Song for Emilia Read online

  Sandra was relieved to forget about the music diploma. Instead, she pushed herself to learn a new Chopin nocturne. She loved the deceptive, slow beginning, its glimmer of hope, its anguished arpeggios while the heartbreaking melody sang above.

  Observing her with a critical eye, the tutor declared, ‘Ha, brave girl! The young Russian, Vladimir Ashkenazy, plays it.’ He chuckled, ‘Monstrous hard work. You’ll be stretching those hands on the bass octaves, the giant chords.’

  One night as she practised the increasingly emotional piece, her mother stood stock-still at the door until the final delicate chords.

  ‘That sends shivers up and down my spine,’ Angela said. ‘Why don’t you choose more pieces like that, instead of all those jazzy things you play?

  ‘My tutor’s very pleased with me,’ Sandra replied stiffly. ‘He doesn’t mind my jazzy things, as long as I’m doing well with my studies.’

  Angela sniffed at this response. ‘You should never have given up performance,’ she said, and huffed out of the room.

  Closing the piano, Sandra groaned – her mother was back to the performance problem again. The nocturne was certainly difficult, so full of tears and desperation, she recognized the yearning within it. Perhaps Chopin had loved the mam’selle student he dedicated it to – the love of music between them like a silken cord.

  The idea of quitting the Conservatorium still lurked in Sandra’s mind – but how to phrase it to her parents? She could hear in advance the rolled-out sentences that she’d heard on her refusal to audition for the Conservatorium High School, and again, when she’d dropped piano lessons with Mister L’estrange. So what! She’d got into the Con after leaving school. But better forget wanting to get a flat for a while.

  Don had told Angela about the A.Mus.A diploma, but now that Sandra had rejected the idea until she graduated, they distanced themselves from the awkward subject.

  ‘If she wants more money, she could sit that exam and teach piano – she said so herself,’ Angela remarked. ‘So why does she need to play every Friday night in that awful club?’

  Sandra had no answer. It wasn’t an awful club ...leave me alone, Mum!

  Billy was playing beautifully tonight, his tenor sax smooth with the piano. Sandra scanned the club with a glance: the nearest tables where diners were finishing dinner or resting back in their chairs with a glass; the crowd at the bar; and towards the back of the room, the crush of late arrivals. Her fingers slid across the keys, nimbly picking the notes; foot giving a touch of pedal.

  Well-rehearsed, they gave each other space to play, came back together again. A bit like love-making perhaps? she wondered.

  ‘Take a break?’ Billy mouthed after the piece, eyebrows raised.

  Sandra nodded. Although it was a cold night, the room was overheated and very smoky. In another forty minutes they could pack up and leave.

  Occasionally Sandra performed solo, enjoying her choice of music: familiar pieces among her own compositions. Most of the time, patrons had no idea how she mixed it. Most of the time, she was sure they hardly listened. She liked My Melancholy Baby, one of her favourites – they listened then, their talk a little muted.

  Billy always got their attention. She thought that perhaps his tenor sax resonated with people’s lives, their memories, teased them with possibilities. Her piano countered the passion his instrument released. The sometimes-fathomless notes lulled the audience into the false security of a familiar piece, woke them suddenly with a solid beat, taking them out of their comfortable chairs to sway and quiver on the dance floor, a little drunk already.

  She reached for her glass at the end of the piano ... a quick mouthful, and she didn’t miss a note.

  The smoky gloom, candles on each table, made it hard to focus, but Sandra always hoped she might see Nick’s face among the crowd. He’d said once, Sure, I’ll come one night... but never turned up. Oh well.

  The owners liked what they played, didn’t mind Sandra blending her own work with the well-known pieces. All she was required to do was wear a slinky dress and leave her long hair loose.

  Don had been startled the first night she dressed to go out. ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ he’d said. ‘Isn’t it a bit old for you?’

  ‘Club rules,’ she’d replied, swishing out the door to the toot of Billy’s car.

  Seated at the piano, a glimpse of leg showing in the slit of her skirt, a glass of Pimm’s or lemonade handy, set the scene. And the audience seemed to love them both: Billy in his narrow black trousers, a white shirt under his loose black jacket, a narrow tie – light blue eyes scanning the tables. Across the piano, Sandra observed how women looked at him, calling for their favourite songs. How many times had they played Bésame Mucho?

  Late: couples dancing, some cheek to cheek. Billy is so good – a gentle Misty. Leaning into the keyboard, she breathed the lyrics, immersed in longing. As her fingers rippled the final notes, they finished the set, and the night was finished too.

  ‘We did well, I think?’ Sandra gathered her topcoat and bag as applause sprinkled around the room. How much did these people care, anyway: Friday night, booze, maybe a lover ... the weekend. Glad to be going home now, leaving it behind, she stepped into the crisp, cold night, the relief of fresh air on her cheeks.

  Billy walked beside her, still keyed up with the rush of the evening. ‘Imagine if we got a spot at Chequers,’ he said. ‘They pay thousands.’

  ‘You’re dreaming, Billy,’ she gave him an affectionate punch.

  ‘Nothing wrong with having a dream. You can call it ambition, if you like – what you used to have.’

  Stung, Sandra halted, swung around to face him. ‘That’s not fair. I have plans, and you know it.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘You’d do better at El Rocco up at the Cross, not those big clubs.’

  Looking for forgiveness, Billy said, ‘I liked Misty tonight... the riffs we’ve worked up, how you play those side-steps in the melody.’

  They walked together in silence to the corner where they habitually parted.

  ‘I could hear you singing over the bass ... I liked that too. A little behind the beat.’

  ‘Thanks. No one’s meant to hear.’

  ‘Next time,’ he said, ‘can we finish with I’ve Got you Under My Skin. Played real slow?’

  Sandra demurred, though she liked the suggestion. ‘If we put people to sleep, they won’t be buying drinks and we won’t be popular with the owners.’

  ‘I wish you’d let me drive you home—’ Billy’s regular question after each performance. ‘You’ll wait ages for a bus.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m fine.’ Nice Billy, good looking, clever. Persistent. She shrugged, tired of the familiar routine. ‘See you Tuesday arvo. We can rehearse some new ones?’

  ‘Yep, that’d be good.’

  She smoothed his gingery hair, touched the tiny patch of whisker beneath his lip, aware that Billy wanted to take her back to his flat. With a quick kiss goodnight, he loped away, sax case swinging. He’d be parked down one of the back streets, Sandra knew, in inky-black Sussex Street or some badly lit alley.

  Hurrying, she took a short cut up Rowe Street. Rumours abounded that the lane would be demolished, the Hotel Australia too, for some new fancy business. Sad. Where will all those arty people go for their coffee, their wine, their galleries and bookshops? Meredith’s cosmopolis, gone for good.

  There’ll be some taxis around the hotel. I should tell Billy, so he won’t worry so much. Maybe one night she would surprise him, accept his offer. He’s a lovely man, she told herself. Nice face, generous, and I love his music. How he looks at me sometimes in particular songs – when I glance up from the keyboard, there he is – eyes half-closed, full of softness.

  The question niggled: what for? She wasn’t in love with Billy – to go to bed would be cold and calculated. They were fond of each other, but it was a song going nowhere, as long as Nick was somewhere out there: the check to everything, however distant.<
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  As her tutor, Mister L’estrange had been her check against Nick for several months, making her question everything she’d ever felt. When she’d stayed that one night at Wilga Park, there remained only the one chaste kiss on her lips, leaving her in some kind of limbo.

  And Billy? Music created a bond, it was true ...

  Another lazy weekend lay ahead. Last night had been good at the club. But Nick never came, and Sandra grew tired of hoping.

  She crossed the road near where Mister L’estrange used to live. Odd to think he was no longer there. A musician had occupied the flat for a while. Who rents it now, she wondered.

  What on earth did she want to walk past his flat for, anyway? She kept walking, taking a short cut towards the shops.

  Pausing on the opposite footpath, she saw how the bushes each side of the entrance doors were neatly clipped – a kitten couldn’t hide there any more. Dear little grey thing – by now Mimi would be a grown-up cat. Shading her eyes from the sun, she squinted up at the balcony, the blank windows. Blinds drawn, deserted.

  A small figure was walking towards her, something familiar about it: no baggy overalls and boots like before, but unmistakeably, incredibly ... Waving her arms, Sandra hurried – afraid the little figure might not see her, might vanish into the air like a sylph.

  ‘Irene, Rene!’ She slowed to a stop. ‘Gosh, Irene, it’s good to see you.’

  Irene gave a big smile of recognition, ‘How are you, Sandra? Yes, it’s been a while.’

  ‘Didn’t you move house? How’s Mimi, has she run away again? Are you still painting – houses, I mean?’

  ‘Slow down,’ Irene laughed. ‘I got another house to share, but it’s a problem watching to see that doors aren’t left open. Mimi often escapes, but luckily she doesn’t go far. And no, I got tired of painting houses. I went back home to Taree.’

  ‘What was that like?’

  ‘Ooh, you can imagine. Nothing much to do. And I couldn’t cope with my brother and the backyard full of ferret cages. Sometimes he likes to let his favourite ferret out, and there was almost a disaster with Mimi.’

  ‘Why, what happened? Ferrets look such cute little animals.’

  Irene rolled her eyes telling the story. ‘When ferrets bite, they don’t let go, and Mimi got in the way. She’s got a little scar where his ferret nipped her. I spent a fortune at the vet’s. That was the last straw.’

  They strolled together, until Sandra couldn’t resist asking, ‘What are you doing here, in my piano teacher’s old street?’

  ‘There’s a flat to rent. I’m meeting the agent—’

  Sandra cut her off. ‘Gosh, that’s probably his flat! Mister L’estrange moved in with my Aunt Meredith.’

  ‘Your aunt! Keeping the flat in the family then?’

  ‘He rents it out. What number is the advertisement?’

  ‘Oh look, the agent’s there already. Come with me? Be a sticky beak.’

  Together they climbed the stairs to the flat. Feeling distinctly odd, Sandra stopped at the open door. She longed for Irene to be the successful tenant, not sure why it mattered. ‘I’d better let you talk to him by yourself,’ she said. ‘Go on, I’ll wait downstairs.’

  Standing outside in the sun, she felt relieved. Not another visit to his flat, empty, yet so full of memories. It was impossible. Let Irene rent it, fill it with her things, with Mimi, and she would love to come. She wondered if Irene had a piano, remembered her being entranced by the old Feurich, asking if she could play.

  She sat on the wall to wait. Presently Irene came downstairs, closely followed by the agent. Satisfied smiles all round, and Irene shook his hand, saying, ‘I’ll come to the office first thing Monday to fix up.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ Irene crowed, giving a little hop. ‘Imagine that, so easy. And I’m allowed get someone to share with me if I want.’

  They walked to the end of the street, then Irene kissed Sandra’s cheek. ‘It’s great to see you. I always hoped to meet up again but I never got around to it.’

  ‘What about your boyfriend,’ Sandra said. ‘You told me he wanted to marry you?’

  ‘Ha, him ... no thanks! No more house painting, either. I got a job in a real estate agent’s office. I think that’s why it was so quick today. I’m in the business, sort of.’ She was effervescent. ‘I’ve bought a typewriter. I’m going to write articles, send stories to newspapers, magazines, everywhere.’

  Irene planned to move into the flat the next weekend. As Sandra resumed her walk to the shops, she mulled over the strange afternoon: the coincidence of seeing Irene; Mister L’estrange’s flat. And very, very soon, she was determined to ask Irene if she could share the flat too. There was no way her parents could stop her.

  Just give it a little time, she decided, singing a tune as she reached the shops, entirely forgetful of what she’d needed to buy.

  Over a month since Sandra returned home from Curradeen. Now it was the end of July. No word from Nick. No cheerful phone call.

  She’d written a thankyou note to both Mrs Ferrari and Mrs Morgan. She didn’t expect a reply from them, but Nick?

  All she’d received was Emilia’s stunning letter which she refused to answer. Mind your own business, she informed an imaginary Emilia.

  Why should I care about Nick, she repeatedly encouraged herself. I always told Emilia I didn’t want a boyfriend: I just wanted to be my own true self and discover what I could do best. A boyfriend would only get in the way, she’d vehemently insisted, always wondering will he, won’t he about everything, like a stupid daisy chain.

  Since her visit to Wilga Park, she’d gone over and over their night by the fireside. Maybe, she had almost decided, Nick just wanted to see how far she’d go? Maybe he’d done it with another girl, a girl who happily agreed? Boys did it, didn’t they? Easy for them.

  What invisible strings continued to draw her to Nick? It was becoming obvious he didn’t want her as a girlfriend. So, Sandra decided, I will desire nothing more, either.

  So why did she lie awake at night – or sleeping, dream the most awful dreams? Almost afraid to close her eyes, sensing the descent into sleep – the room darkened as the moon slipped behind heavy clouds – no light from the hallway to illuminate the dimness in her bedroom.

  She saw a bridge over the river on the road to Denalbo, a concrete bridge with no sides, not like any bridge she’d seen before, and there were horses, drowned horses, just their heads, their noses held out of the rushing water, and as she looked at one, it became Toffee, and so close by, its eyelids flickered and she cried out, God, it’s still alive. She wanted to help and pulled at the rope on its neck, but its body was weighed down with debris and mud and as its eyelids flickered again, she cried, Toffee! But the horse waited patiently for the end – its lungs, its entire body to fill with water – and weeping, Sandra abandoned it and ran across the bridge, to awaken covered in sweat.

  A large brown envelope lay on the kitchen table. Sandra’s name and address printed in neat black ink.

  ‘The card in the letterbox was marked Special Delivery,’ Angela said. ‘I was going to the post office, so I picked it up for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ In Sandra’s hands, the envelope was stiff like cardboard, postmarked ‘Curradeen’. On the corner, a handwritten comment advised Do Not Bend.

  ‘You’re lucky they gave it to me,’ Angela remarked. ‘I had to prove I was your mother, so I’m as curious as you.’

  Sandra carefully slit the envelope with a butterknife. Inside, the cardboard was covered with white paper, a note attached. Nick’s handwriting ...

  Wilga Park, 16th

  July.

  Dear Sandra,

  She read with increasing surprise ...

  I’m sorry it’s too late for your birthday, but I didn’t know the date until your visit. You gave me your beautiful song, & I wanted to give you something in return. After you left, I drew this picture. I think you’ll remember our day at the art gallery quite a while ago.


  I’m still at home, Dad’s not managing things very well so I thought I should stay longer to give him a hand. Hope you like it.

  Yours sincerely, Nick.

  She undid the protective papers. A drawing emerged: in coloured pencil, a girl seated by a creek, feet stretched towards the water, her hands resting on her lap. She wore a long white dress, with flowers around the neck – Mrs Morgan’s nightie! In her hair, a scatter of paper daisies. Nick had drawn her from his memory of the night they sat by the fireside, her feet on the fender.

  ‘What have you got, Sandy?’ Angela asked. She reached across the table, and seeing the drawing, gasped with surprise. ‘Good heavens, it’s you.’ She held it at arm’s length. ‘It’s very good, he’s captured your face exactly. I wonder where he got the idea for it ... what on earth are you wearing?’

  Sandra was momentarily speechless. ‘Mrs Morgan—’ she was about to say ‘lent me a nightdress’ but her mother would certainly ask how Nick happened to see her wearing a nightie, so she said, ‘He made it up, I guess. There was a painting in the Art Gallery we liked.

  ‘The way he’s drawn the water at your feet is nice,’ Angela said. ‘Like a little pond. You look so peaceful. He’s very clever, your Nick.’

  My Nick? Sandra heard her mother speaking, but remained lost for words. What did it matter how Emilia felt, didn’t this show that Nick regarded her as special? Surely the picture proved it. But Emilia had written ‘I like Nick very much and I know for sure he likes me too’.

  Elbows on knees, Nick sat hunched beside Sandra on the green sweep of the park. Behind them, the clock tower of Sydney University showed noon. Several ducks paddled around the pond, but he took no notice. The grass felt cold beneath her jeans.

  Surprised by his phone call that morning to suggest they meet in Victoria Park, Sandra wondered what could be wrong – he was so silent. She’d written what she thought rather a formal little letter to thank him for her drawing, stumped for words to say how deeply she felt about it, the way his pencil had followed the suggested outline of her body beneath the cotton.