Song for Emilia Page 9

  ‘Glad you liked it,’ he’d said, offhandedly, stubbing out his cigarette on the grass.

  She sensed he’d been pleased, but his brow was serious and she waited for him to speak.

  ‘The thing is,’ Nick said, ‘It’s getting very tough at home—’

  ‘It hasn’t rained?’

  ‘Nothing. We’re down to the last of the hay for the horses and feed’s damned expensive now.’ With a bitter laugh, he added, ‘That’s funny, I said We. In my head, I’m still at home, still worrying about the place.’

  ‘Because it’s your real home, where you grew up—’

  ‘You know, you’re about the only person I can talk to about my other life. There’s people at uni who come from farms too, but somehow you’ve got more of a feel for it.’

  Sandra thought about these words. ‘Like a shared history?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Nick said. ‘Understanding, I guess.’

  ‘Will you go back?’

  ‘You’re putting thoughts into my mind. Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it. I talked with my tutors and I’m going to defer. I’ll go back home for a few months, maybe a year. Try to sort something out for the old man.’ Face clouded, he leaned back on his elbows. ‘Heck, he’s not that old, but this drought has aged him. That night you played my song – it’s the first time I’ve seen Dad so happy for ages.’

  She tucked his comment away like a small treasure. ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Mum’s an olympian,’ Nick allowed a quick smile. ‘Nothing knocks her over. She’s the strongest woman who ever lifted a weight. There’s nothing she can’t do. This isn’t the first drought, but I guess even my mother’s got a breaking point.’

  Mixed feelings crowded Sandra’s head, remembering Emilia’s letter. Why should Nick be telling her this when he had Emilia to confide in? Still, she was glad of his company, however sad he might be. He’d chosen her today. That would have to do.

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘As soon as I can organize it. Tomorrow, maybe,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got a choice – I can’t let my parents down.’

  This blissful day with the glorious clear winter sky, ducks and water hens among the waterlilies, passersby glancing at them where they lay stretched out on the lawn ... so close, she could see Nick’s grey-green eyes, flecks of hazel; the colours and textures of his skin. She could have pushed back his hair, kissed his face ...

  Cautiously, experimentally, she asked, ‘Maybe I could visit Wilga Park in October, after exams?’ ... wondering how Emilia might fit into this picture.

  ‘You’ll always be welcome to stay. Mum really likes you.’

  His mother. Wanting to lift Nick’s mood, not knowing exactly how, ‘Let’s find a café?’ she suggested.

  Disregarding Sandra’s question, he rolled over so that he faced her. ‘You could fly. Better than the train. Save two days?’

  As if it was definite she would visit, Nick went on, ‘Would you stay with Ferrari’s again?’

  Surprised, Sandra shook her head. ‘It didn’t go so well last time.’ Here was her chance to ask him about Emilia’s letter. She could say, By the way, Emilia wrote—

  Nick interrupted her thoughts. ‘I got a letter from your friend Emilia,’ he said.

  She felt her stomach contract as if her diaphragm had pushed itself into her chest. She waited for him to speak, for the awful news that he’d chosen Emilia.

  ‘It’s odd. She wrote me this letter on paper like you wrap apples in.’ Nick’s eyes shone and she thought he was about to burst out laughing. ‘Granny Smith apples’.

  ‘Bit peculiar,’ he continued. ‘I hardly know Emilia. I see her in their shop to leave Mum’s order when I’m on holidays. I don’t want to be rude, but I didn’t reply.’

  Sandra couldn’t help a giggle as relief flooded through her. ‘I got a letter too. That paper’s expensive.’ She felt another giggle bubble to the surface. ‘It’s not paper for apples.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want her to write to me. So I reckon if I don’t write back, she’ll drop it.’

  ‘Drop what?’

  ‘Waffle about Melbourne, when am I coming to see my grandparents, nothing much.’

  Nick rolled onto his back, hands clasped behind his head. Among the waterlilies, a bird honked. Above them, trees made lacy patterns against the sky. She was conscious of a huge lightness, an exhilaration filling her body. He was near enough to touch. If she reached out a hand ...

  ‘Ah, time I got a move on.’ He stood to stretch, ran a hand through his hair.

  Awkwardly, Sandra got to her feet. Another parting. Another goodbye.

  ‘Let me know when you’re going?’

  ‘Hopefully I’ll leave at sparrow twit tomorrow morning, soon as I get the okay from uni.’

  That soon.

  With a kiss on her forehead, Nick whispered into her hair, ‘So I’m saying goodbye now.’

  Sandra wandered up Broadway towards Central Station and the bus stops. If she’d dreamed for a thousand years, she never would have guessed that today could be the most promising day in her life. You could fly, he’d said ... save two days. Two extra days with Nick. A little exultant skip, and she waved for her bus to stop.

  What will Aunt Meredith think, she wondered, paying the fare.

  ‘A penny for them,’ the conductor grinned. ‘You’re looking pleased with yourself.’

  All old houses had kitchen tables. Sandra considered that was the best part about an old house. With their plain timber surfaces worn with scratches, dents and knife cuts, old kitchen tables were comfortable for breakfast, afternoon tea and sometimes dinner; even for doing homework.

  Angela had chosen a new, blue Laminex table with chrome legs – it wasn’t the same as the old pine table in Meredith’s kitchen, or the large, scrubbed wooden table at Wilga Park, but a kitchen table, nevertheless.

  Sandra pulled her chair close to the table, opened the birthday card she’d bought for Nick. He was a Leo, so she found one with a picture of a lion. Silly, maybe, but she’d never bought a birthday card for any man except her father. Dear Nick, she wrote, ‘Have a very happy birthday on the 20th, I’ll see you soon. Best wishes from Sandra’. She wanted to write less impersonal words, but couldn’t think what to say. Nothing worked. So much easier to compose a song!

  With a satisfied smile, she stuck a stamp on the envelope. In a couple of months she’d be taking the plane to Curradeen. Nick had said, ‘Just tell me the date.’

  Oh, her suspense imagining the phone ringing, the ding-a-ling sounding down the long hallway in the homestead, Mrs Morgan calling, ‘Hurry up, Nick, it’s a trunk call.’

  ♫

  Six weeks since Nick left Sydney, and not a word since he’d told her, ‘I’m saying goodbye now’ in Victoria Park. Heart thudding, her deep emotion had risen to the surface with his farewell kiss. Not a word about his birthday card. Had he changed his mind, and didn’t want her to visit? Damned questions again.

  With such careful management over three generations of Morgans, she was sure Wilga Park would survive the increasingly dry weather. But what about Mr Morgan? And Mrs Morgan who provided sole support until Nick went home?

  Seated at her piano to tinker with a new piece, she pondered on whether Nick would ever return to Sydney. He’d completed three years of his degree. Not enough, perhaps, to be any use. She didn’t know. Only that Nick didn’t write, he did not ring, and she had no idea what was happening. Yes, stay in October, he’d agreed. And then, nothing.

  Frustrated, she unzipped her writing case, determined to finish a letter – so many letters written and never sent, instead, burned in the back yard incinerator.

  Dear Nick,

  It’s ages since I heard from you ...cross that out, no reproach ... When I hear on the news how bad the drought is I wonder how you’re all getting on. I guess your father moved the sheep like you told me last year, and kept his special ones for when the seasons are good again ...

  H
ow flat and awkward it sounded. Watching her pen inscribe the words, she felt the old ache in her chest, wanted to write instead: I hate how I miss you, it’s so hard. Please ring me, or write me a letter and tell me you miss me too. But there was no point in hoping for the impossible. It was never going to happen.

  Continuing, she wrote, I’m still playing every week at the club with Billy, some classics and some of my compositions. I think you’d like ... Gosh, how did Billy get into her letter?

  Sandra propped a page of blank sheet music on her piano. The theme was dancing tantalisingly in her head – it needed to find its place. Maybe today. No one was home, the house was hers. Prue had nagged her father into giving her bicycle back, and she’d disappeared for a ride.

  ‘Back in the saddle,’ Sandra joked. ‘We’ll see how long it takes before you come another cropper.’

  The page kept slipping off the piano. With one hand, she held it in place, a pencil in the other. She hummed the melody, liking the tune... a key change about the twelfth bar. Needs more colour.

  Billy would be pleased she’d finally begun another composition. How would he approach the piece? There’s been a drought in my work lately, Sandra thought – I haven’t done much of anything. We rehearse every Tuesday afternoon, play at the club Fridays. Chord progression – again the page slipped off the stand. Stop thinking about Billy, you’re not writing this for him to like.

  Dammit, it was always hopeless to try notation at the keyboard. If it’s in your head, she told herself, sit at the desk! Her page was spoiled with crossed out bars and scribbled instructions, and she opened the drawer for another sheet. Empty. Tired of ruling her own staves, it meant a trip to Palings to buy more. The store closed at twelve on a Saturday, she’d have to hurry.

  Palings Music Store was always busy – so many musicians, so many composers. Why bother adding to the sea of mediocre music, her head asked? Because I have to, she muttered crossly – it’s not as if there’s a choice – it’s a compulsion I can’t resist. Everywhere she went her head was filled with notes of some sort, questions to herself. Tutors at The Conservatorium of Music ultimately proved frustrating. The Beatles didn’t go to the Royal Academy of Music, as far as she knew.

  Sandra grabbed a stack of score sheets, paid and left in a hurry, hoping to catch a quick bus home. At the door she bumped into Billy.

  He caught her arm as she almost lost her balance. ‘You’re in a rush, what’s happening?’

  ‘Billy! Oh, I ran out of blank sheets and I’ve got this song in my head—’

  ‘On your way home to write it all down?’ He was smiling, and she shook off his hand.

  ‘Well, what do you think? If I don’t do it straightaway, I’ll lose it.’

  ‘No you won’t. I know you, once you get a bee in your bonnet—’

  ‘Ha ha.’ Her shoulders relaxed. Billy’s observations were sometimes annoyingly accurate.

  ‘Here’s a thought,’ he said. ‘My place is closer than yours. Want to work on it with me?’

  Sandra didn’t answer, recalling how the thought had occurred to her while she tried to compose at the piano: how would Billy approach it?

  Billy took her hesitation as an agreement. ‘My car’s not far. Come on.’

  Sandra always imagined that Billy lived in a flat, probably rather a dive. At the Con, he always wore jeans with a shirt or sloppy joe. His home would be equally careless.

  His home was a surprise. In the basement of his parents’ large home in Potts Point, the entire floor was open, divided only by the thick supporting pillars of the house, painted white. To one side was a selection of armchairs, a couch, and in the other, what had to be Billy’s bedroom section. Huge glass windows looked through bougainvillea and trees to the harbour.

  Gazing around, she said, ‘I had no idea you lived in such a beautiful place—’

  He made a harrumph noise, a snort of laughter. ‘Did you expect a dump? Yes, you probably did, you snob.’

  ‘I did not,’ Sandra lied. ‘But this is perfect, you lucky thing. I wish I had my own place.’

  ‘Let’s have a go with your song.’ He flung aside a thick cloth, uncovering a baby grand piano. Sandra spread her hands across it, amazed. Billy’s parents must be worth a fortune. ‘You play piano, too? You’ve never said—’

  ‘You never asked, darling,’ Billy said sarcastically. ‘Help yourself.’ He set a stool at the keyboard and slung his saxophone on his neck.

  With Billy echoing her notes a beat behind, they made their way through the emerging composition. Periodically Sandra scribbled a key change, an instruction for tempo, and Billy would nod.

  The afternoon dwindled into evening. They hadn’t eaten lunch or stopped for tea. Billy switched on a lamp.

  ‘That enough for today?’

  ‘I’m really happy with it, thanks Billy.’ Sandra put all the pages into her bag. ‘It’s late, I have to go.’

  ‘I’ll drop you home. Or I can cook us spaghetti? I make a fantastic tomato sauce.’

  She was starving, even feeling a little woozy with hunger. ‘That’d be good, I need to ring home though.’

  While Sandra phoned her parents, in the kitchen corner, Billy chopped onions, garlic and tomatoes, set a saucepan of water to boil.

  Thrilled with the score packed into her bag, Sandra knew it was early days, but the music would grow from today’s work. It would develop, she would polish it, and Billy already said he loved it. She watched him – his gingery hair sticking up in unruly tufts as he stirred the frying onions, adding a fair splash of bottled tomato sauce. How fortunate to have met Billy, his sax was very sweet with her piano.

  As if he felt her eyes on him, Billy said, ‘You could be grating the parmesan. In the fridge, top shelf.’

  Grate the parmesan? Her mother bought it in a packet – more surprises.

  ‘Has this piece got a name?’ he asked, tipping pasta into the saucepan.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it. How about Rockin’ Spaghetti Blues?’

  ‘Hey, I hope not!’

  Seated at the table, they ate by lamplight. Billy poured wine into tumblers, and from the first glass Sandra felt her tension unwinding. The spaghetti tasted good, although it wasn’t her favourite dish – winding the spaghetti around her fork, inevitably she flicked sauce onto her blouse.

  After coffee, she said, ‘Now I really do have to go.’ When Billy opened his mouth to object, she put a finger on his lips. ‘Shush, I want to go home and keep working on my song. Our song.’

  ‘It’s your song, not mine. You just bounced it off the sax.’ He took her hand, held it too long, and when she tried to withdraw it, his grip tightened.

  ‘Billy—’

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said, eyes softened. ‘We’re perfect together. Don’t you get it?’

  ‘It’s the music, nothing more.’

  Billy’s mouth on hers, tasting of tomato and cheese, his ragged breath. The wine, their work today, the sweetness of their regular shift at the club: always easy, always willing. It was all in his kiss, the way he held her, his mouth hungry on her face, her throat. Her head was spinning, a kaleidoscope of arguments fragmented her brain – how to resist the kiss. Billy’s fingers beneath her blouse, fingers at her belt.

  This wasn’t the way it was meant to happen. Yes, she was fond of Billy and he cared for her, but she’d promised herself never without an equal love. She’d waited for Nick.

  But Nick didn’t want her, so —

  She pushed his hands away. ‘Stop it. I can’t, I just can’t—’

  She stood up, straightened her skirt. Billy’s pupils large, unfocussed. He muttered something, fixed his clothing.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said. ‘Rehearsal Tuesday arvo, okay?’

  Sandra managed a shaky laugh. ‘Yes, okay. Good.’

  At her front gate, she gave him a fleeting kiss, ‘Thanks for dinner,’ and slipped inside the front door.

  In the mirror her face looked back with startled eyes. A brui
se on her neck, the skin reddened from Billy’s unshaven cheek. So near, so close, and she’d wanted to give in, wanted to feel his hands. A pearl button was missing from her blouse.

  Opening the drawer, she took out her letter to Nick. Late October? She could go after her exams.

  In the morning, leaving the unfinished letter on her desk, Sandra picked up the phone, first checking to see if Prue or her parents were around ... better to make this call alone, without inquisitive ears tuned in.

  In the hollow of the black receiver, Nick’s familiar voice, businesslike, dispassionate: ‘Hello, Nick Morgan here.’

  Oh, but how it changed when he heard her name. She wished she’d called ages ago. Before last night.

  ‘Sandra, g’day!’ and laughter flowed between them, like the relief of rain.

  ‘Yes! Just tell me the date.’

  Through Prue’s bedroom door, Sandra saw a sea of paper. Prue had pulled all the posters and photos of her favourite singers and film stars off the wall, leaving sticky-tape stains in a geometrical pattern of tiny squares. Elvis remained, and Johnny O’Keefe in his gold jacket.

  A record spun on the little red and grey turntable: Mick Jagger’s nasal voice, It’s All Over Now. Inside her shoes, Sandra’s toes automatically tapped to the irresistible beat.

  Prue looked up. ‘Ooer, you’ve got a love-bite,’ she crowed. ‘Who gave you that?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘Lucky it’s a little one. I bet it was that musician—’

  ‘Shut up, why don’t you.’

  With a careless shrug, Prue gathered up the posters, tossed those she didn’t want into the corner. ‘I got sick of these. Do you want any?’

  Sandra surveyed the litter with a grimace. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I want a poster of The Rolling Stones. I can get one of their London tour from a kid at school. I love Mick Jagger.’

  ‘I don’t like his big mouth.’

  ‘I mean the music, dummy. Anyway, I like his big mouth.’ Prue ran a tongue-tip along her teeth. ‘Mick’s got hair like your Mister L’estrange.’