Jacaranda Blue (7 page)

‘Wearing a skirt while trimming the top of the hedge might be seen as extremely unladylike by some, Father.'

Again he'd looked heavenward, his face growing pink at the mere thought of his daughter's bare legs. He'd swallowed, his jowls appeared to swell as he lifted a finger high. ‘I am speaking of the way you go about town, Daughter, and well you know it. I am speaking of this new habit of wearing those damnable working trousers to church! As you are aware, your dear mother left a full wardrobe, unworn in the last ten years of her life. She was never one to stint on her costumes. Thousands of dollars are invested in those wardrobes. I suggest you might look them over, choose some of the more suitable items for your own use.'

‘Father! How could you suggest such a thing?' She had picked up her sewing and walked ahead of him to the house.

 

Two years passed before she'd asked him for money for a new pair of jeans. He shook his head.

Time had a habit of laying waste to most rebellions, as it did to stretch denim jeans. When the vibrant patches she'd stitched to knee and seat did not shame him into parting with his dollars, she thought to play a more devious joke. Her mother had not been as slim as Stella, and her garments, though purchased from expensive stores in Melbourne, were drab, hung long. But the joke backfired, her new garments gained her a rare smile of approval from the minister.

She'd again headed for her sewing machine, but having had the best, had spoiled her for the rest – and his approval was taking on an importance. He was all she had, all she would ever have, and she needed his approval. Eventually, the wearing of Angel's colourless pleated skirts and twin-sets had become a habit. Certainly the old wardrobes were overflowing, and the fabric in these garments, though drab, was of a quality rarely seen in Maidenville. In time, Stella adjusted the suits, the pleated skirts, the tweed jackets. The many virtuous blouses were washed, pressed carefully, and again put to use. The beige woollens kept out Maidenville's brief winter chill, and Angel's many petticoats were soft against the skin. What did it matter? At forty, Stella had become a part of the background in Maidenville. Who was there to notice how the church soloist was clothed? Who was there to care? It was her voice that was sought after, her reliability, her eagerness to serve.

‘Who's doing the roster for Meals on Wheels?'

‘Stella Templeton.'

‘Who's supervising the youth group this week?'

‘Stella said she will.'

‘Who's bringing the afternoon tea today?'

‘Stell.'

‘Who is doing the flowers for the funeral?'

Who else but capable old maid Stella? Always there, but never seen.

Ron Spencer sometimes saw her, smiled at her. But he was long married to Marilyn, and his friendship ring hidden away. Although first love may never truly die, Stella stopped dreaming her foolish dreams, her frustrated love had been given in full to Ron's small son. Little Thomas. How she loved him. Of all the children in Maidenville, she had loved him best.

Her thick golden curls were the last to conform to middle age. Slowly her shoulder length hair evolved into a loose French twist, which developed quite naturally into a severe bun where grey began its slow erosion until the gold gave up the fight. It too turned beige. No overnight reversal of the caterpillar and the butterfly, but more a gradual decay, a giving up, until at forty-four, little Stella Templeton, sweet golden canary, trapped inside the minister's cage, had become a small beige sparrow, its wings finally clipped – fair game to a youth, eager to try out his newfound weapon.

 

Tears were blurring her vision now as she stared at the road ahead. Tears were pooling against the lenses of her sunglasses. She rarely wept, and she shook her head at her tears; freed from the lens, they trickled down to her lips.

‘God,' she said. ‘God. I have to stop this.' She breathed deeply, held the breath, trying to regain control while she removed and wiped her glasses on her skirt. She wiped at her face, blotted her eyes, then glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

‘God. If anyone should see me. I can't sit here.' And the key turned in the ignition. She was certain the car would not start. But it did.

‘I have to keep going. I cannot face Maidenville, or that boy. I can't, so I have to keep going. Just drive until the car stops, then get out and walk. I have to. I'll find a way to get to Sydney.' But she sat on, wasting precious petrol and allowing the tears to drip away. She couldn't stop them. She didn't try.

As a girl she'd dreamed wild technicolour dreams of Sydney. It had spelt freedom, and she'd been disappointed to wake from her dreams. Now she dreamed in black and white, and the Sydney she visited was a desolate place, where she walked dark streets alone, seeking, always seeking an address, or a building. She woke from these dreams, relieved to be safe in her own bed, in her own room. Safe in Maidenville. In the last few years, she had become afraid of life. But what was it she had feared? Rape in some strange city?

‘God help me,' she whispered as she looked out across the blurred landscape. ‘Still, this flight was ill conceived. I'll wait until tomorrow, until Father buys some petrol. I'll pack a case tonight, and ask Father for twenty dollars – for a haircut. Thirty dollars. I'll take some of the finished clowns with me. I'll take the ring. It must be worth something. Perhaps a couple of the old ornaments. The ruby lamp would have some value if I can get it to Sydney. I'll get a job. Something. Housekeeper. Nanny. And if I can't then I'll . . . I'll apply for the dole. I'll survive.'

Fool. You should have gone ten years, twenty years ago.

‘Yes. Yes. I have been a fool, but I will go tomorrow.' She dried her eyes on the cuff of her blouse, and replaced her glasses.

The sun was high, and too bright for weeping eyes. A hard, glaring land, and so dry. Crops had been harvested, now paddocks rested, brown beneath the cover of grey stubble. Summer was nearly over, but in this part of the country it was sometimes hard to recognise where summer ended and autumn began.

Five crows were squabbling over some dead thing on the road ahead. Two hawks were circling. Waiting. Birds of the heat. How did they survive in this dry, dry land? Where did they drink at night? The river was miles away.

The little car was like an oven. She turned the airconditioner on, and she wound her windows high. She had been born to heat, had lived with long dusty summers and short winters of sometime mud. Here, farmers spoke in the thousand hectare, and of how many tonnes to the acre. Houses were sparse, neighbours miles apart. Maidenville serviced this land, and the high school educated the children of this land. Some rode the school bus daily, but many were weekly boarders at the old school.

She had boarded for three months back when she was twelve. She'd started her periods when she was twelve and in her memory the two were ever joined. She'd loved the safety of boarding, the shared bedroom, the friendships and unchanging routine. She'd loved the every morning of waking up and knowing exactly how the day would be. A wonderful time. Her best time.

A white van was coming towards her. It looked like Len Davis's, Bonny's husband, the roof-rack loaded high with ladders and trestles. Quickly Stella selected drive and the car moved forward. Len tooted his horn as he drove by. She waved a hand and continued on to the intersection where the road ended on a well surfaced highway. Many signposts pointed to distant towns.

Dorby 23 K. Sydney 544 K. Maidenville 32 K.

Her father still spoke in miles, refused to acknowledge the existence of kilometres; thus she spoke in miles, had for half of a lifetime been converting kilometres to miles for him, doing the arithmetic in her head.

‘How many miles is 544 kilometres, Daughter?' he'd ask, and she'd reply, ‘325, or near enough, Father.'

At what age did I learn the trick that appeased his desire to ignore change? she thought, but she shook her head. She couldn't remember. At what age did I learn the trick of putting each day behind me? She couldn't remember that either. ‘Poor Father,' she said. ‘How did it happen? How did I allow myself to get to this day? Why didn't I run for the axe that day? Why didn't I scream?'

Still looking at the signposts, she selected reverse, then she turned the car around. ‘Twenty miles to Maidenville. Twenty miles on empty. We are both running on empty, little white car. Will we both make it back?' she asked, and she looked at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Miss Moreland will be thinking I've forgotten about her.'

There was never a time when she had not known Miss Moreland, former headmistress at the high school, former Sunday-school teacher. A frequent visitor to the house when Stella was a child, she had been supportive, coming when she was called; she could always put things right. Once she'd taken up her scissors to level a child's hair, to put things right, and her school-teacher hands had been gentle.

Like Stella, Miss Moreland had been tied for years to an invalid parent. They had that in common, and perhaps it helped to forge this strange friendship. But Miss Moreland celebrated her mother's death by retiring from her position at the high school, then setting off to see the world on her mother's hoarded money. Only when she began to run short of cash did she curtail her travels, sell the old house, and buy a modern unit at the retirement village behind the hospital.

Her stance upright and proud, her thick hair rinsed a champagne blond, a touch of make-up, carefully applied, Miss Moreland refused to be considered as one of the elderly. Few in town had known the grand old dame's age until she broke her arm, when her date of birth was exposed to hospital staff. Within days the news had filtered across the town to become the main talking point at tea parties.

Calculations were made by the town busybodies. ‘She must have been in her sixties when she'd taught me in form four. I was sixteen in form four. She must have been over seventy when she retired from the school, and well into her eighties when she went on the cruise to New Zealand. She couldn't have been far from ninety when she went to India. My word, she could have died there amongst the heathens.'

Miss Moreland had no fear of gossip, age, or gods, be they Anglican or heathen. Having travelled to the far end of her life, she looked to her ultimate death with great interest, as many might look towards a grand tour of Europe. Death was one of the few places she hadn't been; still, if her plane was running a little late, she had no complaints. Her bags were packed and in order, and when her flight from Maidenville came in, she would freshen up her lipstick and fly away with a wave of her hand.

The old rocking chair on her front porch was her one concession to age. She was seated there now, rocking, watching for her late visitor.

‘You're late, my girl. I thought you'd absconded with the guild's funds,' she called as the car drew to a halt in her drive.

As with Bonny, being around Miss Moreland always made Stella aware of her own lack of colour. Today her old friend looked a young and vigorous seventy-five in her grey slacks, and shirt of red and grey.

‘I went for a long drive, my dear. It has been so long since I've managed to wheedle the keys away from Father, I took the opportunity to . . . to just drive. I forgot the time.'

‘Forgot to put your hair up too.' Miss Moreland stood and pulled at a corkscrew curl that the wind had found free to tangle. ‘You look like an underfed mouse with dreadlocks. If Arnold Parsons got a look at you today, he'd have good reason to call you Miss Mousy.'

Stella ran her fingers through her hair, gathering it. Habit twisted it into the familiar knot, then she remembered the scratch on her neck. She let the hair fall back. Her hand straying to the scratch, she drew a curl forward.

‘It's Mousy Two. He began it way back when I was three or four. I tell him frequently that he is giving me a complex, but he tells me it's a compliment.'

‘Some compliment.'

‘It's from a tale of two mice swimming in circles in a vat of cream. He told it to me long, long ago, and I often wish I could remember it. I used to buy old nursery rhyme books as a child, hoping to come across it, but I never did.' She removed her sunglasses. ‘You look well as usual. I do like your shirt.'

‘I got it at the department store yesterday. It cost enough – and don't you go trying to turn the subject on me. Your father said you weren't yourself this morning, and for the first time in his life he may be right. Have you looked in a mirror lately?' She led her guest indoors where she propped her before a mirror that took up most of her small hall.

Stella peered at the face of the stranger. Her eyes were deeply set and bloodshot. The half-circles beneath them stood out like bruises. ‘I didn't sleep well.'

‘More than a sleepless night caused that, girl. A good howl caused that. And what's with that fringe? Your hair never took well to a fringe.'

‘It's – it was overdue for a change, Miss Moreland.'

The old lady's eyes didn't believe her. ‘Anything you want to tell me, girl? I'm a good listener.'

Stella shook her head. She stepped back, took a brush from her handbag, flattening her fringe, tidying the wayward curls. She managed a lame smile as she dropped the brush back in her bag and began delving for the knitting she always kept by her side. Unable to look the old woman in the eye, she drew the knitting from the bag and began winding the wool.

Miss Moreland stood, hands on hips, feet planted wide, studying her. ‘Your father said you've been getting obscene phone calls. Is that what's troubling you?'

‘No. Truly, I'm fine.' Or I will be soon, she thought. So my virginity has been sacrificed upon the altar of youthful greed, but I have grown accustomed to sacrifice. Tomorrow will be easier, and the day after tomorrow easier than the one before. I have to go on.

The old lady was speaking. Stella hadn't heard her. ‘ – haven't had a decent one for twenty years. My own fault. I always took the wind out of their sails. You know, I used to get a real kick out of those phone calls. Might have even shocked a few perverts into giving it up for life.' Stella smiled, her mind back on track as she was ushered into the open-plan lounge/dining/kitchenette.

‘Never let them know that they're shocking you. That's the trick. Give them back as good as they give you,' Miss Moreland added.

‘I haven't . . . Father had a few calls this morning. A bit of heavy breathing, I believe. I'm sure it's nothing,' she said.

Her Saturday afternoons in this modern little unit were never a duty. Her mind never wandered, not in this place. Conversation never lagged. Miss Moreland was a friend, a dear friend, and one with whom she could relax, be herself, speak her mind and shame the devil – or God. As she watched the older woman preparing tea, buttering scones, for one fragment of an instant she thought of telling her the truth, of opening her mouth and sharing the shame. Freeing it to words may make it less, she thought.

Shame stifled her beginning. She felt her heart begin its mad race and her face begin to burn at the thought of exposing herself to this town. And exposed she would be. She looked at the telephone hanging beside the sink. Miss Moreland would be on the phone to Sergeant Johnson in the time it took her visitor to form three words. What was the use? It is over. In a week . . . in less than a week, I will know if there are to be any further complications. But by then I will be in Sydney. I will put it behind me today. What is done cannot be undone. Time will heal.

Doesn't time always heal? When Ron and Marilyn announced their surprise wedding, I got over it, even though I thought Ron still loved me, that he was filling in time with Marilyn, waiting for me. And when I gave up singing with Steve's band, didn't the disappointment fade after time? Of course it did. I will be fine once I am away from here, but until I go I have to keep behaving in the same way, keep my chin up, and smile. Give no-one reason to question me, and learn to deal with the problems as they arise – as I have always done.

Silences were rare between these two, but today a silence kept growing, and though Stella tried to do what her mind bid her do, her thoughts continued their wandering.

Miss Moreland was no fool. Questions rarely brought the answers desired, but if she waited, watched and listened, answers often had a way of coming unbidden. When they didn't come this day, she tried her second ploy. She asked an innocent question. ‘Did you get to watch the golf yesterday?'

‘No.' Stella's heart thumped in her throat, and her mind returned to the shed and to the smell of the earth, and her blood on the earth, and the stink of his sex. She could still smell it in her hair. The wind had not blown it clean. She had washed it and washed it last night, had used the last of the shampoo on it; still it smelt of him. Her hand rose to her hair. She drew a strand forward, smelt it. Have to cut it off, she thought. Go to the hairdressers and get it all cut off.

‘What's wrong with your hair today?'

‘I . . . I washed it last night and rather foolishly went to bed with it wet. It dried wild. I'm . . . I'm thinking of getting it cut like Bonny's.'

‘What did you get up to yesterday?'

‘Nothing.' Her voice was defensive, her heartbeat erratic as guilt rose like a wave in her brain. Guilt planted by God, and her mother, to cower the innocent. Blood rushed her cheeks, her brow. Her hands began their burning.

‘Did you go to the funeral?'

‘No. Father went to the funeral.'

‘Wouldn't be much of a show without Punch, would it? I hear he's got another one on Monday.'

‘Monday. Yes. Yes. A lot of relatives are from out of town. The two boys.'

Again the silence.

‘Did you see Bonny yesterday?'

‘Yes.' Stella's chin lifted. ‘We were speaking about . . . she said she'd potted out a lot of junipers, and we thought we might have a separate gardening stall this year. There is so much in my own garden. I'll have to get into the shed and – '

Her mind went away to the shed, and the rape and the silence grew long again as she sat, shoulders hunched, counting stitches with her fingers, recounting stitches while the old woman stared at her bowed head.

‘Stella Templeton. What in God's name is the matter with you today?'

‘I . . . I didn't sleep well.'

‘We've been through all that. Spit it out. I know there's something troubling you and don't deny it. I've known you too long, girl.'

‘I'm fine. Really.'

Miss Moreland rose, walked to her cupboard, selected a bottle then poured a portion into a glass. She added water from the tap. ‘Here then, get this into you.'

‘What – ?' Stella took the glass.

‘Down the hatch with it and don't you give me any arguments. You're as white as a sheet and if you're not going to tell me why, then drink this down then go home to bed. I don't know what your father was thinking of, allowing you to come out today.'

‘I'm quite well, really.'

‘Pseudo martyrs are two-a-penny in this town. And I can assure you that the town and I will survive without you for a few days. You go home to bed, and if you don't feel any better in the morning, then give Parsons a call, and have a check-up.'

Stella sat handling the glass, peering at its contents, thinking of Doctor Parsons and if perhaps he would be the one to tell. He would understand, and he could keep a secret – but would he keep this secret? And what could be gained – unless she pressed charges against the youth? And what would Marilyn do if she did? And Ron? What would he think of her?

‘Drink it. Get it into you, girl.'

‘What is it?'

‘It's brandy and water, and it's gotten me through every emergency that's arisen in my life in the past seventy-odd years, and God willing it will keep me going long enough to get my telegram from Queen Lizzie. Now down the hatch with it and go home. I will brook no argument today, girl.'

Stella emptied the glass, then she left.

 

The minister was waiting for his car at the front gate. She stopped the vehicle, climbed out, and handed him the keys.

‘Did you buy milk, Daughter?'

‘Milk?'

‘I asked Miss Moreland to remind you.'

‘No. No. She didn't remind me. The petrol is . . . is very low.'

He watched her back as she walked down the drive to the house, then with a shake of his shaggy head, he climbed into the car, roared the motor and drove away.

The phone began ringing as Stella entered the kitchen. She heard it, but her mind refused to make the connection. It continued its high-pitched ring, jarring against her eardrums until habit saw her walk to it, reach out and silence it, place the phone to her ear. ‘Stella Templeton speaking,' she said.

‘Did you like it?' he said. ‘I did.'

Her tongue still burned with the taste of brandy, and in her stomach, the brandy tried to rise. She gagged, dropped the phone.

‘Glad you're keeping your mouth shut, Aunty Stell.' He waited for her reply and when there was none, added. ‘I might come and visit you again one day.'

He didn't know he was speaking to the panelled wall.