Читать книгу Song for Emilia - Julia Osborne - Страница 9

Don and Angela returned to their comfortable armchairs after dinner. When Rawhide finished, the house relaxed in a mood of peace and quiet: a beautiful evening, warm enough for cicadas to sing. Tonight there wasn’t any argument about whose turn to wash or dry the dishes, and washing up done, Sandra and Prue went to their bedrooms to read or finish homework.

Don breathed out a little cloud of smoke, tapping his pipe on the ashtray. ‘Since we moved to Sydney, we’ve spent all our holidays at home. I’ve been thinking maybe we should do something different.’

‘Now we live near the beach, it’s not as if—’

‘Angela, dear,’ Don said, ‘it hasn’t been easy for me. You know the new branch is a big workload, and it’ll get worse with decimal currency coming in ’66. I’d like to get out of the city at least for part of my holiday, breathe some bush air again for a week or so.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘We can drive down the coast, then go inland to Adaminaby and Lake Eucumbene. The whole Snowy hydro scheme will be fun to visit and an education for the girls. The lake must have filled by now. We can camp, or stay in cabins or a motel. How about it?’

‘I’ll leave it for you to investigate,’ Angela said. Really, she would rather stay at home. The garden needed attention – the new zucchinis might die in her absence. Disappointed at the thought, she agreed. ‘It sounds a very nice idea.’

In her nightdress, Sandra came from the kitchen with a glass of milk. ‘What sounds a nice idea?’

‘Your father wants to take us on a holiday to Lake Eucumbene, before school goes back.’

‘Why do we want to go to some old lake out in the country? We can have our holiday at home,’ Sandra said, innocently echoing her mother’s opinion.

‘It’s a new lake,’ Don said. ‘Part of the grand Snowy Mountains scheme for hydro-electricity. You’ve heard how to make way for the dam, almost every building in Adaminaby, even a church, was moved by truck or picked apart and rebuilt brick by brick and stone by stone. Now the lake is famous, people can go fishing for trout—’

‘Dad, we don’t go fishing for trout, or anything, ever!’ Sandra heard herself whinge. ‘I’ve got things I want to do.’

‘Now now,’ Angela interrupted. ‘Those things will still be here when you get home.’

‘Great,’ Sandra muttered. ‘Drowned houses. Sounds terrific fun.’ Then an idea occurred to her, a brilliant idea. Her father would never dream of leaving the cat! ‘What about Ginger?’ She watched her father’s face. ‘We can’t just leave him alone with bowls of food.’

Don hadn’t thought about the cat and he frowned. ‘Perhaps we can find someone to mind him,’ he suggested, sounding doubtful.

‘Why Lake Eucumbene?’ Angela asked. ‘If you want to go bush for a week, why not go back to Curradeen?’

He hadn’t thought of that, either. ‘Curradeen? I suppose—’

Suddenly excited, Sandra leaped at the chance. ‘That’s a great idea, Dad. Why not go back to Curradeen, and I can come with you. The next uni break in June?’ And, she thought, Nick will be at home too. Nick, at Wilga Park! ‘I can stay with Emilia—’ her words were falling over themselves.

‘You could stay with one of our golfing friends.’ Angela got up to fill the kettle, relieved that another option had unexpectedly arisen. ‘You know how you miss your golf,’ she said. ‘Prue and Ginger and I can stay here, and you two can have a nice time in the country.’

Don brightened. ‘You’re right. I’ll take some time off now, and the rest of my leave I’ll add to the Queen’s birthday weekend. My goodness, a week of golf ... ’ He leaned back in his armchair, satisfied with the outcome.

‘Anyway,’ he said, as if in conclusion, ‘with such a widespread drought, water in the lake might be quite low – all those dead trees poking out of the water.’

Gleeful, Sandra took her glass of milk back to the bedroom. This was getting better and better. She opened the zipped writing case she’d got for Christmas, and took out her pen. A letter to Emilia, plus a letter to Nick: Dear Nick, my father and I are going on a holiday together, and we’ll be coming to Curradeen for a few days over the uni study break. Will you be home then?

Up at dawn on their day of departure, Sandra shoved an extra pair of socks into her suitcase. Nights in June could be cold out west, so an extra jumper ... slacks, skivvies, jeans and desert boots, her beanie. They’d be gone for a week, so better be ready for everything.

Angela was already up and had put breakfast on the table. The kitchen smelled of bacon and eggs.

‘Let’s eat and hit the road,’ Don said with a big smile as he stowed his golf bag in the boot beside their suitcases.

Prue hadn’t cared about going to Curradeen, saying she’d rather visit her friends – the ‘gang of girls’ as her mother called them. Goody, Sandra thought. We’ve never done anything like this before. Just me and Dad. And Nick at Wilga Park.

The rising sun was behind them as they reached the open road travelling west. Angela had packed a box with morning tea and a thermos, and they knew where to find the best Chinese café for lunch, from their countless journeys to Sydney. It would be dark before they reached their old town.

‘Father and daughter, eh?’ Don remarked as they left behind the city traffic. ‘An adventure.’

Sandra nodded, happy for her father. He loved his golf and hadn’t played since they arrived in Randwick. This was going to be better than some silly old lake, she thought. I don’t care how important it is or how big it is. We’re going to Curradeen, and it’s all going to be wonderful.

As the miles ticked over, she recalled her letter to Nick. Their last afternoon together was weeks ago. Now he was home for uni break, and he’d made a suggestion that was so delicious, she took his letter out of her handbag for the sheer pleasure of reading it for the thousandth time.

Dear Sandra,

Thanks for your letter. It’s a great idea for you & your father to visit. I’ll be home over the study break. There’s a lot for you to see on our place that will be new to you. I’ll get Toffee back from where she’s agisted & we’ve got a nice, quiet horse for you, so we’ll have that ride I promised.

He’d remembered his promise ... at the polocrosse match, at least three years ago – the unforgettable day they’d first met.

Mum still has the old piano of course, some things don’t change, & you can play Winter’s Day for us, & maybe some more of the compositions you’ve told me about. Have a safe trip, it’s a long drive. Don’t I know it!

‘Yours, Nick,’ she whispered. Oh Nick, whenever I see you everything seems to go better.

She slid the letter back in its envelope. For a while, they drove in silence, winding up and up the road to the Blue Mountains. The sun was high, and as they arrived in Katoomba, Don said, ‘Morning tea time, Sandy. Shall we say hello to the Three Sisters?’

‘Oh yes, we always stop there. I like to imagine what it was like when the first explorers crossed it, like Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth. To walk and walk and suddenly come to that enormous cliff, and a valley, blue as blue.’

Don poured the tea into plastic cups. ‘You should write a story about it. Or a song?’

‘Yes! A landscape song. The blueness of the valley ... I love the line of sandstone cliffs in the distance,’ Sandra said, scattering crumbs from a biscuit. ‘And I want to write a song for Emilia too, because she’s still my best friend.’

‘What a nice idea. How’s the study going these days?’

‘Good. My tutor said now I’ve done eighth grade piano, I should think about sitting the A.Mus.A. exam – the Associate Diploma in Music.’

‘Really? You haven’t mentioned it. That’s a very good qualification.’

Sandra had been silent on her progress since being accepted at the Conservatorium. Busy with studying piano and composition, she was flying through the work. Restless, she badly wanted to put into practice all she’d learned, and longed to spend the time at her piano – filling her score sheets, filling her box of compositions – unfettered.

‘Enrolments for the exam close soon ... I’m not sure.’ She packed the empty cups back in the box with the thermos. ‘I think I’d rather just study.’

‘A few days away might help you decide. Talk to Mum and me about it.’

Don started the car and they drove up the hill to the township, and on to the highway. ‘Next stop Blayney. Do you think we can find our favourite café again?

‘You know,’ he said, the lines around his mouth framing a smile. ‘I feel better already. Your mother was right, I needed a holiday!’

A lowering sun dazzled on the windscreen as they began the last long miles of their journey. Wallaby grass grew by the roadside, eucalypts and casuarinas. Drought was creeping across the countryside, and beyond the boundary fences, paddocks were brown with winter grass; here and there the dark shapes of cattle. Soon they would be in sheep country. Soon they would arrive at Curradeen.

Don parked at the gate to Ferrari’s Farm as Emilia came running out the door, curls bouncing.

Squeezing Sandra tightly, she cried, ‘Sandy! I’m so happy you’re here, I could burst.’

Mrs Ferrari gathered Sandra into her arms, exclaiming, ‘Ooh, look at you, bella, bella ragazza, all grown up, such a long time since you visit.’ She kissed her on each cheek. ‘I miss my girl, too, now she is so clever to study in Melbourne.’

Don shook his head at the offer of a cup of tea, and as they waved goodbye, Emilia took Sandra by the arm. ‘Come and say hello to Nonna. She’s been waiting to see you, and she’s cooked a real nice dinner especially.’

Emilia’s grandmother sat in her usual chair in the kitchen, exactly as Sandra remembered her: the same black scarf covered her hair, the familiar long skirt. She put down her knitting with a happy sigh. ‘Benvenuta, mia cara.’ Eyes shining, she clasped Sandra to her, adding many more indecipherable words to her greeting.

‘She says, Welcome, dear,’ Emilia translated. ‘Plus some words I couldn’t understand, she’s very glad you’re here.’

‘Tell her I still wear the scarf she knitted for my birthday.’

After a voluble translation to her grandmother, Emilia said, ‘Now you’ve got to come and see my bedroom. It’s always real messy, but I fixed it up for you.’

The bedroom wasn’t as crowded as when Sandra last stayed, and an extra bed easily fitted in. Emilia had tidied away ornaments that previously overflowed from every available space – china animals, toys, comics and holy pictures; bangles and beads. Sandra picked up a framed photo of them both in their school uniforms. ‘That was in second year,’ she said. ‘I was so skinny.’

Emilia sat on the bed, brushing her long, thick gloss of black curls. ‘Sit next to me and I’ll brush yours, too,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, and we’re going to have so much fun just like we used to do.’

Sandra sat beside her, yielding to the gentle brush. ‘Your hair’s real pretty,’ Emilia said. ‘Do you remember my visit to you after the Intermediate, and all those icecreams your auntie bought us? I came home so fat.’

‘We ate so many pastries,’ Sandra said. ‘But now Aunt Meredith’s going with Mister L’estrange, I don’t do things like that any more.’

As if reading her mind, Emilia asked, ‘Do you still like him?’

‘You know I don’t. That was just dopey. A stupid crush.’

‘Ooh, but you were mad about him. He’s very attractive, like a gypsy. I’d have gone for him too.’ Emilia hugged herself. ‘I would’ve eaten him all up.’

Looking at Emilia curled on the bed – her rosy lips, her round white knees – Sandra didn’t doubt it. As for herself, her bedroom mirror informed Sandra that she looked quite pretty, but she felt sure her face was never going to launch a thousand ships, and although she’d grown, she still felt a squib beside other girls.

‘So it’s all about Nick now?’ Emilia persisted.

What could she say? When she phoned Nick to say they’d arrived in town, he’d immediately invited Sandra to visit, and her father would drive her out to Wilga Park in a day or two. Late in the afternoon, Nick would take her back to the Ferrari’s. Maybe then, she’d finally discover how Nick felt about her. If not, she might as well forget him.

Emilia continued to tell her stories: ‘I told you Lofty’s in Melbourne—’ When Sandra didn’t immediately answer, waiting for more, she said: ‘He’s nice, now that he’s older.’

‘He was so annoying the way he followed us around at school, making silly faces.’

‘Because he liked you,’ Emilia giggled. ‘But after you left town, he used to walk me home from school, and he’s taller now.’

‘Lofty will always be Lofty, even when he wanted to get called Warwick.’ Sandra said, tired of hearing about Lofty. ‘What about Roger, who worked on your father’s vegetable garden?’

‘Roger joined the army.’ Emilia gave a snort of laughter. ‘It was funny how he kissed me when I wasn’t looking—’

‘How can anyone kiss you when you’re not looking?’ That was too silly to contemplate, and they collapsed in a fit of giggles.

Emilia borrowed a bicycle for Sandra, and they cycled in all the old, familiar directions: the pioneer cemetery where they wandered among the weather-worn gravestones, and to the creek a few miles out of town, but dry weather had sucked up all the water and only stones remained beneath drooping trees.

‘Miss Brooks might be home,’ Sandra puffed, as they pedalled back to town on the dirt road. ‘I know last time her house looked like she’d gone for good, but can we see?’

On her last visit, Sandra had discovered her unopened letter lay eaten by snails in the letterbox, and only weeds choking the garden. Her old music teacher was such a treasure, and Sandra had been deeply disappointed not to be able to talk about her new teacher, perhaps even to play a new piece for her.

They cycled along the road leading to the row of weatherboard cottages. The front door was open, letting in morning sunshine. Poppies flowered scarlet, pink and yellow along the path to the veranda. Miss Brooks was at home!

‘Dear lass,’ Miss Brooks spoke in her soft northern English accent as she embraced Sandra. ‘I said I’d never go back because all my family there were dead, but you know, that’s just what I did – one last visit to my old home.’

Sandra and Emilia followed her along the hallway, past the music room where she’d taught Sandra for five years, and into the kitchen. Miss Brooks put on the jug to boil, setting out fine china tea cups patterned with roses and violets.

‘Now you must tell me what you’ve been up to,’ she said.

As they sipped their tea, Sandra told her about the pieces she’d studied. ‘I didn’t like my new teacher at first, he was so rude,’ she said. ‘I kept thinking of you, and wishing you could still teach me.’

‘I got lots of letters grumbling about him,’ Emilia joined in.

Miss Brooks tut-tutted. ‘You’re a lovely pianist, Sandra, any teacher would have recognized that.’

‘He was so different with his long hair and he’s got an earring – it gave Mum a shock – but he’s such a good teacher, now she likes him too. And he encourages me to write my own compositions.’

As Sandra rambled on with interruptions from Emilia, Miss Brooks nodded, making a remark now and then: ‘I see,’ or sometimes, ‘Well, well, well.’

Finally, she said, ‘You must play for me, Sandra. Why not Clair de Lune,’ like you played at our concert? I’d love to hear that again. I’ll find my music—’

‘I don’t need the score,’ Sandra said. ‘Since you taught it to me, I practised and practised.’ Settling herself at the familiar piano, Sandra played the quiet opening bars ... the brilliant arpeggios unfurling as her fingers flickered up and down the keyboard, to end with an echo of the first pianissimo notes, then the final, wonderful chord.

‘I remember that tune,’ Emilia cried, breaking the spell.

‘Better than ever,’ Miss Brooks said. ‘Now, dear lass, I must tell you something.

At Miss Brooks’ request, Sandra poured more tea, emptying the pot. Her music teacher smiled, but there was sadness in her face. To Sandra, Miss Brooks had always been old, but today she noticed the deeper lines, and on her neck, veins showed blue beneath her papery skin, as if she was slowly becoming transparent.

‘I’m going quite deaf.’ Miss Brooks gave a little sigh. ‘First it was just my left ear, but now I have great trouble hearing people speak, and I’ve lost all the top notes in my music.’

Sandra didn’t know what to say. Miss Brooks, deaf? Her life had been immersed in music, and now, to lose all that, bit by bit? So she couldn’t have properly heard Clair de Lune. Near tears, her throat ached, and she impulsively reached for Miss Brooks’ hand, felt the strong, bony fingers return her warmth.

‘Could you hear anything of what we said?’ Emilia asked.

‘A little, my dear,’ Miss Brooks answered. ‘It’s better when only one person talks, but you two, so excited ...’ her voice trailed off. ‘I’m very glad to see you, Sandra, and to know that although you may not want to be the concert pianist you always aspired to being, you are composing your beautiful songs. Play one of those for me now, lass, and Emilia and I will sit quietly and listen.’

♫