Stillwater Creek (7 page)

Ilona was playing a Chopin Prelude when a tentative knocking from the front of the house caught her attention. She paused; perhaps it was just the breeze tapping the vines against the verandah roof. Then she heard the noise again. Someone was knocking on the flyscreen door. She stood up and ran her fingers through her hair; playing the piano seemed always to make it stand on end. When she opened the front door she was surprised to see Cherry Bates standing there.

‘How
delightful
to see you again.' There, she'd done it once more, used a long word when
nice
would have done just as well. ‘You will come in, won't you? I can make you some
nice
tea.'

‘It's a really busy time in the pub just now,' Cherry said, a little breathlessly. Although she seemed agitated, she paused for a moment before adding, ‘I just wanted to ask you if you'd be willing to teach me the piano.'

Ilona couldn't conceal her excitement. Her first pupil was to be this woman with the bright red lipstick and lovely blonde hair.

‘I've never learnt before so it will be hard work for you.' Cherry looked away, apparently at the orange trumpet flowers hanging off the verandah roof. She picked one and twirled it in her fingers.

‘I shall be delighted to teach you.' Ilona did not wish to seem too excited, for she could see that Cherry was a little embarrassed. She fought back an impulse to embrace her prospective new pupil.

‘I expect I've got no talent,' Cherry said, ‘but I've always wanted to learn. Miss Neville said I could practise on the school piano after the kids have gone home.'

‘Everyone has some musical ability,' Ilona said with great conviction. ‘It is just that some have a little more than others. Even for someone with the genius of my own Oleksii, it is …' She paused. She had been going to say
imperative
but that would not do. ‘It is advisable,' she continued, ‘that many hours are spent each day in practice.'

‘Oh, but I wouldn't be able to do that.' Cherry looked shocked. ‘No, I could only practise at most four times a week.'

‘Practising four times a week will be enough, for a concert pianist you are not aiming to be. And of course you are not young enough to learn to play other than with competence.' At once Ilona realised she might have caused offence. No one liked to be considered too old and especially not such a pretty young woman as Cherry. ‘I did not mean that as it sounds,' Ilona added, lightly touching Cherry's arm. ‘How can I yet say what your playing will be like?'

But Cherry did not appear to have noticed any slight. ‘Bill can spare me for an hour each afternoon. I work in the bar in the afternoons and evenings.' She laughed. ‘How often should I have lessons?'

She laughed too much, Ilona decided. It was a nervous mannerism rather than an indication of amusement. ‘Once a week,' Ilona said. Perhaps the piano lessons represented an escape from the hotel and that husband of hers, who must be
closer to fifty than forty, but that did not matter. Music was an escape for everyone.

After Cherry had gone, Ilona danced around the lounge room to a jazz tune in her head. Cherry would become her friend, and surely news of the value of her piano lessons would spread. And recommendations would follow and then more pupils would come.

The following morning Ilona visited the post office. She had done this every day since her advertisement first appeared in the window. Every morning she had heard the same refrain from Mrs Blunkett: no telephone calls and no enquiries.

However this morning was different. Mrs Blunkett's voice quavered with excitement and even broke altogether at one point as she transmitted the news. Mrs Chapman had dropped in the previous afternoon to post a parcel, it must have been when Ilona was out walking. Mrs Blunkett couldn't help but notice what her neighbours were doing, with her shop looking up and down the street. And even if she didn't have such good eyesight then she'd hear from her customers what people were up to. You only had to blink an eye in Jingera and the whole town would know, though there were some things she'd never tell anyone. But she was wandering right off the point, she'd got a bit overexcited, and she mustn't forget Mrs Chapman's message. She was an important lady from one of the bigger properties inland, Woodlands, it was called, and she wanted Ilona to visit there tomorrow.

‘It is short notice,' Ilona said. ‘What does she want with me?'

‘The piano lessons,' Mrs Blunkett explained. ‘I thought I said. I would've dropped a note in to you but I was that busy yesterday. She wants you to teach her son. He's only six but
Mrs Chapman said he's musical. Been learning from a woman down Merimbula way but she's moved on. I told her about your daughter and you being a widder, like, and she said you could bring her along. A car'll collect you at four o'clock.'

A car will collect you, how exciting that sounded! Ilona beamed at Mrs Blunkett, might even have kissed her if she were not out of reach on the other side of the counter.

‘She wants you to take proof,' Mrs Blunkett continued, rather officiously now, as if she, like Mrs Chapman, had doubts about a qualification from some place behind the Iron Curtain. ‘A piece of paper, like. Something to show what you know.'

‘I have nothing left.' But Ilona would not have this opportunity taken away from her. Some way around this obstacle would have to be found. Although she did not want to be reminded of all that was lost, she felt it necessary to explain the situation to Mrs Blunkett. ‘Everything from those days was destroyed. Papers and identities and people too.' Her voice was rising; she must not get overexcited, she must not behave as she had done when Zidra was being interviewed by Miss Neville. After taking a deep breath, she lowered her voice to say quite calmly, ‘But it will not matter, Mrs Blunkett, for I will play for this Mrs Chapman, and then she will see if I am good enough for her little boy.'

Ilona hadn't expected Woodlands to be quite so grand, nor had she anticipated there would be a housekeeper and maid as well as the chauffeur. After Zidra had been whisked off to the kitchen by the housekeeper, plump, pleasant-faced Mrs Jones, Ilona followed the maid along the dark hallway and into the drawing room.

‘You must be Mrs Talivaldis.' At the far end of the room, Mrs Chapman was standing next to a baby grand piano. Dressed entirely in white, she extended her right arm in a theatrical gesture of welcome. She did not move to meet Ilona halfway but remained as motionless as a statue. A beautiful woman who is used to being observed rather than observing, Ilona thought as she marched across the Persian rug in her shabby navy crepe dress with the detachable white collar which, together with her purple hat, might well have slipped awry in the fracas that had occurred when she and Zidra had arrived.

Mrs Chapman's pallor was accentuated by the gash of red that was her mouth and the improbable red fuzz of her hair, and also by the long red talons that Ilona was now grasping, for it seemed she must shake her hand. Mrs Chapman simply let flesh touch flesh and then extricated herself quickly, leaving Ilona wondering if her hand were so clammy that the other had not wished to hold it for longer than absolutely necessary.

‘So good of you to come, Mrs Talivaldis. Do sit down while we have our little talk. I'm sure you'll quite understand that I must ask you for your credentials.' Mrs Chapman arranged herself on a dark green brocade chaise longue and gestured towards the armchair next to her.

‘You wish to know about me before you entrust to me the tuition of your son. That I do understand.' Ilona sat down and was almost swallowed up by the soft upholstery of the armchair, which was intended for someone much larger than her. She wriggled free of the enveloping cushions and perched towards the front, with her feet planted firmly on the carpet. ‘It is possible that you might wish me to play something for you, so that you can establish if I have any talent. For me that would be preferable. You must appreciate that, unfortunately, I have mislaid all my certificates that indicate that I am who I
say I am.' She faltered; her English was becoming convoluted and she feared she was in danger of losing Mrs Chapman.

However Mrs Chapman was looking intently at her. Her eyes were the same shade of green as the chaise longue; a woman who liked things to match would not be happy with second best. ‘Mislaid is not the word for which I am seeking. Destroyed is better. My certificates were destroyed in the war and replacements I have been unable to obtain, but anyway I suspect that these would not be approved. By your Government, I must clarify. Musical people of discernment will always appreciate what they hear rather than what they see. That is why I wish to play the piano for you. If you will let me.'

As Ilona had hoped, Mrs Chapman was susceptible to flattery. But after playing several bars of a simple prelude by Shostakovich, she realised that something was wrong. Mrs Chapman's expression was pained. ‘Perhaps it is too modern. Perhaps you do not like Shostakovich?'

‘He is too Russian,' Mrs Chapman complained. ‘I prefer earlier music. Bach or Beethoven perhaps, or even a little Schubert, in spite of their being German.'

When Ilona had finished playing, Mrs Chapman said, ‘You play quite well. Beautifully in fact.' She smiled and for the first time Ilona warmed to her. ‘I'll ring for my son, Philip. He's six years old and has been learning the piano for a couple of years, but his teacher's moved to Sydney. He'll be going to boarding school next year. His father insists on it, though I'd prefer to keep him here. I'd like him to have more lessons before he leaves. He loves music. It will be harder for him at school.'

Shortly a small boy entered the room. His head was bent down shyly. Ilona felt for him, dressed as he was in black velvet knickerbockers, an embroidered white shirt and black patent leather shoes.

‘This is Mrs Talivaldis, who will teach you the piano.'

Philip raised his eyes. One was green and the other was brown, which gave him a slightly cross-eyed appearance. Ilona smiled at him. ‘I am sure that we will get on wonderfully together,' she said. ‘You have such a lovely name. Do you know what it means?'

The boy shook his head.

‘It means a lover of horses. You will not play like a horseman though; you will play like an angel. It is a most beautiful piano that you have. You are a lucky boy.'

He looked bemused at this. For the first time he spoke. ‘I'm n-n-n-ot l-l-l-luck-ck-ck …' His stutter was so bad that he couldn't finish the sentence.

She would have liked to reach out and touch the boy, or at least to suggest that he sang the words instead, but not in front of the mother. Singing what he wished to say could come later when she was teaching him alone. They could sing when they played. She turned to Mrs Chapman, who seemed to have lost interest in them both. She was inspecting her nails and tapping her foot slightly, whether to some inward tune, or because she was fatigued by the proceedings, Ilona could not ascertain. In case it was the latter, she decided to take her leave. ‘I must travel home now. My daughter Zidra will be growing tired.'

Mrs Chapman looked up from her nails and smiled. ‘I'll ring for the maid. So lovely of you to come,' she added, almost as if it were a social visit. ‘You're welcome to bring Zandra when you come for the first lesson next week.'

‘It is Zidra.'

‘My apologies. Such a difficult name. I'll send the car to collect you each Thursday at four. Of course I'll pay you for your travel time.' Then she named a figure that Ilona never dreamt she'd get for just a couple of hours work. They shook hands again and the interview was at an end.

In the kitchen, Zidra was playing on the floor with some brightly coloured wooden toys. ‘Oh, Mama, I thought you were Philip! We were playing with the toy animals just before he had to go in to see you. They're the most beautiful things. Just look at this little elephant!' She held it up. Painted a shiny dark green, it was perhaps just over an inch long and half an inch thick, and its trunk was raised above its head.