they gave both horses a rub down then let them go in a yard with an armful of hay. Sandra ran her hand down Paddy’s neck, patting his thick winter coat to say goodbye.

  ‘Not much water in the creek,’ Nick remarked to his mother. ‘Dad will have to keep an eye on it from now on. The creek, and the windmill in the top paddock.’

  ‘Your father’s been through more than one dry spell,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘All the same, he misses you, Nick.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’ He put the brushes and bridles with the saddles. ‘He reminds me every morning we take the truck out to feed the ewes.’

  ‘He’s proud of you, all the same,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘Now, come inside and have your lunch. We’ve already eaten.’

  In the late afternoon, everyone gathered on the northern veranda, screened against summer mosquitoes. A hedge of rosemary bushes grew along the garden fence, and beyond, a line of peppertrees.

  ‘Nick tells me you gave him a song you’ve written?’ Mrs Morgan left the question suspended. ‘Are you going to play it for us?’

  ‘Today?’ Sandra asked, unexpectedly nervous.

  Harry Morgan emerged from his office, and putting his empty mug on the veranda table, he said, ‘By jove, a song. We’d better hear that.’

  ‘I might get back to the Ferrari’s a bit too late—’

  ‘Nick was going to run you in, but why not stay the night with us?’ Mrs Morgan offered.

  ‘Golly...’ Sandra said, confused and surprised at the invitation. She badly wanted to accept, but what about Emilia? They’d be expecting her – dinner would be ready soon, Nonna busy in the kitchen ...

  ‘I’ll phone Mrs Ferrari,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘We know each other very well these days – we buy all our vegetables from their shop, and very good they are too. I’m sure she’ll understand. And you can phone your father to tell him you’re here with us.’

  It was too good to refuse. ‘Thank you, I’d like to stay,’ Sandra said, mentally reeling. Like to stay ... I’d LOVE to stay.

  ‘The telephone’s in the study,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘Turn the handle several times to ring the exchange, and when you give the number you’ll be connected.’

  Nothing had changed in the homestead. Her feet cushioned by the thick carpet, Sandra followed Mrs Morgan along the lamp-lit hallway, past the whiskery grandfather portraits in their gilded frames, past several bedroom doors.

  ‘Here’s the guest room. The bed’s all made up and you’ll find extra blankets in the cupboard if you’re cold. Your own bathroom is the next door along, and we always have extra toothbrushes for unexpected guests.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s beautiful.’

  After Mrs Morgan had gone, Sandra carefully inspected the room. A watercolour painting hung above the double bed, and the wardrobe and dressing table gleamed with polish. She quietly slid open a drawer: empty, neatly lined with flowered paper. A cheval mirror stood in a corner, angled towards the room. Sitting on the high bed, she bounced gently. A fat eiderdown lay folded on the end. This was a very comfy bed. Yes, she would sleep very well in this bed.

  French doors opened to the veranda and through the glass she saw Nick and his father by the garden gate. Mr Morgan looked very serious and so did Nick. She remembered the blazing row she’d overheard when her family first visited Wilga Park. Harry Morgan had thundered to Nick about inheriting the property, and Nick steadfastly refused.

  Pulling across the curtains, she left the doors open a crack. Tonight she would sleep beneath the eiderdown in the big warm bed, feel the breath of the bush on her face, all the scents of the night.

  She inspected the bathroom, rinsed her face in the basin, combing tangles from her hair. Wish I had a dress to wear, she thought. Packed in the bottom of her bag with her navy slacks was another sweater, lighter wool in case it wasn’t so cold, and thankfully she pulled it on, pleased with the effect of aqua angora against her fair skin.

  A knock on the door, and Mrs Morgan said, ‘This is one of mine,’ holding out a long white nightgown. ‘It might be rather large for you, but you’ll be cosy.’ She laid the nightgown on the pillow. ‘It’s lovely to have you here, dear. Another girl in the house! And when you’re ready, we’d like to hear your recital.’

  As if it’s a program, Sandra thought, finding her way to the lounge room. Nick and Harry each sat in an armchair by a quiet fire, apparently done with talking.

  ‘Enough to take the chill off the air,’ Mr Morgan said, shifting the logs with a poker. ‘Old sandalwood makes a good fire.’ He poured another beer for himself and Nick, a shandy for Mrs Morgan, and lemonade for Sandra. She hesitated to say she was eighteen and old enough ...

  ‘Are you ready to entertain us?’ Nick beckoned, and she followed him to the study, to the tall upright piano she remembered so well. At the long-ago party, the guests had insisted she play, and she was so nervous it was almost impossible.

  Not now though. No longer that shy fourteen-year old girl, she felt a new confidence here in the company of people who had already heard her play at the Curradeen concert. She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, saw that Nick’s parents were seated together on the couch, faces expectant.

  Nick stayed by the piano as she began Clair de Lune. Reflections in the rosewood panels: her face and Nick’s... she felt the rhythmic tap of his fingers on the stool ... andante tres expressif. So many times he’d stood beside her like this, so many times she’d seen him reflected in her piano at home, turning the pages ... echo of her dreams. Until Mister L’estrange. Biting her lip, she fumbled the final bars, corrected, tried to end with a flourish.

  ‘Gosh I’m sorry, I made a mess of it,’ she said, cross with herself. It had been perfect for Miss Brooks.

  ‘It’s a very difficult piece,’ Mrs Morgan consoled her. ‘I never could play it properly, try as I might. Well now, what about Nick’s song?’

  ‘It’s called Winter’s Day.’ Sandra focussed straight ahead, determined not to look at Nick. Concentrate, she told herself – her own composition played a million times both in her head and on the piano ...

  Breathing a count of three and lifting her wrists to begin, she pictured their ride that morning: andante con brio as they ambled towards the creek on a blue-sky day, then a change in be
at allegretto for the staccato stamp of horses’ hooves on frosty ground. It was working – the room was charged with silence. The melody progressed until finally she played the cadence ... largo, for the peace of evening, the way she saw shadows lengthening across the paddocks as they sat in their veranda chairs that afternoon.

  No one spoke as Sandra finished her piece. Wondering at the silence, she turned to the Morgans. Nick’s mother was wiping a tear from her cheek. Harry Morgan sat, motionless.

  Nick put his hand on her shoulder. ‘That’s the best thing,’ he said, ‘that anyone ever gave me.’

  As she looked up at him to see his face, Nick leaned down to kiss her, once more lightly touching his lips to her forehead.

  ‘My dear Sandra,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘How do you find such a beautiful song in your own dear little head? I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘By jove,’ Mr Morgan said, collecting himself. ‘That was top class. I liked it better than the first one. Now, play it once more, please, before we have dinner. I think we’ll open a special bottle of wine, Beth, what do you say? Celebrate a new talent?’

  Mrs Morgan set the dining table with a cloth and silver; two candles burned in the centre, with a bowl of pink winter roses; a water jug and glasses. Everything was neat and correct, like Mrs Morgan herself, in her straight wool skirt and blouse, her pearl necklace and rings.

  ‘I’ve cooked a roast,’ she said. ‘Nick says he misses my roast dinners, so here we are.’

  Mr Morgan stood to carve, waving the knife: ‘You’ll never see a leg this size in your city butchers. Saltbush-fed, two-year old wether. Best meat in the world.’

  ‘Harry’s right,’ Mrs Morgan said, ‘and you’d pay a fortune, if you could find it.’

  Nick raised his glass of wine, giving Sandra a wink. ‘I’m going to propose a toast,’ he said. ‘To Sandra: Australia’s most promising young composer.’

  Three glasses were raised and Sandra felt a flush deepen, beginning at her chest and warming all the way to her hairline. The wine was a ruby in her glass – no question of her age now – and she took up her glass to join in. This visit was turning into the most marvellous occasion.

  After dinner, they gathered in the lounge room and Mr Morgan turned on the TV to watch the news.

  ‘Regular as clockwork,’ Nick said. ‘Dad will never do without knowing what’s happening in the world. And naturally, the weather report is sacred.’

  Harry Morgan stretched out his legs, lit a cigarette and passed the pack to Nick. Covertly, Sandra cast a glance around the room. On the sideboard stood several family photos framed in silver: a new photo of Nick in the centre of the group, his arm around the neck of his horse. A lamp in the corner of the room illuminated Beth Morgan’s contented face; and Harry, strong and confident – a cravat tucked into his shirt collar, a tweedy jacket. Sandra smiled to herself: Lord of the manor.

  ‘This year seems to be getting worse and worse,’ Mr Morgan declared when the news finished. ‘I don’t like how Australia’s quietly getting involved in Vietnam.’ He prodded vigorously at the fire. ‘Now President Kennedy’s dead and gone, we’ve got this Johnson cove. Who knows what’ll happen.’

  Sandra remained silent. She hadn’t read the papers, except about the Beatles concert in Sydney. Her family didn’t mention Vietnam, unless something came on TV.

  ‘Did you know,’ Mr Morgan growled, ‘our government might bring back conscription for twenty-year old boys? Two years in the army, then three in the Reserves. They say it’ll be like a lottery with dates on a wooden marble to pull out of a barrel. What next, I ask you!’

  Nick lit another cigarette, drew on it and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m too old, and I couldn’t go anyway.’

  ‘You’d be exempt with your bad back,’ his mother said, adding, ‘and your university studies.’

  ‘No, I don’t like it one bit,’ Mr Morgan went on, as if no one had spoken. ‘Menzies was too quick off the mark back in 1950, sending our troops to Korea. This is Eisenhower and his domino theory.’

  Sandra wanted to say, ‘I asked my father about the Korean War and how it started, because no one ever talked about it, even at school,’ but she thought it better to keep quiet.

  ‘I think it sounds very logical,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘The communists might take over one Asian country after another, just like dominos.’

  ‘It’s enough we sent advisers to Vietnam in ’62.’ Fingering his moustache, Mr Morgan stood a moment by the fire. ‘Well, I’m going to check some accounts in the office.’ A smile flitted across his serious face. ‘Thank you, young lady, for bringing some sunshine into our abode. That was an excellent performance.’

  Sandra felt heady as she made her way to the guest room. Two glasses of wine, not even full ones. She found her bed covers already turned down and a posy of flowers on the dressing table.

  Mrs Morgan is very sweet, she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair. In the bedroom, before slipping the nightgown over her head, she caught sight of herself in the long mirror. Meredith had once called her lissome. She’d liked the sound of the word, rolled it on her tongue, looked it up in the dictionary to be sure. She ran her hands down her body, satisfied with her smooth skin, one tiny mole on her stomach. Definite hips. What would it feel like to run your hands over someone else’s skin ... Nick’s skin? What if Nick was to touch her? Putting her hands under her breasts, she pushed an uplift that made her smile. Almost a cleavage!

  The nightdress was not so much too long, but wonderfully wide, made of brushed cotton, with embroidered flowers around the neck. She climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Sleep didn’t come immediately and she revisited the day’s events, starting with Paddy and Nick, his hands around her waist as he lifted her from the saddle. The way they’d sat companionably on the fallen log by the creek ...Winter’s Day at the piano. Lean. Handsome. His kiss on her forehead – that spot between her eyebrows that Prue said was called ‘the third eye’.

  The french doors bumped gently, swinging open in a sudden gust and she got up to close them. She needed a drink of water. No glass in her bathroom ... maybe the kitchen ... but the kitchen was detached from the house: down the hall and across a covered walkway. Maybe Mrs Morgan had left the jug in the dining room?

  Softly, gathering the folds of the nightdress close about her, Sandra crept from the bedroom. A night-light glimmered in the hallway, showing her the way. Very quietly she went through the dining room to find ... yes, the water jug was still there. In the darkness of the room, she could see the embers of the fire glowing – she would sit in an armchair with her glass, before going back to bed.

  ‘Ssst,’ came a whisper, causing Sandra to almost yelp in fright.

  ‘It’s only me.’ In his pyjamas, Nick reclined in an armchair, a glass of wine in his hand. ‘You couldn’t sleep either?’

  Sandra sat in the opposite chair, stretching to put her feet on the brass fender. ‘I got thirsty. Your kitchen’s miles away.’

  ‘In case it catches fire. Old houses in the bush were always built like that.’

  For a while they didn’t speak. Nick stirred the fire, wedged a log into it, watched it begin to smoulder, small yellow flames darting. In the dimness, she saw Nick’s gaze flit from the top of her head, along the white length of her body, down to her feet.

  Her toes felt cold and she curled her feet into the hem of Mrs Morgan’s nightdress. ‘Today was lovely,’ she whispered. ‘I had such fun. Your parents are very kind, inviting me to stay.’

  ‘My idea,’ Nick said, adding, ‘We don’t have to whisper, my parents’ bedroom is at the other end of the house.’

  So it had been Nick’s idea to ask her to stay? Curiouser and curiouser.

  ‘I knew we wouldn’t get around to the piano till late – it was the only way to hear you play,’ he said, spoiling Sandra’s image.

  The log hadn’t caught fire after all, and Sandra felt the chill begin to creep around her. ‘I better go back t
o bed.’ She stood carefully, keeping the nightdress wrapped snugly, aware that she wore nothing underneath it.

  ‘Mum’s nightie,’ Nick said. ‘You could be a Victorian lady, you just need some flowers in your hair.’

  They stood by the dying fire, and Nick put his arms around her shoulders. ‘Don’t get cold.’

  Conscious of his breath in her hair, his warmth, her heart lurched, waiting for the kiss on her forehead.

  Nick touched his lips to hers ... touched again, as if to guess her feelings with a kiss. The wine, tonight’s music, scent of his skin, the soft fullness of his lips ... shape of his body against hers through nightie and pyjamas – the strength almost went from her legs.

  ‘Good night, my pretty piano player,’ he said into her hair. ‘See you in the morning. I have to get up early to help with the feed.’

  As Sandra lay in her big bed, the curtain drawn aside so she could see across the moonlit garden, she pressed a finger to her lips. My first kiss, she reflected. An unbelievable kiss. Wanted it again, because somehow, something had been missing.

  A gentle tap on her door as Mrs Morgan, wrapped in a woolly dressing gown, came in bearing a tray. Sandra pushed back the eiderdown, saw it was past seven-thirty and she’d slept in.

  ‘Good morning, dear, I’ve brought you a cup of tea. It’s a frosty morning.’ Mrs Morgan set the tray beside her. ‘Nick and Harry left very early. He’s worried about his prize ewes. They’ll be back later, but I’ll take you into town. We don’t want Emilia to be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  Mrs Morgan bustled out the door, and Sandra sat up to drink her tea, cross with herself for not waking earlier. How was it possible that Nick could go off like that? No goodbye. No, ‘I’ll see you in Sydney.’

  Confusing thoughts assaulted her on the drive to town, Mrs Morgan chatting beside her.

  Nothing but an empty kiss last night. So what was it all about?

  Sandra found Emilia under a blanket on her bed. Emilia wasn’t happy. Throwing back the blanket, she said accusingly, ‘Mamma had dinner all ready and you didn’t ring up till five o’clock.’