The Sisters' Song Page 4

  Nora’s hand reached out and caressed the satin. I could imagine its softness under my fingers.

  ‘And I mustn’t forget to show you these…’ Grandma stood beside a cedar dresser on the far wall. The top of the dresser appeared cluttered, but I could make out an ivory-handled brush and mirror, a dainty figure of a shepherd boy and his dog, and an oval portrait of a beautiful young woman with the same eyes as Grandma.

  She reached towards the back, picked up a rectangular silver box and swivelled to face Nora again. ‘Here,’ she said.

  I stepped further into the room so I could see.

  Grandma held a long string of pearls in one hand and the silver box in the other. The lid of the box was open. Inside were coils and clusters of gold and pearls and gems. Nora gingerly took the pearls from Grandma’s hand and draped them over her head. She fingered a bead, her eyes wide and her lips apart. She was barely breathing. Then she stood and picked up the red satin dress and held it against her.

  ‘May I try it on?’ she said.

  Grandma nodded.

  Nora whipped off her serge dress and slid the red satin over her head. It fell down over her body, and when she straightened again, she’d changed—she looked taller, older, and not at all the ten-year-old child she’d been a moment ago. I thought she looked beautiful. She smoothed the dress’s creases, then held it out with her hands, twirling one way and then the other. When she looked up again, she was smiling.

  ‘I never want to take this dress off,’ said Nora. She whirled right around, tilted her head back and laughed.

  Grandma laughed, too. ‘I used to feel like that when I wore it.’ They both sounded breathless. ‘But we will have to pack it away now.’

  ‘Can I wear it another day?’ she asked.

  Grandma eyed the silks and satins draped over the bed. With a smile on her lips, she nodded.

  ‘You promise?’ said Nora.

  ‘Of course.’

  Grandma began to fold the dresses, wrapping each one in tissue paper as gently as swaddling a baby, before tucking it back inside the box.

  Nora picked up the silver jewellery box from the dresser and closed the lid. ‘Estella Rose,’ she said, reading the name engraved on the top. She glanced up at Grandma. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That was me,’ Grandma whispered. ‘Once upon a time.’

  ‘I want to be an opera singer, like Dame Nellie Melba,’ said Nora.

  ‘You have the talent and dedication to be anything you want to be, young Nora,’ said Grandma.

  ‘What about me?’ I said. They both looked up, surprised to see me. I stepped further into the room. ‘Can I be an opera singer, too?’

  Grandma tilted her head and smiled sympathetically. ‘Ida, dear, I suspect the Lord has different plans for you.’

  I glanced at Nora standing behind Grandma, looking elegant in the red satin dress. I looked at her hands, still holding the silver box—those hands that joined in fervent prayer and those fingers that made music, beautiful music. I tried to smile, but had to gulp hard to swallow the bitter taste that had risen in my throat.

  After that, Nora would sometimes dress in Grandma’s clothes and jewellery when she played the piano. Grandma didn’t mind, but Mum would shake her head and mutter under her breath, ‘Giving her ideas beyond her station.’

  One Sunday afternoon, when I was in the chaff shed spreading the onions on the mats to dry, I heard Nora calling for me. When I emerged, she was standing on the back step, wearing Grandma’s red satin dress and beckoning with silver arms. I dusted off my hands and knees and followed her inside.

  Nora ushered me into the lounge, which now smelt of camphor. Grandma was already seated on the chaise, so I sat on a fire chair with Polly, my doll, on my knee.

  Nora stood in front of the window, silhouetted by the afternoon sun. She swivelled one way, then the other, and the light shifted across her gown.

  ‘I’m going to give a concert. Today I will play…Where’s Mum?’ she said, and glanced towards the door.

  ‘Your mother’s busy,’ said Grandma. ‘She’ll pop in if she gets a moment.’

  ‘Today I will play “Für Elise” by Ludwig van Beethoven.’

  Nora walked towards the piano. She was already nearly as tall as me, and she’d pulled her hair up in a knot. She unwrapped the fur stole from her neck and slung it over a lamp table. Slowly, she peeled the silver gloves from each of her arms and draped them, too, across the table. Even at her tender age, she could already do things like that and look elegant. Finally, she sat on the worn tapestry of the stool and tucked her shimmering folds under her. A blonde ringlet had escaped and was coiling down her neck.

  Then she began to play. Her fingers crept over the keys and from them came the tune I’d heard her practising. It was simple and pretty and familiar. As she played, she began to sway and move with the music. Her face changed and she looked transformed, as if the music was coming from inside of her. As if she was inside of it. As if the rest of the room had disappeared, and there was just the music and her.

  I felt it, too—the music in the air around me and inside of me. I glanced at Grandma, who had shifted forward on the chaise, her eyes intent on Nora, and I could see she felt it, too. I began to feel warm and my throat was dry. I clenched my teeth and waited for it to end.

  As soon as she’d finished, Grandma clapped her hands. ‘Oh, Nora, that was exquisite!’ She looked across at me, a big smile on her face. ‘Wasn’t it so, Ida?’

  I held my lips together and nodded, but I couldn’t bring myself to clap.

  ‘Next I will sing “Bist Du Bei Mir” by Johann Sebastian Bach,’ said Nora.

  ‘I think Mum wants me,’ I said and stood to leave.

  ‘Oh, stay and listen, Ida,’ said Grandma. ‘It’s so nice to have an audience.’

  I flopped back in the chair, looking at my lap rather than Nora, not even trying to hide my reluctance.

  Nora began to play and then to sing.

  Bist du bei mir

  My body stilled at the sound of her voice, but I kept my head down, determined not to look up.

  Geh ich mit Freuden

  Her voice sounded like a tiny bell. I wanted to glance up, but I kept my eyes on my hands, clasped together in my lap.

  Zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh.

  I couldn’t help but glance up. Nora was swaying back and forth as she sang, her hands rising and falling over the keys. I quickly averted my eyes.

  Ach, wie vergnügt wär so mein Ende

  I tried to hold myself rigid, but her voice kept coming, tender, like a caress.

  Es drückten deine schönen Hände

  Mir die getreuen Augen zu.

  She was still trying to come in, through my skin and my ears, and in the end I covered them with my hands. I didn’t let her in. I didn’t hear the last lines of the song, and I didn’t know she’d finished until I looked up. Grandma and Nora were staring at me. I uncovered my ears and stared back at them.

  ‘Aren’t you going to clap?’ asked Nora.

  I glared at her, hoping my hands might jump up and clap all by themselves. But they didn’t.

  ‘Didn’t you like it?’ Nora’s brow was furrowed.

  I kept eyeing her and then, even though I didn’t mean it, and even though I knew it was the most unkind and vicious thing I could do, I shook my head.

  Nora’s face dropped. She blinked; she was on the verge of tears. I could feel Grandma’s eyes boring into me.

  I jumped up and ran out, slamming the door after me.

  Behind the chaff shed, I sat on my haunches and cried while the chickens clucked and pecked at the ground around me. ‘Shut up,’ I said, shooing one away. ‘Just shut up!’ Music, beautiful music. I wanted to make it, too, but it was just dots and lines on a page that I couldn’t read. The keys might as well have been sticks for all the sound I could create. As for singing, my voice couldn’t have made a melody even if I’d had lessons from Dame Nellie herself.

  I couldn’t
make music. I couldn’t do what Nora had done, and I’d never be able to.

  That night at dinner, I didn’t meet their eyes, and later when we went to bed, I kept to my side and she to hers.

  Each year before Christmas, our school held a concert. It was the highlight of the year, and because every child performed, all of the parents came. Every seat in the hall was filled. The most sought-after role, given to the best singer in the school, was the solo at the end. Over dinner one night, Nora announced that she’d been chosen to sing the solo.

  Grandma sprang out of her seat and shot around the table to kiss her. ‘Oh, I knew they’d pick you! I’m so proud.’

  ‘But you’re only eleven,’ I said. ‘It should be my turn before yours.’

  No one heard me, and Grandma kept talking about what a wonderful opportunity it was and how she knew Nora would go far. ‘One day, we’ll be sitting in the audience watching you on stage at Covent Garden.’

  I bowed my head and tried to cut my omelette, but it had become all watery.

  ‘Covent Garden?’ said Mum.

  ‘Yes, there’s no stopping her,’ said Grandma.

  ‘Stop filling her head with ridiculous ideas,’ said Mum.

  ‘What will I wear?’ asked Nora.

  ‘We need to buy a dress for such an occasion,’ said Grandma.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Mum snapped. ‘It’s just a school concert. Besides, I don’t have the money.’

  ‘But I do—’ said Grandma.

  ‘I said no,’ Mum cut in. ‘I’ll make one. If I have time.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Nora, lowering her voice. ‘Could you please? I’d really like a red dress. Satin, like Grandma’s.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Mum.

  I couldn’t stay and listen to it anymore, so I placed my knife and fork together on my plate and left the room. I kept my head down because I didn’t want anyone to see my tears, but I don’t think anyone noticed me leave even though I hadn’t excused myself.

  Later that night as Nora and I lay in bed, we heard their heated voices coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Prodigy?’ said Mum. ‘Prodigy? What would you know?’

  ‘I know more than you think,’ said Grandma. ‘And I know, too, that there’s nothing wrong with a girl having dreams.’

  ‘Dreams?’ Mum cried. ‘We can’t afford them. We can’t afford singing lessons or to go to London. We can’t even afford a new frock for a concert. We can’t afford dreams.’

  The kitchen went quiet.

  ‘You’re living in the clouds,’ said Mum, her voice quieter. ‘Someone around here has to keep their feet on the ground.’

  Nora and Grandma practised every day, while I sat behind the chaff shed and tried not to listen. But her voice still found me.

  Sleep in heavenly peee-eace. Sleee-eep in heavenly peace…

  ‘No portamento, Nora,’ Grandma would say. ‘And remember your consonants.’

  Nora sang it over and over until it became a beautiful, continuous line.

  ‘Bel canto!’ cried Grandma. ‘Lovely singing!’

  One afternoon, Mum sewed a floral cotton frock on the treadle machine, but when Nora saw it, she burst into tears.

  ‘I asked for a red dress. One like Grandma’s, red and shiny.’

  ‘You’re eleven years old,’ said Mum. ‘You’re too young to wear red satin.’ She held up a cotton frock decorated with blue magnolias. ‘This is much more appropriate.’

  Nora pressed her lips together, but they quivered as she nodded.

  When the rehearsals at school began, I wanted to run away. I stood with the rest of the school in the choir stands while Nora walked to the centre of the stage. She held her shoulders back and her head erect, and she looked like a different person—more confident, radiant even. She seemed to relish being in the spotlight, as if it was where she was meant to be. Before she’d even sung a note, she’d drawn the attention of everyone around her. Everyone had stilled, even the kids in the choir stands.

  Alf Hill stood next to me in the choir. He was in my class, the son of a local sawmiller and built as big as a gum tree. But he was quiet and gentle, not like the other boys. He never teased or chased us girls; he even seemed to enjoy playing with us. He took the other end of the skipping rope if Beth Prosser or I asked, and every girl wanted to be his partner for dancing lessons because he remembered the steps and did them properly.

  To tell the truth, I quite fancied him, but Alf only ever had eyes for Nora. As soon as she took to the stage, he didn’t stop staring at her, even when we were meant to be watching Sister Veronica and her baton.

  I elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You’re meant to be watching Sister,’ I whispered.

  He tried to drag his eyes away, but each rehearsal they were glued to Nora. His ribs must have been bruised from my prodding.

  ‘We’re so proud of Nora,’ said Sister Veronica to Mum after mass. ‘Does she get it from you?’

  Mum shook her head. ‘From her father, I believe.’

  Then Sister spotted me and tilted her head. ‘It’s amazing how two sisters can be so different, isn’t it?’

  The night before the concert, Grandma washed Nora’s hair and set it in rags. On the day, Mum hummed as she ironed Nora’s frock. The house thrummed and everyone, including Mum, seemed excited about the concert.

  While the others readied for the big night, I closed the curtains and slipped between the sheets of the bed. When Mum came searching, I told her I was sick.

  She felt my forehead. ‘You do feel a bit hot.’

  Uncle Vernon and Aunty Lorna arrived to pick the others up. Jittery heels tapped down the hall and the door clicked shut. The ute puttered off down the street and silence settled over the house.

  I got out of bed. For the first time in over a year, I picked Polly up off the dressing table and took her into bed with me. I’d grown out of playing with her, but I needed her that night. I lay with her and sucked my plait while the shadows lengthened and deepened and gradually turned into night.

  It wasn’t fair, I thought. Why could Nora create something beautiful and I couldn’t?

  The house was quiet and still as a graveyard. I lay in the darkness, wishing for sleep to come to dissolve the wretchedness I felt inside me. But it didn’t.

  Much later, I heard the rattle of the ute outside. Footsteps pattered up the path and the door clicked open. Voices and laughter burst into the house, and I buried my head deeper into my pillow. I tried not to hear them talking about how well Nora had sung and how beautiful she’d looked in her frock.

  When Nora slipped into the bed beside me, I lay motionless and pretended I was asleep. I was still awake long after I heard the steady sounds of her sleeping beside me.

  At lunch the next day, Grandma said, ‘It’s a pity you missed your sister last night, Ida. She was the star of the show.’

  Without taking a bite, I pushed my sandwich aside. ‘I’m still not feeling well,’ I lied. ‘May I be excused?’

  It was a chilly December day and Mum had lit the fire in the lounge. I sat by the hearth, clutching Polly to my chest and feeling sorry for myself. The pale sun darted in between the drapes, landing on the wood of the piano and the sheet music sitting on the ledge. I stared at it, but there was no point in me even trying to understand it—I couldn’t make music. I only made noise.

  I stood Polly up on my lap and jiggled her about. ‘I’m Nora Parker and I’m the best singer in the whole wide world,’ I said in a fake, high-pitched voice.

  I took Polly over to the piano and stood her on the stool. ‘Today I’m going to play “Für Elise”.’ I turned her towards the piano ‘Plonketyplonk-plonk,’ I sang as Polly punched the notes with her hands, then bashed them with her head.

  ‘Now I’m going to sing “Silent Night”. Silent night, Holy night. I cleared my throat and deliberately sang off tune. All is calm, all is bright.

  I kept going, dancing and singing Polly around the piano. The door opened and Nora stood in the doorway
, but I didn’t stop. I was enjoying myself now.

  ‘Nora,’ I said in a slurred, crackly voice, pretending to be Grandma after she’d had a few sherries, ‘remember your conshonants.’

  Nora looked stricken. She pivoted and ran, but I continued with my song. I heard the footsteps up the hallway, and I saw Mum in the doorway, but still I sang, loudly and out of pitch.

  Round yon virgin, mother and child…

  Mum knocked me so hard, I swear I was airborne.

  ‘How dare you?’ she shrieked.

  I lay on the floor, my cheek against the frayed fringe of the floor rug, not daring to move.

  Polly lay next to me. Mum bent and picked her up. She shook her. ‘How dare you?’ she repeated. ‘You are so mean, Ida Parker. Your father would be turning in his grave.’

  I lay still.

  Mum tightened her lips, then regarded Polly. ‘You’re too old for a doll.’ She spun around and stomped over to the fireplace. Nora stood in the doorway, Grandma behind her, their eyes on Mum.

  The screen scraped as Mum shifted it aside.

  ‘No!’ I cried, pushing myself to sitting. My heart was banging in my chest. ‘I won’t do it again, I promise.’

  Mum stepped closer to the fire and held Polly out over the glowing coals.

  ‘No! No!’ I screamed as I jumped up and ran towards her. ‘Don’t! Please, Mum! Don’t!’

  Polly’s auburn locks dangled tantalisingly above the flames. I tried to reach her.

  ‘Don’t hurt her!’

  Mum’s eyes moved from me to Polly. Her fingers began to loosen and Polly fell lower, closer to the flames.

  ‘No!’ I screamed.

  ‘Alice!’ Grandma stepped into the room, her voice was shrill and high. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘She’s too old for a doll,’ said Mum.

  ‘But there’s no need to burn it.’

  ‘She can’t poke fun at her sister like that,’ said Mum. ‘She deserves to be punished.’

  ‘But not by burning her doll.’ Grandma didn’t move.