Читать книгу Song for Emilia - Julia Osborne - Страница 7

Two years later, the first day of her Bachelor of Music degree: as Sandra crossed Macquarie Street and walked past the tall, imperious bronze rider on horseback, she could hardly believe her footsteps were taking her to this building. At the front, four crenellated towers like a castle. This was the Sydney Conservatorium of Music: the castle of her dreams and object of her ambition for so many years.

The first time Sandra played in concert, she had been overwhelmed, but managed to complete the performance of her composition to the professor’s satisfaction. Tutors encouraged her, ‘Talent, hard work and lots of luck,’ they insisted. And dedication! Sandra knew she had plenty of that. She’d learned to enjoy playing piano in ensembles – composing for the students with their violins and cellos.

Although her passion for concert performances had fizzled, the fire to compose burned stronger than ever.

By now, Nick was almost halfway through his degree in architecture at Sydney Uni. How many times have we met in those two years? Working it out, she ruefully calculated, makes a total of four or five times a year, plus an occasional lucky phone call from the university college.

Hardly a boyfriend. But she was sure Nick didn’t have anyone special. Even though he was five years older, if he was seeing another girl he wouldn’t spend any time at all with her. So what did five years matter?

One of those lucky telephone days, she’d hear Nick’s voice on the phone with surprised delight:

‘G’day, Sandra.’

‘G’day,’ she’d reply, trying not to giggle. Holding the receiver close to her ear, she’d hear his breath in the phone as if he considered what to say. Usually a suggestion to meet somewhere: coffee at a café, a stroll through the Domain to the Art Gallery. Or after the pictures, they’d go down to Harry’s Cafe de Wheels in Woolloomooloo for a pie and mushy peas. They’d sit on the edge of the wharf, feet dangling over the water, revelling in the city lights, the slap of waves against the pilings; their freedom.

Since Sandra had first shown Nick the treasure of Rowe Street’s arty shops and galleries, the wonderful bookshop and Rowe Street Records, they’d sometimes met at the Teapot Café. But the café had closed so now they went to the Galleria Espresso, a popular coffee shop for artists, and more comfortable, they agreed, than the Teapot’s iron chairs. It was always busy, the walls crowded with paintings, many for sale – painted, they supposed, by the art students that came for coffee, or to sit reading for hours. Who said that life was measured out in coffee spoons, she wondered, stirring another lump of sugar into her coffee.

During uni holidays when Nick went home to Wilga Park, Sandra burned with envy because her best friend Emilia went home for holidays too. They were sure to have struck up a friendship now that Emmy boarded at his grandparents’ home in Melbourne while she studied physiotherapy. Not only would Emilia see Nick in Curradeen, but whenever he visited his grandparents.

Mr and Mrs Ferrari were very pleased with this arrangement for their daughter, and although they missed her on the little vegetable patch they called a farm, she was able to train, with a safe place to live.

Emilia knew very well that Sandra had adored Nick since her first year in high school when he was a distant senior, her every step beating time with his name: Nick Nick Nicholas Nick. Was it possible that Emmy could somehow infiltrate the Morgan family, and Nick might begin to care for her, instead of Sandra?

Perhaps she sent out feelings to Nick that she wasn’t aware of – feelings that suggested, Come this close, and no closer. Perhaps her crush on the piano teacher, Mister L’estrange, had put a spell on her. But Eric L’estrange fell in love with her Aunt Meredith, and Meredith fell in love with him, and Oh, how Sandra had resented it.

Meredith had always been a shining light in Sandra’s life: her confidante; someone to run to when there was trouble, which was often enough. It was hard to accept that her Saturday morning excursions with Auntie had gradually disappeared.

At night, lying awake in bed with her arm cradling the pillow, Sandra longed for the touch of Nick’s lips on hers. Couldn’t he tell? What if she tilted up her face, just as he was about to kiss her forehead – would he dare to kiss her on the lips, even accidentally? Maybe he’d flinch with shock, embarrassed. Oh, horrible thought. But why didn’t he ever hold her hand? Such a nice country boy, so well-mannered, her mother had said.

Drifting into sleep, she imagined Nick striding towards her: his long, lean body, felt hat crammed on his head; the big smile. When he talked about life on Wilga Park, his grey-green eyes had a faraway look, and she pondered how deep his love might be for the family property.

… All our lives have changed, she thought, wriggling into a more comfortable position. I bet Nick goes to a pub with his uni mates. At the pub he’ll still be the Nick who grew up with Angus – mad as a cut snake, someone called him when they’d got drunk at Morgans’ party. Different to the Nick that I know.

Now Angus was dead from the night they crashed the ute on the road to Curradeen, and Nick spent several months in a wheelchair. But Nick won the argument with his father to leave Wilga Park, and was following his dream.

Those final mad, tumultuous weeks had faded away when Emilia arrived for Christmas holidays, bringing a letter from Nick. As Sandra read his few words to say he’d be in Sydney to enrol at university and would visit her, she’d revelled in the idea of seeing him again, conjuring up all the old dreams… her passion for the piano; and the song for Nick that she’d struggled to compose. Shaded with colourful memories of Nick and her visit to Wilga Park, she’d called it Winter’s Day.

At last, here he was: sitting opposite her in the café, stirring several sugars into his tea, felt hat and jacket slung on the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, the corners of his mouth tipped in a smile.

Gathering her courage, Sandra took the score for Winter’s Day from her handbag, laid the pages on the table. ‘I wrote this for you.’ She gave it a little push towards him. ‘I designed the title too.’

Nick raised his eyebrows quizzically, drew the score closer. For a moment he contemplated the filigreed title, flicked to the second page, then he said quietly, ‘Thank you, Sandra. It’s very nice.’

Nice, she thought. Is that all he can say? I’ve wanted to write that song for so long. For so long I’ve had it in my head, wanted it to be as perfect as possible to give to Nick, and all he says is—

‘It’s really nice,’ Nick repeated. ‘No one ever wrote me a song before.’

That was an improvement. Pacified, Sandra tried to smile more enthusiastically, pleased that he even half-way liked it. ‘You read music, so you can play it at the college. There must be pianos there?’

Nick ran a finger along the bars, hummed the first notes. ‘I like how it begins—’

Sandra nodded. ‘It’s Wilga Park,’ she said. ‘I tried to describe the paddocks in the early morning when you ride Toffee to round up the sheep, and how the sun shines on the frost. See there…’ she pointed to the second page, ‘that repeated staccato phrase is hoof beats—’

‘It’s a pretty special present,’ Nick chuckled. ‘From the pretty piano player. You’re a clever girl.’

She laughed with delight; the old nickname he gave me – he hasn’t forgotten. Nick went on: ‘And I can imagine a day at home just like that. You know, sometimes I miss being there, working with my father – mustering the sheep for shearing, and the lambing, Dad and his precious stud books, the sale yards and his temper if the prices weren’t high enough.’

He carefully folded the score, slipping it into his pocket. ‘I’m going to order another pot of tea for us,’ he said. ‘I’m dry as a bone.’

Too soon it was time to leave – they both had study and assignments due. Sandra knew that no matter how long they sat together in a café, wherever they wandered, it always ended the same: Nick would briefly take her hand, then he’d kiss her forehead, right on the spot that had first turned her legs to jelly.

‘Goodbye,’ Nick was saying. He patted his pocket. ‘Thanks again for my song.’ And with that swift, endearing kiss, he was striding towards the bus stop.

♫