Angela was delighted with her daughter’s ambition, to begin the long haul up the scale to the peak of her skills, but in wanting Sandra to achieve that, sometimes she lost sight of the shy and sensitive girl. The music overwhelmed her and the notes became everything, losing the growing child in their immensity – the great sounds of Mendelssohn and Beethoven hid Sandra’s complexity – the splendid chords camouflaged her youth, her vulnerable nature. Sandra with her bright fair head, intense gaze and busy fingers was the music personified. Angela never saw the fragile ego, the eyes that searched faces, flashing on Nicholas Morgan and touching a glow to her cheeks. She feared that other interests might take her daughter’s time; she was glad for her quiet and reserved manner. Schoolwork seemed the only rival for the precious hours. There was Emilia Ferrari, but she could be discouraged with a word if she started spending too much time with Sandra; fortunately, she often had to work in her family’s grocery shop.
Sandra had already sat the fifth grade theory exam, passing with honours. The practical examinations would be held at the end of July. Tucked in her bed that night, she planned her weekend with Nick. Of course, when she saw him tomorrow on his regular visit to town, she’d say hello and so would he ... then she would invite him to lunch. She saw his delighted smile.
‘Sure, why not? I really miss seeing you at school, Sandra.’
He took her hand and they sat with milkshakes in the Silver Moon Café, talking of school friends and Nick’s other true loves, football and athletics. And Sandra described her passion for music, the pieces she composed, the songs she named for him so that he understood how she felt.
She slept with the melody weaving into her thoughts, her arms cuddled around the pillow – her Nick Nick Nicholas Nick – her deepest, most secret dream.
Sandra had first spotted Nick up front at assembly, when she was in First Year and he was in his Fifth and final year at school. It dawned on her suddenly, unexpectedly, that for several days she’d noticed him, liking the back of his neck with the brown wavy hair that curled on his collar rather than a regular short back and sides, and then his profile with straight nose and well defined chin as he turned to talk to the boy beside him.
‘Quiet please, Nicholas Morgan,’ came a reprimand from the teacher on the side lines.
Nicholas Morgan. Her mind flicked the names in various musical rhythms: Nick Nick Nicholas Nick. She liked it. Never Nicky, except maybe when he was little. Sandra couldn’t imagine that. Nick had always been this way: much taller than her, suntanned, his lean body muscular and fit from sport. He was especially handsome in his cadet uniform. Sandra smiled at her decision not to tell Emilia. Nobody would know. He didn’t have a girlfriend; his consuming interest was sport. When she managed to walk close to his group of friends at recess, she heard their talk of coming athletics, footy training, weekend sport. So he was hers to cherish secretly, only longing for his clear eyes to rest on her, longing for his smile.
Nick lived out of town on his parents’ property. It made Sandra happy to see him step off the school bus every morning, neat in white shirt and grey trousers. For months she watched him, hoping he’d notice her, checking him back on the bus in the afternoon. It was a wonder how Emilia didn’t catch on. Too busy searching for Tony. Every boy seemed cute to Emilia at first, until she eliminated him for one reason or another. Nicholas Morgan loved himself, according to her; that was why he didn’t have a girlfriend, although all the girls liked him. For a while there’d been a red-haired girl in Fourth Year who’d hung about. At school socials she’d leaned against him between dances, holding his hand. To Sandra and Emilia, the seniors may as well have been on the moon. And because the dream seemed so impossible, the stab of envy she felt looking at the red-haired girl was bearable. But only just. She was pleased when Nick chose his mates again for company. At the next school dance, the red-haired girl found someone else to lean on.
Emilia had other ideas. Surveying the group of boys clustered around the man spinning the records, she decided that Nick and the boys he was often laughing and playfully shoving about were all poofters. Sandra didn’t care. She felt different to the general mass of students who teased and gossiped and mucked about. Emilia was as bad as the rest sometimes, raving along until Sandra turned off. Idiots!
Then the final exams were over and Nick left school.
Sandra missed seeing him around the corridors and sports oval, and standing behind him in assembly lines. Now she only saw him on Saturday mornings when he drove into town. Her bedroom faced the Rural Bank on the opposite corner with a row of shops and the newsagent, giving her a perfect position to watch for his arrival.
On this particular Saturday she dressed carefully as usual, discarding, choosing her clothes to get exactly the right effect with slacks and twinset and a little white collar. She yearned to be taller, fatter. Combing the fair waves of hair that fell past her shoulders she wished it was long enough to sit on and as she passed Nick and his friends in the street, she would turn her head, swinging her mane like a beautiful curtain.
‘Who’s the sheila with the long hair?’ Sandra imagined him saying.
‘Don’t you know Sandra Abbott? She’s your type, Nick,’ a friend would reply.
The clear gaze turned to her again and a slow smile touched the corners of his mouth, lighting his eyes. He strolled over to where she stood. ‘So, you’re Sandra. How come we haven’t met before ... where have you been hiding?’ He held out his hands and she took the strong fingers in hers. Of course his fingers would be strong.
‘Hello, Nick. I’ve been here all the time,’ she answered.
Around ten o’clock as Sandra peeped through the curtains she saw the dusty green Holden utility appear, parking near the corner. She rushed downstairs taking two at a time, then putting her hands on wall and banister she swung over the last three stairs to land with a thump in the hall, drowning her mother’s loud sigh in the kitchen.
Her mad dash through the house and out into the street ended in her slowly walking into the busy newsagency, pretending to be occupied with her errand. Nick stood at the rack of magazines and she covertly watched him flipping the pages. Flip ... Flip ... Why doesn’t he look up? Her heart beat so hard she thought everyone could hear it and snatching up a Woman’s Weekly, she waited at the counter.
Coins cupped in his hand, Nick counted out the right money, newspaper tucked under his arm. They stood side by side, close enough to brush sleeves. Sandra ached to break the bind that kept her eyes down, kept her looking everywhere but his direction. What if she smiled and he didn’t smile back but stared right through her? Doesn’t everyone know the Abbotts who live at the Bank?
At the last moment Sandra forced herself to glance but Nick had already turned away. Jingling cash and keys in his pocket, he walked out the door. She watched until his green ute vanished around the corner. Next time, she promised herself. But she knew that next time it wouldn’t be any different, she would freeze exactly the same way. Slipping away from the counter, she replaced the magazine in the rack. Who wanted it, anyway? She could hear her mother’s voice say, ‘Just another magazine to waste your money on’, although she knew her mother liked the Weekly.
Disappointed, Sandra wandered the main street for a while. Several of the town’s motorbike gang were parked near the hotel. Sandra thought the boys in their leather jackets and big black motorbikes looked rather romantic in a dangerous way. Like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. They often parked outside the pub, smoking, talking, whistling at girls, and Sandra hurried past without a sneak peek. They revved their machines, spewing smoke across the footpath, yelled to one another, then took off in a spray of gravel and disapproving looks from passers by.
Saturday mornings filled the town like an overflow from Friday afternoon. Lots of people came in from outlying properties and every month there was an even bigger crowd when the local races were held. But apart from that, and unless you played sport, there was nothing to do. What a dull weekend it was