Playing with Keys. Julia Osborne

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      The headmistress had recommended Eric L’estrange to teach Sandra seventh grade piano until she auditioned for the Conservatorium High School later that year.

      ‘In case you’re wondering,’ she had explained to Angela in the principal’s office, ‘L’estrange is a very old English name. He’s certainly not your usual type of teacher but he’s highly skilled and has top qualifications from England.’

      Angela was delighted. Qualifications from England! And Sandra could simply walk to his flat for her weekly lesson.

      Sandra gazed at the gold letters set above the keyboard: Feurich, a smaller Leipzig. Her own Beale looked very plain compared with this tall, gleaming piano with the strange name, and straight away she wanted to run her fingers over the ivories. She waited for her new teacher to speak.

      ‘According to your mother,’ Mister L’estrange remarked, ‘you aspire to being a classical concert pianist. Hmm, we shall see. Your mother also said that you started tuition when you were nine ...’ Sandra heard him click his tongue. ‘Nine years old is quite late to begin lessons.’

      Hoping to impress him, she said, ‘When I was nine, we went the Town Hall. My mother got tickets for a famous pianist – that’s what made me want to learn piano—’

      ‘Who played, do you remember?’

      Sandra desperately racked her brain but no name surfaced. ‘Oh gosh, I can’t think ... I remember he played Chopin—’

      ‘But you don’t remember his famous name, hmm?’ Mister L’estrange looked quizzically at her as he sorted sheet music from his files.

      Embarrassed and angry, Sandra wished she could slide under the piano and disappear. Should she look at the keyboard or the teacher? She looked down at her hands, fingernails perfectly cut and buffed to a gleam. He flicked a strand of black hair from his eyebrow, spun on his heel to regard her – as if, she thought, I’m an insect under a microscope.

      Closing the files, he placed the score for Elgar’s Dream Children on the piano, ‘Sight-reading,’ he announced. ‘You may read this briefly, then play the piece.’

      It didn’t look too difficult, but maybe there was a trick? Still smarting at his rebuke, she followed Miss Brook’s advice: take a deep breath, count to three. The keys were silky under her fingers, the tone beautiful, and she thought she played the piece quite well as the notes went dancing sweetly across the page ...

      Abruptly, Mister L’estrange motioned her to stop. ‘Not bad,’ he commented, without smiling. ‘If you could not play it properly, I didn’t wish to teach you.’ Again he flicked his dark hair.

      How dare he say ‘Not bad’ as if she was barely good enough to sit at his precious piano. Sandra felt herself rebel, and bit her lip so as to remain silent. Now she was stuck with this horrid teacher. Mister L’estrange – what sort of a stupid name was that!

      She looked up into the darkest brown eyes she’d ever seen, the glint of earring in his black hair. He smiled – a brilliant smile that showed neat white teeth.

      How could her mother like this awful man? She would complain tonight, as soon as she got home. He was a foreigner!

      23 Tyrell St,

      Randwick, N.S.W.,

      Tuesday, 21st February, ’61.

      Dear Emmy,

      At my first piano lesson Mr. L’estrange was so nasty. He made me do a test and he was really rude but Mum didn’t want to talk about it. She thinks he’s the ants pants. He calls me Sarn-dra and he has long hair!

      Today’s lesson was better. He told me Percy Grainger died yesterday and he played “Country Gardens” as a memorial song. He plays really well so maybe he’s all right for a teacher. He said he used to play piano at home in his pyjamas that his mother sewed for him. I mean Percy Grainger not Mr. L’estrange.

      Have you seen Mrs Morgan again or Nick or anyone apart from Lofty? Tell me some exciting NEWS!

      Aunt Meredith said one day we’ll go into town to the shops and have lunch at Mark Foys or David Jones, just the two of us. I’d rather go to DJs and see their piano player. He wears a tuxedo and plays a shiny, black grand piano and I like how he looks all around while he plays.

      We’re reading “The Merchant of Venice” and “The History of Mr. Polly” by H.G. Wells, which I like because it’s funny and old-fashioned. We did a poem by Elizabeth Riddell about a lifesaver that drowned. I like it better than lots of English poems. The lady teachers for English and Geography are very nice thank goodness. I’m glad I don’t do French as the other kids don’t like the teacher.

      Carol asked me to go to the beach with her but I didn’t want to because my swimming costume is all wrong and I always get dumped by a wave.

      It’s been raining and today was boiling hot.

      Love from Sandra xxx

      P.S. Mr. L’estrange has an earring!! I bet he didn’t wear it when he met Mum.

      15 Bentley St.,

      Curradeen, N.S.W.,

      Friday, 3rd March, 1961.

      Dear Sandy,

      I got your letter and I think maybe its nice to go to a big school and not sit in stinky hot classrooms like ours. Tony left school after his Intermediate and works at the flour mill. Boo hoo. Anyway I don’t mind, he never would have liked me.

      Guess what, Lofty asked me to go with him !! We have “Henry V” for Shakespeere and our book is “The Passage” which is about fishing in the ocean. That story “The Monkey’s Paw” gave me a nightmare. I didn’t get to read the rude book.

      There was a grass fire between here and Denalbo but they put it out real quick and no sheep got burnt. Pa says there are big bushfires in Western Australia from lightening, and nearly a million acres got burned and some buildings. I’d be so scared.

      I have to work at the shop after school every day. I haven’t seen Mrs Morgan again. Your piano teacher sounds scary. Whose Percy Granger?

      Love from Emmy xxxOOO

      10 / 3 / 61.

      23 Tyrell St, Randwick.

      Dear Emmy,

      Are you really going with Lofty? We called him googly eyes because he was an annoying little squirt, so why? He’s all right, I suppose. It’s better with no boys at school. Remember how Wilkins raved on to the boys in Geography СКАЧАТЬ