Song for Emilia Read online

  ‘I’ve done it all. An English essay, some maths theorems. I finished quickly, because—’

  The opening for the cello still wasn’t right. Maybe she should leave it for a while, go out. What mad idea was Prue planning ... relenting, she asked, ‘Okay, what do you want to do?’

  Prue’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Guess what I really really want to do?’

  ‘Stupid, how can I possibly guess?’

  ‘Climb on the Mermaid Rock, that’s what!’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Those uni students did it when they stole a mermaid—’

  ‘Mum and Dad would have a fit if they found out. You’d lose your pocket money.’

  Prue’s face took on a sly look. ‘They won’t know, will they?’

  Sandra felt a little thrill of excitement. Once they’d gone halfway out to the Mermaid Rock at North Bondi, walked across the first flat rocks beyond the ocean pool, carefully jumping across the gaps, mindful of splashing waves. She’d wondered what it would be like to reach the big rock, put her hands on its rough texture, gaze up at the mermaids, even climb up there somehow.

  During Emilia’s visit, the high tide made it impossible to get anywhere near, but why not try again? That would be something to write to Nick about. Then she remembered Emilia’s letter and gritted her teeth. Maybe she needed the mermaids to finally destroy all memory of Emilia’s words.

  ‘I’ll look up the newspaper to see when it’s low tide, when we know it’ll be safe,’ Prue said.

  Sandra heard the querulous edge in her sister’s voice. Maybe Prue was also a little afraid. They’d seen how the waves crashed over the rock, cutting off access on a rising tide.

  ‘Okay, tell me what day. But I’m not promising.’ Already she’d decided to go – escape the crowd of ugly thoughts that suddenly besieged her. Emilia’s letter. Nick’s silence.

  At least she’d finished the Song for Emilia – what did it matter if it didn’t exactly fit the situation now. She picked up her pen, ruled another page of staves, beckoning the cello to enter her composition.

  Grey clouds were blowing across the wintry afternoon sun as they stepped off the bus near Bondi Esplanade. Prue’s copy of the newspaper figures stated the tide would be low enough for them to reach the huge rock. Far off the beach, two surfers bobbed in the swell, waiting for their last waves before returning home.

  ‘We’ll have to hurry,’ Prue said, without waiting to see if Sandra was running along the beach too. Leaping across the easiest rocks, in no time they reached the small concrete bridge which spanned a narrow channel carved into the rock, linking the sea with the ocean pool. The tide seemed low, as Prue’s numbers promised.

  However, Sandra saw that the way to the mermaids wasn’t as flat as it appeared from the beach. First there were large rocks they had to skirt or climb over, cracks and gutters to jump across, with foamy water overflowing numerous crevices across the platform. Far off, a wave crashed on the Mermaid Rock, sending streamers of water cascading over it like a waterfall. The seventh wave? Sandra realised she was absentmindedly counting.

  Taking Prue’s note from her pocket, she read the damp, smudged numbers, couldn’t be sure that the tide wasn’t coming in again. Prue might have got it wrong, and they should have got an earlier bus.

  Like a leaky balloon, the fun suddenly drained from their adventure. Please come back, she worried, watching Prue intent on scrambling towards the rock.

  ‘Prue!’ Her shout was drowned by the rushing noise of the sea. Even the sun – already low in the sky – seemed to sympathize with her wish to return to the safety of the beach. This was a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  Still, she didn’t want Prue to throw the old sooky baby name at her. Chewing her lip, she waited for the waves to recede then quickly crossed the final yards to the mermaids, spreading her arms across the stone, grabbing onto the surface with her fingertips. She could feel her heart as if it had seized – a sensation of thickness as it thumped against the wall of her chest.

  It wasn’t safe, the tide wasn’t low enough.

  Clinging to the rock beside her, Prue’s face glowed with exhilaration. ‘We made it!’ she yelled. ‘Give us a leg up.’

  Cheek pressed hard into the rock, Sandra shook her head. ‘We’ve got to go back.’

  Prue was insistent. ‘Pleeease, we’re here now ... I’ve waited for ages.’

  ‘Five minutes then, but I’m not helping you climb up.’

  In the depths of her soul, Sandra knew five minutes was too long. Each wave rolling towards the shore gathered itself to become larger as it reached the rocks.

  Prue gave a shout of laughter. ‘We can be the sirens like in Jason and the Argonauts – we’ll lure sailors with our beautiful singing to crash their ship and die on the rocks.’

  Prue beckoned with a graceful arm to the sailors as she sang: ‘Oooh, we are so beeoootiful, come come ...’

  Another wave flung icy spray across Prue’s face, and with a triumphant yell, ‘Do what thou wilt!’ she leapt agilely back across the platform, leaving Sandra clinging to the rock alone.

  Again the waves receded, but before she could take a step, another wave launched at the rock, drenching it, drenching Sandra, filling her sandshoes with water. She saw Prue’s beckoning arms, saw her mouth move, the words lost on the air as her sister jumped rapidly to a high, safe ledge.

  A few feet distant from the mermaids, Sandra was still not free from the foaming water which swirled around the Mermaid Rock towards her, lapping at her ankles, disguising the safest way across the platform. With the advance and retreat of the waves, she couldn’t see where to put her feet and sometimes she stumbled. As the next wave pushed at her legs, unbalanced, she was knocked flat. Spitting salty mouthfuls, fearful that she would be carried into the deep, dark water, she fought the pull on her body as the sea streamed back from the rocks, dragging at her fragile grip.

  Struggling against this horror, Sandra managed to stand up before the surge returned. Clouds hid the sun; hollows beneath the cliff filled with deep shadows. She knew there were stairs to the top of Ben Buckler, but in the growing darkness, where were they?

  A shout came from the beach. A man’s voice: ‘Sandra!’ Again she heard the cry, ‘Sandra, wait! Hang on!’

  With the last of the light behind him, she didn’t immediately recognize who was calling, then suddenly Eric L’estrange was running from the beach, leaping easily across the rocks. Far behind him, Meredith ran, carrying her shoes.

  ‘You crazy girls,’ he said, knee-deep in the splashing water as he gripped Sandra’s hand, lifting her sodden and tearful from the water, to the flight of stairs.

  ‘We would’ve been all right,’ Prue cried defensively. ‘It wasn’t even—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sandra mumbled, flushed and embarrassed that his trousers were sopping wet.

  Meredith arrived, puffed and upset. ‘You get the silliest ideas,’ she scolded. ‘I bet your parents don’t know you’re here.’

  ‘They think we’re having dinner with our friends,’ Prue’s voice was defiant. ‘We wanted it to be a secret, so no one would stop us. It was supposed to be fun.’

  ‘Fun!’ Meredith snorted. ‘You might have thought so, but Sandra, you’re eighteen; you should have more sense. Good grief!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sandra said, shrivelling under Meredith’s reproach, holding cold fingers to her burning cheeks. ‘It wasn’t my idea. And Prue got the tides wrong—’ wanting to add that she would’ve reached the steps in another few minutes, it was only that she couldn’t see where to put her feet. Oh, what was the use, she had to admit to herself – she was an idiot.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ Prue shouted. ‘If you hadn’t been so slow—’

  Mister L’estrange allowed a little smile as he hustled them toward his car. ‘At least have your next watery adventures in the summer-time, hmm?’

  Sandra looked back at the rock, now entirely surrounded by the sea, the mermai
ds ignorant of the fiasco. Huddled in the back seat of the car, the upholstery was cold under her cold, wet jeans. Almost invisible in the dusk, the surfers carried their boards up the beach.

  When Eric and Meredith deposited Sandra and Prue at the Abbotts’ front door, it was past six o’clock.

  ‘You’re on your own now,’ Mister L’estrange said. ‘Good luck with explaining that ridiculous expedition to your parents.’

  As Sandra and Prue sneaked inside, Sandra hissed, ‘Pest, I wish I’d never listened to you. Don’t ask me, ever again—’

  Prue’s door bumped shut in her face. Through her wall, Sandra heard the relentless driving bass of Duane Eddy’s guitar on Peter Gunn, her sister’s latest favourite record for whenever she was frustrated or angry.

  Sandra peeled off her sloppy joe and jeans, the soaked sandshoes and socks. A raw, red blister glowed on each heel; several fingernails were torn. Was she really a sook? It was inevitable that her parents would discover what had happened to them at the Mermaid Rock. Phooey, that meant another row.

  In bed that night, eyes closed, as her humiliation faded, the memory returned of how the sea washed across the rocks – she felt the tide’s constant tug on her body – a body helpless and puny – and she saw herself washed like a strand of kelp onto a faraway beach. No one knew where she’d gone. No one searched for her.

  Early morning sun shining through her blind was a relief.

  The key turned in the lock with a soft click, and Sandra pushed open the door. She gazed about the empty rooms, wondering why on earth she’d offered to clean Mister L’estrange’s flat after the removalists left. The last time she’d been to the flat by herself was to feed Kitty, the lost kitten. Then Irene had answered the ‘Found’ notices and come to claim her. ‘Her name’s Mimi,’ Irene had said.

  She remembered the confusion when Aunt Meredith received a telegram from Mister L’estrange a week before he was due back from England, to tell her he couldn’t return because of family illness. Oh gosh, what a week that was – Meredith angrily bashing out notes on her piano that Sandra could hear a block away. Then all of a sudden, Mister L’estrange was back, and not only back, but spending every spare minute at Meredith’s place.

  Angela was mortified. For some time she went about the house muttering about pending scandal and complaining, ‘It’s a bad example to you girls,’ but no one was listening.

  After the party that Sandra secretly called the tango party, Mister L’estrange had continued to live in his flat, give piano lessons, and stay weekends with Meredith. But eventually the day came to make it official – if that was the right word, Sandra reflected – when he would move to Meredith’s home, together with all his belongings.

  The Beatles sang All My Loving, the big piano was hauled from his flat over the balcony railing and trucked to Meredith’s house. Sandra felt like a whirlwind had blown through her as she contemplated their future duets, remembering how she’d lain dreaming on his bed, her face in his pillow. Life was certainly quite mad!

  She wandered the bare lounge room, disliking the emptiness. A space above the mantelpiece showed the mark where a painting had hung; the couch and armchairs left little dents in the carpet. And there the table had sat with his blue teapot, the cups of tea they’d shared after her lessons, until Sandra eventually abandoned him as her teacher. It was better like that – to no longer sit side by side at the piano, breathing the sweet cigarette smell that lingered on his breath, the indefinable scent he wore. Toujours Fidèle. She clenched her teeth. Always Faithful. We’ll see, she muttered, knowing it was unfair.

  Although now Mister L’estrange was with Aunt Meredith, it was impossible to call him Eric, especially Uncle Eric – simply ridiculous. Maybe they would marry? Meredith won’t change her name, Sandra decided. She didn’t change it when she married William ... or perhaps they never married? Aunt Meredith still kept some secrets. What chance did they have before he went off to fight in Korea, and Meredith said he was so ill on his return, so overwhelmed by nightmares, his hands shook uncontrollably. Auntie deserved to be happy, after mourning William’s death for so long.

  Eric had left a broom and vacuum cleaner in the flat. He’d remonstrated with Sandra, insisting that he’d clean it himself and he’d washed the windows, cleaned stove and bathroom. All that remained was to vacuum the floors and sweep the foyer after the removalists left. Easy. And time for Sandra to rub out the images of Mister L’estrange so heavily imprinted on her mind, mixed up with Nick, and breaking her heart into tiny pieces.

  A new broom sweeps clean – or something like that, she told herself, giving the floor a flick. The bull-fighter poster had left sticky-tape marks on the kitchen wall, and she rubbed it with a wet rag. Nothing left in the bathroom ... memory of his damp shaving brush on her cheek, scent of the man on his towels. How could she have been so stupid, what was she thinking?

  Sunshine slanted through the bare windows, and there was Meredith, standing in the doorway, a big smile on her face.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ she said, surveying the room. ‘Thank you very much, it’s saved Eric a lot of time with him trying to organize piano lessons at my place.’

  ‘I didn’t have to do much,’ Sandra said. ‘He always kept the flat nice.’

  ‘I know you enjoyed coming here. All those cups of tea ...At first, I wasn’t sure, but when I realized he was such an encouragement for you, to pursue your compositions ...’ Her voice trailed off as she looked at Sandra, long and steady.

  ‘Can I ask you something really personal?’

  Sandra nodded, and Meredith said, ‘I wonder why you always call him Mister L’estrange, and never Eric?’

  Flummoxed by the unexpected question, Sandra mumbled a few words regarding teachers’ names and good manners. She could hardly reveal that calling him ‘Mister L’estrange’ helped erase her old, mixed-up feelings.

  Meredith persisted. ‘Is it because once upon a time you had a crush on him. Am I right?’

  Sandra bit the inside of her lip, after a moment saying, ‘I was stupid, but it was ages ago and he never guessed.’

  ‘Eric’s a lovely man. It’s perfectly normal for a sensitive young girl to fall for him. When you suddenly suspended lessons with him, I began to wonder—’

  ‘I tried not to, I really did.’ She tasted blood on her tongue, hating herself. ‘I wanted it to be Nick,’ she cried. ‘But he was never here... I tried not to want anyone, not Nick, not Mister L’estrange.’

  Meredith put an arm around her, gave her a squeeze. ‘Darling Sandra, I did suspect, but I decided that given time it would fade...’ She picked up the vacuum cleaner, ‘Come on, I think we’ve finished here.’

  For the last time, Sandra clicked shut the door of the flat. Worse and worse – her secrets thoroughly shredded. Aunt Meredith knew ...

  The plan for a flat had developed during Sandra’s last year at school. It had become magnified after she passed the Leaving Certificate and farewelled Randwick Girls High School. Now she had an afternoon job in the local newsagency; and she’d soon be playing piano Friday nights at the club with Billy.

  She could hear the rhythmic beat of a record through Prue’s bedroom door – at least her sister was out of the way. Angela had gone to bed with a magazine. In the lounge room, Don dozed in front of the television. It would be at least half an hour before her father woke up and went to bed: time enough for Sandra to reveal the plan to her mother.

  Since that dreadful experience at the Mermaid Rock, and the furious argument with her parents the next day about freedom and responsibility, the idea grew and grew: a flat of her own, to come and go as she pleased. Of course I’ll take my piano with me, Sandra thought, raising her hand to knock on her mother’s bedroom door. Play what I like, when I like.

  At first, she gave a gentle tap. Her rehearsed words fluttered nervously in her head: Mum, what do you think about me renting a flat? Quickly, before Angela could interrupt, she would add: ‘Now Mister L’estrange lives
at Auntie’s place, I could rent his flat. I’ll find someone to share with—’ At this point, her mother was sure to interrupt.

  ‘Mum?’ Sandra called. ‘Can I come in for a minute?’

  She heard her mother respond sleepily, ‘Come in.’

  Draped in a chenille bed-jacket, her hair in pins, Angela rested against several fat pillows, reading a gardening magazine.

  In the instant that Sandra sat on the side of the bed, she knew what she’d planned to say was all wrong, but it was too late now. Taking a deep breath, she bolted the words: ‘I want to get a flat,’ she said. ‘You remember Irene, when I found her kitten? She might be looking for someone to share, or if she can’t—’

  Startled, Angela dropped the magazine on her lap. ‘You can’t be serious. For a start, you have no idea of the cost—’

  ‘Mum, just listen?’ Sandra felt the tightness of tears in her throat. Mustn’t cry ...‘I’ll earn enough at the newsagent’s and I’ll soon start at the club. I can give music lessons. Please? I’ve worked it all out.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Angela said, ‘—worked it all out without a word to me or your father. The answer’s no, definitely not. To begin with, you’re too young—’

  ‘I’m eighteen.’

  ‘Exactly. Now go to bed and forget this silly idea.’ She picked up her magazine again, but remained glaring at Sandra until finally she got up and left the room, proudly determined not to slam the door behind her.

  So much for that, she’d made a mess of it. But she would get a flat, she would figure it out ...it simply needed better planning. Perhaps it was possible to find Irene?

  ♫

  Talking with Billy for weeks over endless cups and glasses in the student café, Sandra revealed her desire to chuck it in. Surely all her years of tuition were enough to base her compositions on? Billy thought so too, keen to freelance with his saxophone – nights at the club would give him the chance.