Song for Emilia. Julia Osborne

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ