Also by Julia Osborne
Falling Glass
The Midnight Pianist (Book 1 in the series)
Short stories published in various magazines, literary journals and anthologies, broadcast on ABC Radio National, and adaptations for stage performance
ETT Imprint
in association with
Paper Horse Design & Publishing 2016
Playing with Keys 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.
2016 ETT Imprint Paperback Edition
in association with Paper Horse Design & Publishing
Copyright © 2016 Julia Osborne All rights reserved.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Osborne, Julia, author
Playing with keys / by Julia Osborne.
ISBN 9781925416619 (pbk.)
9781925416602 (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
Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music
– George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (1860)
On the first morning that she woke up in her family’s new home, Sandra looked out the bedroom window but all she could see was the neighbour’s brick wall. She sat on the side of her bed to think about it ...
In Curradeen, her upstairs bedroom window in the bank residence overlooked the main street, where on countless Saturday mornings she’d watched through her curtains for Nick Morgan to drive into town, park his dusty ute across the road, and stroll into the newsagency.
All gone now. Gone, Nick and the polocrosse ponies. Gone, her dear piano teacher, the familiar high school, bicycle rides to the creek. And gone, best friend Emilia, consigned to a papery chaff of letters.
Her parents were happy with the move; she could see it in their faces. It was a good promotion for Don to the Randwick branch of the bank, and Angela was pleased to be back in Sydney after so many years in a country town. While her younger sister Prue danced around with excitement, it was only Sandra who rebelled.
Stupid brick wall. Prue’s bedroom had the same dull view, but she’d shrugged and said she didn’t care. Still, Sandra had to agree it was a very nice house that her father had bought, in a quiet street lined with similar old houses: tiled front veranda, hallway down the middle, and a garden out the back. After pouring over glossy catalogues with Prue, it had been fun choosing their furniture in a city department store, and Sandra was happy with her brand new bedroom suite ...
Searching for a handkerchief in her dressing table, she found the Violet Crumble wrapper – souvenir of the rainy winter evening when she’d bumped into Nick at the Silver Moon Café. Back then, she hardly knew him – a hello at the polocrosse, a brief barn dance at Denalbo hall ... little more.
She smoothed the wrapper with a fingernail, remembering how Nick had smiled in recognition, raised a quizzical eyebrow at her damp hair, the briefcase clutched to her chest.
Thrilled by this unexpected encounter, words had tumbled from her mouth: ‘I’ve been to a piano lesson, my sixth grade exam’s next week ...’ She stopped, suddenly tongue-tied.
‘Wow, maybe one day you’ll be a famous pianist,’ he’d answered, his eyes dark under the café lights, glisten of rain on his hair.
‘I’d love to try ...’ she’d managed to say.
Then Nick had shouted Sandra the Violet Crumble bar, and told her he’d won at poker. She remembered her shiver of excitement. Nick was a gambler! But he’d gambled with his life, that October night when he stepped into his ute with Angus.
Tired of unpacking, Sandra shoved the cardboard boxes of winter clothes under her bed. In two weeks it would be Christmas, and weeks of summer holidays stretched vacantly ahead of her – no friends, no plans, nowhere to go except the beach. The comfort of Curradeen was so far, far away, lodged in memory. Tearing a sheet of paper from her mother’s writing pad, she scrabbled around to find a biro.
23 Tyrell St,
Randwick, N.S.W.,
Friday, 9th December, 1960.
Dearest Emilia,
We’ve been here one whole week. It was horrible when we said goodbye at the train but I tried not to cry. Did you cry too? I waved till I couldn’t see you anymore and Mum wouldn’t stop talking about how good it’s going to be.
We put butter on Ginger’s paws so he would be too busy licking it off to run away. One morning he brought home a rat and it was still half alive and Dad had to hit it with a hammer. I thought I’d be sick.
Our house is nice, it’s very old but it’s all fixed up. I liked my old bedroom better. We don’t have bank furniture anymore so Mum bought lots of new things. I’ve got a beautiful Queen Anne bed and a dressing table with fancy mirrors. It feels odd having real neighbours and not another bank. My bedroom faces the brick wall next door, Prue’s room is on the wall side too but she couldn’t care less. Mum and Dad have a nicer bedroom, they can see the garden.
I skipped the last few days of school but we went to see the headmistress and I can start next year. She’s short as me and ties her hair in a little bun. I won’t miss Wilkins or Crow but Miss Pearce was nice for English and I hope I have a teacher like her.
Remember our pact to be friends forever? I miss you so much, please write really really soon and pleeease tell me if you ever see Nick.
Love forever,
Sandra xoxoxox
What would Nick be doing right now? The last she’d seen of him after the accident, he’d been lying asleep in a hospital bed. Oh, that awful morning – believing Nick had been killed when his ute crashed, she’d run away to grieve alone in the bush. But it wasn’t Nick at the wheel that moonlit night – it was Angus who crashed, swerving to miss a black swan on the road, invisible until the last moment. Now Angus was dead, and Nick had to learn to walk again.
Mrs Morgan hadn’t told her much, except that because her son was a strong boy, he’d soon be back helping his father run their merino stud on Wilga Park. Mrs Morgan said we should pray for his recovery. Pray, for heavens sake! What good would that do?
Sandra wondered if she should send him a get well card. But what could she write? It was three months since the crash on Denalbo Road, and if she was going to send a card it should’ve been back then. Three months since she’d sneaked out of home in the middle of the night, crept into the dimly lit ward, sat by Nick’s bed, watched over his quiet breathing, his bruised face.
Dear Nick,