Also by Julia Osborne
Falling Glass
In this series
The Midnight Pianist
Playing with Keys
Short stories published in various magazines, literary journals and anthologies, broadcast on ABC Radio National, and adaptations for stage performance
Song for Emilia is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published 2017 by ETT Imprint
in association with Paper Horse Design & Publishing
Copyright © 2017 Julia Osborne All rights reserved.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Osborne, Julia, author
Song for Emilia / by Julia Osborne
ISBN 9780648096313 (pbk.)
ISBN 9780648096306 (ebk.)
Romance fiction, Pianists—Fiction A823.4
Set in Adobe Garamond Pro 11.5/15pt by Rosie Sutherland for Paper Horse
Titles: Wednesday Sutherland — Musical motifs: Julia Osborne www.paperhorsedesign.com.au
For my mother, Joy Osborne, who would have enjoyed the saga of the midnight pianist.
With love
Intro:
Sandra remembered it clearly – that fantastic summer day in 1962 when Nick arrived in Sydney to enrol at university.
At the end of the long drive from Curradeen, at last he’d turned the corner into her street, swinging his dusty ute to park at the kerb in front of her house. He slammed shut the ute door, brushed a hand over his hair before clamping on his felt hat and strolling to the front door – ajar on that hot, sticky day.
As he raised a hand to knock, her heart skipping a beat, Sandra reached the door first. Almost sixteen and feeling brave, she’d said hello and kissed his cheek, delighted to have his quick kiss on her forehead in response. Old friends ...
She had led him through the house to the back garden where the family sat in the shade of an old tree. Nick Morgan – hers for today, and she knew that it was herself that he’d come to see. Wasn’t it?
♫
Two years later, the first day of her Bachelor of Music degree: as Sandra crossed Macquarie Street and walked past the tall, imperious bronze rider on horseback, she could hardly believe her footsteps were taking her to this building. At the front, four crenellated towers like a castle. This was the Sydney Conservatorium of Music: the castle of her dreams and object of her ambition for so many years.
The first time Sandra played in concert, she had been overwhelmed, but managed to complete the performance of her composition to the professor’s satisfaction. Tutors encouraged her, ‘Talent, hard work and lots of luck,’ they insisted. And dedication! Sandra knew she had plenty of that. She’d learned to enjoy playing piano in ensembles – composing for the students with their violins and cellos.
Although her passion for concert performances had fizzled, the fire to compose burned stronger than ever.
By now, Nick was almost halfway through his degree in architecture at Sydney Uni. How many times have we met in those two years? Working it out, she ruefully calculated, makes a total of four or five times a year, plus an occasional lucky phone call from the university college.
Hardly a boyfriend. But she was sure Nick didn’t have anyone special. Even though he was five years older, if he was seeing another girl he wouldn’t spend any time at all with her. So what did five years matter?
One of those lucky telephone days, she’d hear Nick’s voice on the phone with surprised delight:
‘G’day, Sandra.’
‘G’day,’ she’d reply, trying not to giggle. Holding the receiver close to her ear, she’d hear his breath in the phone as if he considered what to say. Usually a suggestion to meet somewhere: coffee at a café, a stroll through the Domain to the Art Gallery. Or after the pictures, they’d go down to Harry’s Cafe de Wheels in Woolloomooloo for a pie and mushy peas. They’d sit on the edge of the wharf, feet dangling over the water, revelling in the city lights, the slap of waves against the pilings; their freedom.
Since Sandra had first shown Nick the treasure of Rowe Street’s arty shops and galleries, the wonderful bookshop and Rowe Street Records, they’d sometimes met at the Teapot Café. But the café had closed so now they went to the Galleria Espresso, a popular coffee shop for artists, and more comfortable, they agreed, than the Teapot’s iron chairs. It was always busy, the walls crowded with paintings, many for sale – painted, they supposed, by the art students that came for coffee, or to sit reading for hours. Who said that life was measured out in coffee spoons, she wondered, stirring another lump of sugar into her coffee.
During uni holidays when Nick went home to Wilga Park, Sandra burned with envy because her best friend Emilia went home for holidays too. They were sure to have struck up a friendship now that Emmy boarded at his grandparents’ home in Melbourne while she studied physiotherapy. Not only would Emilia see Nick in Curradeen, but whenever he visited his grandparents.
Mr and Mrs Ferrari were very pleased with this arrangement for their daughter, and although they missed her on the little vegetable patch they called a farm, she was able to train, with a safe place to live.
Emilia knew very well that Sandra had adored Nick since her first year in high school when he was a distant senior, her every step beating time with his name: Nick Nick Nicholas Nick. Was it possible that Emmy could somehow infiltrate the Morgan family, and Nick might begin to care for her, instead of Sandra?
Perhaps she sent out feelings to Nick that she wasn’t aware of – feelings that suggested, Come this close, and no closer. Perhaps her crush on the piano teacher, Mister L’estrange, had put a spell on her. But Eric L’estrange fell in love with her Aunt Meredith, and Meredith fell in love with him, and Oh, how Sandra had resented it.
Meredith had always been a shining light in Sandra’s life: her confidante; someone to run to when there was trouble, which was often enough. It was hard to accept that her Saturday morning excursions with Auntie had gradually disappeared.
At night, lying awake in bed with her arm cradling the pillow, Sandra longed for the touch of Nick’s lips on hers. Couldn’t he tell? What if she tilted up her face, just as he was about to kiss her forehead – would he dare to kiss her on the lips, even accidentally? Maybe he’d flinch with shock, embarrassed. Oh, horrible thought. But why didn’t he ever hold her hand? Such a nice country boy, so well-mannered, her mother had said.
Drifting into sleep, she imagined Nick striding towards her: his long, lean body, felt hat crammed on his head; the big smile. When he talked about life on Wilga Park, his grey-green eyes had a faraway look, and she pondered how deep his love might be for the family property.
… All our lives have changed, she thought, wriggling into a more comfortable