Music From Standing Waves Read Online Free PDF Page A

a proper music school?” I asked.
    “Yes. You’re very talented, Abby.”
    “Somewhere away from here?”
    Andrew nodded.
    “Another country?”
    “If that’s what you want. Any chance your mum
will change her mind?”
    I shook my head. You can’t make the deaf
hear. “She says you can’t make a career out of playing music.”
    Andrew picked at the frayed pocket on his
jeans. I could tell he was trying to think of something polite to
say.
    “It’s not easy,” he told me finally. “You
have to be dedicated.”
    “And you have to be somewhere other than this
stupid town.”
    Andrew laughed a little. “Well…” he said
noncommittally. “I wish you’d decided to learn the piano.”
    It had only ever been violin, ever since my
ninth birthday when I found an old stringless three-quarter at a
second hand market in Cairns. I had taken it to the music shop and
had the man put strings on it for me. He showed me how to balance
the bow across my fingers, then I rushed home and taught myself Hot Cross Buns.
    I frowned. “What if Mum makes me stop
violin?”
    Andrew smiled reassuringly. “Let’s not get
carried away.”
     
    Our family went to visit my grandmother who
had moved from Acacia Beach to Cairns. Nick had gotten back from
camping that morning and slept in the back seat with his mouth
open. Tim and I took turns throwing things at him until an M&M
smacked him on the chin and he woke up snorting like a pug dog.
    Sarah’s mother lived in a semi-detached near
the sugar plantations. We could see the great tunnels of green and
yellow cane from her back window. Neat rows that danced like a
chorus line when the trade winds blew. I’d been at Grandma’s once
to see the farmers burn the crops before the harvest. Stood with my
head pressed to the glass for an hour, watching flames as high as
the house tear through the jester hat leaves. It felt like the end
of the world.
    Grandma was cooking roast beef when we
arrived. The smell wafted through the house, covering the hint of
potpourri and cat. I sat at the kitchen bench and watched Grandma
cook. She poured the juices out of the baking dish and used them to
make gravy. She never used gravy powder like Mum did. I loved
Grandma’s gravy, even though it sometimes turned out white instead
of brown.
    The cat circled my ankles and leapt onto the
bench.
    “Shoo!” Grandma waved her hands furiously and
the flesh under her arms wobbled. “What a naughty boy.”
    “He likes the smell of your roast beef,” I
grinned. “So do I. Is it nearly ready?”
    “Patience, chicken. The wait will make it
taste even better.” Grandma glided across the kitchen to the
fridge, her floral dress swishing around her calves.
    I loved Grandma’s dresses. They were always
so colourful, with wide, swirling skirts. When I was little,
Grandma would let me try on all her dresses and parade around the
house like a princess. My favourite was red with sunflowers on the
skirt. Last time I had seen it, the waistband came to my
ankles.
    “How come you never wear that dress anymore?”
I always asked.
    “That old thing?” Grandma would reply. I
thought she had probably taken it to the op shop, but didn’t want
to ask.
    I kicked my legs under the bench, my toes
drumming a rhythm against the woodwork.
    Grandma handed me a peeler and a bag of
carrots. “You can peel these for me, chicken. Like your mum used to
do when she was your age.”
    Sarah’s childhood was something I rarely
thought about. It was hard to imagine her as anything other than
the crinkly, hard-shelled mother she’d become.
    Sarah was an only child. She had grown up in
Acacia Beach without, it seemed, giving any thought to the
existence of an outside world. Her life had played itself out like
she was ticking items off a shopping list. High school certificate.
Steady job as the council receptionist. Sensible marriage. Then
came the family business and dutiful production of children. Nick
the obligatory, me the accident and Tim