Читать книгу Song for Emilia - Julia Osborne - Страница 8

During the first year of their city life in Randwick, the quest for a job in a florist shop, perhaps even a shop of her own, had been a highlight for Sandra’s mother. Next to Angela’s armchair, the magazine rack was stuffed with gardening books and newspapers – job advertisements circled in red.

On Saturday mornings, off she would go, Herald classified pages in her handbag, to visit the possibilities. Debates at the dining table about the profitability of a fresh flower business became so repetitive, Sandra and her younger sister Prue would leave the table at the first opportunity.

However, after twelve months of fruitless excursions, Angela considered shelving the idea. Sandra’s father had originally been supportive, if not exactly enthusiastic. ‘Perhaps it’s a waste of energy,’ Don said consolingly. ‘It seems to me that jobs in a flower-shop are scarce as hens’ teeth.’ A long pause, and he added, ‘It might be best to give up on a shop of your own, dear. It’s not a financial option.’

Sandra suspected it was a relief for both her parents when Angela finally threw all her newspaper clippings into the backyard incinerator.

All this time, Don quietly worked at the bank, returning home to wander the garden in the evening, smoking his pipe on the seat beneath the peach tree. More and more, Sandra noticed that her father kept to himself. He ate his dinner almost in silence, or said, ‘Pass me the pepper, please,’ or ‘Another cup of tea, please dear?’

Later, regarding the family over the top of his newspaper, he would enquire, ‘How was your day?’ not noticing that sometimes no one said much. He’d sit on the couch with Ginger on his lap, the old cat audibly purring, Don’s eyes closed as if he dozed.

Sandra wondered, was he tired, or was he somehow lonely as the family went in different directions in their spare time. Except her father, who had nothing to do outside the bank and occasionally digging the garden with Angela. Did they spend time with each other, or was it always just passing by: knocking elbows in the kitchen, television each night, a quick kiss goodbye as her father left for work? No old friends for dinner, no afternoon tea parties like at the Curradeen bank.

Sometimes after she and Prue went to bed, she heard the mumble of their muted conversation and once, her father’s voice, admitting how he missed his regular golf at the Curradeen club and their golfing friends. They shared a bedroom, and now she was old enough to recognize they were not simply parents but grown-ups with their own private lives, quiet and hidden from view – polite on the surface, enigmatic.

If there was nothing interesting on TV and her piano didn’t beckon, Sandra went to her room to lie on the bed and read. She ploughed through the more than nine hundred pages of Forever Amber, sneaking the novel from Angela’s wardrobe – such a surprise when Auntie gave that book to her mother for Christmas – Angela’s eyebrows had shot up – all that outrageous carrying on in the days of Charles II. Condemned by the church for the many sexual escapades, the story was fascinating and absorbing and shocking, all at once, especially the terrible description of how Amber St Clair saved her lover from the plague: the disgusting oozing flesh, the cries of ‘Bring out your dead.’ Fascinating!

Feeding on the story, Sandra’s musical compositions developed a sensuous lyricism, a progression of chords that Aunt Meredith declared absolutely luscious. Mister L’estrange initially described her pieces as other-worldly and mysterious, and she liked the description.

Prue’s library books left scattered in the lounge room were of myths and legends: witchcraft and spells, vanished kings and queens, crimes and medieval torture chambers. Sandra suspected she liked the mystical side of life. She’d sprung Prue quickly hiding a book beneath her mattress, hissing at Sandra, ‘Don’t tell!’

Sandra snatched the book, holding it away from her sister. ‘Ooh, I like the title, a book of lies – that should suit you. Why is it such a big secret?’

‘You know what Mum’s like. Please don’t say anything.’

‘Don’t be such a baby, of course I won’t.’ She opened the cover, flipping pages. ‘Gosh, it’s an old book... Aleister Crowley, whoever that is. What’s it about?’

Prue looked perplexed. ‘Magic, I think. I don’t understand most of it.’ She grabbed the book from Sandra. ‘But I’m going to find out, you’ll see.’

‘Gee, it’s good to get here,’ Emilia said. ‘That’s the longest trip ever, ’cause men were working on the train line halfway from Curradeen. Nine whole hours! Ooh, my bottom’s sore from sitting—’

Sandra chipped in with a laugh, ‘Come on, I’ll show you where you’re sleeping,’ She lead the way down the hall. ‘Prue’s given you her room while she stays at a girlfriend’s.’

She hoisted Emilia’s suitcase onto the bed. A heavy red suitcase with shiny metal clasps – so different from the old brown port Emilia had lugged to school every day. Sandra took in the changes: a different, very pretty, quite grown-up Emilia, with all the characteristics of her dark-haired, dark- eyed Italian parents. Well, she thought, I did once call her Gina Lollobrigida.

Emilia rolled her eyes as she scanned Prue’s wall of cut-out photos: Buddy Holly, Johnny O’Keefe in his gold jacket, a handsome Ricky Nelson. ‘I like Elvis the Pelvis better than all them ... ’ she remarked. ‘Mamma calls him a bodgie. He’s real dreamy looking, but.’

It was Prue’s room and Sandra was irked by Emilia’s scornful opinion of her posters. ‘They won’t keep you awake,’ she said. ‘Let’s get a glass of cordial—’

‘I’d rather have tea. Mrs Morgan’s mum always makes us a cup of tea when I get home from college.’ Swinging her foot Emilia hummed Return to Sender.

Sandra put teapot and cups on the kitchen table. After their hugs and cheerful greetings, words were hard to find. So much time had passed – two years since she’d waved goodbye to her friend on the train back to Curradeen – an Emilia loaded with shopping from her first visit to Sydney.

As they drank their tea, she began to wonder if it was a mistake to have invited Emilia to stay after New Year. Their lives were so different now, running along different tracks in different cities. Gradually their regular letters had dwindled to one every few weeks. What was there to write about, anyway?

‘Lofty’s going to Melbourne uni, did I tell you? He’s doing a B.A. and he wants to teach.’

‘He’ll be a good teacher,’ Sandra mused. ‘He was always good in school debates and curious about everything.’

Emilia put down her cup. ‘I’ve got some more news,’ she said. ‘You know how I said once I want to help people – people like Nick after his car accident when he couldn’t walk and had to keep going to Melbourne for treatment? When I graduate and go back to Curradeen there’ll be a job for me in the new clinic. They said so.’

This was even worse than Emilia living with Nick’s grandparents in Melbourne. As long as Nick was in Sydney, at least he and Sandra were in the same city. She tried to look interested as Emilia kept on chatting about her plans.

‘Mamma and Pa are very happy about it, because I’ll be back home again. Nonna’s getting real old now and my brothers have gone to work at Gillespie’s, so they’re no help.’

‘That’s good,’ Sandra agreed. ‘Your parents will be happy.’ But I won’t, she thought, feeling dismal. Now Emmy would get to see Nick whenever he drove into town on his holidays.

Meredith’s voice in the phone: ‘We’re having a party!’ Sandra heard her excitement. ‘We want you all to come, and Emilia of course. And why not invite Nick?’

‘That sounds great, Auntie, but Nick’s gone home for the holidays. When’s the party?’

Meredith gave her the date and the time. ‘Don’t bring anything. Oh, a bottle of wine, if your father wants to.’

Angela cheerfully circled the date on the calendar. ‘I’ll bring a plate,’ she insisted, reaching for her recipe book. ‘I’ll ask Meredith ... I can make vol-au-vents, maybe chicken and mushroom.’

For the party, Sandra planned to do her hair like Ann-Margret in Viva Las Vegas, long and wavy, nothing too big, but Emilia back-combed her black hair very high and sprayed it till it set like varnish, leaving the back to sit stiffly on her shoulders.

‘We’ll wear our shifts and heels,’ they decided, spreading their clothes on the bed. Sandra looked with surprise as Emilia pushed her feet into stilettos. ‘How come your mother lets you wear heels that high?’

‘Mamma doesn’t know.’ Emilia gave a cheeky laugh, squirming into her dress. ‘And I’ve got long hems for the farm and short hems for Melbourne. Remember how last visit I made my skirts shorter, then I let them down to go home?’ She turned to the mirror, glancing over her shoulder at the back of her dress. ‘It’s got tight on my bottom,’ she admitted. ‘Well, too bad, it can’t be helped.’

Sandra dug around in the wardrobe and found her kitten heels. They would have to do; there wasn’t time to shop for another pair.

Several cars were already parked along the block. Don regarded Emilia’s pale frosted lipstick, her eyes outlined in black. ‘She looks ill,’ he confided to Angela. But Angela shushed him, whispering, ‘It’s the fashion!’

‘She’s growing into a little bombshell,’ Don laughed. ‘Old man Ferrari better watch out.’

Before they reached Meredith’s gate, they heard the piano, the hubbub of voices. A string of coloured lights decorated the front porch, the crowded hallway lit by candles. Furniture was pushed back to the walls, the rugs rolled up; so many new faces ... friends of Mister L’estrange? Sandra had never met Meredith’s friends – their outings had always been just the two of them.

Emilia’s face glowed with excitement as she surveyed the room. ‘Gee,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’ve never been to a real big party.’

Meredith and Mister L’estrange were playing a duet, crossing their hands over, mixing the parts, till Meredith laughing, said, ‘That’s it, I’m going to see about supper. Keep playing, I can hear in the kitchen.’

Instead, Eric slipped a record onto the turntable, calling, ‘Hey, everybody, Chubby Checkerrrr! Let’s liven up the joint.’

He jumped to the middle of the room, immediately surrounded by dancers, their hips, knees and elbows twisting madly. Emilia joined in, careless of her tight dress, while Sandra watched with amusement from where she stood by the record player. When the song was over, someone flicked it to play again, and again the frantic twist filled the room.

Another record began, and she recognized the slow, teasing start to Mambo Italiano. She longed for Nick to be with her tonight, to dance with her, and only her. The tempo increased, and in an instant, Mister L’estrange had grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the noisy throng. Singing to the music, he turned her to-and-fro, until realizing her confusion, he put his arm around her waist, taking her unwilling hand in his.

Over his shoulder, she saw Aunt Meredith, glass in hand, watching the dancers: Meredith stunning in a pencil skirt, a black sleeveless top; jade beads around her neck, red hair drawn into a topknot.

‘Go go Joe ...’ he sang happily. ‘Meredith looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?’

When Sandra banged a foot into his shoe, he pulled her tighter. ‘Syncopated rhythm,’ he said with a wink. She stiffened at the unexpected closeness of his body, and as they danced into the kitchen in time to the final notes, he released his hold, leaving her propped beside the sink as he dashed back to the lounge room.

‘Eric’s such a good dancer,’ Meredith said. ‘You did very well, considering.’

Considering what, exactly? Sandra felt she’d looked silly, wished he’d left her alone.

In the crowded kitchen, Angela unwrapped a tea towel from her plate of pastries, putting it with the other supper dishes.

‘A bottle of claret for you, Meredith,’ Don said, adding the wine to a collection of bottles.

‘Thank you both very much.’ Meredith retrieved dishes from the oven, setting them among hors d’oeuvres and salads. She poured an orange juice each for Sandra and Emilia, topping their glasses with champagne. ‘Oops, you girls ... not quite old enough I think?’

‘I’ll be eighteen in April,’ Sandra protested. ‘But Emmy won’t be eighteen till July.’

‘Near enough,’ Emilia said. ‘No one’s going to know.’

Meredith had already turned to the guests, ‘Supper’s in the kitchen,’ she announced. ‘Come and get it!’

Auntie’s so glamorous, Sandra thought, tasting her wine – no wonder Mister L’estrange is in love with her. Some people were dancing a cha-cha, hips swivelling, Eric changing partners at random, and Sandra saw with interest how Emilia followed his every move, eyes narrowed over the rim of her glass.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ she whispered to Sandra. ‘Lucky Meredith. Those black eyes. I can see why you like him. Next to him, other boys are boring—’

Sandra interrupted. ‘Not Nick. Nick’s never boring.’

‘Second-best,’ Emilia added rudely. ‘Come on, I’m going to get more bubbles.’

Exchanging secret smiles, they quickly filled their glasses with champagne, camouflaged with orange juice.

‘What are these little rolled-up bacon things, do you think?’ Emilia asked, investigating a plate of savouries.

‘Angels on horseback,’ a woman answered, helping herself to several.

‘Oh, cute!’ Seizing one, Emilia popped the entire morsel into her mouth, chewed once, and her eyes and cheeks bulged with horror. Gagging, she abandoned her plate and ran for the bathroom.

Amused, the woman explained: ‘Grilled bacon wrapped around a fat little oyster, simply delicious. She’ll spit it out, I suppose.’

Slipping back to the lounge room, Emilia smothered a giggle. ‘I spewed! That was the worst thing ever—’ She pulled a disgusted face, then kicked off her shoes to wiggle and shake among the dancers.

Show-off, Sandra thought, sipping her wine, enjoying the fuzzy sensation that made her light-headed, in a floaty, pleasant way. She wished her parents would dance together like at the Denalbo bush dance, happily twirling around the hall, that lovely night she’d danced for a moment with Nick in a barn dance, changing partners all too soon.

The party became quieter as people helped themselves to supper and moved to the courtyard, dining room, or perched on kitchen stools. Eric was playing piano again – a boogie-woogie Baby Face, Meredith sharing the seat.

Past midnight, guests began to depart – waving goodbye, singing into the night as Meredith laughingly called, ‘Shsssh, you’ll wake the neighbours.’

Sandra couldn’t see her parents anywhere – maybe in the courtyard where conversation ebbed and flowed. Emilia was asleep on the couch, face squashed into a cushion.

Into the almost-deserted lounge room Sandra heard the singular sound of violins. No one else was dancing and Meredith and Eric held each other close. His arm around her, Meredith’s hand on his shoulder, they stood toe-to-toe, listening for the melody to begin. Then slowly stepping, turning, gliding, their steps mirroring each other’s, they danced a tango, Meredith’s cheek brushing Eric’s as they stepped to the side, to swing around each other, perfectly balanced.

Watching her aunt and Mister L’estrange absorbed in each other’s embrace, Sandra wondered at her own indefinable emotion ... her impossible desire to dance like this with Nick, nestled against his shoulder, oblivious to the world.

The rhythm changed from the earlier dramatic key to a lighter, yet equally yearning melody, and a couple joined in, woozily improvising. At the end of the record, Eric tipped Meredith back in his arms, kissing her to loud applause.

Emilia sat up, bleary-eyed, her dress with sweaty armholes, hair a dishevelled nest. Sandra fished her shoes from under the couch, then leaving Emilia to thoroughly wake up, she searched for Meredith, determined to reinforce the fact that Auntie and Mister L’estrange were together. Eventually he would move in with her, his books, his paintings; his beloved piano. Vaguely, she wondered where he would give his lessons.

Eric had returned to the piano. Hands loose on his knees, eyes half-shut, he paused as if to consider ... then with a little shake of his fingers, he began to play. Slow, slow, repeated pianissimo phrases gradually building in a crescendo. Sandra had never heard this piece before, and curious, she joined her aunt beside the piano. With a smile, Meredith put her arm around her, cuddled her close. Eric flung them a grin as he theatrically rippled the notes. His foot rhythmical on the pedal, the melody rose and fell, now treble, now bass, at times his right hand suspending the beat. The pianissimo phrases returned, built again in a crescendo that unbidden, carrying her back to the long-ago day she lay alone and dreaming on his bed. He was in England, she was only there to feed the kitten. She’d done her best to forget him – he was Aunt Meredith’s. He loved Meredith. The delicate aching phrases again, and again the engulfing crescendo. She’d been stupid ... stupid, stupid stupid. Deliberate big chords, the repeated phrases ... she’d meant nothing to him – his pupil, a kid, nothing more. No, she wasn’t jealous, Sandra had insisted so many times ... she was over her crush, grown up. Emilia had said he was gorgeous – well yes, she thought so too, and what was wrong with that? Angrily shaking her head, she closed her eyes as with a final crescendo fading to softness, the music ended.

‘You’re brilliant, darling,’ Meredith kissed the top of Eric’s head, her hand on his cheek. ‘That was delicious.’

‘Time to go, I think we’re the last to leave.’ Don and Angela already waited at the door. ‘Simply lovely party, Meredith dear,’ Angela said, as Emilia tottered beside them, and Sandra kissed Meredith goodbye, avoiding Mister L’estrange, lest by some weird design, he guessed how his music had affected her.

Don closed the gate with a soft click. Behind them, as they walked to the car, the coloured lights switched off, returning the street to lamp-lit shadows.

From down the hallway where Emilia lay asleep in Prue’s bedroom, Sandra could hear her snores.

Dawn lit the sky before she finally slept, and it seemed like only five minutes passed before the sun poked an irritating light through the slats of her venetian blind.

Angela knocked on the door. ‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine ...’ Regardless of Sandra’s closed eyes, she flipped open the blind and sat on the bed. ‘What a lovely party – we had so much fun, didn’t we?’

Sandra rolled over, squinting through slit eyes. ‘Muuum, do we have to wake up? It’s too early.’

‘It’s eight o’clock. We want to take you girls on a picnic. Emilia’s leaving tomorrow, and we should do something special for her last day.’

‘Ask Emmy. Maybe she’d rather do something else ...maybe just with me.’

Sandra pulled the sheet over her face, and waited for her mother to get up and leave the room. She knew Emilia wanted to go to the beach again – she wouldn’t want to go on a picnic with Sandra’s mother and father – a whole day out, eating sandwiches off plastic plates in a park somewhere? Uuurggh.

A thump came from Prue’s room. Unless Emilia had fallen out of bed, she must’ve got up. Wrapping her dressing gown around her, Sandra went to check.

‘Ooh, Sandy, look at my hair!’ Emilia made a face at her reflection. ‘How ever will I fix it?’

Sandra fingered a stiff hank of lacquered curl. ‘Wash it in a hot shower?’

Emilia vanished to the bathroom, to emerge some time later with her hair wrapped in a towel.

‘You look very regal, Emmy,’ Sandra giggled. ‘Nefertiti, the queen of Egypt.’

Emilia didn’t reply, but took off the towel and began to laboriously comb out the tangle.

After watching the torture for a couple of minutes, Sandra took her comb, saying, ‘Here, let me try.’ Slowly and carefully, she combed the damp hair, occasionally pulling a strand, with an Ouch! from Emilia.

‘Do you want to go to the beach?’ Sandra asked. ‘Mum said they want to take us on a picnic.’

Emilia was crestfallen. ‘Do we have to? It’s my last chance to go to the beach for a while.’

‘I told Mum you’d rather go out, the two of us, okay?’

After breakfast, they gathered their hats and swimmers, taking a tote bag with towels and a bottle of suntan oil, Jackie Kennedy sunglasses perched on their noses. Angela drove them to Bronte, telling them to sit under the shady trees and not to get sunburnt.

‘Don’t get sunburnt!’ repeated Emilia. ‘That’s exactly what I want ... I want to get tanned all over, not all patchy like when I worked in Pa’s vegie garden.’

To Sandra’s surprise, Emilia wore a bikini. Although she was slimmer, her curves nevertheless overflowed slightly, and she constantly hitched at the top.

‘I bet your father doesn’t know you wear that,’ Sandra said. Her own bikini was more like a two piece, and definitely more secure.

‘Shit no! Pa would rather I wore black, neck-to-knee.’ Emilia screwed up her nose, reaching for the suntan oil bottle.

Slathered in coconut oil they raced into the water, dodging among bathers, Emilia immediately disappearing under a wave, to emerge grabbing at her top as it threatened to slide off.

‘Golly,’ she said. ‘I better watch out or I’m going to lose something.’

Sandra noticed that several young men were watching them. The first swim Emilia had at Bondi two years ago, she’d flirted enthusiastically with the boys who swam around them both, but today she wasn’t interested, flinging the group a scornful glance.

‘Idiots, they’re only looking at my bikini.’

‘And the rest!’ Sandra said. ‘Every time you come up from a wave, you look like you’ll lose your top. They’re all waiting.’

‘They’ll be disappointed,’ Emilia sniffed, and returning to their towels, she pulled on a tee-shirt, smirking at the young men as she dived back into the surf.

Later as they lay in the sun, Emilia said, ‘I drank a lot of bubbles last night. Did you, too?’

‘Not like you.’ Sandra spread oil on her arms and legs, smearing more oil onto Emilia’s back. ‘You looked really tipsy when you went to sleep on the couch.’

‘How embarrassing,’ Emilia sighed. ‘But it was a fantastic party. ‘Ooh, Mister L’estrange is so divine. No wonder you’ve got a crush—’

‘No, I don’t any more,’ Sandra said emphatically. ‘He’s with Auntie now, and they’re madly in love.’

‘That’s obvious. Maybe they’ll have beautiful babies.’

‘Gosh, I hadn’t thought of that. Isn’t she too old?

‘Back where my parents come from, even old ladies in their forties have babies.’

‘That’s Italy – maybe they can’t get the Pill over there.’

It was an interesting notion: Aunt Meredith with a baby? But first Sandra had to get used to the idea of them being together, and Mister L’estrange hadn’t moved in yet.

‘Let’s get an icecream?’ Sandra was on her feet already, sunhat jammed on her wet hair. ‘I can feel my skin getting tight, I know I’m burning.’

The little shop was busy and they waited to be served, the pavement getting increasingly hot under their sandals. Running into the park, they sighed with relief to lick their rapidly melting icecream cones under the trees.

After dinner they sat in the garden trickling the hose over their feet. Sandra touched Emilia’s shoulder. ‘You’ve gone really red. Does it hurt?’

‘A bit. That tomato didn’t do any good. My back feels worse.’

‘Mine too. We’ll put on some baby oil before bed.’

‘I love Bondi and Bronte,’ Emilia said. ‘Where I live now, I can only go to the local pool, and that’s not so much fun.’

‘Do you like living there?’

‘Yep. I like Mrs Morgan’s parents – they’re real nice to me. Pa wouldn’t have let me go to Melbourne if I didn’t have somewhere good to stay. I like my course, and it’s not too far to go home for holidays.’

As Emilia spoke, it wasn’t hard to feel jealous, but Sandra brushed it off. Nick had returned to Wilga Park after his exams... it was weeks since she’d seen him. He’d almost become a dream, leaving a little hole in her heart.

‘Lucky thing, to live away from home,’ she said. ‘Do you go out much?’

‘Not much, just sometimes to the pictures with girl friends.’

‘I’ll miss you when you go tomorrow. At school, my only real friend was Carol, and now she’s at teachers’ college I don’t see her much. I know a few students at the Con – there’s a nice boy called Billy studying saxophone—’

‘Ooh,’ Emilia crowed, eyes narrowed. ‘A nice boy called Billy?’

‘He’s just in my year, so don’t get any ideas. He’s keen to play in a club and he asked if I’d be interested.’

Sandra’s best friend at the Conservatorium had turned out to be Billy. She liked his easy company, their talk always about music. The idea of a duo was tempting.

‘What’s he look like?’

‘He’s very tall with sort of ginger hair—’

‘Urk, a carrot-top ... he’s probably all freckly.’ Emilia dismissed him with a laugh. ‘Remember the pact we made?’

‘Of course I do,’ Sandra replied. ‘To always be best friends, for ever and ever – boys excluded.’

‘So, what about you and Nick?’

While she wondered how to answer this delicate question, Sandra looked across the garden. Her mother’s beans had raced up the wire trellis, and along the fence she’d grown tall flowering plants with forgettable names. So many seed packets littered the kitchen bench – delphiniums, maybe.

She hosed a mosquito off her leg. ‘I don’t know. I wish I could see him more often. We go to a café now and then, or to the pictures, that’s about all.’

It sounded very threadbare to Sandra. Well, that was about all, wasn’t it, she told herself. Nick was like a shadow, only visible when the sun shone, and it didn’t shine often enough for her.

Angela called them through the kitchen window: ‘Dinner’s on the table, girls.’

As they stood up, their clothes pulled on their sunburnt skin. ‘Gosh,’ Sandra said. ‘We’re going to peel and look terrible.’

‘No, we won’t,’ Emilia grinned, flicking newly silken curls off her face. ‘We’ll look like two water-babies who had a wonderful day at the beach.’

Dinner was quiet, and both Sandra and Emilia felt sleepy soon after they finished.

‘Off you go,’ Angela said. ‘I’ll let you off the washing-up tonight.’

Despite Sandra’s worries, Emilia’s visit had ended peacefully, all their chatter bridging whatever gaps had opened between them. They hugged goodnight, but instead of immediately going to bed, they lay beside each other on the top sheet, talking about everything they’d already talked about a hundred times, until Angela whispered at the door that it was nearly midnight.

They kissed goodnight, and Emilia touched the small china angel on the dressing table – her present to Sandra two Christmases ago. ‘My little angel will look after you while you’re asleep.’

‘She’s the first thing I see when I wake up,’ Sandra replied sleepily. ‘I love my little angel.’

‘Sssh,’ came Angela’s voice again, from down the hallway.

Tomorrow the train would whisk Emilia off to Curradeen – the long journey home to stay with her family before the study year began.

Eyes closed, vaguely dreaming, Sandra heard the regular rhythm of the train as it picked up speed on the tracks to the western line, Emilia’s handkerchief waving out the window ...

Goodbye, goodbye.

Blue sky and a bright March sun gave the day a holiday feel, although it was only a weekend.

Prue’s face wore a grumpy expression as she plumped down on Sandra’s bed. ‘How come you never want to do anything with me, anymore,’ she complained. ‘You had plenty of time when Emilia was here.’

Sandra didn’t look up from her desk. ‘I’m working, go away.’

Prue ignored her rebuke. ‘Not even draughts or Scrabble—’

‘Are you deaf?’ Really, Prue could be tiresome ...

‘We never ride our bikes anywhere, even when—’

‘Ha, you’ve crashed your bike three times already and gone to hospital. No wonder Dad locked up your bike. All you do now is hang about with your girlfriends and go to the Stadium.’

‘At least I’m having fun. Better than you stuck at home all weekend scribbling songs. Monopoly, one game?’

‘I don’t want to play Monopoly. Or any game.’ Head bent over her score again, Sandra tried to recollect where she’d got up to. It was already a difficult composition.

When Sandra continued to ignore her, Prue said, ‘I’m getting the bus out to The Gap. Want to come with me?’

Sandra didn’t immediately answer. It wasn’t too far in the bus to Watson’s Bay, and it would save her from her desk for the day. The invitation had a certain appeal.

‘All right, let me finish this.’

Prue stretched out on the bed, hands behind her head, jiggling her foot. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘but even though I’ve got plenty to do and I’ve got heaps of friends, I sort of miss how we used to ride our bikes out to the creek.’

Sandra was surprised by this admission of sentiment from Prue, usually so self-contained. ‘I miss it too,’ she confessed. ‘Emilia’s still my best friend, but I don’t see anyone much now I’ve left school.’

‘I liked how sometimes we caught yabbies. Remember?’

‘Yes, and then we’d let them go.’

‘You used to feed those horses and pretend they were yours.’

‘Mmm,’ Sandra mumbled, concentrating on her melodic line.

Prue picked through the books on the bedside table. She held one up. ‘What’s this about?’

A quick glance, and Sandra said, ‘Mendelssohn’s life story, you wouldn’t like it. Now, will you be quiet?’

Prue hummed to herself, reading a page. ‘It says here his sister Fanny – that’s a funny name – composed songs and she played piano, too.’

‘So did Mozart’s sister. Shut up for five minutes.’

Prue sighed. ‘I’m supposed to work harder at school ...I wish I could’ve left after the Intermediate.’

‘Don’t be a wimp.’

‘Look who’s talking.’

With an exaggerated sigh, Sandra folded the score with its squiggly quavers, crochets and chords, and dropped her pencil into the box. ‘There’s nothing wimpy about studying at the Con – we don’t just sit around and play tunes all day.’

As if Sandra hadn’t spoken, Prue said: ‘In class yesterday, I had to read Lady Macbeth’s part, where she says ...if she’d sworn to do it, she’d tear her baby’s mouth off her nipple and dash his brains out. Nipple! I had to read nipple. I bet all the kids were glad it was me and not them.’

Sandra laughed, imagining Prue’s unaccustomed embarrassment. At least a bus trip to The Gap was something different. Her life had been strangely quiet since Aunt Meredith and Mister L’estrange fell in love.

The bus emptied many of its passengers near the harbour-side beaches, then continued up the hill and along the road towards The Gap.

At first they leaned their elbows on the fence. Beyond, the cliffs dropped down down and down to the rocks below. Sandra felt a creepy sensation knowing that this was a favourite place for sad, desperate people to jump to their deaths. Or be pushed. A year ago when they’d first visited The Gap together and leaned on the fence like today, Prue admitted to enjoying this feeling – the thrill of anticipation, imagining the leap ...

‘I’m climbing the fence,’ Prue said. ‘My favourite pozzy’s over there.’ She pointed southwards, to a narrow sandstone ledge beyond the ragged cliff-top grass and wind-beaten bushes.

Projecting a short distance from the cliff face, it filled Sandra with horror. ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘It looks too dangerous.’

‘I’ve often done it.’ Prue slipped through the fence. ‘Be a sook if you want to.’ She walked along the cliff top, to sit on the stone ledge, feet hanging over the sea.

Cross at the old accusation, Sandra followed her, hands and feet tingling with apprehension. Aunt Meredith would be appalled. As for her parents – their mother would have a heart attack. This thought gave her a false courage, and she sidled over to sit beside Prue. Far below the waves frothed dark and fathomless against the darker rocks. Perhaps it would seem less menacing when morning sunlight sparkled on the cliff face, lighting its colours. If she stared down into it long enough, would it would begin to beckon ...was that what people called vertigo?

For a while they sat in silence, swinging their legs as they watched the swell gush in and out among the rocks.

‘What’s it like to jump off, do you think?’ Prue asked. ‘You’d have to be a bit mad, wouldn’t you?’

Sandra contemplated the question. Aunt Meredith had described how her boyfriend William had been a bit mad when he came back from the Korean War, but he hadn’t meant to get run over. Auntie told her how William had nightmares, and walked the streets around Bronte half the night – till he got hit by a tram in the early dawn light. It was an accident, wasn’t it? She hated how her own questions bounced back at her.

Before she could answer Prue, behind them, somewhere back on the road, they heard a voice call. It called again, urgent: ‘Hey, you! You girls!’

Turning her head, Sandra saw a man hurrying across the road towards them, his voice more anxious with every step.

‘Come off that cliff, girls. Quickly and quietly now.’ He stood at the fence, hands on hips.

He seemed so worried, Sandra said, ‘Something’s up. We’d better do as he says.’

Prue gave a snort, but inched back from the edge, swinging her feet onto the grass. They climbed back through the fence, to stand regarding the man whose face showed immense relief.

‘What on earth—’ he began. ‘It’s sandstone, don’t you know? A soft stone. Where you were sitting, bold as brass enjoying the afternoon sun, the weather can eat out the stone underneath, wearing it away. Sometimes big chunks can suddenly fall into the sea.’ His face softened with relief. ‘Please, will you never, never do that again.’

Sandra shivered as she understood what he meant. She looked back at the ledge where they’d sat, saw how the wind and weather had begun to wear a hollow beneath it. Maybe in years to come, or maybe tomorrow, that ledge would crack, tumbling broken rocks down into the sea.

As they walked back to the bus stop, ‘How would he know?’ Prue scowled. ‘Silly old man.’

‘He lives over the road, so he’d know,’ Sandra replied. ‘Maybe he watches everything, to save people from jumping off The Gap. Anyway, I believe him.’

‘Maybe he thought we’d made a suicide pact,’ Prue said. ‘Hold hands. Jump off the cliff together.’

Sandra glanced sideways at her sister. ‘You say such stupid things.’

But later she worried, listening to the records Prue played in her bedroom, the portable turntable spinning songs of loss and anguish. Heartbreak Hotel ad infinitum.

♫