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Back The Scent of Eucalyptus Save as PDF
Chapters (36)
  1. Cover
  2. Author biography
  3. Other books by Barbara Hanrahan
  4. Title page
  5. Dedication and Epigraph
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-One
  27. Twenty-Two
  28. Twenty-Three
  29. Twenty-Four
  30. Twenty-Five
  31. Twenty-Six
  32. Twenty-Seven
  33. Twenty-Eight
  34. Twenty-Nine
  35. Thirty
  36. Imprint page

(My teacher is tall, with two brown plaits. Sometimes when I am early she is still doing them up, with a pin between her teeth. She is pale, with brown eyes. Her voice comes out like her music — little, then suddenly loud. Her nostrils quiver when she talks; she cranes her neck — it is a milky neck with twin moles. She does not wear lipstick. Her paleness is lovely; with just the eyes and the moles and the crown of hair. My teacher is romantic: she wears an engagement-ring, but Nan said her fiancé got killed in the War. Violet should be her name — like satin ribbons and bunches of grapes — but it is Dorothy.)

The music room was warm from the electric fire, and there was the smell of polish from the two pianos. I was aware of their glow, and my teacher’s hands with their nails filed short, and the smell of scented soap. There were velvet chairs and lattice-paned doors. The keys of the piano had a sharp smell, as if they were washed in lemon. On top of the piano stood a metronome, a crystal vase with hyacinths, someone’s photo.

First my teacher inspected my nails (for they must not be too long and echo the notes). Then she warmed my fingers, making them come alive with her hands and the sparkling ring. I felt the lovely dizziness I felt when Aunt Poll pulled up my sock by the agapanthus (I never forget). It was the same when my teacher slid beside me on the seat, and I worried my elbow would bump her chest.

(She sits so close as she writes in the fingering, and her arms are so pale. I wonder if she has dark hairs under them. I look in her eye and see a black-currant pupil swim in creamy jelly; she blinks. She sits so close. Her soft body is pressed against me. Her legs gleam under the keyboard. Her fingers with the pink nails and the diamond grasp a pencil with a gold top and a little tassel; she writes in the fingering.)

Her voice kept time with her fingers; she sang as she played. The warm room, with its faint sweet smell, shut out the morning; the crystal vase tinkled, and the hyacinths bobbed up and down. My teacher played on.