‘See you Monday,’ she called.
‘See you.’
‘Don’t forget the Geography test.’
Schoolkids scattered on bicycles, meandered home carrying suitcases, or ambled lopsidedly with a vinyl bag slung from one shoulder. Several buses waited to take students home, some travelling up to an hour or more on rough and dusty roads.
Sandra liked living in the residence at the Bank where her father was the manager. She’d felt so special as a little girl coming home from primary school, pushing open the big wooden side gate, wheeling her bicycle down the path with its shady garden to the kitchen door. Built in 1860 during the gold rush days, it was a fine two-storey building with thick walls, arched windows and a tiled balcony. You had a good view of the street from there, and once she and Emilia had folded paper water bombs, dropping them splat! on school kids as they walked beneath. Her father made her peel all the damp paper off the pavement and Emilia wasn’t allowed to visit for a week. ‘That girl’s a bad influence,’ said Don Abbott.
Memory of an earlier home was hazy; it was as if she’d always lived in Curradeen. It was nice to feel part of the small town bustle and get home early from school. It gave her time to sit for a bit, before piano practice.
The best times were when neither of her parents was home – Angela busy with one of her charities and Don in the office. Then she and Prue did what they liked after school, enjoying the emptiness of the big rooms, drawing fashion pictures or sprawled to watch television. If the reception was no good, with ghostly images on the bulbous screen or continual ‘snow’, they read comics and played with the cat, pleased not to have questions about school:
– Did you have a good day?
– Yes.
– What did you do?
– The usual.
– Have you got homework?
– A bit.
– Well, don’t leave it too late.
– No, Mum.
Today, afternoon tea was on the kitchen table. Don had come out of the office for his usual break when the Bank closed its doors to customers, and sat with his pipe and cup of tea, absentmindedly stroking Ginger, as the cat rubbed against his chair.
Prue was already home from primary school; she had finished her glass of milk and was eating cake. Two years younger but already as tall as Sandra, with fluffy brown curls pinned behind her ears.
‘Hello, Sandy,’ both parents greeted her and her father said, ‘How was school?’
‘Fine.’ Sandra flopped onto a chair. ‘I did an English essay, a double period of Maths and we’ve got a Geography test on Monday.’ That beat him to it. Parents could be so predictable.
As Prue reached for more cake she complained under her breath to Sandra, ‘They didn’t ask me. Why are you so special?’ Then she added hopefully, ‘I suppose you’re too busy to play with me this weekend?’
‘Yes, I’m busy.’ Sandra spoke without thinking. She had nothing planned; Emilia’s relatives were visiting from Italy and she had to stay home and help. There wasn’t a single thing in sight for the whole weekend except homework. ‘Wipe your mouth,’ she said, ‘you’ve got a milky moustache.’
Prue screwed up her nose. ‘You always say you’re busy, but all you do is play the silly piano.’
Don glared at them both, ‘That’s enough, you two. Don’t start anything.’ He disliked the way both girls picked things up from their classmates, unconsciously copying words and gestures. And usually the worst behaviour, too. Well, what could you expect from the run-of-the-mill children going to that school? He was firm and quiet, with not a lot to say to his family. Most evenings he sat with his spectacles on the end of his nose, absorbed in the newspaper or a book; except on Monday nights when they all watched Pick-a-Box. Sometimes he withdrew to the office with his pipe and tobacco, saying there was business to catch up on. Sandra secretly thought that he read books in there too.
Ginger stood on his hind legs, stretching up to the table. ‘Go down, Ginge,’ Don admonished, easing the claws from the cloth. He ran his hand down the cat’s spine so that it arched and purred, then picking ginger hairs from his trousers he vanished back to work.
Angela cleared the tea things onto the sink. Prue ran upstairs to change out of her uniform.
Sitting alone at the table, Sandra turned the pages of her brand new glossy Vogue Australia. Carefully groomed models stalked across the pages. There were so many advertisements for cosmetics, the right thing to wear, what was a girl supposed to look like? Herself, or some trendy cut-out from a glossy page? It all made you more aware of your deficiencies. What was the Ideal supposed to be? Sandra wondered. Both her parents were tall, why couldn’t she grow a bit faster; it was embarrassing when your little sister was as tall as you. She felt so short and skinny beside the other girls. And she wished that her eyes were blue. Whoever heard of brown eyes with blonde hair? It was distinctly odd. She should have big blue eyes with long, thick lashes. Disheartened, she decided not to buy the magazine again – it was too expensive anyway, and she’d rather save her few shillings pocket money.
‘Sandy, don’t leave your practice too late today. You’ve been running into dinner and not finishing some of those pieces.’
Sandra mimicked her mother under her breath, dropped the magazine back into her school case. Then she seated herself at the keyboard of the big Beale piano in the lounge room, running her fingers through the scales. As if she needed to be told. Why couldn’t her mother wait and see when she was going to practise? She’d never forgotten, even once.
When Sandra was nine, Angela had bought tickets to see a famous pianist. It was such a lovely fuss going to Sydney and dressing up for the concert in the Town Hall. They were all so excited and after that wonderful night of Mozart and Chopin, she’d begged to learn the piano. She wanted the same marvellous music to flow from her own fingers. Now she was getting somewhere, flying through exams, forging into sixth grade studies, delighting her piano teacher to have such an exceptionally talented student.
The best times were after her studies were completed. The hard work done she could go dancing up and down the keys with her own compositions, making them up as she played, remembering them perfectly. If her mother was occupied, she slipped them among the set pieces, drifting into her fantasy land with Nick standing beside her to turn the pages.
She smiled up at him, saw how much he cared for her reflected in his eyes.
‘You play so beautifully, Sandra,’ he said softly in his deep voice. He never called her by the baby name that irritated her so much these days. His long fingers turned another page. ‘Now play our favourite song.’
Her hands glided over the keys in a meandering melody; she hummed some lyrics as she went along. ‘If you feel that way ... if you’re going my way ... C’n I come too? La la la-la-la ... La la la-la-la ...’
‘Oooh, that’s terrible,’ Prue moaned, hands over her ears as she ran down the hall. ‘La la la-la-laaaaa,’ she mocked, poking her head around the door. ‘That’s not a proper song. You made that up.’
‘Get lost, prune face,’ Sandra hissed.
Prue skipped away, chanting, ‘Crosspatch, draw the latch ...’ but Sandra drowned her taunt with a fortissimo crescendo of arpeggios.
She remained at the piano, nursing her romance, going through her study pieces again. The hours of scales, the repetition, could be tedious, but she wanted to keep learning, to strive for that magical day when the rainbow coloured ribbons of music sang from her own hands just like the songs she made up. She worked through the hardest piece that she’d chosen herself, repeated it again and again to her satisfaction: Debussy’s Clair de Lune.