Song for Emilia. Julia Osborne

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ